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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1334 ***
+
+PAUL KELVER
+
+By Jerome K. Jerome
+
+(Jerome Klapka), 1859-1927
+
+
+Transcriber's Note: Items in [brackets] are editorial comments added
+in proofing. Italicized text is delimited by _underscores_. The pound
+(currency) symbol has been replaced by the word “pound”.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+PROLOGUE
+
+BOOK I
+
+I. PAUL, ARRIVED IN A STRANGE LAND, LEARNS MANY THINGS, AND GOES TO MEET
+THE MAN IN GREY
+
+II. IN WHICH PAUL MAKES ACQUAINTANCE OF THE MAN WITH THE UGLY MOUTH
+
+III. HOW GOOD LUCK KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE MAN IN GREY
+
+IV. PAUL, FALLING IN WITH A GOODLY COMPANY OF PILGRIMS, LEARNS OF THEM
+THE ROAD THAT HE MUST TRAVEL, AND MEETS THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS
+
+V. IN WHICH THERE COMES BY ONE BENT UPON PURSUING HIS OWN WAY
+
+VI. OF THE SHADOW THAT CAME BETWEEN THE MAN IN GREY AND THE LADY OF THE
+LOVE-LIT EYES
+
+VII. OF THE PASSING OF THE SHADOW
+
+VIII. HOW THE MAN IN GREY MADE READY FOR HIS GOING
+
+IX. OF THE FASHIONING OF PAUL
+
+X. IN WHICH PAUL IS SHIPWRECKED, AND CAST INTO DEEP WATERS
+
+
+
+
+BOOK II.
+
+I. DESCRIBES THE DESERT ISLAND TO WHICH PAUL WAS DRIFTED
+
+II. PAUL, ESCAPING FROM HIS SOLITUDE, FALLS INTO STRANGE COMPANY, AND
+BECOMES CAPTIVE TO ONE OF HAUGHTY MIEN
+
+III. GOOD FRIENDS SHOW PAUL THE ROAD TO FREEDOM. BUT BEFORE SETTING OUT,
+HE WILL GO A-VISITING
+
+IV. LEADS TO A MEETING
+
+V. HOW ON A SWEET GREY MORNING THE FUTURE CAME TO PAUL
+
+VI. OF THE GLORY AND GOODNESS AND THE EVIL THAT GO TO THE MAKING OF LOVE
+
+VII. HOW PAUL SET FORTH UPON A QUEST
+
+VIII. AND HOW CAME BACK AGAIN
+
+IX. THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS SENDS PAUL A RING
+
+X. PAUL FINDS HIS WAY
+
+
+
+
+PAUL KELVER
+
+
+
+
+PROLOGUE.
+
+
+IN WHICH THE AUTHOR SEEKS TO CAST THE RESPONSIBILITY OF THIS STORY UPON
+ANOTHER.
+
+At the corner of a long, straight, brick-built street in the far East
+End of London--one of those lifeless streets, made of two drab walls
+upon which the level lines, formed by the precisely even window-sills
+and doorsteps, stretch in weary perspective from end to end, suggesting
+petrified diagrams proving dead problems--stands a house that ever draws
+me to it; so that often, when least conscious of my footsteps, I awake
+to find myself hurrying through noisy, crowded thoroughfares, where
+flaring naphtha lamps illumine fierce, patient, leaden-coloured faces;
+through dim-lit, empty streets, where monstrous shadows come and go
+upon the close-drawn blinds; through narrow, noisome streets, where the
+gutters swarm with children, and each ever-open doorway vomits riot;
+past reeking corners, and across waste places, till at last I reach the
+dreary goal of my memory-driven desire, and, coming to a halt beside the
+broken railings, find rest.
+
+The house, larger than its fellows, built when the street was still
+a country lane, edging the marshes, strikes a strange note of
+individuality amid the surrounding harmony of hideousness. It is
+encompassed on two sides by what was once a garden, though now but a
+barren patch of stones and dust where clothes--it is odd any one should
+have thought of washing--hang in perpetuity; while about the door
+continue the remnants of a porch, which the stucco falling has left
+exposed in all its naked insincerity.
+
+Occasionally I drift hitherward in the day time, when slatternly women
+gossip round the area gates, and the silence is broken by the
+hoarse, wailing cry of “Coals--any coals--three and sixpence a
+sack--co-o-o-als!” chanted in a tone that absence of response has
+stamped with chronic melancholy; but then the street knows me not, and
+my old friend of the corner, ashamed of its shabbiness in the unpitying
+sunlight, turns its face away, and will not see me as I pass.
+
+Not until the Night, merciful alone of all things to the ugly, draws her
+veil across its sordid features will it, as some fond old nurse, sought
+out in after years, open wide its arms to welcome me. Then the teeming
+life it now shelters, hushed for a time within its walls, the flickering
+flare from the “King of Prussia” opposite extinguished, will it talk
+with me of the past, asking me many questions, reminding me of
+many things I had forgotten. Then into the silent street come the
+well-remembered footsteps; in and out the creaking gate pass, not seeing
+me, the well-remembered faces; and we talk concerning them; as two
+cronies, turning the torn leaves of some old album where the faded
+portraits in forgotten fashions, speak together in low tones of those
+now dead or scattered, with now a smile and now a sigh, and many an “Ah
+me!” or “Dear, dear!”
+
+This bent, worn man, coming towards us with quick impatient steps, which
+yet cease every fifty yards or so, while he pauses, leaning heavily upon
+his high Malacca cane: “It is a handsome face, is it not?” I ask, as I
+gaze upon it, shadow framed.
+
+“Aye, handsome enough,” answers the old House; “and handsomer still it
+must have been before you and I knew it, before mean care had furrowed
+it with fretful lines.”
+
+“I never could make out,” continues the old House, musingly, “whom you
+took after; for they were a handsome pair, your father and your mother,
+though Lord! what a couple of children!”
+
+“Children!” I say in surprise, for my father must have been past five
+and thirty before the House could have known him, and my mother's face
+is very close to mine, in the darkness, so that I see the many grey
+hairs mingling with the bonny brown.
+
+“Children,” repeats the old House, irritably, so it seems to me, not
+liking, perhaps, its opinions questioned, a failing common to old folk;
+“the most helpless pair of children I ever set eyes upon. Who but
+a child, I should like to know, would have conceived the notion of
+repairing his fortune by becoming a solicitor at thirty-eight, or,
+having conceived such a notion, would have selected the outskirts of
+Poplar as a likely centre in which to put up his door-plate?”
+
+“It was considered to be a rising neighbourhood,” I reply, a little
+resentful. No son cares to hear the family wisdom criticised, even
+though at the bottom of his heart he may be in agreement with the
+critic. “All sorts and conditions of men, whose affairs were in
+connection with the sea would, it was thought, come to reside hereabout,
+so as to be near to the new docks; and had they, it is not unreasonable
+to suppose they would have quarrelled and disputed with one another,
+much to the advantage of a cute solicitor, convenient to their hand.”
+
+“Stuff and nonsense,” retorts the old House, shortly; “why, the mere
+smell of the place would have been sufficient to keep a sensible man
+away. And”--the grim brick face before me twists itself into a goblin
+smile--“he, of all men in the world, as 'the cute solicitor,' giving
+advice to shady clients, eager to get out of trouble by the shortest
+way, can you fancy it! he who for two years starved himself, living on
+five shillings a week--that was before you came to London, when he
+was here alone. Even your mother knew nothing of it till years
+afterwards--so that no man should be a penny the poorer for having
+trusted his good name. Do you think the crew of chandlers and brokers,
+dock hustlers and freight wreckers would have found him a useful man of
+business, even had they come to settle here?”
+
+I have no answer; nor does the old House wait for any, but talks on.
+
+“And your mother! would any but a child have taken that soft-tongued
+wanton to her bosom, and not have seen through acting so transparent?
+Would any but the veriest child that never ought to have been let out
+into the world by itself have thought to dree her weird in such folly?
+Children! poor babies they were, both of them.”
+
+“Tell me,” I say--for at such times all my stock of common sense is not
+sufficient to convince me that the old House is but clay. From its walls
+so full of voices, from its floors so thick with footsteps, surely it
+has learned to live; as a violin, long played on, comes to learn at last
+a music of its own. “Tell me, I was but a child to whom life speaks in a
+strange tongue, was there any truth in the story?”
+
+“Truth!” snaps out the old House; “just truth enough to plant a lie
+upon; and Lord knows not much ground is needed for that weed. I saw
+what I saw, and I know what I know. Your mother had a good man, and
+your father a true wife, but it was the old story: a man's way is not a
+woman's way, and a woman's way is not a man's way, so there lives ever
+doubt between them.”
+
+“But they came together in the end,” I say, remembering.
+
+“Aye, in the end,” answers the House. “That is when you begin to
+understand, you men and women, when you come to the end.”
+
+The grave face of a not too recently washed angel peeps shyly at
+me through the railings, then, as I turn my head, darts back and
+disappears.
+
+“What has become of her?” I ask.
+
+“She? Oh, she is well enough,” replies the House. “She lives close here.
+You must have passed the shop. You might have seen her had you looked
+in. She weighs fourteen stone, about; and has nine children living. She
+would be pleased to see you.”
+
+“Thank you,” I say, with a laugh that is not wholly a laugh; “I do not
+think I will call.” But I still hear the pit-pat of her tiny feet, dying
+down the long street.
+
+The faces thicken round me. A large looming, rubicund visage smiles
+kindly on me, bringing back into my heart the old, odd mingling of
+instinctive liking held in check by conscientious disapproval. I turn
+from it, and see a massive, clean-shaven face, with the ugliest mouth
+and the loveliest eyes I ever have known in a man.
+
+“Was he as bad, do you think, as they said?” I ask of my ancient friend.
+
+“Shouldn't wonder,” the old House answers. “I never knew a worse--nor a
+better.”
+
+The wind whisks it aside, leaving to view a little old woman, hobbling
+nimbly by aid of a stick. Three corkscrew curls each side of her head
+bob with each step she takes, and as she draws near to me, making the
+most alarming grimaces, I hear her whisper, as though confiding to
+herself some fascinating secret, “I'd like to skin 'em. I'd like to skin
+'em all. I'd like to skin 'em all alive!”
+
+It sounds a fiendish sentiment, yet I only laugh, and the little old
+lady, with a final facial contortion surpassing all dreams, limps beyond
+my ken.
+
+Then, as though choosing contrasts, follows a fair, laughing face. I saw
+it in the life only a few hours ago--at least, not it, but the poor daub
+that Evil has painted over it, hating the sweetness underlying. And as
+I stand gazing at it, wishing it were of the dead who change not, there
+drifts back from the shadows that other face, the one of the wicked
+mouth and the tender eyes, so that I stand again helpless between the
+two I loved so well, he from whom I learned my first steps in manhood,
+she from whom I caught my first glimpse of the beauty and the mystery of
+woman. And again the cry rises from my heart, “Whose fault was it--yours
+or hers?” And again I hear his mocking laugh as he answers, “Whose
+fault? God made us.” And thinking of her and of the love I bore her,
+which was as the love of a young pilgrim to a saint, it comes into my
+blood to hate him. But when I look into his eyes and see the pain that
+lives there, my pity grows stronger than my misery, and I can only echo
+his words, “God made us.”
+
+Merry faces and sad, fair faces and foul, they ride upon the wind; but
+the centre round which they circle remains always the one: a little
+lad with golden curls more suitable to a girl than to a boy, with shy,
+awkward ways and a silent tongue, and a grave, old-fashioned face.
+
+And, turning from him to my old brick friend, I ask: “Would he know me,
+could he see me, do you think?”
+
+“How should he,” answers the old House, “you are so different to what he
+would expect. Would you recognise your own ghost, think you?”
+
+“It is sad to think he would not recognise me,” I say.
+
+“It might be sadder if he did,” grumbles the old House.
+
+We both remained silent for awhile; but I know of what the old House is
+thinking. Soon it speaks as I expected.
+
+“You--writer of stories, why don't you write a book about him? There is
+something that you know.”
+
+It is the favourite theme of the old House. I never visit it but it
+suggests to me this idea.
+
+“But he has done nothing?” I say.
+
+“He has lived,” answers the old House. “Is not that enough?”
+
+“Aye, but only in London in these prosaic modern times,” I persist. “How
+of such can one make a story that shall interest the people?”
+
+The old House waxes impatient of me.
+
+“'The people!'” it retorts, “what are you all but children in a dim-lit
+room, waiting until one by one you are called out to sleep. And one
+mounts upon a stool and tells a tale to the others who have gathered
+round. Who shall say what will please them, what will not.”
+
+Returning home with musing footsteps through the softly breathing
+streets, I ponder the words of the old House. Is it but as some foolish
+mother thinking all the world interested in her child, or may there lie
+wisdom in its counsel? Then to my guidance or misguidance comes the
+thought of a certain small section of the Public who often of an evening
+commands of me a story; and who, when I have told her of the dreadful
+giants and of the gallant youths who slay them, of the wood-cutter's
+sons who rescue maidens from Ogre-guarded castles; of the Princesses the
+most beautiful in all the world, of the Princes with magic swords, still
+unsatisfied, creeps closer yet, saying: “Now tell me a real story,”
+adding for my comprehending: “You know: about a little girl who lived in
+a big house with her father and mother, and who was sometimes naughty,
+you know.”
+
+So perhaps among the many there may be some who for a moment will turn
+aside from tales of haughty Heroes, ruffling it in Court and Camp, to
+listen to the story of a very ordinary lad who lived with very ordinary
+folk in a modern London street, and who grew up to be a very ordinary
+sort of man, loving a little and grieving a little, helping a few and
+harming a few, struggling and failing and hoping; and if any such there
+be, let them come round me.
+
+But let not those who come to me grow indignant as they listen, saying:
+“This rascal tells us but a humdrum story, where nothing is as it should
+be;” for I warn all beforehand that I tell but of things that I have
+seen. My villains, I fear, are but poor sinners, not altogether bad;
+and my good men but sorry saints. My princes do not always slay their
+dragons; alas, sometimes, the dragon eats the prince. The wicked
+fairies often prove more powerful than the good. The magic thread leads
+sometimes wrong, and even the hero is not always brave and true.
+
+So let those come round me only who will be content to hear but their
+own story, told by another, saying as they listen, “So dreamt I. Ah,
+yes, that is true, I remember.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+PAUL, ARRIVED IN A STRANGE LAND, LEARNS MANY THINGS, AND GOES TO MEET
+THE MAN IN GREY.
+
+Fate intended me for a singularly fortunate man. Properly, I ought to
+have been born in June, which being, as is well known, the luckiest
+month in all the year for such events, should, by thoughtful parents, be
+more generally selected. How it was I came to be born in May, which is,
+on the other hand, of all the twelve the most unlucky, as I have proved,
+I leave to those more conversant with the subject to explain. An early
+nurse, the first human being of whom I have any distinct recollection,
+unhesitatingly attributed the unfortunate fact to my natural impatience;
+which quality she at the same time predicted would lead me into even
+greater trouble, a prophecy impressed by future events with the stamp of
+prescience. It was from this same bony lady that I likewise learned the
+manner of my coming. It seems that I arrived, quite unexpectedly, two
+hours after news had reached the house of the ruin of my father's mines
+through inundation; misfortunes, as it was expounded to me, never coming
+singly in this world to any one. That all things might be of a piece,
+my poor mother, attempting to reach the bell, fell against and broke the
+cheval-glass, thus further saddening herself with the conviction--for
+no amount of reasoning ever succeeded in purging her Welsh blood of
+its natural superstition--that whatever might be the result of future
+battles with my evil star, the first seven years of tiny existence had
+been, by her act, doomed to disaster.
+
+“And I must confess,” added the knobbly Mrs. Fursey, with a sigh, “it
+does look as though there must be some truth in the saying, after all.”
+
+“Then ain't I a lucky little boy?” I asked. For hitherto it had been
+Mrs. Fursey's method to impress upon me my exceptional good fortune.
+That I could and did, involuntarily, retire to bed at six, while less
+happily placed children were deprived of their natural rest until eight
+or nine o'clock, had always been held up to me as an astounding piece of
+luck. Some little boys had not a bed at all; for the which, in my more
+riotous moments, I envied them. Again, that at the first sign of a cold
+it became my unavoidable privilege to lunch off linseed gruel and sup
+off brimstone and treacle--a compound named with deliberate intent to
+deceive the innocent, the treacle, so far as taste is concerned, being
+wickedly subordinated to the brimstone--was another example of Fortune's
+favouritism: other little boys were so astoundingly unlucky as to be
+left alone when they felt ill. If further proof were needed to convince
+that I had been signalled out by Providence as its especial protege,
+there remained always the circumstance that I possessed Mrs. Fursey
+for my nurse. The suggestion that I was not altogether the luckiest of
+children was a new departure.
+
+The good dame evidently perceived her error, and made haste to correct
+it.
+
+“Oh, you! You are lucky enough,” she replied; “I was thinking of your
+poor mother.”
+
+“Isn't mamma lucky?”
+
+“Well, she hasn't been too lucky since you came.”
+
+“Wasn't it lucky, her having me?”
+
+“I can't say it was, at that particular time.”
+
+“Didn't she want me?”
+
+Mrs. Fursey was one of those well-meaning persons who are of opinion
+that the only reasonable attitude of childhood should be that of
+perpetual apology for its existence.
+
+“Well, I daresay she could have done without you,” was the answer.
+
+I can see the picture plainly still. I am sitting on a low chair before
+the nursery fire, one knee supported in my locked hands, meanwhile Mrs.
+Fursey's needle grated with monotonous regularity against her thimble.
+At that moment knocked at my small soul for the first time the problem
+of life.
+
+Suddenly, without moving, I said:
+
+“Then why did she take me in?”
+
+The rasping click of the needle on the thimble ceased abruptly.
+
+“Took you in! What's the child talking about? Who's took you in?”
+
+“Why, mamma. If she didn't want me, why did she take me in?”
+
+But even while, with heart full of dignified resentment, I propounded
+this, as I proudly felt, logically unanswerable question, I was glad
+that she had. The vision of my being refused at the bedroom window
+presented itself to my imagination. I saw the stork, perplexed and
+annoyed, looking as I had sometimes seen Tom Pinfold look when the fish
+he had been holding out by the tail had been sniffed at by Anna, and
+the kitchen door shut in his face. Would the stork also have gone away
+thoughtfully scratching his head with one of those long, compass-like
+legs of his, and muttering to himself. And here, incidentally, I fell
+a-wondering how the stork had carried me. In the garden I had often
+watched a blackbird carrying a worm, and the worm, though no doubt
+really safe enough, had always appeared to me nervous and uncomfortable.
+Had I wriggled and squirmed in like fashion? And where would the stork
+have taken me to then? Possibly to Mrs. Fursey's: their cottage was the
+nearest. But I felt sure Mrs. Fursey would not have taken me in; and
+next to them, at the first house in the village, lived Mr. Chumdley,
+the cobbler, who was lame, and who sat all day hammering boots with
+very dirty hands, in a little cave half under the ground, his whole
+appearance suggesting a poor-spirited ogre. I should have hated being
+his little boy. Possibly nobody would have taken me in. I grew pensive,
+thinking of myself as the rejected of all the village. What would the
+stork have done with me, left on his hands, so to speak. The reflection
+prompted a fresh question.
+
+“Nurse, where did I come from?”
+
+“Why, I've told you often. The stork brought you.”
+
+“Yes, I know. But where did the stork get me from?” Mrs. Fursey paused
+for quite a long while before replying. Possibly she was reflecting
+whether such answer might not make me unduly conceited. Eventually she
+must have decided to run that risk; other opportunities could be relied
+upon for neutralising the effect.
+
+“Oh, from Heaven.”
+
+“But I thought Heaven was a place where you went to,” I answered; “not
+where you comed from.” I know I said “comed,” for I remember that at
+this period my irregular verbs were a bewildering anxiety to my poor
+mother. “Comed” and “goned,” which I had worked out for myself, were
+particular favourites of mine.
+
+Mrs. Fursey passed over my grammar in dignified silence. She had
+been pointedly requested not to trouble herself with that part of my
+education, my mother holding that diverging opinions upon the same
+subject only confused a child.
+
+“You came from Heaven,” repeated Mrs. Fursey, “and you'll go to
+Heaven--if you're good.”
+
+“Do all little boys and girls come from Heaven?”
+
+“So they say.” Mrs. Fursey's tone implied that she was stating what
+might possibly be but a popular fallacy, for which she individually took
+no responsibility.
+
+“And did you come from Heaven, Mrs. Fursey?” Mrs. Fursey's reply to this
+was decidedly more emphatic.
+
+“Of course I did. Where do you think I came from?”
+
+At once, I am ashamed to say, Heaven lost its exalted position in my
+eyes. Even before this, it had puzzled me that everybody I knew should
+be going there--for so I was always assured; now, connected as it
+appeared to be with the origin of Mrs. Fursey, much of its charm
+disappeared.
+
+But this was not all. Mrs. Fursey's information had suggested to me a
+fresh grief. I stopped not to console myself with the reflection that my
+fate had been but the fate of all little boys and girls. With a child's
+egoism I seized only upon my own particular case.
+
+“Didn't they want me in Heaven then, either?” I asked. “Weren't they
+fond of me up there?”
+
+The misery in my voice must have penetrated even Mrs. Fursey's bosom,
+for she answered more sympathetically than usual.
+
+“Oh, they liked you well enough, I daresay. I like you, but I like to
+get rid of you sometimes.” There could be no doubt as to this last. Even
+at the time, I often doubted whether that six o'clock bedtime was not
+occasionally half-past five.
+
+The answer comforted me not. It remained clear that I was not wanted
+either in Heaven nor upon the earth. God did not want me. He was glad
+to get rid of me. My mother did not want me. She could have done without
+me. Nobody wanted me. Why was I here?
+
+And then, as the sudden opening and shutting of the door of a dark room,
+came into my childish brain the feeling that Something, somewhere, must
+have need of me, or I could not be, Something I felt I belonged to and
+that belonged to me, Something that was as much a part of me as I of It.
+The feeling came back to me more than once during my childhood, though I
+could never put it into words. Years later the son of the Portuguese Jew
+explained to me my thought. But all that I myself could have told was
+that in that moment I knew for the first time that I lived, that I was
+I.
+
+The next instant all was dark again, and I once more a puzzled little
+boy, sitting by a nursery fire, asking of a village dame questions
+concerning life.
+
+Suddenly a new thought came to me, or rather the recollection of an old.
+
+“Nurse, why haven't we got a husband?”
+
+Mrs. Fursey left off her sewing, and stared at me.
+
+“What maggot has the child got into its head now?” was her observation;
+“who hasn't got a husband?”
+
+“Why, mamma.”
+
+“Don't talk nonsense, Master Paul; you know your mamma has got a
+husband.”
+
+“No, she ain't.”
+
+“And don't contradict. Your mamma's husband is your papa, who lives in
+London.”
+
+“What's the good of _him_!”
+
+Mrs. Fursey's reply appeared to me to be unnecessarily vehement.
+
+“You wicked child, you; where's your commandments? Your father is in
+London working hard to earn money to keep you in idleness, and you sit
+there and say 'What's the good of him!' I'd be ashamed to be such an
+ungrateful little brat.”
+
+I had not meant to be ungrateful. My words were but the repetition of
+a conversation I had overheard the day before between my mother and my
+aunt.
+
+Had said my aunt: “There she goes, moping again. Drat me if ever I saw
+such a thing to mope as a woman.”
+
+My aunt was entitled to preach on the subject. She herself grumbled all
+day about all things, but she did it cheerfully.
+
+My mother was standing with her hands clasped behind her--a favourite
+attitude of hers--gazing through the high French window into the garden
+beyond. It must have been spring time, for I remember the white and
+yellow crocuses decking the grass.
+
+“I want a husband,” had answered my mother, in a tone so ludicrously
+childish that at sound of it I had looked up from the fairy story I was
+reading, half expectant to find her changed into a little girl; “I hate
+not having a husband.”
+
+“Help us and save us,” my aunt had retorted; “how many more does a girl
+want? She's got one.”
+
+“What's the good of him all that way off,” had pouted my mother; “I want
+him here where I can get at him.”
+
+I had often heard of this father of mine, who lived far away in
+London, and to whom we owed all the blessings of life; but my childish
+endeavours to square information with reflection had resulted in my
+assigning to him an entirely spiritual existence. I agreed with my
+mother that such an one, however to be revered, was no substitute for
+the flesh and blood father possessed by luckier folk--the big, strong,
+masculine thing that would carry a fellow pig-a-back round the garden,
+or take a chap to sail in boats.
+
+“You don't understand me, nurse,” I explained; “what I mean is a husband
+you can get at.”
+
+“Well, and you'll 'get at him,' poor gentleman, one of these days,”
+ answered Mrs. Fursey. “When he's ready for you he'll send for you, and
+then you'll go to him in London.”
+
+I felt that still Mrs. Fursey didn't understand. But I foresaw that
+further explanation would only shock her, so contented myself with a
+simple, matter-of-fact question.
+
+“How do you get to London; do you have to die first?”
+
+“I do think,” said Mrs. Fursey, in the voice of resigned despair rather
+than of surprise, “that, without exception, you are the silliest little
+boy I ever came across. I've no patience with you.”
+
+“I am very sorry, nurse,” I answered; “I thought--”
+
+“Then,” interrupted Mrs. Fursey, in the voice of many generations, “you
+shouldn't think. London,” continued the good dame, her experience no
+doubt suggesting that the shortest road to peace would be through my
+understanding of this matter, “is a big town, and you go there in a
+train. Some time--soon now--your father will write to your mother that
+everything is ready. Then you and your mother and your aunt will leave
+this place and go to London, and I shall be rid of you.”
+
+“And shan't we come back here ever any more?”
+
+“Never again.”
+
+“And I'll never play in the garden again, never go down to the
+pebble-ridge to tea, or to Jacob's tower?”
+
+“Never again.” I think Mrs. Fursey took a pleasure in the phrase. It
+sounded, as she said it, like something out of the prayer-book.
+
+“And I'll never see Anna, or Tom Pinfold, or old Yeo, or Pincher, or
+you, ever any more?” In this moment of the crumbling from under me of
+all my footholds I would have clung even to that dry tuft, Mrs. Fursey
+herself.
+
+“Never any more. You'll go away and begin an entirely new life. And I do
+hope, Master Paul,” added Mrs. Fursey, piously, “it may be a better one.
+That you will make up your mind to--”
+
+But Mrs. Fursey's well-meant exhortations, whatever they may have been,
+fell upon deaf ears. Here was I face to face with yet another problem.
+This life into which I had fallen: it was understandable! One went away,
+leaving the pleasant places that one knew, never to return to them.
+One left one's labour and one's play to enter upon a new existence in a
+strange land. One parted from the friends one had always known, one saw
+them never again. Life was indeed a strange thing; and, would a body
+comprehend it, then must a body sit staring into the fire, thinking very
+hard, unheedful of all idle chatter.
+
+That night, when my mother came to kiss me good-night, I turned my
+face to the wall and pretended to be asleep, for children as well as
+grown-ups have their foolish moods; but when I felt the soft curls brush
+my cheek, my pride gave way, and clasping my arms about her neck, and
+drawing her face still closer down to mine; I voiced the question that
+all the evening had been knocking at my heart:
+
+“I suppose you couldn't send me back now, could you? You see, you've had
+me so long.”
+
+“Send you back?”
+
+“Yes. I'd be too big for the stork to carry now, wouldn't I?”
+
+My mother knelt down beside the bed so that her face and mine were on
+a level, and looking into her eyes, the fear that had been haunting me
+fell from me.
+
+“Who has been talking foolishly to a foolish little boy?” asked my
+mother, keeping my arms still clasped about her neck.
+
+“Oh, nurse and I were discussing things, you know,” I answered, “and she
+said you could have done without me.” Somehow, I did not mind repeating
+the words now; clearly it could have been but Mrs. Fursey's fun.
+
+My mother drew me closer to her.
+
+“And what made her think that?”
+
+“Well, you see,” I replied, “I came at a very awkward time, didn't I;
+when you had a lot of other troubles.”
+
+My mother laughed, but the next moment looked grave again.
+
+“I did not know you thought about such things,” she said; “we must be
+more together, you and I, Paul, and you shall tell me all you think,
+because nurse does not quite understand you. It is true what she said
+about the trouble; it came just at that time. But I could not have done
+without you. I was very unhappy, and you were sent to comfort me and
+help me to bear it.” I liked this explanation better.
+
+“Then it was lucky, your having me?” I said. Again my mother laughed,
+and again there followed that graver look upon her childish face.
+
+“Will you remember what I am going to say?” She spoke so earnestly that
+I, wriggling into a sitting posture, became earnest also.
+
+“I'll try,” I answered; “but I ain't got a very good memory, have I?”
+
+“Not very,” smiled my mother; “but if you think about it a good deal it
+will not leave you. When you are a good boy, and later on, when you are
+a good man, then I am the luckiest little mother in all the world. And
+every time you fail, that means bad luck for me. You will remember that
+after I'm gone, when you are a big man, won't you, Paul?”
+
+So, both of us quite serious, I promised; and though I smile now when
+I remember, seeing before me those two earnest, childish faces, yet I
+think, however little success it may be I have to boast of, it would
+perhaps have been still less had I entirely forgotten.
+
+From that day my mother waxes in my memory; Mrs. Fursey, of the many
+promontories, waning. There were sunny mornings in the neglected garden,
+where the leaves played round us while we worked and read; twilight
+evenings in the window seat where, half hidden by the dark red curtains,
+we would talk in whispers, why I know not, of good men and noble women,
+ogres, fairies, saints and demons; they were pleasant days.
+
+Possibly our curriculum lacked method; maybe it was too varied and
+extensive for my age, in consequence of which chronology became confused
+within my brain, and fact and fiction more confounded than has usually
+been considered permissible, even in history. I saw Aphrodite, ready
+armed and risen from the sea, move with stately grace to meet King
+Canute, who, throned upon the sand, bade her come no further lest
+she should wet his feet. In forest glade I saw King Rufus fall from a
+poisoned arrow shot by Robin Hood; but thanks to sweet Queen Eleanor,
+who sucked the poison from his wound, I knew he lived. Oliver Cromwell,
+having killed King Charles, married his widow, and was in turn stabbed
+by Hamlet. Ulysses, in the Argo, it was fixed upon my mind, had
+discovered America. Romulus and Remus had slain the wolf and rescued
+Little Red Riding Hood. Good King Arthur, for letting the cakes burn,
+had been murdered by his uncle in the Tower of London. Prometheus, bound
+to the Rock, had been saved by good St. George. Paris had given the
+apple to William Tell. What matter! the information was there. It needed
+rearranging, that was all.
+
+Sometimes, of an afternoon, we would climb the steep winding pathway
+through the woods, past awful precipices, spirit-haunted, by grassy
+swards where fairies danced o' nights, by briar and bracken sheltered
+Caves where fearsome creatures lurked, till high above the creeping sea
+we would reach the open plateau where rose old Jacob's ruined tower.
+“Jacob's Folly” it was more often called about the country side, and by
+some “The Devil's Tower;” for legend had it that there old Jacob and his
+master, the Devil, had often met in windy weather to wave false wrecking
+lights to troubled ships. Who “old Jacob” was, I never, that I can
+remember, learned, nor how nor why he built the Tower. Certain only it
+is his memory was unpopular, and the fisher folk would swear that
+still on stormy nights strange lights would gleam and flash from the
+ivy-curtained windows of his Folly.
+
+But in day time no spot was more inviting, the short moss-grass before
+its shattered door, the lichen on its crumbling stones. From its topmost
+platform one saw the distant mountains, faint like spectres, and the
+silent ships that came and vanished; and about one's feet the pleasant
+farm lands and the grave, sweet river.
+
+Smaller and poorer the world has grown since then. Now, behind those
+hills lie naught but smoky towns and dingy villages; but then they
+screened a land of wonder where princesses dwelt in castles, where the
+cities were of gold. Now the ocean is but six days' journey wide, ending
+at the New York Custom House. Then, had one set one's sail upon it, one
+would have travelled far and far, beyond the golden moonlight, beyond
+the gate of clouds; to the magic land of the blood red shore, t'other
+side o' the sun. I never dreamt in those days a world could be so small.
+
+Upon the topmost platform a wooden seat ran round within the parapet,
+and sitting there hand in hand, sheltered from the wind which ever blew
+about the tower, my mother would people for me all the earth and air
+with the forms of myth and legend--perhaps unwisely, yet I do not
+know. I took no harm from it, good rather, I think. They were beautiful
+fancies, most of them; or so my mother turned them, making for love and
+pity, as do all the tales that live, whether poems or old wives fables.
+But at that time of course they had no meaning for me other than the
+literal; so that my mother, looking into my eyes, would often hasten
+to add: “But that, you know, is only an old superstition, and of course
+there are no such things nowadays.” Yet, forgetful sometimes of the
+time, and overtaken homeward by the shadows, we would hasten swiftly
+through the darkening path, holding each other tightly by the hand.
+
+Spring had waxed to summer, summer waned to autumn. Then my aunt and I
+one morning, waiting at the breakfast table, saw through the open window
+my mother skipping, dancing, pirouetting up the garden path. She held
+a letter open in her hand, which as she drew near she waved about her
+head, singing:
+
+“Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, then comes Wednesday morning.”
+
+She caught me to her and began dancing with me round the room.
+
+Observed my aunt, who continued steadily to eat bread and butter:
+
+“Just like 'em all. Goes mad with joy. What for? Because she's going to
+leave a decent house, to live in a poky hole in the East End of London,
+and keep one servant.”
+
+To my aunt the second person ever remained a grammatical superfluity.
+Invariably she spoke not to but of a person, throwing out her
+conversation in the form of commentary. This had the advantage
+of permitting the party intended to ignore it as mere impersonal
+philosophy. Seeing it was generally uncomplimentary, most people
+preferred so to regard it; but my mother had never succeeded in
+schooling herself to indifference.
+
+“It's not a poky hole,” she replied; “it's an old-fashioned house, near
+the river.”
+
+“Plaistow marshes!” ejaculated my aunt, “calls it the river!”
+
+“So it is the river,” returned my mother; “the river is the other side
+of the marshes.”
+
+“Let's hope it will always stop there,” said my aunt.
+
+“And it's got a garden,” continued my mother, ignoring my aunt's last
+remark; “which is quite an unusual feature in a London house. And it
+isn't the East End of London; it is a rising suburb. And you won't make
+me miserable because I am too happy.”
+
+“Drat the woman!” said my aunt, “why can't she sit down and give us our
+tea before it's all cold?”
+
+“You are a disagreeable thing!” said my mother.
+
+“Not half milk,” said my aunt. My aunt was never in the least disturbed
+by other people's opinion of her, which was perhaps well for her.
+
+For three days my mother packed and sang; and a dozen times a day
+unpacked and laughed, looking for things wanted that were always found
+at the very bottom of the very last box looked into, so that Anna,
+waiting for a certain undergarment of my aunt's which shall be nameless,
+suggested a saving of time:
+
+“If I were you, ma'am,” said Anna, “I'd look into the last box you're
+going to look into first.”
+
+But it was found eventually in the first box-the box, that is, my mother
+had intended to search first, but which, acting on Anna's suggestion,
+she had reserved till the last. This caused my mother to be quite short
+with Anna, who she said had wasted her time. But by Tuesday afternoon
+all stood ready: we were to start early Wednesday morning.
+
+That evening, missing my mother in the house, I sought her in the garden
+and found her, as I had expected, on her favourite seat under the great
+lime tree; but to my surprise there were tears in her eyes.
+
+“But I thought you were glad we were going,” I said.
+
+“So I am,” answered my mother, drying her eyes only to make room for
+fresh tears.
+
+“Then why are you crying?”
+
+“Because I'm sorry to leave here.”
+
+Grown-up folks with their contradictory ways were a continual puzzle to
+me in those days; I am not sure I quite understand them even now, myself
+included.
+
+We were up and off next day before the dawn. The sun rose as the wagon
+reached the top of the hill; and there we paused and took our farewell
+look at Old Jacob's Tower. My mother cried a little behind her veil; but
+my aunt only said, “I never did care for earwigs in my tea;” and as
+for myself I was too excited and expectant to feel much sentiment about
+anything.
+
+On the journey I sat next to an exceptionally large and heavy man, who
+in his sleep--and he slept often--imagined me to be a piece of stuffing
+out of place. Then, grunting and wriggling, he would endeavour to rub
+me out, until the continued irritation of my head between the window
+and his back would cause him to awake, when he would look down upon me
+reprovingly but not unkindly, observing to the carriage generally: “It's
+a funny thing, ain't it, nobody's ever made a boy yet that could keep
+still for ten seconds.” After which he would pat me heartily on the
+head, to show he was not vexed with me, and fall to sleep again upon me.
+He was a good-tempered man.
+
+My mother sat occupied chiefly with her own thoughts, and my aunt had
+found a congenial companion in a lady who had had her cap basket sat
+upon; so I was left mainly to my own resources. When I could get my head
+free of the big man's back, I gazed out of the window, and watched the
+flying fragments as we shed the world. Now a village would fall from us,
+now the yellow corn-land would cling to us for awhile, or a wood catch
+at our rushing feet, and sometimes a strong town would stop us, and hold
+us, panting for a space. Or, my eyes weary, I would sit and listen to
+the hoarse singing of the wheels beneath my feet. It was a monotonous
+chaunt, ever the same two lines:
+
+     “Here we suffer grief and pain,
+     Here we meet to part again,”
+
+followed by a low, rumbling laugh. Sometimes fortissimo, sometimes
+pianissimo; now vivace, now largo; but ever those same two lines, and
+ever followed by the same low, rumbling laugh; still to this day the
+iron wheels sing to me that same song.
+
+Later on I also must have slept, for I dreamt that as the result of my
+having engaged in single combat with a dragon, the dragon, ignoring all
+the rules of Fairyland, had swallowed me. It was hot and stuffy in the
+dragon's stomach. He had, so it appeared to me, disgracefully overeaten
+himself; there were hundreds of us there, entirely undigested, including
+Mother Hubbard and a gentleman named Johnson, against whom, at that
+period, I entertained a strong prejudice by reason of our divergent
+views upon the subject of spelling. Even in this hour of our mutual
+discomfort Johnson would not leave me alone, but persisted in asking me
+how I spelt Jonah. Nobody was looking, so I kicked him. He sprang up
+and came after me. I tried to run away, but became wedged between
+Hop-o'-my-Thumb and Julius Caesar. I suppose our tearing about must
+have hurt the dragon, for at that moment he gave vent to a most fearful
+scream, and I awoke to find the fat man rubbing his left shin, while
+we struggled slowly, with steps growing ever feebler, against a sea of
+brick that every moment closed in closer round us.
+
+We scrambled out of the carriage into a great echoing cave that
+might have been the dragon's home, where, to my alarm, my mother was
+immediately swooped down upon by a strange man in grey.
+
+“Why's he do that?” I asked of my aunt.
+
+“Because he's a fool,” answered my aunt; “they all are.”
+
+He put my mother down and came towards us. He was a tall, thin man, with
+eyes one felt one would never be afraid of; and instinctively even then
+I associated him in my mind with windmills and a lank white horse.
+
+“Why, how he's grown,” said the grey man, raising me in his arms until
+my mother beside me appeared to me in a new light as quite a little
+person; “and solid too.”
+
+My mother whispered something. I think from her face, for I knew the
+signs, it was praise of me.
+
+“And he's going to be our new fortune,” she added aloud, as the grey man
+lowered me.
+
+“Then,” said my aunt, who had this while been sitting rigid upon a flat
+black box, “don't drop him down a coal-mine. That's all I say.”
+
+I wondered at the time why the grey man's pale face should flush so
+crimson, and why my mother should whisper angrily:
+
+“How can you be so wicked, Fanny? How dare you say such a thing?”
+
+“I only said 'don't drop him down a coal-mine,'” returned my aunt,
+apparently much surprised; “you don't want to drop him down a coal-mine,
+do you?”
+
+We passed through glittering, joyous streets, piled high each side with
+all the good things of the earth; toys and baubles, jewels and gold,
+things good to eat and good to drink, things good to wear and good to
+see; through pleasant ways where fountains splashed and flowers bloomed.
+The people wore bright clothes, had happy faces. They rode in beautiful
+carriages, they strolled about, greeting one another with smiles. The
+children ran and laughed. London, thought I to myself, is the city of
+the fairies.
+
+It passed, and we sank into a grim city of hoarse, roaring streets,
+wherein the endless throngs swirled and surged as I had seen the yellow
+waters curve and fret, contending, where the river pauses, rock-bound.
+Here were no bright costumes, no bright faces, none stayed to greet
+another; all was stern, and swift, and voiceless. London, then, said I
+to myself, is the city of the giants. They must live in these towering
+castles side by side, and these hurrying thousands are their driven
+slaves.
+
+But this passed also, and we sank lower yet until we reached a third
+city, where a pale mist filled each sombre street. None of the beautiful
+things of the world were to be seen here, but only the things coarse
+and ugly. And wearily to and fro its sunless passages trudged with heavy
+steps a weary people, coarse-clad, and with dull, listless faces. And
+London, I knew, was the city of the gnomes who labour sadly all their
+lives, imprisoned underground; and a terror seized me lest I, too,
+should remain chained here, deep down below the fairy city that was
+already but a dream.
+
+We stopped at last in a long, unfinished street. I remember our pushing
+our way through a group of dirty urchins, all of whom, my aunt remarked
+in passing, ought to be skinned. It was my aunt's one prescription for
+all to whom she took objection; but really in the present instance I
+think it would have been of service; nothing else whatever could have
+restored them to cleanliness. Then the door closed behind us with an
+echoing clang, and the small, cold rooms came forward stiffly to greet
+us.
+
+The man in grey went to the one window and drew back the curtain; it
+was growing dusk now. My aunt sat on a straight, hard chair and stared
+fixedly at the three-armed gaselier. My mother stood in the centre of
+the room with one small ungloved hand upon the table, and I noticed--for
+I was very near--that the poor little one-legged thing was trembling.
+
+“Of course it's not what you've been accustomed to, Maggie,” said the
+man in grey; “but it's only for a little while.”
+
+He spoke in a new, angry voice; but I could not see his face, his back
+being to the light.
+
+My mother drew his arms around us both.
+
+“It is the best home in all the world,” she said; and thus we stayed for
+awhile.
+
+“Nonsense,” said my aunt, suddenly; and this aroused us; “it's a poky
+hole, as I told her it would be. Let her thank the Lord she's got a
+man clever enough to get her out of it. I know him; he never could rest
+where he was put. Now he's at the bottom; he'll go up.”
+
+It sounded to me a very disagreeable speech; but the grey man laughed--I
+had not heard him laugh till then--and my mother ran to my aunt and
+kissed her; and somehow the room seemed to become lighter.
+
+For some reason I slept downstairs that night, on the floor, behind a
+screen improvised out of a clothes horse and a blanket; and later in the
+evening the clatter of knives and forks and the sound of subdued voices
+awoke me. My aunt had apparently gone to bed; my mother and the man in
+grey were talking together over their supper.
+
+“We must buy land,” said the voice of the grey man; “London is coming
+this way. The Somebodies” (I forget the name my father mentioned) “made
+all their money by buying up land round New York for a mere song. Then,
+as the city spread, they became worth millions.”
+
+“But where will you get the money from, Luke?” asked the voice of my
+mother.
+
+The voice of the grey man answered airily:
+
+“Oh, that's merely a matter of business. You grant a mortgage. The
+property goes up in value. You borrow more. Then you buy more--and so
+on.”
+
+“I see,” said my mother.
+
+“Being on the spot gives one such an advantage,” said the grey man. “I
+shall know just when to buy. It's a great thing, being on the spot.”
+
+“Of course, it must be,” said my mother.
+
+I suppose I must have dozed, for the next words I heard the grey man say
+were:
+
+“Of course you have the park opposite, but then the house is small.”
+
+“But shall we need a very large one?” asked my mother.
+
+“One never knows,” said the grey man. “If I should go into Parliament--”
+
+At this point a hissing sound arose from the neighbourhood of the fire.
+
+“It _looks_,” said my mother, “as if it were done.”
+
+“If you will hold the dish,” said the grey man, “I think I can pour it
+in without spilling.”
+
+Again I must have dozed.
+
+“It depends,” said the grey man, “upon what he is going to be. For the
+classics, of course, Oxford.”
+
+“He's going to be very clever,” said my mother. She spoke as one who
+knows.
+
+“We'll hope so,” said the grey man.
+
+“I shouldn't be surprised,” said my mother, “if he turned out a poet.”
+
+The grey man said something in a low tone that I did not hear.
+
+“I'm not so sure,” answered my mother, “it's in the blood. I've often
+thought that you, Luke, ought to have been a poet.”
+
+“I never had the time,” said the grey man. “There were one or two little
+things--”
+
+“They were very beautiful,” interrupted my mother. The clatter of the
+knives and forks continued undisturbed for a few moments. Then continued
+the grey man:
+
+“There would be no harm, provided I made enough. It's the law of nature.
+One generation earns, the next spends. We must see. In any case, I think
+I should prefer Oxford for him.”
+
+“It will be so hard parting from him,” said my mother.
+
+“There will be the vacations,” said the grey man, “when we shall
+travel.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+IN WHICH PAUL MAKES ACQUAINTANCE OF THE MAN WITH THE UGLY MOUTH.
+
+The case of my father and mother was not normal. You understand they
+had been separated for some years, and though they were not young in
+age--indeed, before my childish eyes they loomed quite ancient folk,
+and in fact my father must have been nearly forty and my mother quit of
+thirty--yet, as you will come to think yourself, no doubt, during the
+course of my story, they were in all the essentials of life little more
+than boy and girl. This I came to see later on, but at that time, had I
+been consulted by enquiring maid or bachelor, I might unwittingly have
+given wrong impressions concerning marriage in the general. I should
+have described a husband as a man who could never rest quite content
+unless his wife were by his side; who twenty times a day would call from
+his office door: “Maggie, are you doing anything important? I want to
+talk to you about a matter of business.” ... “Maggie, are you alone? Oh,
+all right, I'll come down.” Of a wife I should have said she was a woman
+whose eyes were ever love-lit when resting on her man; who was glad
+where he was and troubled where he was not. But in every case this might
+not have been correct.
+
+Also, I should have had something to say concerning the alarms and
+excursions attending residence with any married couple. I should have
+recommended the holding up of feet under the table lest, mistaken for
+other feet, they should be trodden on and pressed. Also, I should have
+advised against entry into any room unpreceded by what in Stageland
+is termed “noise without.” It is somewhat disconcerting to the nervous
+incomer to be met, the door still in his hand, by a sound as of people
+springing suddenly into the air, followed by a weird scuttling of feet,
+and then to discover the occupants sitting stiffly in opposite corners,
+deeply engaged in book or needlework. But, as I have said, with regard
+to some households, such precautions might be needless.
+
+Personally, I fear, I exercised little or no controlling influence upon
+my parents in this respect, my intrusions coming soon to be greeted
+with: “Oh, it's only Spud,” in a tone of relief, accompanied generally
+by the sofa cushion; but of my aunt they stood more in awe. Not that she
+ever said anything, and, indeed, to do her justice, in her efforts to
+spare their feelings she erred, if at all, on the side of excess.
+Never did she move a footstep about the house except to the music of
+a sustained and penetrating cough. As my father once remarked,
+ungratefully, I must confess, the volume of bark produced by my aunt in
+a single day would have done credit to the dying efforts of a hospital
+load of consumptives; to a robust and perfectly healthy lady the cost in
+nervous force must have been prodigious. Also, that no fear should live
+with them that her eyes had seen aught not intended for them, she would
+invariably enter backwards any room in which they might be, closing the
+door loudly and with difficulty before turning round: and through dark
+passages she would walk singing. No woman alive could have done more;
+yet--such is human nature!--neither my father nor my mother was grateful
+to her, so far as I could judge.
+
+Indeed, strange as it may appear, the more sympathetic towards them she
+showed herself, the more irritated against her did they become.
+
+“I believe, Fanny, you hate seeing Luke and me happy together,” said my
+mother one day, coming up from the kitchen to find my aunt preparing
+for entry into the drawing-room by dropping teaspoons at five-second
+intervals outside the door: “Don't make yourself so ridiculous.” My
+mother spoke really quite unkindly.
+
+“Hate it!” replied my aunt. “Why should I? Why shouldn't a pair of
+turtle doves bill and coo, when their united age is only a little over
+seventy, the pretty dears?” The mildness of my aunt's answers often
+surprised me.
+
+As for my father, he grew positively vindictive. I remember the occasion
+well. It was the first, though not the last time I knew him lose his
+temper. What brought up the subject I forget, but my father stopped
+suddenly; we were walking by the canal bank.
+
+“Your aunt”--my father may not have intended it, but his tone and manner
+when speaking of my aunt always conveyed to me the impression that he
+regarded me as personally responsible for her existence. This used to
+weigh upon me. “Your aunt is the most cantankerous, the most--” he broke
+off, and shook his fist towards the setting sun. “I wish to God,” said
+my father, “your aunt had a comfortable little income of her own, with
+a freehold cottage in the country, by God I do!” But the next moment,
+ashamed, I suppose, of his brutality: “Not but what sometimes, of
+course, she can be very nice, you know,” he added; “don't tell your
+mother what I said just now.”
+
+Another who followed with sympathetic interest the domestic comedy was
+Susan, our maid-of-all-work, the first of a long and varied series,
+extending unto the advent of Amy, to whom the blessing of Heaven. Susan
+was a stout and elderly female, liable to sudden fits of sleepiness, the
+result, we were given to understand, of trouble; but her heart, it was
+her own proud boast, was always in the right place. She could never look
+at my father and mother sitting anywhere near each other but she must
+flop down and weep awhile; the sight of connubial bliss always reminding
+her, so she would explain, of the past glories of her own married state.
+
+Though an earnest enquirer, I was never able myself to grasp the ins
+and outs of this past married life of Susan's. Whether her answers were
+purposely framed to elude curiosity, or whether they were the result of
+a naturally incoherent mind, I cannot say. Their tendency was to convey
+confusion.
+
+On Monday I have seen Susan shed tears of regret into the Brussels
+sprouts, that she had been debarred by the pressure of other duties from
+lately watering “his” grave, which, I gathered, was at Manor Park.
+While on Tuesday I have listened, blood chilled, to the recital of her
+intentions should she ever again enjoy the luxury of getting her fingers
+near the scruff of his neck.
+
+“But, I thought, Susan, he was dead,” was my very natural comment upon
+this outbreak.
+
+“So did I, Master Paul,” was Susan's rejoinder; “that was his
+artfulness.”
+
+“Then he isn't buried in Manor Park Cemetery?”
+
+“Not yet; but he'll wish he was, the half-baked monkey, when I get hold
+of him.”
+
+“Then he wasn't a good man?”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“Your husband.”
+
+“Who says he ain't a good man?” It was Susan's flying leaps from tense
+to tense that most bewildered me. “If anybody says he ain't I'll gouge
+their eye out!”
+
+I hastened to assure Susan that my observation had been intended in the
+nature of enquiry, not of assertion.
+
+“Brings me a bottle of gin--for my headaches--every time he comes home,”
+ continued Susan, showing cause for opinion, “every blessed time.”
+
+And at some such point as this I would retire to the clearer atmosphere
+of German grammar or mixed fractions.
+
+We suffered a good deal from Susan one way and another; for having
+regard to the admirable position of her heart, we all felt it our duty
+to overlook mere failings of the flesh--all but my aunt, that is, who
+never made any pretence of being a sentimentalist.
+
+“She's a lazy hussy,” was the opinion expressed of her one morning by my
+aunt, who was rinsing; “a gulping, snorting, lazy hussy, that's what she
+is.” There was some excuse for my aunt's indignation. It was then eleven
+o'clock and Susan was still sleeping off an attack of what she called
+“new-ralgy.”
+
+“She has seen a good deal of trouble,” said my mother, who was wiping.
+
+“And if she was my cook and housemaid,” replied my aunt, “she would see
+more, the slut!”
+
+“She's not a good servant in many respects,” admitted my mother, “but I
+think she's good-hearted.”
+
+“Oh, drat her heart,” was my aunt's retort. “The right place for that
+heart of hers is on the doorstep. And that's where I'd put it, and her
+and her box alongside it, if I had my way.”
+
+The departure of Susan did take place not long afterwards. It occurred
+one Saturday night. My mother came upstairs looking pale.
+
+“Luke,” she said, “do please run for the doctor.”
+
+“What's the matter?” asked my father.
+
+“Susan,” gasped my mother, “she's lying on the kitchen floor breathing
+in the strangest fashion and quite unable to speak.”
+
+“I'll go for Washburn,” said my father; “if I am quick I shall catch him
+at the dispensary.”
+
+Five minutes later my father came back panting, followed by the doctor.
+This was a big, black-bearded man; added to which he had the knack of
+looking bigger than even he really was. He came down the kitchen stairs
+two at a time, shaking the whole house. He brushed my mother aside, and
+bent over the unconscious Susan, who was on her back with her mouth wide
+open. Then he rose and looked at my father and mother, who were watching
+him with troubled faces; and then he opened his mouth, and there came
+from it a roar of laughter, the like of which sound I had never heard.
+
+The next moment he had seized a pail half full of water and had flung it
+over the woman. She opened her eyes and sat up.
+
+“Feeling better?” said the doctor, with the pail still in his hand;
+“have another dose?”
+
+Susan began to gather herself together with the evident intention of
+expressing her feelings; but before she could find the first word, he
+had pushed the three of us outside and slammed the door behind us.
+
+From the top of the stairs we could hear Susan's thick, rancorous voice
+raging fiercer and fiercer, drowned every now and then by the man's
+savage roar of laughter. And, when for want of breath she would flag for
+a moment, he would yell out encouragement to her, shouting: “Bravo!
+Go it, my beauty, give it tongue! Bark, bark! I love to hear you,”
+ applauding her, clapping his hands and stamping his feet.
+
+“What a beast of a man,” said my mother.
+
+“He is really a most interesting man when you come to know him,”
+ explained my father.
+
+Replied my mother, stiffly: “I don't ever mean to know him.” But it is
+only concerning the past that we possess knowledge.
+
+The riot from below ceased at length, and was followed by a new voice,
+speaking quietly and emphatically, and then we heard the doctor's step
+again upon the stairs.
+
+My mother held her purse open in her hand, and as the man entered the
+room she went forward to meet him.
+
+“How much do we owe you, Doctor?” said my mother. She spoke in a voice
+trembling with severity.
+
+He closed the purse and gently pushed it back towards her.
+
+“A glass of beer and a chop, Mrs. Kelver,” he answered, “which I am
+coming back in an hour to cook for myself. And as you will be without
+any servant,” he continued, while my mother stood staring at him
+incapable of utterance, “you had better let me cook some for you at the
+same time. I am an expert at grilling chops.”
+
+“But, really, Doctor--” my mother began. He laid his huge hand upon her
+shoulder, and my mother sat down upon the nearest chair.
+
+“My dear lady,” he said, “she's a person you never ought to have had
+inside your house. She's promised me to be gone in half an hour, and
+I'm coming back to see she keeps her word. Give her a month's wages, and
+have a clear fire ready for me.” And before my mother could reply, he
+had slammed the front door.
+
+“What a very odd sort of a man,” said my mother, recovering herself.
+
+“He's a character,” said my father; “you might not think it, but he's
+worshipped about here.”
+
+“I hardly know what to make of him,” said my mother; “I suppose I had
+better go out and get some chops;” which she did.
+
+Susan went, as sober as a judge on Friday, as the saying is, her great
+anxiety being to get out of the house before the doctor returned. The
+doctor himself arrived true to his time, and I lay awake--for no human
+being ever slept or felt he wanted to sleep while Dr. Washburn was
+anywhere near--and listened to the gusts of laughter that swept
+continually through the house. Even my aunt laughed that supper time,
+and when the doctor himself laughed it seemed to me that the bed shook
+under me. Not liking to be out of it, I did what spoilt little boys
+and even spoilt little girls sometimes will do under similar stress of
+feeling, wrapped the blanket round my legs and pattered down, with
+my face set to express the sudden desire of a sensitive and possibly
+short-lived child for parents' love. My mother pretended to be angry,
+but that I knew was only her company manners. Besides, I really had, if
+not exactly a pain, an extremely uncomfortable sensation (one common to
+me about that period) as of having swallowed the dome of St. Paul's. The
+doctor said it was a frequent complaint with children, the result of too
+early hours and too much study; and, taking me on his knee, wrote then
+and there a diet chart for me, which included one tablespoonful of
+golden syrup four times a day, and one ounce of sherbet to be placed
+upon the tongue and taken neat ten minutes before each meal.
+
+That evening will always live in my remembrance. My mother was brighter
+than I had ever seen her. A flush was on her cheek and a sparkle in her
+eye, and looking across at her as she sat holding a small painted screen
+to shield her face from the fire, the sense of beauty became suddenly
+born within me, and answering an impulse I could not have explained, I
+slipped down, still with my blanket around me, from the doctor's knee,
+and squatted on the edge of the fender, from where, when I thought no
+one was noticing me, I could steal furtive glances up into her face.
+
+So also my father seemed to me to have become all at once bigger and
+more dignified, talking with a vigour and an enjoyment that sat newly on
+him. Aunt Fan was quite witty and agreeable--for her; and even I asked
+one or two questions, at which, for some reason or another, everybody
+laughed; which determined me to remember and ask those same questions
+again on some future occasion.
+
+That was the great charm of the man, that by the magnetic spell of his
+magnificent vitality he drew from everyone their best. In his company
+clever people waxed intellectual giants, while the dull sat amazed at
+their own originality. Conversing with him, Podsnap might have been
+piquant, Dogberry incisive. But better than all else, I found it
+listening to his own talk. Of what he spoke I could tell you no more
+than could the children of Hamelin have told the tune the Pied Piper
+played. I only know that at the tangled music of his strong voice
+the walls of the mean room faded away, and that beyond I saw a brave,
+laughing world that called to me; a world full of joyous fight, where
+some won and some lost. But that mattered not a jot, because whatever
+else came of it there was a right royal game for all; a world where
+merry gentlemen feared neither life nor death, and Fate was but the
+Master of the Revels.
+
+Such was my first introduction to Dr. Washburn, or to give him the
+name by which he was known in every slum and alley of that quarter, Dr.
+Fighting Hal; and in a minor key that evening was an index to the whole
+man. Often he would wrinkle his nose as a dog before it bites, and then
+he was more brute than man--brutish in his instincts, in his appetites,
+brutish in his pleasure, brutish in his fun. Or his deep blue eyes would
+grow soft as a mother's, and then you might have thought him an angel
+in a soft felt hat and a coat so loose-fitting as to suggest the
+possibility of his wings being folded away underneath. Often have I
+tried to make up my mind whether it has been better for me or worse that
+I ever came to know him; but as easy would it be for the tree to
+say whether the rushing winds and the wild rains have shaped it or
+mis-shaped.
+
+Susan's place remained vacant for some time. My mother would explain
+to the few friends who occasionally came from afar to see us, that her
+“housemaid” she had been compelled to suddenly discharge, and that
+we were waiting for the arrival of a new and better specimen. But the
+months passed and we still waited, and my father on the rare days when
+a client would ring the office bell, would, after pausing a decent
+interval, open the front door himself, and then call downstairs
+indignantly and loudly, to know why “Jane” or “Mary” could not attend to
+their work. And my mother, that the bread-boy or the milkman might not
+put it about the neighbourhood that the Kelvers in the big corner house
+kept no servant, would hide herself behind a thick veil and fetch all
+things herself from streets a long way off.
+
+For this family of whom I am writing were, I confess, weak and human.
+Their poverty they were ashamed of as though it were a crime, and in
+consequence their life was more full of paltry and useless subterfuge
+than should be perhaps the life of brave men and women. The larder,
+I fancy, was very often bare, but the port and sherry with the sweet
+biscuits stood always on the sideboard; and the fire had often to be low
+in the grate that my father's tall hat might shine resplendent and my
+mother's black silk rustle on Sundays.
+
+But I would not have you sneer at them, thinking all pretence must
+spring from snobbishness and never from mistaken self-respect. Some fine
+gentleman writers there be--men whose world is bounded on the east by
+Bond Street--who see in the struggles of poverty to hide its darns only
+matter for jest. But myself, I cannot laugh at them. I know the long
+hopes and fears that centre round the hired waiter; the long cost of the
+cream and the ice jelly ordered the week before from the confectioner's.
+But to me it is pathetic, not ridiculous. Heroism is not all of one
+pattern. Dr. Washburn, had the Prince of Wales come to see him, would
+have put his bread and cheese and jug of beer upon the table, and helped
+His Royal Highness to half. But my father and mother's tea was very weak
+that Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith might have a glass of wine should they come
+to dinner. I remember the one egg for breakfast, my mother arguing that
+my father should have it because he had his business to attend to; my
+father insisting that my mother should eat it, she having to go out
+shopping, a compromise being effected by their dividing it between them,
+each clamouring for the white as the most nourishing. And I know however
+little the meal looked upon the table when we started I always rose well
+satisfied. These are small things to speak of, but then you must bear in
+mind this is a story moving in narrow ways.
+
+To me this life came as a good time. That I was encouraged to eat
+treacle in preference to butter seemed to me admirable. Personally, I
+preferred sausages for dinner; and a supper of fried fish and potatoes,
+brought in stealthily in a carpet bag, was infinitely more enjoyable
+than the set meal where nothing was of interest till one came to the
+dessert. What fun there was about it all! The cleaning of the doorstep
+by night, when from the ill-lit street a gentleman with a piece
+of sacking round his legs might very well pass for a somewhat tall
+charwoman. I would keep watch at the gate to give warning should any
+one looking like a possible late caller turn the corner of the street,
+coming back now and then in answer to a low whistle to help my father
+grope about in the dark for the hearthstone; he was always mislaying
+the hearthstone. How much better, helping to clean the knives or running
+errands than wasting all one's morning dwelling upon the shocking
+irregularity of certain classes of French verbs; or making useless
+calculations as to how long X, walking four and a quarter miles an hour,
+would be overtaking Y, whose powers were limited to three and a half,
+but who had started two and three quarter hours sooner; the whole
+argument being reduced to sheer pedantry by reason of no information
+being afforded to the student concerning the respective thirstiness of X
+and Y.
+
+Even my father and mother were able to take it lightly with plenty of
+laughter and no groaning that I ever heard. For over all lay the morning
+light of hope, and what prisoner, escaping from his dungeon, ever stayed
+to think of his torn hands and knees when beyond the distant opening he
+could see the sunlight glinting through the brambles?
+
+“I had no idea,” said my mother, “there was so much to do in a house.
+In future I shall arrange for the servants to have regular hours, and a
+little time to themselves, for rest. Don't you think it right, Luke?”
+
+“Quite right,” replied my father; “and I'll tell you another thing we'll
+do. I shall insist on the landlord's putting a marble doorstep to the
+next house we take; you pass a sponge over marble and it is always
+clean.”
+
+“Or tesselated,” suggested my mother.
+
+“Or tesselated,” agreed my father; “but marble is more uncommon.”
+
+Only once, can I recall a cloud. That was one Sunday when my mother,
+speaking across the table in the middle of dinner, said to my father,
+“We might save the rest of that stew, Luke; there's an omelette coming.”
+
+My father laid down the spoon. “An omelette!”
+
+“Yes,” said my mother. “I thought I would like to try again.”
+
+My father stepped into the back kitchen--we dined in the kitchen, as a
+rule, it saved much carriage--returning with the wood chopper.
+
+“What ever are you going to do, Luke, with the chopper?” said my mother.
+
+“Divide the omelette,” replied my father.
+
+My mother began to cry.
+
+“Why, Maggie--!” said my father.
+
+“I know the other one was leathery,” said my mother, “but it was the
+fault of the oven, you know it was, Luke.”
+
+“My dear,” said my father, “I only meant it as a joke.”
+
+“I don't like that sort of joke,” said my mother; “it isn't nice of you,
+Luke.”
+
+I don't think, to be candid, my mother liked much any joke that was
+against herself. Indeed, when I come to think of it, I have never met a
+woman who did, nor man, either.
+
+There had soon grown up a comradeship between my father and myself for
+he was the youngest thing I had met with as yet. Sometimes my mother
+seemed very young, and later I met boys and girls nearer to my own age
+in years; but they grew, while my father remained always the same. The
+hair about his temples was turning grey, and when you looked close you
+saw many crow's feet and lines, especially about the mouth. But his eyes
+were the eyes of a boy, his laugh the laugh of a boy, and his heart the
+heart of a boy. So we were very close to each other.
+
+In a narrow strip of ground we called our garden we would play a cricket
+of our own, encompassed about by many novel rules, rendered necessary by
+the locality. For instance, all hitting to leg was forbidden, as tending
+to endanger neighbouring windows, while hitting to off was likewise not
+to be encouraged, as causing a temporary adjournment of the game, while
+batter and bowler went through the house and out into the street to
+recover the ball from some predatory crowd of urchins to whom it had
+evidently appeared as a gift direct from Heaven. Sometimes rising very
+early we would walk across the marshes to bathe in a small creek that
+led down to the river, but this was muddy work, necessitating much
+washing of legs on the return home. And on rare days we would, taking
+the train to Hackney and walking to the bridge, row up the river Lea,
+perhaps as far as Ponder's End.
+
+But these sports being hedged around with difficulties, more commonly
+for recreation we would take long walks. There were pleasant nooks even
+in the neighbourhood of Plaistow marshes in those days. Here and there
+a graceful elm still clung to the troubled soil. Surrounded on all sides
+by hideousness, picturesque inns still remained hidden within green
+walls where, if you were careful not to pry too curiously, you might
+sit and sip your glass of beer beneath the oak and dream yourself where
+reeking chimneys and mean streets were not. During such walks my father
+would talk to me as he would talk to my mother, telling me all his wild,
+hopeful plans, discussing with me how I was to lodge at Oxford, to what
+particular branches of study and of sport I was to give my preference,
+speaking always with such catching confidence that I came to regard my
+sojourn in this brick and mortar prison as only a question of months.
+
+One day, talking of this future, and laughing as we walked briskly,
+through the shrill streets, I told him the words my mother had
+said--long ago, as it seemed to me, for life is as a stone rolling
+down-hill, and moves but slowly at first; she and I sitting on the moss
+at the foot of old “Jacob's Folly”--that he was our Prince fighting
+to deliver us from the grim castle called “Hard Times,” guarded by the
+dragon Poverty.
+
+My father laughed and his boyish face flushed with pleasure.
+
+“And she was right, Paul,” he whispered, pressing my small hand in
+his--it was necessary to whisper, for the street where we were was very
+crowded, but I knew that he wanted to shout. “I will fight him and I
+will slay him.” My father made passes in the air with his walking-stick,
+and it was evident from the way they drew aside that the people round
+about fancied he was mad. “I will batter down the iron gates and she
+shall be free. I will, God help me, I will.”
+
+The gallant gentleman! How long and how bravely he fought! But in the
+end it was the Dragon triumphed, the Knight that lay upon the ground,
+his great heart still. I have read how, with the sword of Honest
+Industry, one may always conquer this grim Dragon. But such was in
+foolish books. In truth, only with the sword of Chicanery and the stout
+buckler of Unscrupulousness shall you be certain of victory over him. If
+you care not to use these, pray to your Gods, and take what comes with a
+stout heart.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+HOW GOOD LUCK KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE MAN IN GREY.
+
+“Louisa!” roared my father down the kitchen stairs, “are you all asleep?
+Here have I had to answer the front door myself.” Then my father strode
+into his office, and the door slammed. My father could be very angry
+when nobody was by.
+
+Quarter of an hour later his bell rang with a quick, authoritative
+jangle. My mother, who was peeling potatoes with difficulty in
+wash-leather gloves, looked at my aunt who was shelling peas. The bell
+rang again louder still this time.
+
+“Once for Louisa, twice for James, isn't it?” enquired my aunt.
+
+“You go, Paul,” said my mother; “say that Louisa--” but with the words a
+sudden flush overspread my mother's face, and before I could lay down
+my slate she had drawn off her gloves and had passed me. “No, don't stop
+your lessons, I'll go myself,” she said, and ran out.
+
+A few minutes later the kitchen door opened softly, and my mother's
+hand, appearing through the jar, beckoned to me mysteriously.
+
+“Walk on your toes,” whispered my mother, setting the example as she
+led the way up the stairs; which after the manner of stairs showed their
+disapproval of deception by creaking louder and more often than under
+any other circumstances; and in this manner we reached my parents'
+bedroom, where, in the old-fashioned wardrobe, relic of better days,
+reposed my best suit of clothes, or, to be strictly grammatical, my
+better.
+
+Never before had I worn these on a week-day morning, but all
+conversation not germane to the question of getting into them quickly
+my mother swept aside; and when I was complete, down even to the new
+shoes--Bluchers, we called them in those days--took me by the hand, and
+together we crept down as we had crept up, silent, stealthy and alert.
+My mother led me to the street door and opened it.
+
+“Shan't I want my cap?” I whispered. But my mother only shook her
+head and closed the door with a bang; and then the explanation of the
+pantomime came to me, for with such “business”--comic, shall I call
+it, or tragic?--I was becoming familiar; and, my mother's hand upon my
+shoulder, we entered my father's office.
+
+Whether from the fact that so often of an evening--our drawing-room
+being reserved always as a show-room in case of chance visitors;
+Cowper's poems, open face-downwards on the wobbly loo table; the
+half-finished crochet work, suggestive of elegant leisure, thrown
+carelessly over the arm of the smaller easy-chair--this office would
+become our sitting-room, its books and papers, as things of no account,
+being huddled out of sight; or whether from the readiness with which my
+father would come out of it at all times to play at something else--at
+cricket in the back garden on dry days or ninepins in the passage on
+wet, charging back into it again whenever a knock sounded at the front
+door, I cannot say. But I know that as a child it never occurred to
+me to regard my father's profession as a serious affair. To me he was
+merely playing there, surrounded by big books and bundles of documents,
+labelled profusely but consisting only of blank papers; by japanned
+tin boxes, lettered imposingly, but for the most part empty. “Sutton
+Hampden, Esq.,” I remember was practically my mother's work-box. The
+“Drayton Estates” yielded apparently nothing but apples, a fruit of
+which my father was fond; while “Mortgages” it was not until later in
+life I discovered had no connection with poems in manuscript, some in
+course of correction, others completed.
+
+Now, as the door opened, he rose and came towards us. His hair stood up
+from his head, for it was a habit of his to rumple it as he talked; and
+this added to his evident efforts to compose his face into an expression
+of businesslike gravity, added emphasis, if such were needed, to the
+suggestion of the over long schoolboy making believe.
+
+“This is the youngster,” said my father, taking me from my mother, and
+passing me on. “Tall for his age, isn't he?”
+
+With a twist of his thick lips, he rolled the evil-smelling cigar he was
+smoking from the left corner of his mouth to the right; and held out a
+fat and not too clean hand, which, as it closed round mine, brought to
+my mind the picture of the walrus in my natural history book; with the
+other he flapped me kindly on the head.
+
+“Like 'is mother, wonderfully like 'is mother, ain't 'e?” he observed,
+still holding my hand. “And that,” he added with a wink of one of his
+small eyes towards my father, “is about the 'ighest compliment I can pay
+'im, eh?”
+
+His eyes were remarkably small, but marvellously bright and piercing; so
+much so that when he turned them again upon me I tried to think quickly
+of something nice about him, feeling sure that he could see right into
+me.
+
+“And where are you thinkin' of sendin' 'im?” he continued; “Eton or
+'Arrow?”
+
+“We haven't quite made up our minds as yet,” replied my father; “at
+present we are educating him at home.”
+
+“You take my tip,” said the fat man, “and learn all you can. Look at
+me! If I'd 'ad the opportunity of being a schollard I wouldn't be here
+offering your father an extravagant price for doin' my work; I'd be able
+to do it myself.”
+
+“You seem to have got on very well without it,” laughed my father;
+and in truth his air of prosperity might have justified greater
+self-complacency. Rings sparkled on his blunt fingers, and upon the
+swelling billows of his waistcoat rose and sank a massive gold cable.
+
+“I'd 'ave done better with it,” he grunted.
+
+“But you look very clever,” I said; and though divining with a child's
+cuteness that it was desired I should make a favourable impression upon
+him, I hoped this would please him, the words were yet spontaneous.
+
+He laughed heartily, his whole body shaking like some huge jelly.
+
+“Well, old Noel Hasluck's not exactly a fool,” he assented, “but I'd
+like myself better if I could talk about something else than business,
+and didn't drop my aitches. And so would my little gell.”
+
+“You have a daughter?” asked my mother, with whom a child, as a bond
+of sympathy with the stranger took the place assigned by most women to
+disrespectful cooks and incompetent housemaids.
+
+“I won't tell you about 'er. But I'll just bring 'er to see you now and
+then, ma'am, if you don't mind,” answered Mr. Hasluck. “She don't often
+meet gentle-folks, an' it'll do 'er good.”
+
+My mother glanced across at my father, but the man, intercepting her
+question, replied to it himself.
+
+“You needn't be afraid, ma'am, that she's anything like me,” he assured
+her quite good-temperedly; “nobody ever believes she's my daughter,
+except me and the old woman. She's a little lady, she is. Freak o'
+nature, I call it.”
+
+“We shall be delighted,” explained my mother.
+
+“Well, you will when you see 'er,” replied Mr. Hasluck, quite
+contentedly.
+
+He pushed half-a-crown into my hand, overriding my parents'
+susceptibilities with the easy good-temper of a man accustomed to have
+his way in all things.
+
+“No squanderin' it on the 'eathen,” was his parting injunction as I left
+the room; “you spend that on a Christian tradesman.”
+
+It was the first money I ever remember having to spend, that half-crown
+of old Hasluck's; suggestions of the delights to be derived from a new
+pair of gloves for Sunday, from a Latin grammar, which would then be all
+my own, and so on, having hitherto displaced all less exalted visions
+concerning the disposal of chance coins coming into my small hands. But
+on this occasion I was left free to decide for myself.
+
+The anxiety it gave me! the long tossing hours in bed! the tramping of
+the bewildering streets! Even advice when asked for was denied me.
+
+“You must learn to think for yourself,” said my father, who spoke
+eloquently on the necessity of early acquiring sound judgment and what
+he called “commercial aptitude.”
+
+“No, dear,” said my mother, “Mr. Hasluck wanted you to spend it as you
+like. If I told you, that would be spending it as I liked. Your father
+and I want to see what you will do with it.”
+
+The good little boys in the books bought presents or gave away to people
+in distress. For this I hated them with the malignity the lower nature
+ever feels towards the higher. I consulted my aunt Fan.
+
+“If somebody gave you half-a-crown,” I put it to her, “what would you
+buy with it?”
+
+“Side-combs,” said my aunt; she was always losing or breaking her
+side-combs.
+
+“But I mean if you were me,” I explained.
+
+“Drat the child!” said my aunt; “how do I know what he wants if he don't
+know himself? Idiot!”
+
+The shop windows into which I stared, my nose glued to the pane! The
+things I asked the price of! The things I made up my mind to buy and
+then decided that I wouldn't buy! Even my patient mother began to show
+signs of irritation. It was rapidly assuming the dimensions of a family
+curse, was old Hasluck's half-crown.
+
+Then one day I made up my mind, and so ended the trouble. In the window
+of a small plumber's shop in a back street near, stood on view among
+brass taps, rolls of lead piping and cistern requisites, various squares
+of coloured glass, the sort of thing chiefly used, I believe, for
+lavatory doors and staircase windows. Some had stars in the centre,
+and others, more elaborate, were enriched with designs, severe but
+inoffensive. I purchased a dozen of these, the plumber, an affable
+man who appeared glad to see me, throwing in two extra out of sheer
+generosity.
+
+Why I bought them I did not know at the time, and I do not know now.
+My mother cried when she saw them. My father could get no further than:
+“But what are you going to do with them?” to which I was unable to
+reply. My aunt, alone, attempted comfort.
+
+“If a person fancies coloured glass,” said my aunt, “then he's a fool
+not to buy coloured glass when he gets the chance. We haven't all the
+same tastes.”
+
+In the end, I cut myself badly with them and consented to their being
+thrown into the dust-bin. But looking back, I have come to regard myself
+rather as the victim of Fate than of Folly. Many folks have I met since,
+recipients of Hasluck's half-crowns--many a man who has slapped his
+pocket and blessed the day he first met that “Napoleon of Finance,”
+ as later he came to be known among his friends--but it ever ended so;
+coloured glass and cut fingers. Is it fairy gold that he and his kind
+fling round? It would seem to be.
+
+Next time old Hasluck knocked at our front door a maid in cap and apron
+opened it to him, and this was but the beginning of change. New oilcloth
+glistened in the passage. Lace curtains, such as in that neighbourhood
+were the hall-mark of the plutocrat, advertised our rising fortunes to
+the street, and greatest marvel of all, at least to my awed eyes, my
+father's Sunday clothes came into weekday wear, new ones taking their
+place in the great wardrobe that hitherto had been the stronghold of
+our gentility; to which we had ever turned for comfort when rendered
+despondent by contemplation of the weakness of our outer walls. “Seeing
+that everything was all right” is how my mother would explain it. She
+would lay the lilac silk upon the bed, fondly soothing down its rustling
+undulations, lingering lovingly over its deep frosted flounces of rich
+Honiton. Maybe she had entered the room weary looking and depressed, but
+soon there would proceed from her a gentle humming as from some small
+winged thing when the sun first touches it and warms it, and sometimes
+by the time the Indian shawl, which could go through a wedding ring, but
+never would when it was wanted to, had been refolded and fastened again
+with the great cameo brooch, and the poke bonnet, like some fractious
+child, shaken and petted into good condition, she would be singing
+softly to herself, nodding her head to the words: which were generally
+to the effect that somebody was too old and somebody else too bold and
+another too cold, “so he wouldn't do for me;” and stepping lightly as
+though the burden of the years had fallen from her.
+
+One evening--it was before the advent of this Hasluck--I remember
+climbing out of bed, for trouble was within me. Creatures, indescribable
+but heavy, had sat upon my chest, after which I had fallen downstairs,
+slowly and reasonably for the first few hundred flights, then with haste
+for the next million miles or so, until I found myself in the street
+with nothing on but my nightshirt. Personally, I was shocked, but nobody
+else seemed to mind, and I hailed a two-penny 'bus and climbed in. But
+when I tried to pay I found I hadn't any pockets, so I jumped out and
+ran away and the conductor came after me. My feet were like lead, and
+with every step he gained on me, till with a scream I made one mighty
+effort and awoke.
+
+Feeling the need of comfort after these unpleasant but by no means
+unfamiliar experiences, I wrapped some clothes round me and crept
+downstairs. The “office” was dark, but to my surprise a light shone from
+under the drawing-room door, and I opened it.
+
+The candles in the silver candlesticks were lighted, and in state,
+one in each easy-chair, sat my father and mother, both in their best
+clothes; my father in the buckled shoes and the frilled shirt that I had
+never seen him wear before, my mother with the Indian shawl about her
+shoulders, and upon her head the cap of ceremony that reposed three
+hundred and sixty days out of the year in its round wicker-work nest
+lined with silk. They started guiltily as I pushed open the door, but I
+congratulate myself that I had sense enough--or was it instinct--to ask
+no questions.
+
+The last time I had seen them, three hours ago, they had been engaged,
+the lights carefully extinguished, cleaning the ground floor windows,
+my father the outside, my mother within, and it astonished me the change
+not only in their appearance, but in their manner and bearing, and even
+in their very voices. My father brought over from the sideboard the
+sherry and sweet biscuits and poured out and handed a glass to my
+mother, and he and my mother drank to each other, while I between them
+ate the biscuits, and the conversation was of Byron's poems and the
+great glass palace in Hyde Park.
+
+I wonder am I disloyal setting this down? Maybe to others it shows but
+a foolish man and woman, and that is far from my intention. I dwell
+upon such trifles because to me the memory of them is very tender. The
+virtues of our loved ones we admire, yet after all 'tis but what we
+expected of them: how could they do otherwise? Their failings we would
+forget; no one of us is perfect. But over their follies we love to
+linger, smiling.
+
+To me personally, old Hasluck's coming and all that followed thereupon
+made perhaps more difference than to any one else. My father now was
+busy all the day; if not in his office, then away in the grim city of
+the giants, as I still thought of it; while to my mother came every day
+more social and domestic duties; so that for a time I was left much to
+my own resources.
+
+Rambling--“bummelling,” as the Germans term it--was my bent. This my
+mother would have checked, but my father said:
+
+“Don't molly-coddle him. Let him learn to be smart.”
+
+“I don't think the smart people are always the nicest,” demurred my
+mother. “I don't call you at all 'smart,' Luke.”
+
+My father appeared surprised, but reflected.
+
+“I should call myself smart--in a sense,” he explained, after
+consideration.
+
+“Perhaps you are right, dear,” replied my mother; “and of course boys
+are different from girls.”
+
+Sometimes I would wander Victoria Park way, which was then surrounded by
+many small cottages in leafy gardens; or even reach as far as Clapton,
+where old red brick Georgian houses still stood behind high palings, and
+tall elms gave to the wide road on sunny afternoons an old-world air of
+peace. But such excursions were the exception, for strange though it may
+read, the narrow, squalid streets had greater hold on me. Not the few
+main thoroughfares, filled ever with a dull, deep throbbing as of some
+tireless iron machine; where the endless human files, streaming ever up
+and down, crossing and recrossing, seemed mere rushing chains of flesh
+and blood, working upon unseen wheels; but the dim, weary, lifeless
+streets--the dark, tortuous roots, as I fancied them, of that grim
+forest of entangled brick. Mystery lurked in their gloom. Fear whispered
+from behind their silence. Dumb figures flitted swiftly to and fro,
+never pausing, never glancing right nor left. Far-off footsteps, rising
+swiftly into sound, as swiftly fading, echoed round their lonely comers.
+Dreading, yet drawn on, I would creep along their pavements as through
+some city of the dead, thinking of the eyes I saw not watching from the
+thousand windows; starting at each muffled sound penetrating the long,
+dreary walls, behind which that close-packed, writhing life lay hid.
+
+One day there came a cry from behind a curtained window. I stood still
+for a moment and then ran; but before I could get far enough away I
+heard it again, a long, piercing cry, growing fiercer before it ceased;
+so that I ran faster still, not heeding where I went, till I found
+myself in a raw, unfinished street, ending in black waste land,
+bordering the river. I stopped, panting, wondering how I should find
+my way again. To recover myself and think I sat upon the doorstep of
+an empty house, and there came dancing down the road with a curious,
+half-running, half-hopping step--something like a water wagtail's--a
+child, a boy about my own age, who, after eyeing me strangely sat down
+beside me.
+
+We watched each other for a few minutes; and I noticed that his mouth
+kept opening and shutting, though he said nothing. Suddenly, edging
+closer to me, he spoke in a thick whisper. It sounded as though his
+mouth were full of wool.
+
+“Wot 'appens to yer when yer dead?”
+
+“If you're good you go to Heaven. If you're bad you go to Hell.”
+
+“Long way off, both of 'em, ain't they?”
+
+“Yes. Millions of miles.”
+
+“They can't come after yer? Can't fetch yer back again?”
+
+“No, never.”
+
+The doorstep that we occupied was the last. A yard beyond began the
+black waste of mud. From the other end of the street, now growing dark,
+he never took his staring eyes for an instant.
+
+“Ever seen a stiff 'un--a dead 'un?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“I 'ave--stuck a pin into 'im. 'E never felt it. Don't feel anything
+when yer dead, do yer?”
+
+All the while he kept swaying his body to and fro, twisting his arms
+and legs, and making faces. Comical figures made of ginger-bread, with
+quaintly curved limbs and grinning features, were to be bought then in
+bakers' shops: he made me hungry, reminding me of such.
+
+“Of course not. When you are dead you're not there, you know. Our bodies
+are but senseless clay.” I was glad I remembered that line. I tried to
+think of the next one, which was about food for worms; but it evaded me.
+
+“I like you,” he said; and making a fist, he gave me a punch in
+the chest. It was the token of palship among the youth of that
+neighbourhood, and gravely I returned it, meaning it, for friendship
+with children is an affair of the instant, or not at all, and I knew him
+for my first chum.
+
+He wormed himself up.
+
+“Yer won't tell?” he said.
+
+I had no notion what I was not to tell, but our compact demanded that I
+should agree.
+
+“Say 'I swear.'”
+
+“I swear.”
+
+The heroes of my favourite fiction bound themselves by such like secret
+oaths. Here evidently was a comrade after my own heart.
+
+“Good-bye, cockey.”
+
+But he turned again, and taking from his pocket an old knife, thrust it
+into my hand. Then with that extraordinary hopping movement of his ran
+off across the mud.
+
+I stood watching him, wondering where he could be going. He stumbled
+a little further, where the mud began to get softer and deeper, but
+struggling up again, went hopping on towards the river.
+
+I shouted to him, but he never looked back. At every few yards he would
+sink down almost to his knees in the black mud, but wrenching himself
+free would flounder forward. Then, still some distance from the river,
+he fell upon his face, and did not rise again. I saw his arms beating
+feebler and feebler as he sank till at last the oily slime closed over
+him, and I could detect nothing but a faint heaving underneath the mud.
+And after a time even that ceased.
+
+It was late before I reached home, and fortunately my father and mother
+were still out. I did not tell any one what I had seen, having sworn not
+to; and as time went on the incident haunted me less and less until
+it became subservient to my will. But of my fancy for those silent,
+lifeless streets it cured me for the time. From behind their still walls
+I would hear that long cry; down their narrow vistas see that writhing
+figure, like some animated ginger-bread, hopping, springing, falling.
+
+Yet in the more crowded streets another trouble awaited me, one more
+tangible.
+
+Have you ever noticed a pack of sparrows round some crumbs perchance
+that you have thrown out from your window? Suddenly the rest of the
+flock will set upon one. There is a tremendous Lilliputian hubbub,
+a tossing of tiny wings and heads, a babel of shrill chirps. It is
+comical.
+
+“Spiteful little imps they are,” you say to yourself, much amused.
+
+So I have heard good-tempered men and women calling out to one another
+with a laugh.
+
+“There go those young devils chivvying that poor little beggar again;
+ought to be ashamed of theirselves.”
+
+But, oh! the anguish of the poor little beggar! Can any one who has not
+been through it imagine it! Reduced to its actualities, what was it?
+Gibes and jeers that, after all, break no bones. A few pinches,
+kicks and slaps; at worst a few hard knocks. But the dreading of it
+beforehand! Terror lived in every street, hid, waiting for me, round
+each corner. The half-dozen wrangling over their marbles--had they seen
+me? The boy whistling as he stood staring into the print shop, would I
+get past him without his noticing me; or would he, swinging round upon
+his heel, raise the shrill whoop that brought them from every doorway to
+hunt me?
+
+The shame, when caught at last and cornered: the grinning face that
+would stop to watch; the careless jokes of passers-by, regarding the
+whole thing but as a sparrows' squabble: worst of all, perhaps, the rare
+pity! The after humiliation when, finally released, I would dart away,
+followed by shouted taunts and laughter; every eye turned to watch me,
+shrinking by; my whole small carcass shaking with dry sobs of bitterness
+and rage!
+
+If only I could have turned and faced them! So far as the mere bearing
+of pain was concerned, I knew myself brave. The physical suffering
+resulting from any number of stand-up fights would have been trivial
+compared with the mental agony I endured. That I, the comrade of a
+hundred heroes--I, who nightly rode with Richard Coeur de Lion,
+who against Sir Lancelot himself had couched a lance, and that not
+altogether unsuccessful, I to whom all damsels in distress were wont to
+look for succour--that I should run from varlets such as these!
+
+My friend, my bosom friend, good Robin Hood! how would he have behaved
+under similar circumstances? how Ivanhoe, my chosen companion in all
+quests of knightly enterprise? how--to come to modern times--Jack
+Harkaway, mere schoolboy though he might be? Would not one and all
+have welcomed such incident with a joyous shout, and in a trice have
+scattered to the winds the worthless herd?
+
+But, alas! upon my pale lips the joyous shout sank into an unheard
+whisper, and the thing that became scattered to the wind was myself, the
+first opening that occurred.
+
+Sometimes, the blood boiling in my veins, I would turn, thinking to go
+back and at all risk defying my tormentors, prove to myself I was no
+coward. But before I had retraced my steps a dozen paces, I would see
+in imagination the whole scene again before me: the laughing crowd,
+the halting passers-by, the spiteful, mocking little faces every way I
+turned; and so instead would creep on home, and climbing stealthily up
+into my own room, cry my heart out in the dark upon my bed.
+
+Until one blessed day, when a blessed Fairy, in the form of a small
+kitten, lifted the spell that bound me, and set free my limbs.
+
+I have always had a passionate affection for the dumb world, if it be
+dumb. My first playmate, I remember, was a water rat. A stream ran at
+the bottom of our garden; and sometimes, escaping the vigilant eye of
+Mrs. Fursey, I would steal out with my supper and join him on the banks.
+There, hidden behind the osiers, we would play at banquets, he, it is
+true, doing most of the banqueting, and I the make-believe. But it was
+a good game; added to which it was the only game I could ever get him to
+play, though I tried. He was a one-ideaed rat.
+
+Later I came into the possession of a white specimen all my own. He
+lived chiefly in the outside breast pocket of my jacket, in company with
+my handkerchief, so that glancing down I could generally see his little
+pink eyes gleaming up at me, except on very cold days, when it would be
+only his tail that I could see; and when I felt miserable, somehow he
+would know it, and, swarming up, push his little cold snout against
+my ear. He died just so, clinging round my neck; and from many of my
+fellow-men and women have I parted with less pain. It sounds callous to
+say so; but, after all, our feelings are not under our own control; and
+I have never been able to understand the use of pretending to emotions
+one has not. All this, however, comes later. Let me return now to my
+fairy kitten.
+
+I heard its cry of pain from afar, and instinctively hastened my steps.
+Three or four times I heard it again, and at each call I ran faster,
+till, breathless, I arrived upon the scene, the opening of a narrow
+court, leading out of a by-street. At first I saw nothing but the backs
+of a small mob of urchins. Then from the centre of them came another
+wailing appeal for help, and without waiting for any invitation, I
+pushed my way into the group.
+
+What I saw was Hecuba to me--gave me the motive and the cue for passion,
+transformed me from the dull and muddy-mettled little John-a-dreams I
+had been into a small, blind Fury. Pale Thought, that mental emetic,
+banished from my system, I became the healthy, unreasoning animal, and
+acted as such.
+
+From my methods, I frankly admit, science was absent. In simple,
+primitive fashion that would have charmed a Darwinian disciple to
+observe, I “went for” the whole crowd. To employ the expressive idiom of
+the neighbourhood, I was “all over it and inside.” Something clung about
+my feet. By kicking myself free and then standing on it I gained the
+advantage of quite an extra foot in height; I don't know what it was and
+didn't care. I fought with my arms and I fought with my legs; where I
+could get in with my head I did. I fought whatever came to hand in
+a spirit of simple thankfulness, grateful for what I could reach and
+indifferent to what was beyond me.
+
+That the “show”--if again I may be permitted the local idiom--was not
+entirely mine I was well aware. That not alone my person but my property
+also was being damaged in the rear became dimly conveyed to me through
+the sensation of draught. Already the world to the left of me was mere
+picturesque perspective, while the growing importance of my nose was
+threatening the absorption of all my other features. These things did
+not trouble me. I merely noted them as phenomena and continued to punch
+steadily.
+
+Until I found that I was punching something soft and yet unyielding.
+I looked up to see what this foreign matter that thus mysteriously had
+entered into the mixture might be, and discovered it to be a policeman.
+Still I did not care. The felon's dock! the prison cell! a fig for such
+mere bogies. An impudent word, an insulting look, and I would have gone
+for the Law itself. Pale Thought--it must have been a livid green by
+this time--still trembled at respectful distance from me.
+
+Fortunately for all of us, he was not impertinent, and though he spoke
+the language of his order, his tone disarmed offence.
+
+“Now, then. Now, then. What is all this about?”
+
+There was no need for me to answer. A dozen voluble tongues were ready
+to explain to him; and to explain wholly in my favour. This time the
+crowd was with me. Let a man school himself to bear dispraise, for
+thereby alone shall he call his soul his own. But let no man lie, saying
+he is indifferent to popular opinion. That was my first taste of public
+applause. The public was not select, and the applause might, by the
+sticklers for English pure and undefiled, have been deemed ill-worded,
+but to me it was the sweetest music I had ever heard, or have heard
+since. I was called a “plucky little devil,” a “fair 'ot 'un,” not only
+a “good 'un,” but a “good 'un” preceded by the adjective that in
+the East bestows upon its principal every admirable quality that can
+possibly apply. Under the circumstances it likewise fitted me literally;
+but I knew it was intended rather in its complimentary sense.
+
+Kind, if dirty, hands wiped my face. A neighbouring butcher presented me
+with a choice morsel of steak, not to eat but to wear; and I found it,
+if I may so express myself without infringing copyright, “grateful and
+comforting.” My enemies had long since scooted, some of them, I had
+rejoiced to notice, with lame and halting steps. The mutilated kitten
+had been restored to its owner, a lady of ample bosom, who, carried
+beyond judgment by emotion, publicly offered to adopt me on the spot.
+The Law suggested, not for the first time, that everybody should now
+move on; and slowly, followed by feminine commendation mingled with
+masculine advice as to improved methods for the future, I was allowed to
+drift away.
+
+My bones ached, my flesh stung me, yet I walked as upon air. Gradually
+I became conscious that I was not alone. A light, pattering step was
+trying to keep pace with me. Graciously I slacked my speed, and the
+pattering step settled down beside me. Every now and again she would run
+ahead and then turn round to look up into my face, much as your small
+dog does when he happens not to be misbehaving himself and desires you
+to note the fact. Evidently she approved of me. I was not at my best,
+as far as appearance was concerned, but women are kittle cattle, and
+I think she preferred me so. Thus we walked for quite a long distance
+without speaking, I drinking in the tribute of her worship and enjoying
+it. Then gaining confidence, she shyly put her hand into mine, and
+finding I did not repel her, promptly assumed possession of me,
+according to woman's way.
+
+For her age and station she must have been a person of means, for having
+tried in vain various methods to make me more acceptable to followers
+and such as having passed would turn their heads, she said:
+
+“I know, gelatines;” and disappearing into a sweetstuff shop, returned
+with quite a quantity. With these, first sucked till glutinous, we
+joined my many tatters. I still attracted attention, but felt warmer.
+
+She informed me that her name was Cissy, and that her father's shop was
+in Three Colt Street. I informed her that my name was Paul, and that
+my father was a lawyer. I also pointed out to her that a lawyer is much
+superior in social position to a shopkeeper, which she acknowledged
+cheerfully. We parted at the corner of the Stainsby Road, and I let her
+kiss me once. It was understood that in the Stainsby Road we might meet
+again.
+
+I left Eliza gaping after me, the front door in her hand, and ran
+straight up into my own room. Robinson Crusoe, King Arthur, The Last of
+the Barons, Rob Roy! I looked them all in the face and was not ashamed.
+I also was a gentleman.
+
+My mother was much troubled when she saw me, but my father, hearing the
+story, approved.
+
+“But he looks so awful,” said my mother. “In this world,” said my
+father, “one must occasionally be aggressive--if necessary, brutal.”
+
+My father would at times be quite savage in his sentiments.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+PAUL, FALLING IN WITH A GOODLY COMPANY OF PILGRIMS, LEARNS OF THEM THE
+ROAD THAT HE MUST TRAVEL. AND MEETS THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS.
+
+The East India Dock Road is nowadays a busy, crowded thoroughfare. The
+jingle of the tram-bell and the rattle of the omnibus and cart mingle
+continuously with the rain of many feet, beating ceaselessly upon its
+pavements. But at the time of which I write it was an empty, voiceless
+way, bounded on the one side by the long, echoing wall of the docks and
+on the other by occasional small houses isolated amid market gardens,
+drying grounds and rubbish heaps. Only one thing remains--or did remain
+last time I passed along it, connecting it with its former self--and
+that is the one-storeyed brick cottage at the commencement of the
+bridge, and which was formerly the toll-house. I remember this
+toll-house so well because it was there that my childhood fell from me,
+and sad and frightened I saw the world beyond.
+
+I cannot explain it better. I had been that afternoon to Plaistow on a
+visit to the family dentist. It was an out-of-the-way place in which to
+keep him, but there existed advantages of a counterbalancing nature.
+
+“Have the half-crown in your hand,” my mother would direct me, while
+making herself sure that the purse containing it was safe at the bottom
+of my knickerbocker pocket; “but of course if he won't take it, why, you
+must bring it home again.”
+
+I am not sure, but I think he was some distant connection of ours; at
+all events, I know he was a kind friend. I, seated in the velvet chair
+of state, he would unroll his case of instruments before me, and ask me
+to choose, recommending with affectionate eulogisms the most murderous
+looking.
+
+But on my opening my mouth to discuss the fearful topic, lo! a pair
+would shoot from under his coat-sleeve, and almost before I knew what
+had happened, the trouble would be over. After that we would have
+tea together. He was an old bachelor, and his house stood in a great
+garden--for Plaistow in those days was a picturesque village--and out of
+the plentiful fruit thereof his housekeeper made the most wonderful
+of jams and jellies. Oh, they were good, those teas! Generally our
+conversation was of my mother who, it appeared, was once a little girl:
+not at all the sort of little girl I should have imagined her; on the
+contrary, a prankish, wilful little girl, though good company, I should
+say, if all the tales he told of her were true. And I am inclined to
+think they were, in spite of the fact that my mother, when I repeated
+them to her, would laugh, saying she was sure she had no recollection of
+anything of the kind, adding severely that it was a pity he and I could
+not find something better to gossip about. Yet her next question would
+be:
+
+“And what else did he say, if you please?” explaining impatiently when
+my answer was not of the kind expected: “No, no, I mean about me.”
+
+The tea things cleared away, he would bring out his great microscope.
+To me it was a peep-hole into a fairy world where dwelt strange dragons,
+mighty monsters, so that I came to regard him as a sort of harmless
+magician. It was his pet study, and looking back, I cannot help
+associating his enthusiasm for all things microscopical with the fact
+that he was an exceptionally little man himself, but one of the biggest
+hearted that ever breathed.
+
+On leaving I would formally hand him my half-crown, “with mamma's
+compliments,” and he would formally accept it. But on putting my hand
+into my jacket pocket when outside the gate I would invariably find
+it there. The first time I took it back to him, but unblushingly he
+repudiated all knowledge.
+
+“Must be another half-crown,” he suggested; “such things do happen.
+One puts change into a pocket and overlooks it. Slippery things,
+half-crowns.”
+
+Returning home on this particular day of days, I paused upon the bridge,
+and watched for awhile the lazy barges manoeuvring their way between the
+piers. It was one of those hushed summer evenings when the air even of
+grim cities is full of whispering voices; and as, turning away from the
+river, I passed through the white toll-gate, I had a sense of leaving
+myself behind me on the bridge. So vivid was the impression, that I
+looked back, half expecting to see myself still leaning over the iron
+parapet, looking down into the sunlit water.
+
+It sounds foolish, but I leave it standing, wondering if to others a
+like experience has ever come. The little chap never came back to me.
+He passed away from me as a man's body may possibly pass away from him,
+leaving him only remembrance and regret. For a time I tried to play his
+games, to dream his dreams, but the substance was wanting. I was only a
+thin ghost, making believe.
+
+It troubled me for quite a spell of time, even to the point of tears,
+this feeling that my childhood lay behind me, this sudden realisation
+that I was travelling swiftly the strange road called growing up. I did
+not want to grow up; could nothing be done to stop it? Rather would I
+be always as I had been, playing, dreaming. The dark way frightened me.
+Must I go forward?
+
+Then gradually, but very slowly, with the long months and years, came
+to me the consciousness of a new being, new pulsations, sensories,
+throbbings, rooted in but differing widely from the old; and little
+Paul, the Paul of whom I have hitherto spoken, faded from my life.
+
+So likewise must I let him fade with sorrow from this book. But before
+I part with him entirely, let me recall what else I can remember of him.
+Thus we shall be quit of him, and he will interfere with us no more.
+
+Chief among the pictures that I see is that of my aunt Fan, crouching
+over the kitchen fire; her skirt and crinoline rolled up round her
+waist, leaving as sacrifice to custom only her petticoat. Up and down
+her body sways in rhythmic motion, her hands stroking affectionately
+her own knees; the while I, with paper knife for sword, or horse of
+broomstick, stand opposite her, flourishing and declaiming. Sometimes I
+am a knight and she a wicked ogre. She is slain, growling and swearing,
+and at once becomes the beautiful princess that I secure and bear away
+with me upon the prancing broomstick. So long as the princess is merely
+holding sweet converse with me from her high-barred window, the scene
+is realistic, at least, to sufficiency; but the bearing away has to be
+make-believe; for my aunt cannot be persuaded to leave her chair before
+the fire, and the everlasting rubbing of her knees.
+
+At other times, with the assistance of the meat chopper, I am an Indian
+brave, and then she is Laughing Water or Singing Sunshine, and we go out
+scalping together; or in less bloodthirsty moods I am the Fairy Prince
+and she the Sleeping Beauty. But in such parts she is not at her best.
+Better, when seated in the centre of the up-turned table, I am Captain
+Cook, and she the Cannibal Chief.
+
+“I shall skin him and hang him in the larder till Sunday week,” says my
+aunt, smacking her lips, “then he'll be just in right condition; not too
+tough and not too high.” She was always strong in detail, was my aunt
+Fan.
+
+I do not wish to deprive my aunt of any credit due to her, but the more
+I exercise my memory for evidence, the more I am convinced that her
+compliance on these occasions was not conceived entirely in the spirit
+of self-sacrifice. Often would she suggest the game and even the theme;
+in such case, casting herself invariably for what, in old theatrical
+parlance, would have been termed the heavy lead, the dragons and the
+wicked uncles, the fussy necromancers and the uninvited fairies. As
+authoress of a new cookery book for use in giant-land, my aunt, I am
+sure, would have been successful. Most recipes that one reads are so
+monotonously meagre: “Boil him,” “Put her on the spit and roast her for
+supper,” “Cook 'em in a pie--with plenty of gravy;” but my aunt into the
+domestic economy of Ogredom introduced variety and daintiness.
+
+“I think, my dear,” my aunt would direct, “we'll have him stuffed with
+chestnuts and served on toast. And don't forget the giblets. They make
+such excellent sauce.”
+
+With regard to the diet of imprisoned maidens she would advise:
+
+“Not too much fish--it spoils the flesh for roasting.”
+
+The things that she would turn people into--king's sons, rightful
+princesses, such sort of people--people who after a time, one would
+think, must have quite forgotten what they started as. To let her
+have her way was a lesson to me in natural history both present and
+pre-historic. The most beautiful damsel that ever lived she would
+without a moment's hesitation turn into a Glyptodon or a Hippocrepian.
+Afterwards, when I could guess at the spelling, I would look these
+creatures up in the illustrated dictionary, and feel that under no
+circumstances could I have loved the lady ever again. Warriors and kings
+she would delight in transforming into plaice or prawns, and haughty
+queens into Brussels sprouts.
+
+With gusto would she plan a complicated slaughter, paying heed to every
+detail: the sharpening of the knives, the having ready of mops and pails
+of water for purposes of after cleaning up. As a writer she would have
+followed the realistic school.
+
+Her death, with which we invariably wound up the afternoon, was another
+conscientious effort. Indeed, her groans and writhings would sometimes
+frighten me. I always welcomed the last gurgle. That finished, but not a
+moment before, my aunt would let down her skirt--in this way suggesting
+the fall of the curtain upon our play--and set to work to get the tea.
+
+Another frequently recurring picture that I see is of myself in
+glazed-peaked cap explaining many things the while we walk through dingy
+streets to yet a smaller figure curly haired and open eyed. Still every
+now and then she runs ahead to turn and look admiringly into my face as
+on the day she first became captive to the praise and fame of me.
+
+I was glad of her company for more reasons than she knew of. For one,
+she protected me against my baser self. With her beside me I should
+not have dared to flee from sudden foes. Indeed, together we courted
+adventure; for once you get used to it this standing hazard of attack
+adds a charm to outdoor exercise that older folk in districts better
+policed enjoy not. So possibly my dog feels when together we take the
+air. To me it is a simple walk, maybe a little tiresome, suggested
+rather by contemplation of my waistband than by desire for walking for
+mere walking's sake; to him an expedition full of danger and surprises:
+“The gentleman asleep with one eye open on The Chequer's doorstep!
+will he greet me with a friendly sniff or try to bite my head off? This
+cross-eyed, lop-eared loafer, lurching against the lamp-post! shall we
+pass with a careless wag and a 'how-do,' or become locked in a life and
+death struggle? Impossible to say. This coming corner, now, 'Ware! Is
+anybody waiting round there to kill me, or not?”
+
+But the trusting face beside me nerved me. As reward in lonely places I
+would let her hold my hand.
+
+A second advantage I derived from her company was that of being less
+trampled on, less walked over, less swept aside into doorway or gutter
+than when alone. A pretty, winsome face had this little maid, if Memory
+plays me not kindly false; but also she had a vocabulary; and when the
+blind idiot, male or female, instead of passing us by walking round us,
+would, after the custom of the blind idiot, seek to gain the other side
+of us by walking through us, she would use it.
+
+“Now, then, where yer coming to, old glass-eye? We ain't sperrits. Can't
+yer see us?”
+
+And if they attempted reply, her child's treble, so strangely at
+variance with her dainty appearance, would only rise more shrill.
+
+“Garn! They'd run out of 'eads when they was making you. That's only a
+turnip wot you've got stuck on top of yer!” I offer but specimens.
+
+Nor was it of the slightest use attempting personal chastisement, as
+sometimes an irate lady or gentleman would be foolish enough to do. As
+well might an hippopotamus attempt to reprove a terrier. The only result
+was to provide comedy for the entire street.
+
+On these occasions our positions were reversed, I being the admiring
+spectator of her prowess. Yet to me she was ever meek, almost
+irritatingly submissive. She found out where I lived and would often
+come and wait for me for hours, her little face pressed tight against
+the iron railings, until either I came out or shook my head at her from
+my bedroom window, when she would run off, the dying away into silence
+of her pattering feet leaving me a little sad.
+
+I think I cared for her in a way, yet she never entered into my
+day-dreams, which means that she existed for me only in the outer world
+of shadows that lay round about me and was not of my real life.
+
+Also, I think she was unwise, introducing me to the shop, for children
+and dogs--one seems unconsciously to bracket them in one's thoughts--are
+snobbish little wretches. If only her father had been a dealer in
+firewood I could have soothed myself by imagining mistakes. It was
+a common occurrence, as I well knew, for children of quite the
+best families to be brought up by wood choppers. Fairies, the best
+intentioned in the world, but born muddlers, were generally responsible
+for these mishaps, which, however, always became righted in time for the
+wedding. Or even had he been a pork butcher, and there were many in the
+neighbourhood, I could have thought of him as a swineherd, and so found
+precedent for hope.
+
+But a fishmonger--from six in the evening a fried fishmonger! I searched
+history in vain. Fried fishmongers were without the pale.
+
+So gradually our meetings became less frequent, though I knew that
+every afternoon she waited in the quiet Stainsby Road, where dwelt in
+semi-detached, six-roomed villas the aristocracy of Poplar, and that
+after awhile, for arriving late at times I have been witness to the
+sad fact, tears would trace pathetic patterns upon her dust-besprinkled
+cheeks; and with the advent of the world-illuminating Barbara, to which
+event I am drawing near, they ceased altogether.
+
+So began and ended my first romance. One of these days--some quiet
+summer's afternoon, when even the air of Pigott Street vibrates with
+tenderness beneath the whispered sighs of Memory, I shall walk into the
+little grocer's shop and boldly ask to see her. So far have I already
+gone as to trace her, and often have I tried to catch sight of her
+through the glass door, but hitherto in vain. I know she is the more
+or less troubled mother of a numerous progeny. I am told she has grown
+stout, and probable enough it is that her tongue has gained rather than
+lost in sharpness. Yet under all the unrealities the clumsy-handed world
+has built about her, I shall see, I know, the lithesome little maid with
+fond, admiring eyes. What help they were to me I never knew till I had
+lost them. How hard to gain such eyes I have learned since. Were we to
+write the truth in our confession books, should we not admit the quality
+we most admire in others is admiration of ourselves? And is it not a
+wise selection? If you would have me admirable, my friend, admire me,
+and speak your commendation without stint that in the sunshine of your
+praises I may wax. For indifference maketh an indifferent man, and
+contempt a contemptible man. Come, is it not true? Does not all that is
+worthy in us grow best by honour?
+
+Chief among the remaining figures on my childhood's stage were the many
+servants of our house, the “generals,” as they were termed. So rapid,
+as a rule, was their transit through our kitchen that only one or two,
+conspicuous by reason of their lingering, remain upon my view. It was a
+neighbourhood in which domestic servants were not much required. Those
+intending to take up the calling seriously went westward. The local
+ranks were recruited mainly from the discontented or the disappointed,
+from those who, unappreciated at home, hoped from the stranger more
+discernment; or from the love-lorn, the jilted and the jealous, who took
+the cap and apron as in an earlier age their like would have taken the
+veil. Maybe, to the comparative seclusion of our basement, as contrasted
+with the alternative frivolity of shop or factory, they felt in such
+mood more attuned. With the advent of the new or the recovery of the old
+young man they would plunge again into the vain world, leaving my poor
+mother to search afresh amid the legions of the cursed.
+
+With these I made such comradeship as I could, for I had no child
+friends. Kind creatures were most of them, at least so I found them.
+They were poor at “making believe,” but would always squeeze ten minutes
+from their work to romp with me, and that, perhaps, was healthier for
+me. What, perhaps, was not so good for me was that, staggered at
+the amount of “book-learning” implied by my conversation (for the
+journalistic instinct, I am inclined to think, was early displayed in
+me), they would listen open-mouthed to all my information, regarding me
+as a precocious oracle. Sometimes they would obtain permission to take
+me home with them to tea, generously eager that their friends should
+also profit by me. Then, encouraged by admiring, grinning faces, I would
+“hold forth,” keenly enjoying the sound of my own proud piping.
+
+“As good as a book, ain't he?” was the tribute most often paid to me.
+
+“As good as a play,” one enthusiastic listener, an old greengrocer, went
+so far as to say.
+
+Already I regarded myself as among the Immortals.
+
+One girl, a dear, wholesome creature named Janet, stayed with us for
+months and might have stayed years, but for her addiction to strong
+language. The only and well-beloved child of the captain of the
+barge “Nancy Jane,” trading between Purfleet and Ponder's End, her
+conversation was at once my terror and delight.
+
+“Janet,” my mother would exclaim in agony, her hands going up
+instinctively to guard her ears, “how can you use such words?”
+
+“What words, mum?”
+
+“The things you have just called the gas man.”
+
+“Him! Well, did you see what he did, mum? Walked straight into my clean
+kitchen, without even wiping his boots, the--” And before my mother
+could stop her, Janet had relieved her feelings by calling him it--or
+rather them--again, without any idea that she had done aught else than
+express in fitting phraseology a natural human emotion.
+
+We were good friends, Janet and I, and therefore it was that I
+personally undertook her reformation. It was not an occasion for mincing
+one's words. The stake at issue was, I felt, too important. I told
+her bluntly that if she persisted in using such language she would
+inevitably go to hell.
+
+“Then where's my father going?” demanded Janet.
+
+“Does he use language?”
+
+I gathered from Janet that no one who had enjoyed the privilege of
+hearing her father could ever again take interest in the feeble efforts
+of herself.
+
+“I am afraid, Janet,” I explained, “that if he doesn't give it up--”
+
+“But it's the only way he can talk,” interrupted Janet. “He don't mean
+anything by it.”
+
+I sighed, yet set my face against weakness. “You see, Janet, people who
+swear do go there.”
+
+But Janet would not believe.
+
+“God send my dear, kind father to hell just because he can't talk like
+the gentlefolks! Don't you believe it of Him, Master Paul. He's got more
+sense.”
+
+I hope I pain no one by quoting Janet's common sense. For that I should
+be sorry. I remember her words because so often, when sinking in sloughs
+of childish despond, they afforded me firm foothold. More often than
+I can tell, when compelled to listen to the sententious voice of
+immeasurable Folly glibly explaining the eternal mysteries, has it
+comforted me to whisper to myself: “I don't believe it of Him. He's got
+more sense.”
+
+And about that period I had need of all the comfort I could get. As
+we descend the road of life, the journey, demanding so much of our
+attention, becomes of more importance than the journey's end; but to the
+child, standing at the valley's gate, the terminating hills are
+clearly visible. What lies beyond them is his constant wonder. I never
+questioned my parents directly on the subject, shrinking as so strangely
+we all do, both young and old, from discussion of the very matters
+of most moment to us; and they, on their part, not guessing my need,
+contented themselves with the vague generalities with which we seek
+to hide even from ourselves the poverty of our beliefs. But there were
+foolish voices about me less reticent; while the literature, illustrated
+and otherwise, provided in those days for serious-minded youth, answered
+all questionings with blunt brutality. If you did wrong you burnt in a
+fiery furnace for ever and ever. Were your imagination weak you could
+turn to the accompanying illustration, and see at a glance how you
+yourself would writhe and shrink and scream, while cheerful devils, well
+organised, were busy stoking. I had been burnt once, rather badly, in
+consequence of live coals, in course of transit on a shovel, being let
+fall upon me. I imagined these burning coals, not confined to a mere
+part of my body, but pressing upon me everywhere, not snatched swiftly
+off by loving hands, the pain assuaged by applications of soft soap and
+the blue bag, but left there, eating into my flesh and veins. And this
+continued for eternity. You suffered for an hour, a day, a thousand
+years, and were no nearer to the end; ten thousand, a million years, and
+yet, as at the very first, it was for ever, and for ever still it would
+always be for ever! I suffered also from insomnia about this period.
+
+“Then be good,” replied the foolish voices round me; “never do wrong,
+and so avoid this endless agony.”
+
+But it was so easy to do wrong. There were so many wrong things to do,
+and the doing of them was so natural.
+
+“Then repent,” said the voices, always ready.
+
+But how did one repent? What was repentance? Did I “hate my sin,” as I
+was instructed I must, or merely hate the idea of going to hell for
+it? Because the latter, even my child's sense told me, was no true
+repentance. Yet how could one know the difference?
+
+Above all else there haunted me the fear of the “Unforgivable Sin.” What
+this was I was never able to discover. I dreaded to enquire too closely,
+lest I should find I had committed it. Day and night the terror of it
+clung to me.
+
+“Believe,” said the voices; “so only shall you be saved.” How believe?
+How know you did believe? Hours would I kneel in the dark, repeating in
+a whispered scream:
+
+“I believe, I believe. Oh, I do believe!” and then rise with white
+knuckles, wondering if I really did believe.
+
+Another question rose to trouble me. In the course of my meanderings I
+had made the acquaintance of an old sailor, one of the most disreputable
+specimens possible to find; and had learned to love him. Our first
+meeting had been outside a confectioner's window, in the Commercial
+Road, where he had discovered me standing, my nose against the glass, a
+mere palpitating Appetite on legs. He had seized me by the collar, and
+hauled me into the shop. There, dropping me upon a stool, he bade me
+eat. Pride of race prompted me politely to decline, but his language
+became so awful that in fear and trembling I obeyed. So soon as I was
+finished--it cost him two and fourpence, I remember--we walked down to
+the docks together, and he told me stories of the sea and land that made
+my blood run cold. Altogether, in the course of three weeks or a month,
+we met about half a dozen times, when much the same programme was gone
+through. I think I was a fairly frank child, but I said nothing about
+him at home, feeling instinctively that if I did there would be an end
+of our comradeship, which was dear to me: not merely by reason of
+the pastry, though I admit that was a consideration, but also for his
+wondrous tales. I believed them all implicitly, and so came to regard
+him as one of the most interesting criminals as yet unhanged: and what
+was sad about the case, as I felt myself, was that his recital of his
+many iniquities, instead of repelling, attracted me to him. If ever
+there existed a sinner, here was one. He chewed tobacco--one of the
+hundred or so deadly sins, according to my theological library--and was
+generally more or less drunk. Not that a stranger would have
+noticed this; the only difference being that when sober he appeared
+constrained--was less his natural, genial self. In a burst of confidence
+he once admitted to me that he was the biggest blackguard in the
+merchant service. Unacquainted with the merchant service, as at the time
+I was, I saw no reason to doubt him.
+
+One night in a state of intoxication he walked over a gangway and was
+drowned. Our mutual friend, the confectioner, seeing me pass the window,
+came out to tell me so; and having heard, I walked on, heavy of heart,
+and pondering.
+
+About his eternal destination there could be no question. The known
+facts precluded the least ray of hope. How could I be happy in heaven,
+supposing I eventually did succeed in slipping in, knowing that he, the
+lovable old scamp, was burning for ever in hell?
+
+How could Janet, taking it that she reformed and thus escaped damnation,
+be contented, knowing the father she loved doomed to torment? The
+heavenly hosts, so I argued, could be composed only of the callous and
+indifferent.
+
+I wondered how people could go about their business, eat, drink and
+be merry, with tremendous fate hanging thus ever suspended over their
+heads. When for a little space I myself forgot it, always it fell back
+upon me with increased weight.
+
+Nor was the contemplation of heaven itself particularly attractive to
+me, for it was a foolish paradise these foolish voices had fashioned out
+of their folly. You stood about and sang hymns--for ever! I was assured
+that my fear of finding the programme monotonous was due only to my
+state of original sin, that when I got there I should discover I liked
+it. But I would have given much for the hope of avoiding both their
+heaven and their hell.
+
+Fortunately for my sanity I was not left long to brood unoccupied upon
+such themes. Our worldly affairs, under the sunshine of old Hasluck's
+round red face, prospered--for awhile; and one afternoon my father, who
+had been away from home since breakfast time, calling me into his office
+where also sat my mother, informed me that the long-talked-of school was
+become at last a concrete thing.
+
+“The term commences next week,” explained my father. “It is not exactly
+what I had intended, but it will do--for the present. Later, of course,
+you will go to one of the big public schools; your mother and I have not
+yet quite decided which.”
+
+“You will meet other boys there, good and bad,” said my mother, who
+sat clasping and unclasping her hands. “Be very careful, dear, how you
+choose your companions.”
+
+“You will learn to take your own part,” said my father. “School is an
+epitome of the world. One must assert oneself, or one is sat upon.”
+
+I knew not what to reply, the vista thus opened out to me was so
+unexpected. My blood rejoiced, but my heart sank.
+
+“Take one of your long walks,” said my father, smiling, “and think it
+over.”
+
+“And if you are in any doubt, you know where to go for guidance, don't
+you?” whispered my mother, who was very grave.
+
+Yet I went to bed, dreaming of quite other things that night: of
+Queens of Beauty bending down to crown my brows with laurel: of wronged
+Princesses for whose cause I rode to death or victory. For on my
+return home, being called into the drawing-room by my father, I stood
+transfixed, my cap in hand, staring with all my eyes at the vision that
+I saw.
+
+No such wonder had I ever seen before, at all events, not to my
+remembrance. The maidens that one meets in Poplar streets may be fair
+enough in their way, but their millinery displays them not to advantage;
+and the few lady visitors that came to us were of a staid and matronly
+appearance. Only out of pictures hitherto had such witchery looked upon
+me; and from these the spell faded as one gazed.
+
+I heard old Hasluck's smoky voice saying, “My little gell, Barbara,” and
+I went nearer to her, moving unconsciously.
+
+“You can kiss 'er,” said the smoky voice again; “she won't bite.” But I
+did not kiss her. Nor ever felt I wanted to, upon the mouth.
+
+I suppose she must have been about fourteen, and I a little over ten,
+though tall for my age. Later I came to know she had that rare gold
+hair that holds the light, so that upon her face, which seemed of dainty
+porcelain, there ever fell a softened radiance as from some shining
+aureole; those blue eyes where dwell mysteries, shadow veiled. At the
+time I knew nothing, but that it seemed to me as though the fairy-tales
+had all come true.
+
+She smiled, understanding and well pleased with my confusion. Child
+though I was--little more than child though she was, it flattered her
+vanity.
+
+Fair and sweet, you had but that one fault. Would it had been another,
+less cruel to you yourself.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+IN WHICH THERE COMES BY ONE BENT UPON PURSUING HIS OWN WAY.
+
+“Correct” is, I think, the adjective by which I can best describe
+Doctor Florret and all his attributes. He was a large man, but not
+too large--just the size one would select for the head-master of an
+important middle-class school; stout, not fat, suggesting comfort, not
+grossness. His hands were white and well shaped. On the left he wore
+a fine diamond ring, but it shone rather than sparkled. He spoke of
+commonplace things in a voice that lent dignity even to the weather. His
+face, which was clean-shaven, radiated benignity tempered by discretion.
+
+So likewise all about him: his wife, the feminine counterpart of
+himself. Seeing them side by side one felt tempted to believe that
+for his special benefit original methods had been reverted to, and she
+fashioned, as his particular helpmeet, out of one of his own ribs.
+His furniture was solid, meant for use, not decoration. His pictures,
+following the rule laid down for dress, graced without drawing attention
+to his walls. He ever said the correct thing at the correct time in the
+correct manner. Doubtful of the correct thing to do, one could always
+learn it by waiting till he did it; when one at once felt that nothing
+else could possibly have been correct. He held on all matters
+the correct views. To differ from him was to discover oneself a
+revolutionary.
+
+In practice, as I learned at the cost of four more or less wasted
+years, he of course followed the methods considered correct by English
+schoolmen from the days of Edward VI. onwards.
+
+Heaven knows I worked hard. I wanted to learn. Ambition--the all
+containing ambition of a boy that “has its centre everywhere nor cares
+to fix itself to form” stirred within me. Did I pass a speaker at some
+corner, hatless, perspiring, pointing Utopias in the air to restless
+hungry eyes, at once I saw myself, a Demosthenes swaying multitudes, a
+statesman holding the House of Commons spellbound, the Prime Minister of
+England, worshipped by the entire country. Even the Opposition papers,
+had I known of them, I should have imagined forced to reluctant
+admiration. Did the echo of a distant drum fall upon my ear, then before
+me rose picturesque fields of carnage, one figure ever conspicuous:
+Myself, well to the front, isolated. Promotion in the British army of
+my dream being a matter purely of merit, I returned Commander-in-Chief.
+Vast crowds thronged every flag-decked street. I saw white waving hands
+from every roof and window. I heard the dull, deep roar of welcome, as
+with superb seat upon my snow-white charger--or should it be coal-black?
+The point cost me much consideration, so anxious was I that the day
+should be without a flaw--I slowly paced at the head of my victorious
+troops, between wild waves of upturned faces: walked into a lamp-post
+or on to the toes of some irascible old gentleman, and awoke. A drunken
+sailor stormed from between swing doors and tacked tumultuously down the
+street: the factory chimney belching smoke became a swaying mast. The
+costers round about me shouted “Ay, ay, sir. 'Ready, ay, ready.” I
+was Christopher Columbus, Drake, Nelson, rolled into one. Spurning
+the presumption of modern geographers, I discovered new continents.
+I defeated the French--those useful French! I died in the moment of
+victory. A nation mourned me and I was buried in Westminster Abbey.
+Also I lived and was created a Duke. Either alternative had its charm:
+personally I was indifferent. Boys who on November the ninth, as
+explained by letters from their mothers, read by Doctor Florret with a
+snort, were suffering from a severe toothache, told me on November
+the tenth of the glories of Lord Mayor's Shows. I heard their chatter
+fainter and fainter as from an ever-increasing distance. The bells of
+Bow were ringing in my ears. I saw myself a merchant prince, though
+still young. Nobles crowded my counting house. I lent them millions
+and married their daughters. I listened, unobserved in a corner, to
+discussion on some new book. Immediately I was a famous author. All men
+praised me: for of reviewers and their density I, in those days, knew
+nothing. Poetry, fiction, history, I wrote them all; and all men read,
+and wondered. Only here was a crumpled rose leaf in the pillow on which
+I laid my swelling head: penmanship was vexation to me, and spelling
+puzzled me, so that I wrote with sorrow and many blots and scratchings
+out. Almost I put aside the idea of becoming an author.
+
+But along whichever road I might fight my way to the Elysian Fields
+of fame, education, I dimly but most certainly comprehended, was a
+necessary weapon to my hand. And so, with aching heart and aching head,
+I pored over my many books. I see myself now in my small bedroom, my
+elbows planted on the shaky, one-legged table, startled every now and
+again by the frizzling of my hair coming in contact with the solitary
+candle. On cold nights I wear my overcoat, turned up about the neck, a
+blanket round my legs, and often I must sit with my fingers in my ears,
+the better to shut out the sounds of life, rising importunately from
+below. “A song, Of a song, To a song, A song, O! song!” “I love, Thou
+lovest, He she or it loves. I should or would love” over and over again,
+till my own voice seems some strange buzzing thing about me, while
+my head grows smaller and smaller till I put my hands up frightened,
+wondering if it still be entire upon my shoulders.
+
+Was I more stupid than the average, or is a boy's brain physically
+incapable of the work our educational system demands of it?
+
+“Latin and Greek” I hear repeating the suave tones of Doctor Florret,
+echoing as ever the solemn croak of Correctness, “are useful as mental
+gymnastics.” My dear Doctor Florret and Co., cannot you, out of the vast
+storehouse of really necessary knowledge, select apparatus better fitted
+to strengthen and not overstrain the mental muscles of ten-to-fourteen?
+You, gentle reader, with brain fully grown, trained by years of practice
+to its subtlest uses, take me from your bookshelf, say, your Browning or
+even your Shakespeare. Come, you know this language well. You have not
+merely learned: it is your mother tongue. Construe for me this short
+passage, these few verses: parse, analyse, resolve into component parts!
+And now, will you maintain that it is good for Tommy, tear-stained,
+ink-bespattered little brat, to be given AEsop's Fables, Ovid's
+Metamorphoses to treat in like manner? Would it not be just as sensible
+to insist upon his practising his skinny little arms with hundred pounds
+dumb-bells?
+
+We were the sons of City men, of not well-to-do professional men, of
+minor officials, clerks, shopkeepers, our roads leading through the
+workaday world. Yet quite half our time was taken up in studies utterly
+useless to us. How I hated them, these youth-tormenting Shades. Homer!
+how I wished the fishermen had asked him that absurd riddle earlier.
+Horace! why could not that shipwreck have succeeded: it would have in
+the case of any one but a classic.
+
+Until one blessed day there fell into my hands a wondrous talisman.
+
+Hearken unto me, ye heavy burdened little brethren of mine. Waste not
+your substance upon tops and marbles, nor yet upon tuck (Do ye still
+call it “tuck”?), but scrape and save. For in the neighbourhood of
+Paternoster Row there dwells a good magician who for silver will provide
+you with a “Key” that shall open wide for you the gates of Hades.
+
+By its aid, the Frogs of Aristophanes became my merry friends. With
+Ulysses I wandered eagerly through Wonderland. Doctor Florret was
+charmed with my progress, which was real, for now, at last, I was
+studying according to the laws of common sense, understanding first,
+explaining afterwards. Let Youth, that the folly of Age would imprison
+in ignorance, provide itself with “Keys.”
+
+But let me not seem to claim credit due to another. Dan it was--Dan of
+the strong arm and the soft smile, Dan the wise hater of all useless
+labour, sharp-witted, easy-going Dan, who made this grand discovery.
+
+Dan followed me a term later into the Lower Fourth, but before he had
+been there a week was handling Latin verse with an ease and dexterity
+suggestive of unholy dealings with the Devil. In a lonely corner of
+Regent's Park, first making sure no one was within earshot, he revealed
+to me his magic.
+
+“Don't tell the others,” he commanded; “or it will get out, and then
+nobody will be any the better.”
+
+“But is it right?” I asked.
+
+“Look here, young 'un,” said Dan; “what are you here for--what's
+your father paying school fees for (it was the appeal to our
+conscientiousness most often employed by Dr. Florret himself), for you
+to play a silly game, or to learn something?
+
+“Because if it's only a game--we boys against the masters,” continued
+Dan, “then let's play according to rule. If we're here to learn--well,
+you've been in the class four months and I've just come, and I bet I
+know more Ovid than you do already.” Which was true.
+
+So I thanked Dan and shared with him his key; and all the Latin I
+remember, for whatever good it may be to me, I take it I owe to him.
+
+And knowledge of yet greater value do I owe to the good fortune that
+his sound mother wit was ever at my disposal to correct my dreamy
+unfeasibility; for from first to last he was my friend; and to have
+been the chosen friend of Dan, shrewd judge of man and boy, I deem no
+unimportant feather in my cap. He “took to” me, he said, because I was
+so “jolly green”--“such a rummy little mug.” No other reason would he
+ever give me, save only a sweet smile and a tumbling of my hair with his
+great hand; but I think I understood. And I loved him because he was
+big and strong and handsome and kind; no one but a little boy knows
+how brutal or how kind a big boy can be. I was still somewhat of an
+effeminate little chap, nervous and shy, with a pink and white face, and
+hair that no amount of wetting would make straight. I was growing too
+fast, which took what strength I had, and my journey every day, added
+to school work and home work, maybe was too much for my years. Every
+morning I had to be up at six, leaving the house before seven to catch
+the seven fifteen from Poplar station; and from Chalk Farm I had to walk
+yet another couple of miles. But that I did not mind, for at Chalk Farm
+station Dan was always waiting for me. In the afternoon we walked back
+together also; and when I was tired and my back ached--just as if some
+one had cut a piece out of it, I felt--he would put his arm round
+me, for he always knew, and oh, how strong and restful it was to lean
+against, so that one walked as in an easy-chair.
+
+It seems to me, remembering how I would walk thus by his side, looking
+up shyly into his face, thinking how strong and good he was, feeling so
+glad he liked me, I can understand a little how a woman loves. He was so
+solid. With his arm round me, it was good to feel weak.
+
+At first we were in the same class, the Lower Third. He had no business
+there. He was head and shoulders taller than any of us and years older.
+It was a disgrace to him that he was not in the Upper Fourth. The Doctor
+would tell him so before us all twenty times a week. Old Waterhouse
+(I call him “Old Waterhouse” because “Mister Waterhouse, M.A.,”
+ would convey no meaning to me, and I should not know about whom I
+was speaking) who cordially liked him, was honestly grieved. We, his
+friends, though it was pleasant to have him among us, suffered in our
+pride of him. The only person quite contented was Dan himself. It was
+his way in all things. Others had their opinion of what was good
+for him. He had his own, and his own was the only opinion that ever
+influenced him. The Lower Third suited him. For him personally the Upper
+Fourth had no attraction.
+
+And even in the Lower Third he was always at the bottom. He preferred
+it. He selected the seat and kept it, in spite of all allurements, in
+spite of all reproaches. It was nearest to the door. It enabled him
+to be first out and last in. Also it afforded a certain sense of
+retirement. Its occupant, to an extent screened from observation,
+became in the course of time almost forgotten. To Dan's philosophical
+temperament its practical advantages outweighed all sentimental
+objection.
+
+Only on one occasion do I remember his losing it. As a rule, tiresome
+questions, concerning past participles, square roots, or meridians never
+reached him, being snapped up in transit by arm-waving lovers of such
+trifles. The few that by chance trickled so far he took no notice of.
+They possessed no interest for him, and he never pretended that they
+did. But one day, taken off his guard, he gave voice quite unconsciously
+to a correct reply, with the immediate result of finding himself in an
+exposed position on the front bench. I had never seen Dan out of
+temper before, but that moment had any of us ventured upon a whispered
+congratulation we would have had our head punched, I feel confident.
+
+Old Waterhouse thought that here at last was reformation. “Come, Brian,”
+he cried, rubbing his long thin hands together with delight, “after all,
+you're not such a fool as you pretend.”
+
+“Never said I was,” muttered Dan to himself, with a backward glance of
+regret towards his lost seclusion; and before the day was out he had
+worked his way back to it again.
+
+As we were going out together, old Waterhouse passed us on the stairs:
+“Haven't you any sense of shame, my boy?” he asked sorrowfully, laying
+his hand kindly on Dan's shoulder.
+
+“Yes, sir,” answered Dan, with his frank smile; “plenty. It isn't yours,
+that's all.”
+
+He was an excellent fighter. In the whole school of over two hundred
+boys, not half a dozen, and those only Upper Sixth boys--fellows who
+came in top hats with umbrellas, and who wouldn't out of regard to their
+own dignity--could have challenged him with any chance of success. Yet
+he fought very seldom, and then always in a bored, lazy fashion, as
+though he were doing it purely to oblige the other fellow.
+
+One afternoon, just as we were about to enter Regent's Park by the
+wicket opposite Hanover Gate, a biggish boy, an errand boy carrying an
+empty basket, and supported by two smaller boys, barred our way.
+
+“Can't come in here,” said the boy with the basket.
+
+“Why not?” inquired Dan.
+
+“'Cos if you do I shall kick you,” was the simple explanation.
+
+Without a word Dan turned away, prepared to walk on to the next opening.
+The boy with the basket, evidently encouraged, followed us: “Now, I'm
+going to give you your coward's blow,” he said, stepping in front of us;
+“will you take it quietly?” It is a lonely way, the Outer Circle, on a
+winter's afternoon.
+
+“I'll tell you afterwards,” said Dan, stopping short.
+
+The boy gave him a slight slap on the cheek. It could not have hurt, but
+the indignity, of course, was great. No boy of honour, according to our
+code, could have accepted it without retaliating.
+
+“Is that all?” asked Dan.
+
+“That's all--for the present,” replied the boy with the basket.
+
+“Good-bye,” said Dan, and walked on.
+
+“Glad he didn't insist on fighting,” remarked Dan, cheerfully, as we
+proceeded; “I'm going to a party tonight.”
+
+Yet on another occasion, in a street off Lisson Grove, he insisted
+on fighting a young rough half again his own weight, who, brushing up
+against him, had knocked his hat off into the mud.
+
+“I wouldn't have said anything about his knocking it off,” explained
+Dan afterwards, tenderly brushing the poor bruised thing with his coat
+sleeve, “if he hadn't kicked it.”
+
+On another occasion I remember, three or four of us, Dan among the
+number, were on our way one broiling summer's afternoon to Hadley Woods.
+As we turned off from the highroad just beyond Barnet and struck into
+the fields, Dan drew from his pocket an enormous juicy-looking pear.
+
+“Where did you get that from?” inquired one, Dudley.
+
+“From that big greengrocer's opposite Barnet Church,” answered Dan.
+“Have a bit?”
+
+“You told me you hadn't any more money,” retorted Dudley, in reproachful
+tones.
+
+“No more I had,” replied Dan, holding out a tempting slice at the end of
+his pocket-knife.
+
+“You must have had some, or you couldn't have bought that pear,” argued
+Dudley, accepting.
+
+“Didn't buy it.”
+
+“Do you mean to say you stole it?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You're a thief,” denounced Dudley, wiping his mouth and throwing away a
+pip.
+
+“I know it. So are you.”
+
+“No, I'm not.”
+
+“What's the good of talking nonsense. You robbed an orchard only last
+Wednesday at Mill Hill, and gave yourself the stomach-ache.”
+
+“That isn't stealing.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“It isn't the same thing.”
+
+“What's the difference?”
+
+And nothing could make Dan comprehend the difference. “Stealing is
+stealing,” he would have it, “whether you take it off a tree or out of a
+basket. You're a thief, Dudley; so am I. Anybody else say a piece?”
+
+The thermometer was at that point where morals become slack. We all had
+a piece; but we were all of us shocked at Dan, and told him so. It did
+not agitate him in the least.
+
+To Dan I could speak my inmost thoughts, knowing he would understand me,
+and sometimes from him I received assistance and sometimes confusion.
+The yearly examination was approaching. My father and mother said
+nothing, but I knew how anxiously each of them awaited the result; my
+father, to see how much I had accomplished; my mother, how much I had
+endeavoured. I had worked hard, but was doubtful, knowing that prizes
+depend less upon what you know than upon what you can make others
+believe you know; which applies to prizes beyond those of school.
+
+“Are you going in for anything, Dan?” I asked him. We were discussing
+the subject, crossing Primrose Hill, one bright June morning.
+
+I knew the question absurd. I asked it of him because I wanted him to
+ask it of me.
+
+“They're not giving away anything I particularly want,” murmured Dan, in
+his lazy drawl: looked at from that point of view, school prizes are, it
+must be confessed, not worth their cost.
+
+“You're sweating yourself, young 'un, of course?” he asked next, as I
+expected.
+
+“I mean to have a shot at the History,” I admitted. “Wish I was better
+at dates.”
+
+“It's always two-thirds dates,” Dan assured me, to my discouragement.
+“Old Florret thinks you can't eat a potato until you know the date that
+chap Raleigh was born.”
+
+“I've prayed so hard that I may win the History prize,” I explained to
+him. I never felt shy with Dan. He never laughed at me.
+
+“You oughtn't to have done that,” he said. I stared. “It isn't fair to
+the other fellows. That won't be your winning the prize; that will be
+your getting it through favouritism.”
+
+“But they can pray, too,” I reminded him.
+
+“If you all pray for it,” answered Dan, “then it will go, not to the
+fellow that knows most history, but to the fellow that's prayed the
+hardest. That isn't old Florret's idea, I'm sure.”
+
+“But we are told to pray for things we want,” I insisted.
+
+“Beastly mean way of getting 'em,” retorted Dan. And no argument that
+came to me, neither then nor at any future time, brought him to right
+thinking on this point.
+
+He would judge all matters for himself. In his opinion Achilles was a
+coward, not a hero.
+
+“He ought to have told the Trojans that they couldn't hurt any part of
+him except his heel, and let them have a shot at that,” he argued;
+“King Arthur and all the rest of them with their magic swords, it wasn't
+playing the game. There's no pluck in fighting if you know you're bound
+to win. Beastly cads, I call them all.”
+
+I won no prize that year. Oddly enough, Dan did, for arithmetic; the
+only subject studied in the Lower Fourth that interested him. He liked
+to see things coming right, he explained.
+
+My father shut himself up with me for half an hour and examined me
+himself.
+
+“It's very curious, Paul,” he said, “you seem to know a good deal.”
+
+“They asked me all the things I didn't know. They seemed to do it on
+purpose,” I blurted out, and laid my head upon my arm. My father crossed
+the room and sat down beside me.
+
+“Spud!” he said--it was a long time since he had called me by that
+childish nickname--“perhaps you are going to be with me, one of the
+unlucky ones.”
+
+“Are you unlucky?” I asked.
+
+“Invariably,” answered my father, rumpling his hair. “I don't know why.
+I try hard--I do the right thing, but it turns out wrong. It always
+does.”
+
+“But I thought Mr. Hasluck was bringing us such good fortune,” I said,
+looking up in surprise. “We're getting on, aren't we?”
+
+“I have thought so before, so often,” said my father, “and it has always
+ended in a--in a collapse.”
+
+I put my arms round his neck, for I always felt to my father as to
+another boy; bigger than myself and older, but not so very much.
+
+“You see, when I married your mother,” he went on, “I was a rich man.
+She had everything she wanted.”
+
+“But you will get it all back,” I cried.
+
+“I try to think so,” he answered. “I do think so--generally speaking.
+But there are times--you would not understand--they come to you.”
+
+“But she is happy,” I persisted; “we are all happy.”
+
+He shook his head.
+
+“I watch her,” he said. “Women suffer more than we do. They live more
+in the present. I see my hopes, but she--she sees only me, and I have
+always been a failure. She has lost faith in me.”
+
+I could say nothing. I understood but dimly.
+
+“That is why I want you to be an educated man, Paul,” he continued after
+a silence. “You can't think what a help education is to a man. I don't
+mean it helps you to get on in the world; I think for that it rather
+hampers you. But it helps you to bear adversity. To a man with a
+well-stored mind, life is interesting on a piece of bread and a cup
+of tea. I know. If it were not for you and your mother I should not
+trouble.”
+
+And yet at that time our fortunes were at their brightest, so far as I
+remember them; and when they were dark again he was full of fresh hope,
+planning, scheming, dreaming again. It was never acting. A worse actor
+never trod this stage on which we fret. His occasional attempts at a
+cheerfulness he did not feel inevitably resulted in our all three crying
+in one another's arms. No; it was only when things were going well
+that experience came to his injury. Child of misfortune, he ever rose,
+Antaeus-like, renewed in strength from contact with his mother.
+
+Nor must it be understood that his despondent moods, even in time of
+prosperity, were oft recurring. Generally speaking, as he himself said,
+he was full of confidence. Already had he fixed upon our new house in
+Guilford Street, then still a good residential quarter; while at the
+same time, as he would explain to my mother, sufficiently central for
+office purposes, close as it was to Lincoln and Grey's Inn and Bedford
+Row, pavements long worn with the weary footsteps of the Law's sad
+courtiers.
+
+“Poplar,” said my father, “has disappointed me. It seemed a good idea--a
+rapidly rising district, singularly destitute of solicitors. It ought to
+have turned out well, and yet somehow it hasn't.”
+
+“There have been a few come,” my mother reminded him.
+
+“Of a sort,” admitted my father; “a criminal lawyer might gather
+something of a practice here, I have no doubt. But for general work,
+of course, you must be in a central position. Now, in Guilford Street
+people will come to me.”
+
+“It should certainly be a pleasanter neighbourhood to live in,” agreed
+my mother.
+
+“Later on,” said my father, “in case I want the whole house for offices,
+we could live ourselves in Regent's Park. It is quite near to the Park.”
+
+“Of course you have consulted Mr. Hasluck?” asked my mother, who of the
+two was by far the more practical.
+
+“For Hasluck,” replied my father, “it will be much more convenient. He
+grumbles every time at the distance.”
+
+“I have never been quite able to understand,” said my mother, “why Mr.
+Hasluck should have come so far out of his way. There must surely be
+plenty of solicitors in the City.”
+
+“He had heard of me,” explained my father. “A curious old
+fellow--likes his own way of doing things. It's not everyone who would
+care for him as a client. But I seem able to manage him.”
+
+Often we would go together, my father and I, to Guilford Street. It was
+a large corner house that had taken his fancy, half creeper covered,
+with a balcony, and pleasantly situated, overlooking the gardens of the
+Foundling Hospital. The wizened old caretaker knew us well, and having
+opened the door, would leave us to wander through the empty, echoing
+rooms at our own will. We furnished them handsomely in later Queen
+Anne style, of which my father was a connoisseur, sparing no necessary
+expense; for, as my father observed, good furniture is always worth its
+price, while to buy cheap is pure waste of money.
+
+“This,” said my father, on the second floor, stepping from the bedroom
+into the smaller room adjoining, “I shall make your mother's boudoir.
+We will have the walls in lavender and maple green--she is fond of soft
+tones--and the window looks out upon the gardens. There we will put her
+writing-table.”
+
+My own bedroom was on the third floor, a sunny little room.
+
+“You will be quiet here,” said my father, “and we can shut out the bed
+and the washstand with a screen.”
+
+Later, I came to occupy it; though its rent--eight and sixpence a week,
+including attendance--was somewhat more than at the time I ought to have
+afforded. Nevertheless, I adventured it, taking the opportunity of being
+an inmate of the house to refurnish it, unknown to my stout landlady, in
+later Queen Anne style, putting a neat brass plate with my father's name
+upon the door. “Luke Kelver, Solicitor. Office hours, 10 till 4.” A
+medical student thought he occupied my mother's boudoir. He was a dull
+dog, full of tiresome talk. But I made acquaintanceship with him; and
+often of an evening would smoke my pipe there in silence while
+pretending to be listening to his monotonous brag.
+
+The poor thing! he had no idea that he was only a foolish ghost;
+that his walls, seemingly covered with coarse-coloured prints
+of wooden-looking horses, simpering ballet girls and petrified
+prize-fighters, were in reality a delicate tone of lavender and maple
+green; that at her writing-table in the sunlit window sat my mother, her
+soft curls curtaining her quiet face.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+OF THE SHADOW THAT CAME BETWEEN THE MAN IN GREY AND THE LADY OF THE
+LOVE-LIT EYES.
+
+“There's nothing missing,” said my mother, “so far as I can find out.
+Depend upon it, that's the explanation: she has got frightened and has
+run away.
+
+“But what was there to frighten her?” said my father, pausing with a
+decanter in one hand and the bottle in the other.
+
+“It was the idea of the thing,” replied my mother. “She has never been
+used to waiting at table. She was actually crying about it only last
+night.”
+
+“But what's to be done?” said my father. “They will be here in less than
+an hour.”
+
+“There will be no dinner for them,” said my mother, “unless I put on an
+apron and bring it up myself.”
+
+“Where does she live?” asked my father.
+
+“At Ilford,” answered my mother.
+
+“We must make a joke of it,” said my father.
+
+My mother, sitting down, began to cry. It had been a trying week for my
+mother. A party to dinner--to a real dinner, beginning with anchovies
+and ending with ices from the confectioner's; if only they would remain
+ices and not, giving way to unaccustomed influences, present themselves
+as cold custard--was an extraordinary departure from the even tenor of
+our narrow domestic way; indeed, I recollect none previous. First there
+had been the house to clean and rearrange almost from top to bottom;
+endless small purchases to be made of articles that Need never misses,
+but which Ostentation, if ever you let her sneering nose inside the
+door, at once demands. Then the kitchen range--it goes without saying:
+one might imagine them all members of a stove union, controlled by some
+agitating old boiler out of work--had taken the opportunity to strike,
+refusing to bake another dish except under permanently improved
+conditions, necessitating weary days with plumbers. Fat cookery books,
+long neglected on their shelf, had been consulted, argued with and
+abused; experiments made, failures sighed over, successes noted; cost
+calculated anxiously; means and ways adjusted, hope finally achieved,
+shadowed by fear.
+
+And now with victory practically won, to have the reward thus dashed
+from her hand at the last moment! Downstairs in the kitchen would be
+the dinner, waiting for the guests; upstairs round the glittering table
+would be the assembled guests, waiting for their dinner. But between the
+two yawned an impassable gulf. The bridge, without a word of warning,
+had bolted--was probably by this time well on its way to Ilford. There
+was excuse for my mother's tears.
+
+“Isn't it possible to get somebody else?” asked my father.
+
+“Impossible, in the time,” said my mother. “I had been training her for
+the whole week. We had rehearsed it perfectly.”
+
+“Have it in the kitchen,” suggested my aunt, who was folding napkins to
+look like ships, which they didn't in the least, “and call it a picnic.”
+ Really it seemed the only practical solution.
+
+There came a light knock at the front door.
+
+“It can't be anybody yet, surely,” exclaimed my father in alarm, making
+for his coat.
+
+“It's Barbara, I expect,” explained my mother. “She promised to come
+round and help me dress. But now, of course, I shan't want her.” My
+mother's nature was pessimistic.
+
+But with the words Barbara ran into the room, for I had taken it upon
+myself to admit her, knowing that shadows slipped out through the window
+when Barbara came in at the door--in those days, I mean.
+
+She kissed them all three, though it seemed but one movement, she was so
+quick. And at once they saw the humour of the thing.
+
+“There's going to be no dinner,” laughed my father. “We are going to
+look surprised and pretend that it was yesterday. It will be fun to see
+their faces.”
+
+“There will be a very nice dinner,” smiled my mother, “but it will be
+in the kitchen, and there's no way of getting it upstairs.” And they
+explained to her the situation.
+
+She stood for an instant, her sweet face the gravest in the group. Then
+a light broke upon it.
+
+“I'll get you someone,” she said.
+
+“My dear, you don't even know the neighbourhood,” began my mother. But
+Barbara had snatched the latchkey from its nail and was gone.
+
+With her disappearance, shadow fell again upon us. “If there were only
+an hotel in this beastly neighbourhood,” said my father.
+
+“You must entertain them by yourself, Luke,” said my mother; “and I must
+wait--that's all.”
+
+“Don't be absurd, Maggie,” cried my father, getting angry. “Can't cook
+bring it in?”
+
+“No one can cook a dinner and serve it, too,” answered my mother,
+impatiently. “Besides, she's not presentable.”
+
+“What about Fan?” whispered my father.
+
+My mother merely looked. It was sufficient.
+
+“Paul?” suggested my father.
+
+“Thank you,” retorted my mother. “I don't choose to have my son turned
+into a footman, if you do.”
+
+“Well, hadn't you better go and dress?” was my father's next remark.
+
+“It won't take me long to put on an apron,” was my mother's reply.
+
+“I was looking forward to seeing you in that new frock,” said my father.
+In the case of another, one might have attributed such a speech to tact;
+in the case of my father, one felt it was a happy accident.
+
+My mother confessed--speaking with a certain indulgence, as one does of
+one's own follies when past--that she herself also had looked forward to
+seeing herself therein. Threatening discord melted into mutual sympathy.
+
+“I so wanted everything to be all right, for your sake, Luke,” said my
+mother; “I know you were hoping it would help on the business.”
+
+“I was only thinking of you, Maggie, dear,” answered my father. “You are
+my business.”
+
+“I know, dear,” said my mother. “It is hard.”
+
+The key turned in the lock, and we all stood quiet to listen.
+
+“She's come back alone,” said my mother. “I knew it was hopeless.”
+
+The door opened.
+
+“Please, ma'am,” said the new parlour-maid, “will I do?”
+
+She stood there, framed by the lintel, in the daintiest of aprons, the
+daintiest of caps upon her golden hair; and every objection she swept
+aside with the wind of her merry wilfulness. No one ever had their way
+with her, nor wanted it.
+
+“You shall be footman,” she ordered, turning to me--but this time my
+mother only laughed. “Wait here till I come down again.” Then to my
+mother: “Now, ma'am, are you ready?”
+
+It was the first time I had seen my mother, or, indeed, any other flesh
+and blood woman, in evening dress, and to tell the truth I was a little
+shocked. Nay, more than a little, and showed it, I suppose; for my
+mother flushed and drew her shawl over the gleaming whiteness of her
+shoulders, pleading coldness. But Barbara cried out against this, saying
+it was a sin such beauty should be hid; and my father, filching a shawl
+with a quick hand, so dextrously indeed as to suggest some previous
+practice in the feat, dropped on one knee--as though the world were some
+sweet picture book--and raised my mother's hand with grave reverence to
+his lips; and Barbara, standing behind my mother's chair, insisted on
+my following suit, saying the Queen was receiving. So I knelt also,
+glancing up shyly as towards the gracious face of some fair lady
+hitherto unknown, thus Catching my first glimpse of the philosophy of
+clothes.
+
+My memory lingers upon this scene by contrast with the sad, changed
+days that swiftly followed, when my mother's eyes would flash towards
+my father angry gleams, and her voice ring cruel and hard; though the
+moment he was gone her lips would tremble and her eyes grow soft again
+and fill with tears; when my father would sit with averted face and
+sullen lips tight pressed, or worse, would open them only to pour forth
+a rapid flood of savage speech; and fling out of the room, slamming the
+door behind him, and I would find him hours afterwards, sitting alone in
+the dark, with bowed head between his hands.
+
+Wretched, I would lie awake, hearing through the flimsy walls their
+passionate tones, now rising high, now fiercely forced into cold
+whispers; and then their words to each other sounded even crueller.
+
+In their estrangement from each other, so new to them, both clung closer
+to me, though they would tell me nothing, nor should I have understood
+if they had. When my mother was sobbing softly, her arms clasping me
+tighter and tighter with each quivering throb, then I hated my father,
+who I felt had inflicted this sorrow upon her. Yet when my father drew
+me down upon his knee, and I looked into his kind eyes so full of pain,
+then I felt angry with my mother, remembering her bitter tongue.
+
+It seemed to me as though some cruel, unseen thing had crept into the
+house to stand ever between them, so that they might never look into
+each other's loving eyes but only into the eyes of this evil shadow. The
+idea grew upon me until at times I could almost detect its outline in
+the air, feel a chillness as it passed me. It trod silently through the
+pokey rooms, always alert to thrust its grinning face before them.
+Now beside my mother it would whisper in her ear; and the next moment,
+stealing across to my father, answer for him with his voice, but
+strangely different. I used to think I could hear it laughing to itself
+as it stepped back into enfolding space.
+
+To this day I seem to see it, ever following with noiseless footsteps
+man and woman, waiting patiently its opportunity to thrust its face
+between them. So that I can read no love tale, but, glancing round, I
+see its mocking eyes behind my shoulder, reading also, with a silent
+laugh. So that never can I meet with boy and girl, whispering in the
+twilight, but I see it lurking amid the half lights, just behind them,
+creeping after them with stealthy tread, as hand in hand they pass me in
+quiet ways.
+
+Shall any of us escape, or lies the road of all through this dark
+valley of the shadow of dead love? Is it Love's ordeal? testing the
+feeble-hearted from the strong in faith, who shall find each other yet
+again, the darkness passed?
+
+Of the dinner itself, until time of dessert, I can give no consecutive
+account, for as footman, under the orders of this enthusiastic
+parlour-maid, my place was no sinecure, and but few opportunities of
+observation through the crack of the door were afforded me. All that
+was clear to me was that the chief guest was a Mr. Teidelmann--or
+Tiedelmann, I cannot now remember which--a snuffy, mumbling old frump,
+with whose name then, however, I was familiar by reason of seeing it
+so often in huge letters, though with a Co. added, on dreary long blank
+walls, bordering the Limehouse reach. He sat at my mother's right hand;
+and I wondered, noticing him so ugly and so foolish seeming, how she
+could be so interested in him, shouting much and often to him; for added
+to his other disattractions he was very deaf, which necessitated his
+putting his hand up to his ear at every other observation made to
+him, crying querulously: “Eh, what? What are you talking about? Say it
+again,”--smiling upon him and paying close attention to his every want.
+Even old Hasluck, opposite to him, and who, though pleasant enough
+in his careless way, was far from being a slave to politeness, roared
+himself purple, praising some new disinfectant of which this same
+Teidelmann appeared to be the proprietor.
+
+“My wife swears by it,” bellowed Hasluck, leaning across the table.
+
+“Our drains!” chimed in Mrs. Hasluck, who was a homely soul; “well,
+you'd hardly know there was any in the house since I've took to using
+it.”
+
+“What are they talking about?” asked Teidelmann, appealing to my mother.
+“What's he say his wife does?”
+
+“Your disinfectant,” explained my mother; “Mrs. Hasluck swears by it.”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“Mrs. Hasluck.”
+
+“Does she? Delighted to hear it,” grunted the old gentleman, evidently
+bored.
+
+“Nothing like it for a sick-room,” persisted Hasluck; “might almost call
+it a scent.”
+
+“Makes one quite anxious to be ill,” remarked my aunt, addressing no one
+in particular.
+
+“Reminds me of cocoanuts,” continued Hasluck.
+
+Its proprietor appeared not to hear, but Hasluck was determined his
+flattery should not be lost.
+
+“I say it reminds me of cocoanuts.” He screamed it this time.
+
+“Oh, does it?” was the reply.
+
+“Doesn't it you?”
+
+“Can't say it does,” answered Teidelmann. “As a matter of fact, don't
+know much about it myself. Never use it.”
+
+Old Teidelmann went on with his dinner, but Hasluck was still full of
+the subject.
+
+“Take my advice,” he shouted, “and buy a bottle.”
+
+“Buy a what?”
+
+“A bottle,” roared the other, with an effort palpably beyond his
+strength.
+
+“What's he say? What's he talking about now?” asked Teidelmann, again
+appealing to my mother.
+
+“He says you ought to buy a bottle,” again explained my mother.
+
+“What of?”
+
+“Of your own disinfectant.”
+
+“Silly fool!”
+
+Whether he intended the remark to be heard and thus to close the topic
+(which it did), or whether, as deaf people are apt to, merely misjudged
+the audibility of an intended sotto vocalism, I cannot say. I only know
+that outside in the passage I heard the words distinctly, and therefore
+assume they reached round the table also.
+
+A lull in the conversation followed, but Hasluck was not thin-skinned,
+and the next thing I distinguished was his cheery laugh.
+
+“He's quite right,” was Hasluck's comment; “that's what I am
+undoubtedly. Because I can't talk about anything but shop myself, I
+think everybody else is the same sort of fool.”
+
+But he was doing himself an injustice, for on my next arrival in the
+passage he was again shouting across the table, and this time Teidelmann
+was evidently interested.
+
+“Well, if you could spare the time, I'd be more obliged than I can tell
+you,” Hasluck was saying. “I know absolutely nothing about pictures
+myself, and Pearsall says you are one of the best judges in Europe.”
+
+“He ought to know,” chuckled old Teidelmann. “He's tried often enough to
+palm off rubbish onto me.”
+
+“That last purchase of yours must have been a good thing for young--”
+ Hasluck mentioned the name of a painter since world famous; “been the
+making of him, I should say.”
+
+“I gave him two thousand for the six,” replied Teidelmann, “and they'll
+sell for twenty thousand.”
+
+“But you'll never sell them?” exclaimed my father.
+
+“No,” grunted old Teidelmann, “but my widow will.” There came a soft,
+low laugh from a corner of the table I could not see.
+
+“It's Anderson's great disappointment,” followed a languid, caressing
+voice (the musical laugh translated into prose, it seemed), “that he has
+never been able to educate me to a proper appreciation of art. He'll pay
+thousands of pounds for a child in rags or a badly dressed Madonna. Such
+a waste of money, it appears to me.”
+
+“But you would pay thousands for a diamond to hang upon your neck,”
+ argued my father's voice.
+
+“It would enhance the beauty of my neck,” replied the musical voice.
+
+“An even more absolute waste of money,” was my father's answer, spoken
+low. And I heard again the musical, soft laugh.
+
+“Who is she?” I asked Barbara.
+
+“The second Mrs. Teidelmann,” whispered Barbara. “She is quite a swell.
+Married him for his money--I don't like her myself, but she's very
+beautiful.”
+
+“As beautiful as you?” I asked incredulously. We were sitting on the
+stairs, sharing a jelly.
+
+“Oh, me!” answered Barbara. “I'm only a child. Nobody takes any notice
+of me--except other kids, like you.” For some reason she appeared out of
+conceit with herself, which was not her usual state of mind.
+
+“But everybody thinks you beautiful,” I maintained.
+
+“Who?” she asked quickly.
+
+“Dr. Hal,” I answered.
+
+We were with our backs to the light, so that I could not see her face.
+
+“What did he say?” she asked, and her voice had more of contentment in
+it.
+
+I could not remember his exact words, but about the sense of them I was
+positive.
+
+“Ask him what he thinks of me, as if you wanted to know yourself,”
+ Barbara instructed me, “and don't forget what he says this time. I'm
+curious.” And though it seemed to me a foolish command--for what could
+he say of her more than I myself could tell her--I never questioned
+Barbara's wishes.
+
+Yet if I am right in thinking that jealousy of Mrs. Teidelmann may have
+clouded for a moment Barbara's sunny nature, surely there was no reason
+for this, seeing that no one attracted greater attention throughout the
+dinner than the parlour-maid.
+
+“Where ever did you get her from?” asked Mrs. Florret, Barbara having
+just descended the kitchen stairs.
+
+“A neat-handed Phillis,” commented Dr. Florret with approval.
+
+“I'll take good care she never waits at my table,” laughed the wife
+of our minister, the Rev. Cottle, a broad-built, breezy-voiced woman,
+mother of eleven, eight of them boys.
+
+“To tell the truth,” said my mother, “she's only here temporarily.”
+
+“As a matter of fact,” said my father, “we have to thank Mrs. Hasluck
+for her.”
+
+“Don't leave me out of it,” laughed Hasluck; “can't let the old girl
+take all the credit.”
+
+Later my father absent-mindedly addressed her as “My dear,” at which
+Mrs. Cottle shot a swift glance towards my mother; and before that
+incident could have been forgotten, Hasluck, when no one was
+looking, pinched her elbow, which would not have mattered had not the
+unexpectedness of it drawn from her an involuntary “augh,” upon which,
+for the reputation of the house, and the dinner being then towards
+its end; my mother deemed it better to take the whole company into
+her confidence. Naturally the story gained for Barbara still greater
+admiration, so that when with the dessert, discarding the apron but
+still wearing the dainty cap, which showed wisdom, she and the footman
+took their places among the guests, she was even more than before the
+centre of attention and remark.
+
+“It was very nice of you,” said Mrs. Cottle, thus completing the circle
+of compliments, “and, as I always tell my girls, that is better than
+being beautiful.”
+
+“Kind hearts,” added Dr. Florret, summing up the case, “are more than
+coronets.” Dr. Florret had ever ready for the occasion the correct
+quotation, but from him, somehow, it never irritated; rather it fell
+upon the ear as a necessary rounding and completing of the theme; like
+the Amen in church.
+
+Only to my aunt would further observations have occurred.
+
+“When I was a girl,” said my aunt, breaking suddenly upon the passing
+silence, “I used to look into the glass and say to myself: 'Fanny,
+you've got to be amiable,' and I was amiable,” added my aunt,
+challenging contradiction with a look; “nobody can say that I wasn't,
+for years.”
+
+“It didn't pay?” suggested Hasluck.
+
+“It attracted,” replied my aunt, “no attention whatever.”
+
+Hasluck had changed places with my mother, and having after many
+experiments learned the correct pitch for conversation with old
+Teidelmann, talked with him as much aside as the circumstances of the
+case would permit. Hasluck never wasted time on anything else than
+business. It was in his opera box on the first night of Verdi's Aida (I
+am speaking of course of days then to come) that he arranged the details
+of his celebrated deal in guano; and even his very religion, so I have
+been told and can believe, he varied to suit the enterprise of the
+moment, once during the protracted preliminaries of a cocoa scheme
+becoming converted to Quakerism.
+
+But for the most of us interest lay in a discussion between Washburn and
+Florret concerning the superior advantages attaching to residence in the
+East End.
+
+As a rule, incorrect opinion found itself unable to exist in Dr.
+Florret's presence. As no bird, it is said, can continue its song once
+looked at by an owl, so all originality grew silent under the cold stare
+of his disapproving eye. But Dr. “Fighting Hal” was no gentle warbler
+of thought. Vehement, direct, indifferent, he swept through all polite
+argument as a strong wind through a murmuring wood, carrying his
+partisans with him further than they meant to go, and quite unable to
+turn back; leaving his opponents clinging desperately--upside down,
+anyhow--to their perches, angry, their feathers much ruffled.
+
+“Life!” flung out Washburn--Dr. Florret had just laid down unimpeachable
+rules for the conduct of all mankind on all occasions--“what do you
+respectable folk know of life? You are not men and women, you are
+marionettes. You don't move to your natural emotions implanted by God;
+you dance according to the latest book of etiquette. You live and love,
+laugh and weep and sin by rule. Only one moment do you come face to face
+with life; that is in the moment when you die, leaving the other puppets
+to be dressed in black and make believe to cry.”
+
+It was a favourite subject of denunciation with him, the artificiality
+of us all.
+
+“Little doll,” he had once called me, and I had resented the term.
+
+“That's all you are, little Paul,” he had persisted, “a good little
+hard-working doll, that does what it's made to do, and thinks what
+it's made to think. We are all dolls. Your father is a gallant-hearted,
+soft-headed little doll; your mother the sweetest and primmest of dolls.
+And I'm a silly, dissatisfied doll that longs to be a man, but hasn't
+the pluck. We are only dolls, little Paul.”
+
+“He's a trifle--a trifle whimsical on some subjects,” explained my
+father, on my repeating this conversation.
+
+“There are a certain class of men,” explained my mother--“you will meet
+with them more as you grow up--who talk for talking's sake. They don't
+know what they mean. And nobody else does either.”
+
+“But what would you have?” argued Dr. Florret, “that every man should do
+that which is right in his own eyes?”
+
+“Far better than, like the old man in the fable, he should do what every
+other fool thinks right,” retorted Washburn. “The other day I called
+to see whether a patient of mine was still alive or not. His wife was
+washing clothes in the front room. 'How's your husband?' I asked. 'I
+think he's dead,' replied the woman. Then, without leaving off her work,
+'Jim,' she shouted, 'are you there?' No answer came from the inner room.
+'He's a goner,' she said, wringing out a stocking.”
+
+“But surely,” said Dr. Florret, “you don't admire a woman for being
+indifferent to the death of her husband?”
+
+“I don't admire her for that,” replied Washburn, “and I don't blame her.
+I didn't make the world and I'm not responsible for it. What I do admire
+her for is not pretending a grief she didn't feel. In Berkeley Square
+she'd have met me at the door with an agonised face and a handkerchief
+to her eyes.
+
+“Assume a virtue, if you have it not,” murmured Dr. Florret.
+
+“Go on,” said Washburn. “How does it run? 'That monster, custom, who all
+sense doth eat, of devil's habit, is angel yet in this, that to the use
+of actions fair and good he gives a frock that aptly is put on.' So was
+the lion's skin by the ass, but it showed him only the more an ass. Here
+asses go about as asses, but there are lions also. I had a woman under
+my hands only a little while ago. I could have cured her easily. Why she
+got worse every day instead of better I could not understand. Then by
+accident learned the truth: instead of helping me she was doing all
+she could to kill herself. 'I must, Doctor,' she cried. 'I must. I have
+promised. If I get well he will only leave me, and if I die now he has
+sworn to be good to the children.' Here, I tell you, they live--think
+their thoughts, work their will, kill those they hate, die for those
+they love; savages if you like, but savage men and women, not bloodless
+dolls.”
+
+“I prefer the dolls,” concluded Dr. Florret.
+
+“I admit they are pretty,” answered Washburn.
+
+“I remember,” said my father, “the first masked ball I ever went to when
+I was a student in Paris. It struck me just as you say, Hal; everybody
+was so exactly alike. I was glad to get out into the street and see
+faces.”
+
+“But I thought they always unmasked at midnight,” said the second Mrs.
+Teidelmann in her soft, languid tones.
+
+“I did not wait,” explained my father.
+
+“That was a pity,” she replied. “I should have been interested to see
+what they were like, underneath.”
+
+“I might have been disappointed,” answered my father. “I agree with Dr.
+Florret that sometimes the mask is an improvement.”
+
+Barbara was right. She was a beautiful woman, with a face that would
+have been singularly winning if one could have avoided the hard cold
+eyes ever restless behind the half-closed lids.
+
+Always she was very kind to me. Moreover, since the disappearance of
+Cissy she was the first to bestow again upon me a good opinion of my
+small self. My mother praised me when I was good, which to her was the
+one thing needful; but few of us, I fear, child or grown-up, take much
+pride in our solid virtues, finding them generally hindrances to our
+desires: like the oyster's pearl, of more comfort to the world than to
+ourselves. If others there were who admired me, very guardedly must they
+have kept the secret I would so gladly have shared with them. But this
+new friend of ours--or had I not better at once say enemy--made me feel
+when in her presence a person of importance. How it was accomplished
+I cannot explain. No word of flattery nor even of mere approval ever
+passed her lips. Her charm to me was not that she admired me, but that
+she led me by some mysterious process to admire myself.
+
+And yet in spite of this and many lesser kindnesses she showed to me,
+I never really liked her; but rather feared her, dreading always the
+sudden raising of those ever half-closed eyelids.
+
+She sat next to my father at the corner of the table, her chin resting
+on her long white hands, her sweet lips parted, and as often as his
+eyes were turned away from her, her soft low voice would draw them back
+again. Once she laid her hand on his, laughing the while at some light
+jest of his, and I saw that he flushed; and following his quick glance,
+saw that my mother's eyes were watching also.
+
+I have spoken of my father only as he then appeared to me, a child--an
+older chum with many lines about his mobile mouth, the tumbled hair
+edged round with grey; but looking back with older eyes, I see him a
+slightly stooping, yet still tall and graceful man, with the face of a
+poet--the face I mean a poet ought to possess but rarely does, nature
+apparently abhorring the obvious--with the shy eyes of a boy, and a
+voice tender as a woman's. Never the dingiest little drab that entered
+the kitchen but adored him, speaking always of “the master” in tones of
+fond proprietorship, for to the most slatternly his “orders” had ever
+the air of requests for favours. Women, I so often read, can care for
+only masterful men. But may there not be variety in women as in other
+species? Or perhaps--if the suggestion be not over-daring--the many
+writers, deeming themselves authorities upon this subject of woman, may
+in this one particular have erred? I only know my father spoke to
+few women whose eyes did not brighten. Yet hardly should I call him a
+masterful man.
+
+“I think it's all right,” whispered Hasluck to my father in the
+passage--they were the last to go. “What does she think of it, eh?”
+
+“I think she'll be with us,” answered my father.
+
+“Nothing like food for bringing people together,” said Hasluck.
+“Good-night.”
+
+The door closed, but Something had crept into the house. It stood
+between my father and mother. It followed them silently up the narrow
+creaking stairs.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+OF THE PASSING OF THE SHADOW.
+
+Better is little, than treasure and trouble therewith. Better a dinner
+of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. None
+but a great man would have dared to utter such a glaring commonplace as
+that. Not only on Sundays now, but all the week, came the hot joint to
+table, and on every day there was pudding, till a body grew indifferent
+to pudding; thus a joy-giving luxury of life being lost and but another
+item added to the long list of uninteresting needs. Now we could eat and
+drink without stint. No need now to organise for the morrow's hash.
+No need now to cut one's bread instead of breaking it, thinking of
+Saturday's bread pudding. But there the saying fails, for never now were
+we merry. A silent unseen guest sat with us at the board, so that no
+longer we laughed and teased as over the half pound of sausages or the
+two sweet-scented herrings; but talked constrainedly of empty things
+that lay outside us.
+
+Easy enough would it have been for us to move to Guilford Street.
+Occasionally in the spiritless tones in which they now spoke on all
+subjects save the one, my mother and father would discuss the project;
+but always into the conversation would fall, sooner or later, some
+loosened thought to stir it to anger, and so the aching months went by,
+and the cloud grew.
+
+Then one day the news came that old Teidelmann had died suddenly in his
+counting house.
+
+“You are going to her?” said my mother.
+
+“I have been sent for,” said my father; “I must--it may mean business.”
+
+My mother laughed bitterly; why, at the time, I could not understand;
+and my father flung out of the house. During the many hours that he was
+away my mother remained locked in her room, and, stealing sometimes to
+the door, I was sure I heard her crying; and that she should grieve so
+at old Teidelmann's death puzzled me.
+
+She came oftener to our house after that. Her mourning added, I think,
+to her beauty, softening--or seeming to soften--the hardness of her
+eyes. Always she was very sweet to my mother, who by contrast beside her
+appeared witless and ungracious; and to me, whatever her motive, she was
+kindness itself; hardly ever arriving without some trifling gift or plan
+for affording me some childish treat. By instinct she understood exactly
+what I desired and liked, the books that would appeal to me as those my
+mother gave me never did, the pleasures that did please me as opposed to
+the pleasures that should have pleased me. Often my mother, talking
+to me, would chill me with the vista of the life that lay before me:
+a narrow, viewless way between twin endless walls of “Must” and “Must
+not.” This soft-voiced lady set me dreaming of life as of sunny fields
+through which one wandered laughing, along the winding path of Will; so
+that, although as I have said, there lurked at the bottom of my thoughts
+a fear of her; yet something within me I seemed unable to control went
+out to her, drawn by her subtle sympathy and understanding of it.
+
+“Has he ever seen a pantomime?” she asked of my father one morning,
+looking at me the while with a whimsical screwing of her mouth.
+
+My heart leaped within me. My father raised his eyebrows: “What would
+your mother say, do you think?” he asked. My heart sank.
+
+“She thinks,” I replied, “that theatres are very wicked places.” It
+was the first time that any doubt as to the correctness of my mother's
+judgments had ever crossed my mind.
+
+Mrs. Teidelmann's smile strengthened my doubt. “Dear me,” she said, “I
+am afraid I must be very wicked. I have always regarded a pantomime as
+quite a moral entertainment. All the bad people go down so very straight
+to--well, to the fit and proper place for them. And we could promise to
+leave before the Clown stole the sausages, couldn't we, Paul?”
+
+My mother was called and came; and I could not help thinking how
+insignificant she looked with her pale face and plain dark frock,
+standing stiffly beside this shining lady in her rustling clothes.
+
+“You will let him come, Mrs. Kelver,” she pleaded in her soft caressing
+tones; “it's Dick Whittington, you know--such an excellent moral.”
+
+My mother had stood silent, clasping and unclasping her hands, a
+childish trick she had when troubled; and her lips were trembling.
+Important as the matter loomed before my own eyes, I wondered at her
+agitation.
+
+“I am very sorry,” said my mother, “it is very kind of you. But I would
+rather he did not go.”
+
+“Just this once,” persisted Mrs. Teidelmann. “It is holiday time.”
+
+A ray of sunlight fell into the room, lighting upon her coaxing face,
+making where my mother stood seem shadow.
+
+“I would rather he did not go,” repeated my mother, and her voice
+sounded harsh and grating. “When he is older others must judge for him,
+but for the present he must be guided by me--alone.”
+
+“I really don't think there could be any harm, Maggie,” urged my father.
+“Things have changed since we were young.”
+
+“That may be,” answered my mother, still in the same harsh voice; “it is
+long ago since then.”
+
+“I didn't intend it that way,” said my father with a short laugh.
+
+“I merely meant that I may be wrong,” answered my mother. “I seem so old
+among you all--so out of place. I have tried to change, but I cannot.”
+
+“We will say no more about it,” said Mrs. Teidelmann, sweetly. “I merely
+thought it would give him pleasure; and he has worked so hard this last
+term, his father tells me.”
+
+She laid her hand caressingly on my shoulder, drawing me a little closer
+to her; and it remained there.
+
+“It was very kind of you,” said my mother, “I would do anything to give
+him pleasure, anything--I could. He knows that. He understands.”
+
+My mother's hand, I knew, was seeking mine, but I was angry and would
+not see; and without another word she left the room.
+
+My mother did not allude again to the subject; but the very next
+afternoon she took me herself to a hall in the neighbourhood, where we
+saw a magic-lantern, followed by a conjurer. She had dressed herself in
+a prettier frock than she had worn for many a long day, and was brighter
+and gayer in herself than had lately been her wont, laughing and talking
+merrily. But I, nursing my wrongs, remained moody and sulky. At any
+other time such rare amusement would have overjoyed me; but the wonders
+of the great theatre that from other boys I had heard so much of, that
+from gaudy-coloured posters I had built up for myself, were floating
+vague and undefined before me in the air; and neither the open-mouthed
+sleeper, swallowing his endless chain of rats; nor even the live rabbit
+found in the stout old gentleman's hat--the last sort of person in whose
+hat one would have expected to find such a thing--could draw away my
+mind from the joy I had caught a glimpse of only to lose.
+
+So we walked home through the muddy, darkening streets, speaking but
+little; and that night, waking--or rather half waking, as children do--I
+thought I saw a figure in white crouching at the foot of my bed. I must
+have gone to sleep again; and later, though I cannot say whether the
+intervening time was short or long, I opened my eyes to see it still
+there; and frightened, I cried out; and my mother rose from her knees.
+
+She laughed, a curious broken laugh, in answer to my questions. “It was
+a silly dream I had,” she explained “I must have been thinking of the
+conjurer we saw. I dreamt that a wicked Magician had spirited you away
+from me. I could not find you and was all alone in the world.”
+
+She put her arms around me, so tight as almost to hurt me. And thus we
+remained until again I must have fallen asleep.
+
+It was towards the close of these same holidays that my mother and I
+called upon Mrs. Teidelmann in her great stone-built house at Clapton.
+She had sent a note round that morning, saying she was suffering from
+terrible headaches that quite took her senses away, so that she was
+unable to come out. She would be leaving England in a few days to
+travel. Would my mother come and see her, she would like to say good-bye
+to her before she went. My mother handed the letter across the table to
+my father.
+
+“Of course you will go,” said my father. “Poor girl, I wonder what the
+cause can be. She used to be so free from everything of the kind.”
+
+“Do you think it well for me to go?” said my mother. “What can she have
+to say to me?”
+
+“Oh, just to say good-bye,” answered my father. “It would look so
+pointed not to go.”
+
+It was a dull, sombre house without, but one entered through its
+commonplace door as through the weed-grown rock into Aladdin's cave. Old
+Teidelmann had been a great collector all his life, and his treasures,
+now scattered through a dozen galleries, were then heaped there in
+curious confusion. Pictures filled every inch of wall, stood propped
+against the wonderful old furniture, were even stretched unframed across
+the ceilings. Statues gleamed from every corner (a few of the statues
+were, I remember, the only things out of the entire collection that Mrs.
+Teidelmann kept for herself), carvings, embroideries, priceless china,
+miniatures framed in gems, illuminated missals and gorgeously bound
+books crowded the room. The ugly little thick-lipped man had surrounded
+himself with the beauty of every age, brought from every land. He
+himself must have been the only thing cheap and uninteresting to be
+found within his own walls; and now he lay shrivelled up in his coffin,
+under a monument by means of which an unknown cemetery became quite
+famous.
+
+Instructions had been given that my mother was to be shown up into Mrs.
+Teidelmann's boudoir. She was lying on a sofa near the fire when we
+entered, asleep, dressed in a loose lace robe that fell away, showing
+her thin but snow-white arms, her rich dark hair falling loose about
+her. In sleep she looked less beautiful: harder and with a suggestion of
+coarseness about the face, of which at other times it showed no trace.
+My mother said she would wait, perhaps Mrs. Teidelmann would awake; and
+the servant, closing the door softly, left us alone with her.
+
+An old French clock standing on the mantelpiece, a heart supported by
+Cupids, ticked with a muffled, soothing sound. My mother, choosing a
+chair by the window, sat with her eyes fixed on the sleeping woman's
+face, and it seemed to me--though this may have been but my fancy born
+of after-thought--that a faint smile relaxed for a moment the sleeping
+woman's pained, pressed lips. Neither I nor my mother spoke, the only
+sound in the room being the hushed ticking of the great gilt clock.
+Until the other woman after a few slight movements of unrest began to
+talk in her sleep.
+
+Only confused murmurs escaped her at first, and then I heard her whisper
+my father's name. Very low--hardly more than breathed--were the words,
+but upon the silence each syllable struck clear and distinct: “Ah no, we
+must not. Luke, my darling.”
+
+My mother rose swiftly from her chair, but she spoke in quite
+matter-of-fact tones.
+
+“Go, Paul,” she said, “wait for me downstairs;” and noiselessly opening
+the door, she pushed me gently out, and closed it again behind me.
+
+It was half an hour or more before she came down, and at once we left
+the house, letting ourselves out. All the way home my mother never once
+spoke, but walked as one in a dream with eyes that saw not. With her
+hand upon the lock of our gate she came back to life.
+
+“You must say nothing, Paul, do you understand?” she said. “When people
+are delirious they use strange words that have no meaning. Do you
+understand, Paul; you must never breathe a word--never.”
+
+I promised, and we entered the house; and from that day my mother's
+whole manner changed. Not another angry word ever again escaped her
+lips, never an angry flash lighted up again her eyes. Mrs. Teidelmann
+remained away three months. My father, of course, wrote to her often,
+for he was managing all her affairs. But my mother wrote to her
+also--though this my father, I do not think, knew--long letters that she
+would go away by herself to pen, writing them always in the twilight,
+close to the window.
+
+“Why do you choose this time, just when it's getting dark, to write your
+letters,” my father would expostulate, when by chance he happened to
+look into the room. “Let me ring for the lamp, you will strain your
+eyes.” But my mother would always excuse herself, saying she had only a
+few lines to finish.
+
+“I can think better in this light,” she would explain.
+
+And when Mrs. Teidelmann returned, it was my mother who was the first
+to call upon her; before even my father knew that she was back. And from
+thence onward one might have thought them the closest of friends, my
+mother visiting her often, speaking of her to all in terms of praise and
+liking.
+
+In this way peace returned unto the house, and my father was tender
+again in all his words and actions towards my mother, and my mother
+thoughtful as before of all his wants and whims, her voice soft and low,
+the sweet smile ever lurking around her lips as in the old days before
+this evil thing had come to dwell among us; and I might have forgotten
+it had ever cast its blight upon our life but that every day my mother
+grew feebler, the little ways that had seemed a part of her gone from
+her.
+
+The summer came and went--that time in towns of panting days and
+stifling nights, when through the open window crawls to one's face the
+hot foul air, heavy with reeking odours drawn from a thousand streets;
+when lying awake one seems to hear the fitful breathing of the myriad
+mass around, as of some over-laboured beast too tired to even rest; and
+my mother moved about the house ever more listlessly.
+
+“There's nothing really the matter with her,” said Dr. Hal, “only
+weakness. It is the place. Cannot you get her away from it?”
+
+“I cannot leave myself,” said my father, “just yet; but there is no
+reason why you and the boy should not take a holiday. This year I can
+afford it, and later I might possibly join you.”
+
+My mother consented, as she did to all things now, and so it came about
+that again of afternoons we climbed--though more slowly and with many
+pauses--the steep path to the ruined tower old Jacob in his happy
+foolishness had built upon the headland, rested once again upon its
+topmost platform, sheltered from the wind that ever blew about its
+crumbling walls, saw once more the distant mountains, faint like
+spectres, and the silent ships that came and vanished, and about our
+feet the pleasant farm lands, and the grave, sweet river.
+
+We had taken lodgings in the village: smaller now it seemed than
+previously; but wonderful its sunny calm, after the turmoil of the
+fierce dark streets. Mrs. Fursey was there still, but quite another than
+the Mrs. Fursey of my remembrance, a still angular but cheery dame,
+bent no longer on suppressing me, but rather on drawing me out before
+admiring neighbours, as one saying: “The material was unpromising, as
+you know. There were times when I almost despaired. But with
+patience, and--may I say, a natural gift that way--you see what can
+be accomplished!” And Anna, now a buxom wife and mother, with an
+uncontrollable desire to fall upon and kiss me at most unexpected
+moments, necessitating a never sleeping watchfulness on my part, and
+a choosing of positions affording means of ready retreat. And old
+Chumbley, still cobbling shoes in his tiny cave. On the bench before
+him in a row they sat and watched him while he tapped and tapped and
+hammered: pert little shoes piping “Be quick, be quick, we want to be
+toddling. You seem to have no idea, my good man, how much toddling there
+is to be done.” Dapper boots, sighing: “Oh, please make haste, we are
+waiting to dance and to strut. Jack walks in the lane, Jill waits by
+the gate. Oh, deary, how slowly he taps.” Stout sober boots, saying: “As
+soon as you can, old friend. Remember we've work to do.” Flat-footed old
+boots, rusty and limp, mumbling: “We haven't much time, Mr. Chumbley.
+Just a patch, that is all, we haven't much further to go.” And old Joe,
+still peddling his pack, with the help of the same old jokes. And Tom
+Pinfold, still puzzled and scratching his head, the rejected fish still
+hanging by its tail from his expostulating hand; one might almost have
+imagined it the same fish. Grown-up folks had changed but little. Only
+the foolish children had been playing tricks; parties I had left mere
+sucking babes now swaggering in pinafore or knickerbocker; children I
+had known now mincing it as men and women; such affectation annoyed me.
+
+One afternoon--it was towards the close of the last week of our stay--my
+mother and I had climbed, as was so often our wont, to the upper
+platform of old Jacob's tower. My mother leant upon the parapet, her
+eyes fixed dreamingly upon the distant mountains, and a smile crept to
+her lips.
+
+“What are you thinking of?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, only of things that happened over there”--she nodded her head
+towards the distant hills as to some old crony with whom she shares
+secrets--“when I was a girl.”
+
+“You lived there, long ago, didn't you, when you were young?” I asked.
+Boys do not always stop to consider whether their questions might or
+might not be better expressed.
+
+“You're very rude,” said my mother--it was long since a tone of her old
+self had rung from her in answer to any touch; “it was a very little
+while ago.”
+
+Suddenly she raised her head and listened. Perhaps some twenty seconds
+she remained so with her lips parted, and then from the woods came a
+faint, long-drawn “Coo-ee.” We ran to the side of the tower commanding
+the pathway from the village, and waited until from among the dark pines
+my father emerged into the sunlight.
+
+Seeing us, he shouted again and waved his stick, and from the light of
+his eyes and his gallant bearing, and the spring of his step across the
+heathery turf, we knew instinctively that trouble had come upon him.
+He always rose to meet it with that look and air. It was the old Norse
+blood in his veins, I suppose. So, one imagines, must those godless old
+Pirates have sprung to their feet when the North wind, loosed as a hawk
+from the leash, struck at the beaked prow.
+
+We heard his quick step on the rickety stair, and the next moment he was
+between us, breathing a little hard, but laughing.
+
+He stood for awhile beside my mother without speaking, both of them
+gazing at the distant hills among which, as my mother had explained,
+things had happened long ago. And maybe, “over there,” their memories
+met and looked upon each other with kind eyes.
+
+“Do you remember,” said my father, “we climbed up here--it was the first
+walk we took together after coming here. We discussed our plans for the
+future, how we would retrieve our fortunes.”
+
+“And the future,” answered my mother, “has a way of making plans for us
+instead.”
+
+“It would seem so,” replied my father, with a laugh. “I am an unlucky
+beggar, Maggie. I dropped all your money as well as my own down that
+wretched mine.”
+
+“It was the will--it was Fate, or whatever you call it,” said my mother.
+“You could not help that, Luke.”
+
+“If only that damned pump hadn't jambed,” said my father.
+
+“Do you remember that Mrs. Tharand?” asked my mother.
+
+“Yes, what of her?”
+
+“A worldly woman, I always thought her. She called on me the morning we
+were leaving; I don't think you saw her. 'I've been through more worries
+than you would think, to look at me,' she said to me, laughing. I've
+always remembered her words: 'and of all the troubles that come to us in
+this world, believe me, Mrs. Kelver, money troubles are the easiest to
+bear.'”
+
+“I wish I could think so,” said my father.
+
+“She rather irritated me at the time,” continued my mother. “I thought
+it one of those commonplaces with which we console ourselves for other
+people's misfortunes. But now I know she spoke the truth.”
+
+There was silence between them for awhile. Then said my father in a
+cheery tone:
+
+“I've broken with old Hasluck.”
+
+“I thought you would be compelled to sooner or later,” answered my
+mother.
+
+“Hasluck,” exclaimed my father, with sudden vehemence, “is little better
+than a thief; I told him so.”
+
+“What did he say?” asked my mother.
+
+“Laughed, and said that was better than some people.”
+
+My father laughed himself.
+
+I wish to do the memory of Noel Hasluck no injustice. Ever was he a kind
+friend to me; not only then, but in later years, when, having come to
+learn that kindness is rarer in the world than I had dreamt, I was glad
+of it. Added to which, if only for Barbara's sake, I would prefer
+to write of him throughout in terms of praise. Yet even were his
+good-tempered, thick-skinned ghost (and unless it were good-tempered
+and thick-skinned it would be no true ghost of old Noel Hasluck) to
+be reading over my shoulder the words as I write them down, I think it
+would agree with me--I do not think it would be offended with me (for
+ever in his life he was an admirer and a lover of the Truth, being one
+of those good fighters capable of respecting even his foe, his enemy,
+against whom from ten to four, occasionally a little later, he fought
+right valiantly) for saying that of all the men who go down into the
+City each day in a cab or 'bus or train, he was perhaps one of the most
+unprincipled: and whether that be saying much or little I leave to those
+with more knowledge to decide.
+
+To do others, as it was his conviction, right or wrong, that they would
+do him if ever he gave them half a chance, was his notion of “business;”
+ and in most of his transactions he was successful. “I play a game,”
+ he would argue, “where cheating is the rule. Nine out of every ten men
+round the table are sharpers like myself, and the tenth man is a fool
+who has no business to be there. We prey upon each other, and the cutest
+of us is the winner.”
+
+“But the innocent people, lured by your fine promises,” I ventured once
+to suggest to him, “the widows and the orphans?”
+
+“My dear lad,” he said, with a laugh, laying his fat hand upon my
+shoulder, “I remember one of your widows writing me a pathetic letter
+about some shares she had taken in a Silver Company of mine. Lord knows
+where the mine is now--somewhere in Spain, I think. It looked as though
+all her savings were gone. She had an only son, and it was nearly all
+they possessed in the world, etc., etc.--you know the sort of thing.
+Well, I did what I've often been numskull enough to do in similar cases,
+wrote and offered to buy her out at par. A week later she answered,
+thanking me, but saying it did not matter. There had occurred
+a momentary rise, and she had sold out at a profit--to her own
+brother-in-law, as I discovered, happening to come across the transfers.
+You can find widows and orphans round the Monte Carlo card tables, if
+you like to look for them; they are no more deserving of consideration
+than the rest of the crowd. Besides, if it comes to that, I'm an orphan
+myself;” and he laughed again, one of his deep, hearty, honest laughs.
+No one ever possessed a laugh more suggestive in its every cadence
+of simple, transparent honesty. He used to say himself it was worth
+thousands to him.
+
+Better from the Moralists' point of view had such a man been an
+out-and-out rogue. Then might one have pointed, crying: “Behold:
+Dishonesty, as you will observe in the person of our awful example, to
+be hated, needs but to be seen.” But the duty of the Chronicler is to
+bear witness to what he knows, leaving Truth with the whole case before
+her to sum up and direct the verdict. In the City, old Hasluck had a
+bad reputation and deserved it; in Stoke-Newington--then a green suburb,
+containing many fine old houses, standing in great wooded gardens--he
+was loved and respected. In his business, he was a man void of all moral
+sense, without bowels of compassion for any living thing; in retirement,
+a man with a strong sense of duty and a fine regard for the rights and
+feelings of others, never happier than when planning to help or give
+pleasure. In his office, he would have robbed his own mother. At home,
+he would have spent his last penny to add to her happiness or comfort. I
+make no attempt to explain. I only know that such men do exist, and that
+Hasluck was one of them. One avoids difficulties by dismissing them as a
+product of our curiously complex civilisation--a convenient phrase; let
+us hope the recording angel may be equally impressed by it.
+
+Casting about for some reason of excuse to myself for my liking of him,
+I hit upon the expedient of regarding him as a modern Robin Hood, whom
+we are taught to admire without shame, a Robin Hood up to date, adapted
+to the changed conditions of modern environment; making his living
+relieving the rich; taking pleasure relieving the poor.
+
+“What will you do?” asked my mother.
+
+“I shall have to give up the office,” answered my father. “Without him
+there's not enough to keep it going. He was quite good-tempered
+about the matter--offered to divide the work, letting me retain
+the straightforward portion for whatever that might be worth. But I
+declined. Now I know, I feel I would rather have nothing more to do with
+him.”
+
+“I think you were quite right,” agreed my mother.
+
+“What I blame myself for,” said my father, “is that I didn't see through
+him before. Of course he has been making a mere tool of me from the
+beginning. I ought to have seen through him. Why didn't I?”
+
+They discussed the future, or, rather, my father discussed, my mother
+listening in silence, stealing a puzzled look at him from time to time,
+as though there were something she could not understand.
+
+He would take a situation in the City. One had been offered him. It
+might sound poor, but it would be a steady income on which we must
+contrive to live. The little money he had saved must be kept for
+investments--nothing speculative--judicious “dealings,” by means of
+which a cool, clear-headed man could soon accumulate capital. Here the
+training acquired by working for old Hasluck would serve him well. One
+man my father knew--quite a dull, commonplace man--starting a few years
+ago with only a few hundreds, was now worth tens of thousands. Foresight
+was the necessary qualification. You watched the “tendency” of things.
+So often had my father said to himself: “This is going to be a
+big thing. That other, it is no good,” and in every instance his
+prognostications had been verified. He had “felt it;” some men had that
+gift. Now was the time to use it for practical purposes.
+
+“Here,” said my father, breaking off, and casting an approving eye upon
+the surrounding scenery, “would be a pleasant place to end one's days.
+The house you had was very pretty and you liked it. We might enlarge it,
+the drawing-room might be thrown out--perhaps another wing.” I felt that
+our good fortune as from this day was at last established.
+
+But my mother had been listening with growing impatience, her puzzled
+glances giving place gradually to flashes of anger; and now she turned
+her face full upon him, her question written plainly thereon, demanding
+answer.
+
+Some idea of it I had even then, watching her; and since I have come to
+read it word for word: “But that woman--that woman that loves you, that
+you love. Ah, I know--why do you play with me? She is rich. With her
+your life will be smooth. And the boy--it will be better far for him.
+Cannot you three wait a little longer? What more can I do? Cannot you
+see that I am surely dying--dying as quickly as I can--dying as that
+poor creature your friend once told us of; knowing it was the only thing
+she could do for those she loved. Be honest with me: I am no longer
+jealous. All that is past: a man is ever younger than a woman, and a man
+changes. I do not blame you. It is for the best. She and I have talked;
+it is far better so. Only be honest with me, or at least silent. Will
+you not honour me enough for even that?”
+
+My father did not answer, having that to speak of that put my mother's
+question out of her mind for all time; so that until the end no word
+concerning that other woman passed again between them. Twenty years
+later, nearly, I myself happened to meet her, and then long physical
+suffering had chased the wantonness away for ever from the pain-worn
+mouth; but in that hour of waning voices, as some trouble of the fretful
+day when evening falls, so she faded from their life; and if even the
+remembrance of her returned at times to either of them, I think it must
+have been in those moments when, for no seeming reason, shyly their
+hands sought one another.
+
+So the truth of the sad ado--how far my mother's suspicions wronged my
+father; for the eye of jealousy (and what loving woman ever lived that
+was not jealous?) has its optic nerve terminating not in the brain
+but in the heart, which was not constructed for the reception of true
+vision--I never knew. Later, long after the curtain of green earth
+had been rolled down upon the players, I spoke once on the matter with
+Doctor Hal, who must have seen something of the play and with more
+understanding eyes than mine, and who thereupon delivered to me a short
+lecture on life in general, a performance at which he excelled.
+
+“Flee from temptation and pray that you may be delivered from evil,”
+ shouted the Doctor--(his was not the Socratic method)--“but remember
+this: that as sure as the sparks fly upward there will come a time when,
+however fast you run, you will be overtaken--cornered--no one to deliver
+you but yourself--the gods sitting round interested. It is a grim fight,
+for the Thing, you may be sure, has chosen its right moment. And every
+woman in the world will sympathise with you and be just to you, not even
+despising you should you be overcome; for however they may talk, every
+woman in the world knows that male and female cannot be judged by the
+same standard. To woman, Nature and the Law speak with one voice: 'Sin
+not, lest you be cursed of your sex!' It is no law of man: it is the
+law of creation. When the woman sins, she sins not only against her
+conscience, but against her every instinct. But to the man Nature
+whispers: 'Yield.' It is the Law alone that holds him back. Therefore
+every woman in the world, knowing this, will be just to you--every woman
+in the world but one--the woman that loves you. From her, hope for no
+sympathy, hope for no justice.”
+
+“Then you think--” I began.
+
+“I think,” said the Doctor, “that your father loved your mother
+devotedly; but he was one of those fighters that for the first
+half-dozen rounds or so cause their backers much anxiety. It is a
+dangerous method.”
+
+“Then you think my mother--”
+
+“I think your mother was a good woman, Paul; and the good woman will
+never be satisfied with man till the Lord lets her take him to pieces
+and put him together herself.”
+
+My father had been pacing to and fro the tiny platform. Now he came to a
+halt opposite my mother, placing his hands upon her shoulders.
+
+“I want you to help me, Maggie--help me to be brave. I have only a year
+or two longer to live, and there's a lot to be done in that time.”
+
+Slowly the anger died out of my mother's face.
+
+“You remember that fall I had when the cage broke,” my father went on.
+“Andrews, as you know, feared from the first it might lead to that. But
+I always laughed at him.”
+
+“How long have you known?” my mother asked.
+
+“Oh, about six months. I felt it at the beginning of the year, but I
+didn't say anything to Washburn till a month later. I thought it might
+be only fancy.”
+
+“And he is sure?”
+
+My father nodded.
+
+“But why have you never told me?”
+
+“Because,” replied my father, with a laugh, “I didn't want you to know.
+If I could have done without you, I should not have told you now.”
+
+And at this there came a light into my mother's face that never
+altogether left it until the end.
+
+She drew him down beside her on the seat. I had come nearer; and my
+father, stretching out his hand, would have had me with them. But my
+mother, putting her arms about him, held him close to her, as though in
+that moment she would have had him to herself alone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+HOW THE MAN IN GREY MADE READY FOR HIS GOING.
+
+The eighteen months that followed--for the end came sooner than we had
+expected--were, I think, the happiest days my father and mother had ever
+known; or if happy be not altogether the right word, let me say the most
+beautiful, and most nearly perfect. To them it was as though God in
+His sweet thoughtfulness had sent death to knock lightly at the door,
+saying: “Not yet. You have still a little longer to be together. In a
+little while.” In those last days all things false and meaningless they
+laid aside. Nothing was of real importance to them but that they should
+love each other, comforting each other, learning to understand each
+other. Again we lived poorly; but there was now no pitiful straining
+to keep up appearances, no haunting terror of what the neighbours
+might think. The petty cares and worries concerning matters not worth
+a moment's thought, the mean desires and fears with which we disfigure
+ourselves, fell from them. There came to them broader thought, a wider
+charity, a deeper pity. Their love grew greater even than their needs,
+overflowing towards all things. Sometimes, recalling these months, it
+has seemed to me that we make a mistake seeking to keep Death, God's
+go-between, ever from our thoughts. Is it not closing the door to a
+friend who would help us would we let him (for who knows life so well),
+whispering to us: “In a little while. Only a little longer that you have
+to be together. Is it worth taking so much thought for self? Is it worth
+while being unkind?”
+
+From them a graciousness emanated pervading all around. Even my aunt Fan
+decided for the second time in her career to give amiability a trial.
+This intention she announced publicly to my mother and myself one
+afternoon soon after our return from Devonshire.
+
+“I'm a beast of an old woman,” said my aunt, suddenly.
+
+“Don't say that, Fan,” urged my mother.
+
+“What's the good of saying 'Don't say it' when I've just said it,”
+ snapped back my aunt.
+
+“It's your manner,” explained my mother; “people sometimes think you
+disagreeable.”
+
+“They'd be daft if they didn't,” interrupted my aunt. “Of course you
+don't really mean it,” continued my mother.
+
+“Stuff and nonsense,” snorted my aunt; “does she think I'm a fool? I
+like being disagreeable. I like to see 'em squirming.”
+
+My mother laughed.
+
+“I can be agreeable,” continued my aunt, “if I choose. Nobody more so.”
+
+“Then why not choose?” suggested my mother. “I tried it once,” said my
+aunt, “and it fell flat. Nothing could have fallen flatter.”
+
+“It may not have attracted much attention,” replied my mother, with a
+smile, “but one should not be agreeable merely to attract attention.”
+
+“It wasn't only that,” returned my aunt, “it was that it gave no
+satisfaction to anybody. It didn't suit me. A disagreeable person is at
+their best when they are disagreeable.”
+
+“I can hardly agree with you there,” answered my mother.
+
+“I could do it again,” communed my aunt to herself. There was a
+suggestion of vindictiveness in her tones. “It's easy enough. Look at
+the sort of fools that are agreeable.”
+
+“I'm sure you could be if you tried,” urged my mother.
+
+“Let 'em have it,” continued my aunt, still to herself; “that's the way
+to teach 'em sense. Let 'em have it.”
+
+And strange though it may seem, my aunt was right and my mother
+altogether wrong. My father was the first to notice the change.
+
+“Nothing the matter with poor old Fan, is there?” he asked. It was one
+evening a day or two after my aunt had carried her threat into effect.
+“Nothing happened, has there?”
+
+“No,” answered my mother, “nothing that I know of.”
+
+“Her manner is so strange,” explained my father, “so--so weird.”
+
+My mother smiled. “Don't say anything to her. She's trying to be
+agreeable.”
+
+My father laughed and then looked wistful. “I almost wish she wouldn't,”
+ he remarked; “we were used to it, and she was rather amusing.”
+
+But my aunt, being a woman of will, kept her way; and about the same
+time that occurred tending to confirm her in her new departure. This
+was the introduction into our small circle of James Wellington Gadley.
+Properly speaking, it should have been Wellington James, that being the
+order in which he had been christened in the year 1815. But in course
+of time, and particularly during his school career, it had been borne in
+upon him that Wellington is a burdensome name for a commonplace mortal
+to bear, and very wisely he had reversed the arrangement. He was a
+slightly pompous but simpleminded little old gentleman, very proud of
+his position as head clerk to Mr. Stillwood, the solicitor to whom my
+father was now assistant. Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal dated back
+to the Georges, and was a firm bound up with the history--occasionally
+shady--of aristocratic England. True, in these later years its glory
+was dwindling. Old Mr. Stillwood, its sole surviving representative,
+declined to be troubled with new partners, explaining frankly, in
+answer to all applications, that the business was a dying one, and
+that attempting to work it up again would be but putting new wine
+into worn-out skins. But though its clientele was a yearly diminishing
+quantity, much business yet remained to it, and that of a good class,
+its name being still a synonym for solid respectability; and my father
+had deemed himself fortunate indeed in securing such an appointment.
+James Gadley had entered the firm as office boy in the days of its
+pride, and had never awakened to the fact that it was not still the most
+important legal firm within the half mile radius from Lombard Street.
+Nothing delighted him more than to discuss over and over again the
+many strange affairs in which Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal had been
+concerned, all of which he had at his tongue's tip. Could he find a
+hearer, these he would reargue interminably, but with professional
+reticence, personages becoming Mr. Y. and Lady X.; and places, “the
+capital of, let us say, a foreign country,” or “a certain town not
+a thousand miles from where we are now sitting.” The majority of his
+friends, his methods being somewhat forensic, would seek to discourage
+him, but my aunt was a never wearied listener, especially if the case
+were one involving suspicion of mystery and crime. When, during their
+very first conversation, he exclaimed: “Now why--why, after keeping away
+from his wife for nearly eighteen years, never even letting her know
+whether he was alive or dead, why this sudden resolve to return to her?
+That is what I want explained to me!” he paused, as was his wont, for
+sympathetic comment, my aunt, instead of answering as others, with a
+yawn: “Oh, I'm sure I don't know. Felt he wanted to see her, I suppose,”
+ replied with prompt intelligence:
+
+“To murder her--by slow poison.”
+
+“To murder her! But why?”
+
+“In order to marry the other woman.”
+
+“What other woman?”
+
+“The woman he had just met and fallen in love with. Before that it was
+immaterial to him what had become of his wife. This woman had said to
+him: 'Come back to me a free man or never see my face again.'”
+
+“Dear me! Now that's very curious.”
+
+“Nothing of the sort. Plain common sense.”
+
+“I mean, it's curious because, as a matter of fact, his wife did die a
+little later, and he did marry again.”
+
+“Told you so,” remarked my aunt.
+
+In this way every case in the Stillwood annals was reviewed, and light
+thrown upon it by my aunt's insight into the hidden springs of human
+action. Fortunate that the actors remained mere Mr. X. and Lady Y., for
+into the most innocent seeming behaviour my aunt read ever dark criminal
+intent.
+
+“I think you are a little too severe,” Mr. Gadley would now and then
+plead.
+
+“We're all of us miserable sinners,” my aunt would cheerfully affirm;
+“only we don't all get the same chances.”
+
+An elderly maiden lady, a Miss Z., residing in “a western town once
+famous as the resort of fashion, but which we will not name,” my aunt
+was convinced had burnt down a house containing a will, and forged
+another under which her children--should she ever marry and be blessed
+with such--would inherit among them on coming of age a fortune of seven
+hundred pounds.
+
+The freshness of her views on this, his favourite topic, always
+fascinated Mr. Gadley.
+
+“I have to thank you, ma'am,” he would remark on rising, “for a
+most delightful conversation. I may not be able to agree with your
+conclusions, but they afford food for reflection.”
+
+To which my aunt would reply, “I hate talking to any one who agrees with
+me. It's like taking a walk to see one's own looking-glass. I'd rather
+talk to somebody who didn't, even if he were a fool,” which for her was
+gracious.
+
+He was a stout little gentleman with a stomach that protruded about a
+foot in front of him, and of this he appeared to be quite unaware. Nor
+would it have mattered had it not been for his desire when talking to
+approach as close to his listener as possible. Gradually in the course
+of conversation, his stomach acting as a gentle battering ram, he would
+in this way drive you backwards round the room, sometimes, unless
+you were artful, pinning you hopelessly into a corner, when it would
+surprise him that in spite of all his efforts he never succeeded in
+getting any nearer to you. His first evening at our house he was talking
+to my aunt from the corner of his chair. As he grew more interested so
+he drew his chair nearer and nearer, till at length, having withdrawn
+inch by inch to avoid his encroachments, my aunt was sitting on the
+extreme edge of her own. His next move sent her on to the floor. She
+said nothing, which surprised me; but on the occasion of his next
+visit she was busy darning stockings, an unusual occupation for her.
+He approached nearer and nearer as before; but this time she sat
+her ground, and it was he who in course of time sprang back with an
+exclamation foreign to the subject under discussion.
+
+Ever afterwards my aunt met him with stockings in her hand, and they
+talked with a space between their chairs.
+
+Nothing further came of it, though his being a widower added to their
+intercourse that spice of possibility no woman is ever too old to
+relish; but that he admired her intellectually was evident. Once he
+even went so far as to exclaim: “Miss Davies, you should have been a
+solicitor's wife!” to his thinking the crown of feminine ambition. To
+which my aunt had replied: “Chances are I should have been if one had
+ever asked me.” And warmed by appreciation, my aunt's amiability took
+root and flourished, though assuming, as all growth developed late is
+apt to, fantastic shape.
+
+There came to her the idea, by no means ill-founded, that by flattery
+one can most readily render oneself agreeable; so conscientiously she
+set to work to flatter in season and out. I am sure she meant to give
+pleasure, but the effect produced was that of thinly veiled sarcasm.
+
+My father would relate to us some trifling story, some incident noticed
+during the day that had seemed to him amusing. At once she would break
+out into enthusiasm, holding up her hands in astonishment.
+
+“What a funny man he is! And to think that it comes to him naturally
+without an effort. What a gift it is!”
+
+On my mother appearing in a new bonnet, or an old one retrimmed, an
+event not unfrequent; for in these days my mother took more thought than
+ever formerly for her appearance (you will understand, you women who
+have loved), she would step back in simulated amazement.
+
+“Don't tell me it's a married woman with a boy getting on for fourteen.
+It's a girl. A saucy, tripping girl. That's what it is.”
+
+Persons have been known, I believe, whose vanity, not checked in time,
+has grown into a hopeless disease. But I am inclined to think that a
+dose of my aunt, about this period, would have cured the most obstinate
+case.
+
+So also, and solely for our benefit, she assumed a vivacity and
+spriteliness that ill suited her, that having regard to her age and
+tendency towards rheumatism must have cost her no small effort. From
+these experiences there remains to me the perhaps immoral opinion that
+Virtue, in common with all other things, is at her best when unassuming.
+
+Occasionally the old Adam--or should one say Eve--would assert itself in
+my aunt, and then, still thoughtful for others, she would descend into
+the kitchen and be disagreeable to Amy, our new servitor, who never
+minded it. Amy was a philosopher who reconciled herself to all things
+by the reflection that there were only twenty-four hours in a day.
+It sounds a dismal theory, but from it Amy succeeded in extracting
+perpetual cheerfulness. My mother would apologise to her for my aunt's
+interference.
+
+“Lord bless you, mum, it don't matter. If I wasn't listening to her
+something else worse might be happening. Everything's all the same when
+it's over.”
+
+Amy had come to us merely as a stop gap, explaining to my mother that
+she was about to be married and desired only a temporary engagement to
+bridge over the few weeks between then and the ceremony.
+
+“It's rather unsatisfactory,” had said my mother. “I dislike changes.”
+
+“I can quite understand it, mum,” had replied Amy; “I dislike 'em
+myself. Only I heard you were in a hurry, and I thought maybe that while
+you were on the lookout for somebody permanent--”
+
+So on that understanding she came. A month later my mother asked her
+when she thought the marriage would actually take place.
+
+“Don't think I'm wishing you to go,” explained my mother, “indeed I'd
+like you to stop. I only want to know in time to make my arrangements.”
+
+“Oh, some time in the spring, I expect,” was Amy's answer.
+
+“Oh!” said my mother, “I understood it was coming off almost
+immediately.”
+
+Amy appeared shocked.
+
+“I must know a little bit more about him before I go as far as that,”
+ she said.
+
+“But I don't understand,” said my mother; “you told me when you came to
+me that you were going to be married in a few weeks.”
+
+“Oh, that one!” Her tone suggested that an unfair strain was being put
+upon her memory. “I didn't feel I wanted him as much as I thought I did
+when it came to the point.”
+
+“You had meantime met the other one?” suggested my mother, with a smile.
+
+“Well, we can't help our feelings, can we, mum?” admitted Amy, frankly,
+“and what I always say is”--she spoke as one with experience even
+then--“better change your mind before it's too late afterwards.”
+
+Amiable, sweet-faced, broad-hearted Amy! most faithful of friends, but
+oh! most faithless of lovers. Age has not withered nor custom staled her
+liking for infinite variety. Butchers, bakers, soldiers, sailors, Jacks
+of all trades! Does the sighing procession never pass before you, Amy,
+pointing ghostly fingers of reproach! Still Amy is engaged. To whom at
+the particular moment I cannot say, but I fancy to an early one who has
+lately become a widower. After more exact knowledge I do not care to
+enquire; for to confess ignorance on the subject, implying that one has
+treated as a triviality and has forgotten the most important detail of
+a matter that to her is of vital importance, is to hurt her feelings;
+while to angle for information is but to entangle oneself. To speak of
+Him as “Tom,” when Tom has belonged for weeks to the dead and buried
+past, to hastily correct oneself to “Dick” when there hasn't been a Dick
+for years, clearly not to know that he is now Harry, annoys her even
+more. In my mother's time we always referred to him as “Dearest.” It was
+the title with which she herself distinguished them all, and it avoided
+confusion.
+
+“Well, and how's Dearest?” my mother would enquire, opening the door to
+Amy on the Sunday evening.
+
+“Oh, very well indeed, mum, thank you, and he sends you his respects,”
+ or, “Well, not so nicely as I could wish. I'm a little anxious about
+him, poor dear!”
+
+“When you are married you will be able to take good care of him.”
+
+“That's really what he wants--some one to take care of him. It's what
+they all want, the poor dears.”
+
+“And when is it coming off?”
+
+“In the spring, mum.” She always chose the spring when possible.
+
+Amy was nice to all men, and to Amy all men were nice. Could she have
+married a dozen, she might have settled down, with only occasional
+regrets concerning those left without in the cold. But to ask her to
+select only one out of so many “poor dears” was to suggest shameful
+waste of affection.
+
+We had meant to keep our grim secret to ourselves; but to hide one's
+troubles long from Amy was like keeping cold hands from the fire. Very
+soon she knew everything that was to be known, drawing it all from my
+mother as from some overburdened child. Then she put my mother down into
+a chair and stood over her.
+
+“Now you leave the house and everything connected with it to me, mum,”
+ commanded Amy; “you've got something else to do.”
+
+And from that day we were in the hands of Amy, and had nothing else to
+do but praise the Lord for His goodness.
+
+Barbara also found out (from Washburn, I expect), though she said
+nothing, but came often. Old Hasluck would have come himself, I am
+sure, had he thought he would be welcome. As it was, he always sent
+kind messages and presents of fruit and flowers by Barbara, and always
+welcomed me most heartily whenever she allowed me to see her home.
+
+She brought, as ever, sunshine with her, making all trouble seem far off
+and shadowy. My mother tended to the fire of love, but Barbara lit the
+cheerful lamp of laughter.
+
+And with the lessening days my father seemed to grow younger, life lying
+lighter on him.
+
+One summer's night he and I were walking with Barbara to Poplar station,
+for sometimes, when he was not looking tired, she would order him to
+fetch his hat and stick, explaining to him with a caress, “I like them
+tall and slight and full grown. The young ones, they don't know how to
+flirt! We will take the boy with us as gooseberry;” and he, pretending
+to be anxious that my mother did not see, would kiss her hand, and slip
+out quietly with her arm linked under his. It was admirable the way he
+would enter into the spirit of the thing.
+
+The last cloud faded from before the moon as we turned the corner, and
+even the East India Dock Road lay restful in front of us.
+
+“I have always regarded myself,” said my father, “as a failure in life,
+and it has troubled me.” I felt him pulled the slightest little bit
+away from me, as though Barbara, who held his other arm, had drawn him
+towards her with a swift pressure. “But do you know the idea that has
+come to me within the last few months? That on the whole I have been
+successful. I am like a man,” continued my father, “who in some deep
+wood has been frightened, thinking he has lost his way, and suddenly
+coming to the end of it, finds that by some lucky chance he has been
+guided to the right point after all. I cannot tell you what a comfort it
+is to me.
+
+“What is the right point?” asked Barbara.
+
+“Ah, that I cannot tell you,” answered my father, with a laugh. “I only
+know that for me it is here where I am. All the time I thought I was
+wandering away from it I was drawing nearer to it. It is very wonderful.
+I am just where I ought to be. If I had only known I never need have
+worried.”
+
+Whether it would have troubled either him or my mother very much even
+had it been otherwise I cannot say, for Life, so small a thing when
+looked at beside Death, seemed to have lost all terror for them; but be
+that as it may, I like to remember that Fortune at the last was kind
+to my father, prospering his adventures, not to the extent his sanguine
+nature had dreamt, but sufficiently: so that no fear for our future
+marred the peaceful passing of his tender spirit.
+
+Or should I award thanks not to Fate, but rather to sweet Barbara,
+and behind her do I not detect shameless old Hasluck, grinning
+good-naturedly in the background?
+
+“Now, Uncle Luke, I want your advice. Dad's given me this cheque as a
+birthday present. I don't want to spend it. How shall I invest it?”
+
+“My dear, why not consult your father?”
+
+“Now, Uncle Luke, dad's a dear, especially after dinner, but you and
+I know him. Giving me a present is one thing, doing business for me
+is another. He'd unload on me. He'd never be able to resist the
+temptation.”
+
+My father would suggest, and Barbara would thank him. But a minute later
+would murmur: “You don't know anything about Argentinos.”
+
+My father did not, but Barbara did; to quite a remarkable extent for a
+young girl.
+
+“That child has insisted on leaving this cheque with me and I have
+advised her to buy Argentinos,” my father would observe after she was
+gone. “I am going to put a few hundreds into them myself. I hope they
+will turn out all right, if only for her sake. I have a presentiment
+somehow that they will.”
+
+A month later Barbara would greet him with: “Isn't it lucky we bought
+Argentinos!”
+
+“Yes; they haven't turned out badly, have they? I had a feeling, you
+know, for Argentinos.”
+
+“You're a genius, Uncle Luke. And now we will sell out and buy
+Calcuttas, won't we?”
+
+“Sell out? But why?”
+
+“You said so. You said, 'We will sell out in about a month and be quite
+safe.'”
+
+“My dear, I've no recollection of it.”
+
+But Barbara had, and before she had done with him, so had he. And the
+next day Argentinos would be sold--not any too soon--and Calcuttas
+bought.
+
+Could money so gained bring a blessing with it? The question would
+plague my father.
+
+“It's very much like gambling,” he would mutter uneasily to himself at
+each success, “uncommonly like gambling.”
+
+“It is for your mother,” he would impress upon me. “When she is gone,
+Paul, put it aside, Keep it for doing good; that may make it clean.
+Start your own life without any help from it.”
+
+He need not have troubled. It went the road that all luck derived
+however indirectly from old Hasluck ever went. Yet it served good
+purpose on its way.
+
+But the most marvellous feat, to my thinking, ever accomplished by
+Barbara was the bearing off of my father and mother to witness “A Voice
+from the Grave, or the Power of Love, New and Original Drama in five
+acts and thirteen tableaux.”
+
+They had been bred in a narrow creed, both my father and my mother. That
+Puritan blood flowed in their veins that throughout our land has drowned
+much harmless joyousness; yet those who know of it only from hearsay
+do foolishly to speak but ill of it. If ever earnest times should
+come again, not how to enjoy but how to live being the question, Fate
+demanding of us to show not what we have but what we are, we may regret
+that they are fewer among us than formerly, those who trained themselves
+to despise all pleasure, because in pleasure they saw the subtlest foe
+to principle and duty. No graceful growth, this Puritanism, for its
+roots are in the hard, stern facts of life; but it is strong, and from
+it has sprung all that is worth preserving in the Anglo-Saxon character.
+Its men feared and its women loved God, and if their words were harsh
+their hearts were tender. If they shut out the sunshine from their lives
+it was that their eyes might see better the glory lying beyond; and if
+their view be correct, that earth's threescore years and ten are but
+as preparation for eternity, then who shall call them even foolish for
+turning away their thoughts from its allurements.
+
+“Still, I think I should like to have a look at one, just to see what it
+is like,” argued my father; “one cannot judge of a thing that one knows
+nothing about.”
+
+I imagine it was his first argument rather than his second that
+convinced my mother.
+
+“That is true,” she answered. “I remember how shocked my poor father
+was when he found me one night at the bedroom window reading Sir Walter
+Scott by the light of the moon.”
+
+“What about the boy?” said my father, for I had been included in the
+invitation.
+
+“We will all be wicked together,” said my mother.
+
+So an evening or two later the four of us stood at the corner of Pigott
+Street waiting for the 'bus.
+
+“It is a close evening,” said my father; “let's go the whole hog and
+ride outside.”
+
+In those days for a lady to ride outside a 'bus was as in these days for
+a lady to smoke in public. Surely my mother's guardian angel must have
+betaken himself off in a huff.
+
+“Will you keep close behind and see to my skirt?” answered my mother,
+commencing preparations. If you will remember that these were the days
+of crinolines, that the “knife-boards” of omnibuses were then approached
+by a perpendicular ladder, the rungs two feet apart, you will understand
+the necessity for such precaution.
+
+Which of us was the most excited throughout that long ride it would be
+difficult to say. Barbara, feeling keenly her responsibility as prompter
+and leader of the dread enterprise, sat anxious, as she explained to us
+afterwards, hoping there would be nothing shocking in the play, nothing
+to belie its innocent title; pleased with her success so far, yet
+still fearful of failure, doubtful till the last moment lest we should
+suddenly repent, and stopping the 'bus, flee from the wrath to come.
+My father was the youngest of us all. Compared with him I was sober and
+contained. He fidgeted: people remarked upon it. He hummed. But for
+the stern eye of a thin young man sitting next to him trying to read
+a paper, I believe he would have broken out into song. Every minute he
+would lean across to enquire of my mother: “How are you feeling--all
+right?” To which my mother would reply with a nod and a smile, She sat
+very silent herself, clasping and unclasping her hands. As for myself,
+I remember feeling so sorry for the crowds that passed us on their way
+home. It was sad to think of the long dull evening that lay before them.
+I wondered how they could face it.
+
+Our seats were in the front row of the upper circle. The lights were low
+and the house only half full when we reached them.
+
+“It seems very orderly and--and respectable,” whispered my mother. There
+seemed a touch of disappointment in her tone.
+
+“We are rather early,” replied Barbara; “it will be livelier when the
+band comes in and they turn up the gas.”
+
+But even when this happened my mother was not content. “There is so
+little room for the actors,” she complained.
+
+It was explained to her that the green curtain would go up, that the
+stage lay behind.
+
+So we waited, my mother sitting stiffly on the extreme edge of her
+seat, holding me tightly by the hand; I believe with some vague idea of
+flight, should out of that vault-scented gloom the devil suddenly appear
+to claim us for his own. But before the curtain was quite up she had
+forgotten him.
+
+You poor folk that go to the theatre a dozen times a year, perhaps
+oftener, what do you know of plays? You see no drama, you see but
+middle-aged Mr. Brown, churchwarden, payer of taxes, foolishly
+pretending to be a brigand; Miss Jones, daughter of old Jones the
+Chemist, making believe to be a haughty Princess. How can you, a grown
+man, waste money on a seat to witness such tomfoolery! What we saw was
+something very different. A young and beautiful girl--true, not a lady
+by birth, being merely the daughter of an honest yeoman, but one equal
+in all the essentials of womanhood to the noblest in the land--suffered
+before our very eyes an amount of misfortune that, had one not seen it
+for oneself, one would never have believed Fate could have accumulated
+upon the head of any single individual. Beside her woes our own poor
+troubles sank into insignificance. We had used to grieve, as my mother
+in a whisper reminded my father, if now and again we had not been able
+to afford meat for dinner. This poor creature, driven even from her
+wretched attic, compelled to wander through the snow without so much as
+an umbrella to protect her, had not even a crust to eat; and yet never
+lost her faith in Providence. It was a lesson, as my mother remarked
+afterwards, that she should never forget. And virtue had been
+triumphant, let shallow cynics say what they will. Had we not proved it
+with our own senses? The villain--I think his Christian name, if one
+can apply the word “Christian” in connection with such a fiend, was
+Jasper--had never really loved the heroine. He was incapable of love. My
+mother had felt this before he had been on the stage five minutes, and
+my father--in spite of protests from callous people behind who appeared
+to be utterly indifferent to what was going on under their very
+noses--had agreed with her. What he was in love with was her
+fortune--the fortune that had been left to her by her uncle in
+Australia, but about which nobody but the villain knew anything. Had
+she swerved a hair's breadth from the course of almost supernatural
+rectitude, had her love for the hero ever weakened, her belief in
+him--in spite of damning evidence to the contrary--for a moment wavered,
+then wickedness might have triumphed. How at times, knowing all the
+facts but helpless to interfere, we trembled, lest deceived by the
+cruel lies the villain told her; she should yield to importunity. How
+we thrilled when, in language eloquent though rude, she flung his false
+love back into his teeth. Yet still we feared. We knew well that it was
+not the hero who had done the murder. “Poor dear,” as Amy would have
+called him, he was quite incapable of doing anything requiring one-half
+as much smartness. We knew that it was not he, poor innocent lamb! who
+had betrayed the lady with the French accent; we had heard her on the
+subject and had formed a very shrewd conjecture. But appearances,
+we could not help admitting, were terribly to his disfavour. The
+circumstantial evidence against him would have hanged an Archbishop.
+Could she in face of it still retain her faith? There were moments when
+my mother restrained with difficulty her desire to rise and explain.
+
+Between the acts Barbara would whisper to her that she was not to mind,
+because it was only a play, and that everything would be sure to come
+right in the end.
+
+“I know, my dear,” my mother would answer, laughing, “it is very foolish
+of me; I forget. Paul, when you see me getting excited, you must remind
+me.”
+
+But of what use was I in such case! I, who only by holding on to the
+arms of my seat could keep myself from swarming down on to the stage
+to fling myself between this noble damsel and her persecutor--this
+fair-haired, creamy angel in whose presence for the time being I had
+forgotten even Barbara.
+
+The end came at last. The uncle from Australia was not dead. The
+villain--bungler as well as knave--had killed the wrong man, somebody of
+no importance whatever. As a matter of fact, the comic man himself was
+the uncle from Australia--had been so all along. My mother had had a
+suspicion of this from the very first. She told us so three times, to
+make up, I suppose, for not having mentioned it before. How we cheered
+and laughed, in spite of the tears in our eyes.
+
+By pure accident it happened to be the first night of the piece, and
+the author, in response to much shouting and whistling, came before the
+curtain. He was fat and looked commonplace; but I deemed him a genius,
+and my mother said he had a good face, and waved her handkerchief
+wildly; while my father shouted “Bravo!” long after everybody else had
+finished; and people round about muttered “packed house,” which I didn't
+understand at the time, but came to later.
+
+And stranger still, it happened to be before that very same curtain
+that many years later I myself stepped forth to make my first bow as a
+playwright. I saw the house but dimly, for on such occasion one's vision
+is apt to be clouded. All that I saw clearly was in the front row of the
+second circle--a sweet face laughing though the tears were in her eyes;
+and she waved to me a handkerchief. And on one side of her stood a
+gallant gentleman with merry eyes who shouted “Bravo!” and on the other
+a dreamy-looking lad; but he appeared disappointed, having expected
+better work from me. And the fourth face I could not see, for it was
+turned away from me.
+
+Barbara, determined on completeness, insisted upon supper. In those
+days respectability fed at home; but one resort possible there was, an
+eating-house with some pretence to gaiety behind St. Clement Danes,
+and to that she led us. It was a long, narrow room, divided into wooden
+compartments, after the old coffee-house plan, a gangway down the
+centre. Now we should call it a dismal hole, and closing the door hasten
+away. But to Adam, Eve in her Sunday fig-leaves was a stylishly dressed
+woman; and to my eyes, with its gilded mirrors and its flaring gas, the
+place seemed a palace.
+
+Barbara ordered oysters, a fish that familiarity with its empty shell
+had made me curious concerning. Truly no spot on the globe is so rich in
+oyster shells as the East End of London. A stranger might be led to the
+impression (erroneous) that the customary lunch of the East End labourer
+consists of oysters. How they collect there in such quantities is a
+mystery, though Washburn, to whom I once presented the problem, found no
+difficulty in solving it to his own satisfaction: “To the rich man the
+oyster; to the poor man the shell; thus are the Creator's gifts divided
+among all His creatures; none being sent empty away.” For drink the
+others had stout and I had ginger beer. The waiter, who called me “Sir,”
+ advised against this mixture; but among us all the dominating sentiment
+by this time was that nothing really mattered very much. Afterwards my
+father called for a cigar and boldly lighted it, though my mother looked
+anxious; and fortunately perhaps it would not draw. And then it came out
+that he himself had once written a play.
+
+“You never told me of that,” complained my mother.
+
+“It was a long while ago,” replied my father; “nothing came of it.”
+
+“It might have been a success,” said my mother; “you always had a gift
+for writing.”
+
+“I must look it over again,” said my father; “I had quite forgotten it.
+I have an impression it wasn't at all bad.”
+
+“It can be of much help,” said my mother, “a good play. It makes one
+think.”
+
+We put Barbara into a cab and rode home ourselves inside a 'bus. My
+mother was tired, so my father slipped his arm round her, telling her
+to lean against him, and soon she fell asleep with her head upon his
+shoulder. A coarse-looking wench sat opposite, her man's arm round her
+likewise, and she also fell asleep, her powdered face against his coat.
+
+“They can do with a bit of nursing, can't they?” said the man with a
+grin to the conductor.
+
+“Ah, they're just kids,” agreed the conductor, sympathetically, “that's
+what they are, all of 'em, just kids.”
+
+So the day ended. But oh, the emptiness of the morrow! Life without
+a crime, without a single noble sentiment to brighten it!--no comic
+uncles, no creamy angels! Oh, the barrenness and dreariness of life!
+Even my mother at moments was quite irritable.
+
+We were much together again, my father and I, about this time. Often,
+making my way from school into the City, I would walk home with him, he
+leaning on each occasion a little heavier upon my arm. To this day I can
+always meet and walk with him down the Commercial Road. And on Saturday
+afternoons, crossing the river to Greenwich, we would climb the hill and
+sit there talking, or sometimes merely thinking together, watching the
+dim vast city so strangely still and silent at our feet.
+
+At first I did not grasp the fact that he was dying. The “year to two”
+ of life that Washburn had allowed to him had somehow become converted in
+my mind to vague years, a fate with no immediate meaning; the meanwhile
+he himself appeared to grow from day to day in buoyancy. How could I
+know it was his great heart rising to his need.
+
+The comprehension came to me suddenly. It was one afternoon in early
+spring. I was on my way to the City to meet him. The Holborn Viaduct was
+then in building, and the traffic round about was in consequence always
+much disorganised. The 'bus on which I was riding became entangled in a
+block at the corner of Snow Hill, and for ten minutes we had been merely
+crawling, one joint of a long, sinuous serpent moving by short, painful
+jerks. It came to me while I was sitting there with a sharp spasm of
+physical pain. I jumped from the 'bus and began to run, and the terror
+and the hurt of it grew with every step. I ran as if I feared he might
+be dead before I could reach the office. He was waiting for me with a
+smile as usual, and I flung myself sobbing into his arms.
+
+I think he understood, though I could explain nothing, but that I had
+had a fear something had happened to him, for from that time forward
+he dropped all reserve with me, and talked openly of our approaching
+parting.
+
+“It might have come to us earlier, my dear boy,” he would say with his
+arm round me, “or it might have been a little later. A year or so one
+way or the other, what does it matter? And it is only for a little
+while, Paul. We shall meet again.”
+
+But I could not answer him, for clutch them to me as I would, all my
+beliefs--the beliefs in which I had been bred, the beliefs that until
+then I had never doubted, in that hour of their first trial, were
+falling from me. I could not even pray. If I could have prayed for
+anything, it would have been for my father's life. But if prayer were
+all powerful, as they said, would our loved ones ever die? Man has not
+faith enough, they would explain; if he had there would be no parting.
+So the Lord jests with His creatures, offering with the one hand to
+snatch back with the other. I flung the mockery from me. There was no
+firm foothold anywhere. What were all the religions of the word but
+narcotics with which Humanity seeks to dull its pain, drugs in which it
+drowns its terrors, faith but a bubble that death pricks.
+
+I do not mean my thoughts took this form. I was little more than a lad,
+and to the young all thought is dumb, speaking only with a cry. But they
+were there, vague, inarticulate. Thoughts do not come to us as we grow
+older. They are with us all our lives. We learn their language, that is
+all.
+
+One fair still evening it burst from me. We had lingered in the Park
+longer than usual, slowly pacing the broad avenue leading from the
+Observatory to the Heath. I poured forth all my doubts and fears--that
+he was leaving me for ever, that I should never see him again, I could
+not believe. What could I do to believe?
+
+“I am glad you have spoken, Paul,” he said, “it would have been sad had
+we parted not understanding each other. It has been my fault. I did not
+know you had these doubts. They come to all of us sooner or later. But
+we hide them from one another. It is foolish.”
+
+“But tell me,” I cried, “what can I do? How can I make myself believe?”
+
+“My dear lad,” answered my father, “how can it matter what we believe or
+disbelieve? It will not alter God's facts. Would you liken Him to some
+irritable schoolmaster, angry because you cannot understand him?”
+
+“What do you believe,” I asked, “father, really I mean.”
+
+The night had fallen. My father put his arm round me and drew me to him.
+
+“That we are God's children, little brother,” he answered, “that what He
+wills for us is best. It may be life, it may be sleep; it will be best.
+I cannot think that He will let us die: that were to think of Him as
+without purpose. But His uses may not be our desires. We must trust Him.
+'Though He slay me yet will I trust in Him.'”
+
+We walked awhile in silence before my father spoke again.
+
+“'Now abideth these three, Faith, Hope and Charity'--you remember
+the verse--Faith in God's goodness to us, Hope that our dreams may
+be fulfiled. But these concern but ourselves--the greatest of all is
+Charity.”
+
+Out of the night-shrouded human hive beneath our feet shone here and
+there a point of light.
+
+“Be kind, that is all it means,” continued my father. “Often we do what
+we think right, and evil comes of it, and out of evil comes good. We
+cannot understand--maybe the old laws we have misread. But the new Law,
+that we love one another--all creatures He has made; that is so clear.
+And if it be that we are here together only for a little while, Paul,
+the future dark, how much the greater need have we of one another.”
+
+I looked up into my father's face, and the peace that shone from it slid
+into my soul and gave me strength.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+OF THE FASHIONING OF PAUL.
+
+Loves of my youth, whither are ye vanished? Tubby of the golden locks;
+Langley of the dented nose; Shamus stout of heart but faint of limb,
+easy enough to “down,” but utterly impossible to make to cry: “I give
+you best;” Neal the thin; and Dicky, “dicky Dick” the fat; Ballett of
+the weeping eye; Beau Bunnie lord of many ties, who always fought in
+black kid gloves; all ye others, ye whose names I cannot recollect,
+though I well remember ye were very dear to me, whither are ye vanished,
+where haunt your creeping ghosts? Had one told me then there would come
+a day I should never see again your merry faces, never hear your wild,
+shrill whoop of greeting, never feel again the warm clasp of your inky
+fingers, never fight again nor quarrel with you, never hate you, never
+love you, could I then have borne the thought, I wonder?
+
+Once, methinks, not long ago, I saw you, Tubby, you with whom so often
+I discovered the North Pole, probed the problem of the sources of the
+Nile, (Have you forgotten, Tubby, our secret camping ground beside the
+lonely waters of the Regent's Park canal, where discussing our frugal
+meal of toasted elephant's tongue--by the uninitiated mistakable for
+jumbles--there would break upon our trained hunters' ear the hungry
+lion or tiger's distant roar, mingled with the melancholy, long-drawn
+growling of the Polar Bear, growing ever in volume and impatience until
+half-past four precisely; and we would snatch our rifles, and
+with stealthy tread and every sense alert make our way through the
+jungle--until stopped by the spiked fencing round the Zoological
+Gardens?) I feel sure it was you, in spite of your side whiskers and the
+greyness and the thinness of your once clustering golden locks. You were
+hurrying down Throgmorton Street chained to a small black bag. I should
+have stopped you, but that I had no time to spare, having to catch a
+train at Liverpool Street and to get shaved on the way. I wonder if
+you recognised me: you looked at me a little hard, I thought. Gallant,
+kindly hearted Shamus, you who fought once for half an hour to save
+a frog from being skinned; they tell me you are now an Income Tax
+assessor; a man, it is reported, with power of disbelief unusual among
+even Inland Revenue circles; of little faith, lacking in the charity
+that thinketh no evil. May Providence direct you to other districts than
+to mine.
+
+So Time, Nature's handy-man, bustles to and fro about the many rooms,
+making all things tidy, covers with sweet earth the burnt volcanoes,
+turns to use the debris of the ages, smoothes again the ground above the
+dead, heals again the beech bark marred by lovers.
+
+In the beginning I was far from being a favourite with my schoolmates,
+and this was the first time trouble came to dwell with me. Later, we men
+and women generally succeed in convincing ourselves that whatever else
+we may have missed in life, popularity in a greater or less degree
+we have at all events secured, for without it altogether few of us, I
+think, would care to face existence. But where the child suffers keener
+than the man is in finding himself exposed to the cold truth without the
+protecting clothes of self-deception. My ostracism was painfully plain
+to me, and, as was my nature, I brooded upon it in silence.
+
+“Can you run?” asked of me one day a most important personage whose name
+I have forgotten. He was head of the Lower Fourth, a tall youth with a
+nose like a beak, and the manner of one born to authority. He was the
+son of a draper in the Edgware Road, and his father failing, he had
+to be content for a niche in life with a lower clerkship in the Civil
+Service. But to us youngsters he always appeared a Duke of Wellington in
+embryo, and under other circumstances might, perhaps, have become one.
+
+“Yes,” I answered. As a matter of fact it was my one accomplishment, and
+rumour of it maybe had reached him.
+
+“Run round the playground twice at your fastest,” he commanded; “let me
+see you.”
+
+I clinched my fists and charged off. How grateful I was to him for
+having spoken to me, the outcast of the class, thus publicly, I could
+only show by my exertions to please him. When I drew up before him I was
+panting hard, but I could see that he was satisfied.
+
+“Why don't the fellows like you?” he asked bluntly.
+
+If only I could have stepped out of my shyness, spoken my real thoughts!
+“O Lord of the Lower Fourth! You upon whom success--the only success in
+life worth having--has fallen as from the laps of the gods! You to whom
+all Lower Fourth hearts turn! tell me the secret of this popularity. How
+may I acquire it? No price can be too great for me to pay for it. Vain
+little egoist that I am, it is the sum of my desires, and will be till
+the long years have taught me wisdom. The want of it embitters all my
+days. Why does silence fall upon their chattering groups when I draw
+near? Why do they drive me from their games? What is it shuts me out
+from them, repels them from me? I creep into the corners and shed
+scalding tears of shame. I watch with envious eyes and ears all you
+to whom the wondrous gift is given. What is your secret? Is it Tommy's
+swagger? Then I will swagger, too, with anxious heart, with mingled fear
+and hope. But why--why, seeing that in Tommy they admire it, do they
+wait for me with imitations of cock-a-doodle-do, strut beside me
+mimicking a pouter pigeon? Is it Dicky's playfulness?--Dicky, who runs
+away with their balls, snatches their caps from off their heads, springs
+upon their backs when they are least expecting it?
+
+“Why should Dicky's reward be laughter, and mine a bloody nose and a
+widened, deepened circle of dislike? I am no heavier than Dicky; if
+anything a pound or two lighter. Is it Billy's friendliness? I too
+would fling my arms about their necks; but from me they angrily wrench
+themselves free. Is indifference the best plan? I walk apart with step I
+try so hard to render careless; but none follows, no little friendly
+arm is slipped through mine. Should one seek to win one's way by kind
+offices? Ah, if one could! How I would fag for them. I could do their
+sums for them--I am good at sums--write their impositions for them,
+gladly take upon myself their punishments, would they but return
+my service with a little love and--more important still--a little
+admiration.”
+
+But all I could find to say was, sulkily: “They do like me, some of
+them.” I dared not, aloud, acknowledge the truth.
+
+“Don't tell lies,” he answered; “you know they don't--none of them.” And
+I hung my head.
+
+“I'll tell you what I'll do,” he continued in his lordly way; “I'll give
+you a chance. We're starting hare and hounds next Saturday; you can be a
+hare. You needn't tell anybody. Just turn up on Saturday and I'll see to
+it. Mind, you'll have to run like the devil.”
+
+He walked away without waiting for my answer, leaving me to meet Joy
+running towards me with outstretched hands. The great moment comes
+to all of us; to the politician, when the Party whip slips from
+confabulation with the Front Bench to congratulate him, smiling, on his
+really admirable little speech; to the youthful dramatist, reading in
+his bed-sitting-room the managerial note asking him to call that morning
+at eleven; to the subaltern, beckoned to the stirrup of his chief--the
+moment when the sun breaks through the morning mists, and the world lies
+stretched before us, our way clear.
+
+Obeying orders, I gave no hint in school of the great fortune that had
+come to me; but hurrying home, I exploded in the passage before the
+front door could be closed behind me.
+
+“I am to be a hare because I run so fast. Anybody can be a hound, but
+there's only two hares, and they all want me. And can I have a jersey?
+We begin next Saturday. He saw me run. I ran twice round the playground.
+He said I was splendid! Of course, it's a great honour to be a hare. We
+start from Hampstead Heath. And may I have a pair of shoes?”
+
+The jersey and the shoes my mother and I purchased that very day, for
+the fear was upon me that unless we hastened, the last blue and white
+striped jersey in London might be sold, and the market be empty of
+running shoes. That evening, before getting into bed, I dressed myself
+in full costume to admire myself before the glass; and from then till
+the end of the week, to the terror of my mother, I practised leaping
+over chairs, and my method of descending stairs was perilous and
+roundabout. But, as I explained to them, the credit of the Lower
+Fourth was at stake, and banisters and legs equally of small account
+as compared with fame and honour; and my father, nodding his head,
+supported me with manly argument; but my mother added to her prayers
+another line.
+
+Saturday came. The members of the hunt were mostly boys who lived in the
+neighbourhood; so the arrangement was that at half-past two we should
+meet at the turnpike gate outside the Spaniards. I brought my lunch with
+me and ate it in Regent's Park, and then took the 'bus to the Heath. One
+by one the others came up. Beyond mere glances, none of them took any
+notice of me. I was wearing my ordinary clothes over my jersey. I knew
+they thought I had come merely to see them start, and I hugged to myself
+the dream of the surprise that was in store for them, and of which I
+should be the hero. He came, one of the last, our leader and chief, and
+I sidled up behind him and waited, while he busied himself organising
+and constructing.
+
+“But we've only got one hare,” cried one of them. “We ought to have two,
+you know, in case one gets blown.”
+
+“We've got two,” answered the Duke. “Think I don't know what I'm about?
+Young Kelver's going to be the other one.”
+
+Silence fell upon the meet.
+
+“Oh, I say, we don't want him,” at last broke in a voice. “He's a muff.”
+
+“He can run,” explained the Duke.
+
+“Let him run home,” came another voice, which was greeted with laughter.
+
+“You'll run home in a minute yourself,” threatened the Duke, “if I have
+any of your cheek. Who's captain here--you or me? Now, young 'un, are
+you ready?”
+
+I had commenced unbuttoning my jacket, but my hands fell to my side. “I
+don't want to come,” I answered, “if they don't want me.”
+
+“He'll get his feet wet,” suggested the boy who had spoken first. “Don't
+spoil him, he's his mother's pet.”
+
+“Are you coming or are you not?” shouted the Duke, seeing me still
+motionless. But the tears were coming into my eyes and would not go
+back. I turned my face away without speaking.
+
+“All right, stop then,” cried the Duke, who, like all authoritative
+people, was impatient above all things of hesitation. “Here, Keefe, you
+take the bag and be off. It'll be dark before we start.”
+
+My substitute snatched eagerly at the chance, and away went the hares,
+while I, still keeping my face hid, moved slowly off.
+
+“Cry-baby!” shouted a sharp-eyed youngster.
+
+“Let him alone,” growled the Duke; and I went on to where the cedars
+grew.
+
+I heard them start off a few minutes later with a whoop. How could I go
+home, confess my disappointment, my shame? My father would be expecting
+me with many questions, my mother waiting for me with hot water and
+blankets. What explanation could I give that would not betray my
+miserable secret?
+
+It was a chill, dismal afternoon, the Heath deserted, a thin rain
+commencing. I slipped off my shirt and jacket, and rolling them under my
+arm, trotted off alone, hare and hounds combined in one small carcass,
+to chase myself sadly by myself.
+
+I see it still, that pathetically ridiculous little figure, jogging
+doggedly over the dank fields. Mile after mile it runs, the little
+idiot; jumping--sometimes falling into the muddy ditches: it seems
+anxious rather than otherwise to get itself into a mess; scrambling
+through the dripping hedges; swarming over tarry fence and slimy paling.
+On, on it pants--through Bishop's Wood, by tangled Churchyard Bottom,
+where now the railway shrieks; down sloppy lanes, bordering Muswell
+Hill, where now stand rows of jerry-built, prim villas. At intervals
+it stops an instant to dab its eyes with its dingy little rag of a
+handkerchief, to rearrange the bundle under its arm, its chief anxiety
+to keep well out of sight of chance wanderers, to dodge farmhouses, to
+dart across highroads when nobody is looking. And so tear-smeared and
+mud-bespattered up the long rise of darkening Crouch End Lane, where
+to-night the electric light blazes from a hundred shops, and dead
+beat into the Seven Sisters Road station, there to tear off its soaked
+jersey; and then home to Poplar, with shameless account of the jolly
+afternoon that it has spent, of the admiration and the praise that it
+has won.
+
+You poor, pitiful little brat! Popularity? it is a shadow. Turn your
+eyes towards it, and it shall ever run before you, escaping you. Turn
+your back upon it, walk joyously towards the living sun, and it shall
+follow you. Am I not right? Why, then, do you look at me, your little
+face twisted into that quizzical grin?
+
+When one takes service with Deceit, one signs a contract that one may
+not break but under penalty. Maybe it was good for my health, those
+lonely runs; but oh, they were dreary! By a process of argument not
+uncommon I persuaded myself that truth was a matter of mere words, that
+so long as I had actually gone over the ground I described I was not
+lying. To further satisfy my conscience, I bought a big satchel and
+scattered from it torn-up paper as I ran.
+
+“And they never catch you?” asked my mother.
+
+“Oh, no, never; they never even get within sight of me.”
+
+“Be careful, dear,” would advise my mother; “don't overstrain yourself.”
+ But I could see that she was proud of me.
+
+And after awhile imagination came to my help, so that often I could hear
+behind me the sound of pursuing feet, catch through gaps in the trees a
+sight of a merry, host upon my trail, and would redouble my speed.
+
+Thus, but for Dan, my loneliness would have been unbearable. His
+friendship was always there for me to creep to, the shadow of a great
+rock in a weary land. To this day one may always know Dan's politics:
+they are those of the Party out of power. Always without question one
+may know the cause that he will champion, the unpopular cause; the man
+he will defend, the man who is down.
+
+“You are such an un-understandable chap,” complained a fellow Clubman to
+him once in my hearing. “I sometimes ask myself if you have any opinions
+at all.”
+
+“I hate a crowd,” was Dan's only confession of faith.
+
+He never claimed anything from me in return for his affection; he was
+there for me to hold to when I wanted him. When, baffled in all my
+attempts to win the affections of others, I returned to him for comfort,
+he gave it me, without even relieving himself of friendly advice. When
+at length childish success came to me and I needed him less, he was
+neither hurt nor surprised. Other people--their thoughts, their actions,
+even when these concerned himself--never troubled him. He loved to
+bestow, but as to response was strangely indifferent; indeed, if
+anything, it bored him. His nature appeared to be that of the fountain,
+which fulfils itself by giving, but is unable to receive.
+
+My popularity came to me unexpectedly after I had given up hoping for
+it; surprising me, annoying me. Gradually it dawned upon me that my
+company was being sought.
+
+“Come along, Kelver,” would say the spokesman of one group; “we're going
+part of your way home. You can walk with us.”
+
+Maybe I would go with them, but more often, before we reached the gate,
+the delight of my society would be claimed by a rival troop.
+
+“He's coming with us this afternoon. He promised.”
+
+“No, he didn't.”
+
+“Yes, he did.”
+
+“Well, he ain't, anyhow. See?”
+
+“Oh, isn't he? Who says he isn't?”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“Punch his head, Dick!”
+
+“Yes, you do, Jimmy Blake, and I'll punch yours. Come, Kelver.”
+
+I might have been some Queen of Beauty offered as prize for knightly
+contest. Indeed, more than once the argument concluded thus primitively,
+I being carried off in triumph by the victorious party.
+
+For a period it remained a mystery to me, until I asked explanation of
+Norval--we called him “Norval,” he being one George Grampian: it was our
+wit. From taking joy in teasing me, Norval had suddenly become one of my
+greatest admirers. This by itself was difficult enough to understand.
+He was in the second eleven, and after Dan the best fighter in the lower
+school. If I could understand Norval's change of attitude all would be
+plain to me; so when next time, bounding upon me in the cloakroom and
+slipping his arm into mine, he clamoured for my company to Camden Town,
+I put the question to him bluntly.
+
+“Why should I walk home with you? Why do you want me?”
+
+“Because we like you.”
+
+“But why do you like me?”
+
+“Why! Why, because you're such a funny chap. You say such funny things.”
+
+It struck me like a slap in the face. I had thought to reach popularity
+upon the ladder of heroic qualities. In all the school books I had read,
+Leonard or Marmaduke (we had a Marmaduke in the Lower Fifth--they
+called him Marmalade: in the school books these disasters are not
+contemplated), won love and admiration by reason of integrity of
+character, nobility of sentiment, goodness of heart, brilliance of
+intellect; combined maybe with a certain amount of agility, instinct in
+the direction of bowling, or aptitude for jumping; but such only by the
+way. Not one of them had ever said a funny thing, either consciously or
+unconsciously.
+
+“Don't be disagreeable, Kelver. Come with us and we will let you into
+the team as an extra. I'll teach you batting.”
+
+So I was to be their Fool--I, dreamer of knightly dreams, aspirant to
+hero's fame! I craved their wonder; I had won their laughter. I had
+prayed for popularity; it had been granted to me--in this guise. Were
+the gods still the heartless practical jokers poor Midas had found them?
+
+Had my vanity been less I should have flung their gift back in their
+faces. But my thirst for approbation was too intense. I had to choose:
+Cut capers and be followed, or walk in dignity, ignored. I chose to cut
+the capers. As time wore on I found myself striving to cut them quicker,
+quainter, thinking out funny stories, preparing ingenuous impromptus,
+twisting all ideas into odd expression.
+
+I had my reward. Before long my company was desired by all the school.
+But I was never content. I would rather have been the Captain of their
+football club, even his deputy Vice; would have given all my meed of
+laughter for stuttering Jerry's one round of applause when in our match
+against Highbury he knocked up his century, and so won the victory for
+us by just three.
+
+Till the end I never quite abandoned hope of exchanging my vine leaves
+for the laurels. I would rise an hour earlier in the morning to practise
+throwing at broomsticks set up in waste places. At another time, the
+sport coming into temporary fashion, I wearied body and mind for weeks
+in vain attempts to acquire skill on stilts. That even fat Tubby could
+out-distance me upon them saddened my life for months.
+
+A lad there was, a Sixth Form boy, one Wakeham by name, if I remember
+rightly, who greatly envied me my gift of being able to amuse. He was of
+the age when the other sex begins to be of importance to a fellow, and
+the desire had come to him to be regarded as a star of wit among
+the social circles of Gospel Oak. Need I say that by nature he was a
+ponderously dull boy.
+
+One afternoon I happened to be the centre of a small group in the
+playground. I had been holding forth and they had been laughing. Whether
+I had delivered myself of anything really entertaining or not I cannot
+say. It made no difference; they had got into the habit of laughing when
+I talked. Sometimes I would say quite serious things on purpose; they
+would laugh just the same. Wakeham was among them, his eyes fixed on me,
+watching me as boys watch a conjurer in the hope of finding out “how he
+does it.” Later in the afternoon he slipped his arm through mine, and
+drew me away into an empty corner of the ground.
+
+“I say, Kelver,” he broke out, the moment we were beyond hearing, “you
+really are funny!”
+
+It gave me no pleasure. If he had told me that he admired my bowling I
+might not have believed him, but should have loved him for it.
+
+“So are you,” I answered savagely, “only you don't know it.”
+
+“No, I'm not,” he replied. “Wish I was. I say, Kelver”--he glanced round
+to see that no one was within earshot--“do you think you could teach me
+to be funny?”
+
+I was about to reply with conviction in the negative when an idea
+occurred to me. Wakeham was famous among us for one thing; he could,
+inserting two fingers in his mouth, produce a whistle capable of
+confusing dogs a quarter of a mile off, and of causing people near at
+hand to jump from six to eighteen inches into the air.
+
+This accomplishment of his I envied him as keenly as he envied me mine.
+I did not admire it; I could not see the use of it. Generally speaking,
+it called forth irritation rather than affection. A purple-faced old
+gentleman, close to whose ear he once performed, promptly cuffed his
+head for it; and for so doing was commended by the whole street as a
+public benefactor. Drivers of vehicles would respond by flicking at him,
+occasionally with success. Even youth, from whom sympathy might have
+been expected, appeared impelled, if anything happened to be at all
+handy, to take it up and throw it at him. My own social circle would,
+I knew, regard it as a vulgar accomplishment, and even Wakeham himself
+dared not perform it in the hearing of his own classmates. That any
+human being should have desired to acquire it seems incomprehensible.
+Yet for weeks in secret I had wrestled to produce the hideous sound.
+Why? For three reasons, so far as I can analyse this youngster of whom I
+am writing:
+
+Firstly, here was a means of attracting attention; secondly, it was
+something that somebody else could do and that he couldn't; thirdly, it
+was a thing for which he evidently had no natural aptitude whatever, and
+therefore a thing to acquire which his soul yearned the more. Had a boy
+come across his path, clever at walking on his hands with his heels in
+the air, Master Paul Kelver would in all probability have broken his
+neck in attempts to copy and excel. I make no apologies for the brat:
+I merely present him as a study for the amusement of a world of wiser
+boys--and men.
+
+I struck a bargain with young Wakeham; I undertook to teach him to be
+funny in return for his teaching me this costermonger's whistle.
+
+Each of us strove conscientiously to impart knowledge. Neither of us
+succeeded. Wakeham tried hard to be funny; I tried hard to whistle. He
+did all I told him; I followed his instructions implicitly. The result
+was the feeblest of wit and the feeblest of whistles.
+
+“Do you think anybody would laugh at that?” Wakeham would pathetically
+enquire at the termination of his supremest effort. And honestly I would
+have to confess I did not think any living being would.
+
+“How far off do you think any one could hear that?” I would demand
+anxiously, on recovering sufficient breath to speak at all.
+
+“Well, it would depend upon whether you knew it was coming,” Wakeham
+would reply kindly, not wishing to discourage me.
+
+We abandoned the scheme by mutual consent at about the end of a
+fortnight.
+
+“I suppose it's something that you've got to have inside you,” I
+suggested to Wakeham in consolation.
+
+“I don't think the roof of your mouth can be quite the right shape for
+it,” concluded Wakeham.
+
+My success as story-teller, commentator, critic, jester, revived
+my childish ambition towards authorship. My first stirrings in this
+direction I cannot rightly place. I remember when very small falling
+into a sunk dust-bin--a deep hole, rather, into which the gardener shot
+his rubbish. The fall twisted my ankle so that I could not move; and
+the time being evening and my prison some distance from the house, my
+predicament loomed large before me. Yet one consolation remained with
+me: the incident would be of value to me in the autobiography upon which
+I was then engaged. I can distinctly recollect lying on my back among
+decaying leaves and broken glass, framing my account. “On this day a
+strange adventure befell me. Walking in the garden, all unheeding, I
+suddenly”--I did not want to add the truth--“tumbled into a dust-hole,
+six feet square, that any one but a moon calf might have seen.” I
+puzzled to evolve a more dignified situation. The dust-bin became a
+cavern, the entrance to which had been artfully concealed; the six or
+seven feet I had really fallen, “an endless descent, terminating in a
+vast and gloomy chamber.” I was divided between opposing desires: One,
+for rescue followed by sympathy and supper; the other, for the alarming
+experience of a night of terror where I lay. Nature conquering Art,
+I yelled; and the episode terminated prosaically with a warm bath and
+arnica. But from it I judge that desire for the woes and perils of
+authorship was with me somewhat early.
+
+Of my many other dreams I would speak freely, discussing them at length
+with sympathetic souls, but concerning this one ambition I was curiously
+reticent. Only to two--my mother and a grey-bearded Stranger--did I
+ever breathe a word of it. Even from my father I kept it a secret, close
+comrades in all else though we were. He would have talked of it much and
+freely, dragged it into the light of day; and from this I shrank.
+
+My talk with the Stranger came about in this wise. One evening I had
+taken a walk to Victoria Park--a favourite haunt of mine at summer time.
+It was a fair and peaceful evening, and I fell a-wandering there in
+pleasant reverie, until the waning light hinted to me the question of
+time. I looked about me. Only one human being was in sight, a man with
+his back towards me, seated upon a bench overlooking the ornamental
+water.
+
+I drew nearer. He took no notice of me, and interested--though why, I
+could not say--I seated myself beside him at the other end of the bench.
+He was a handsome, distinguished-looking man, with wonderfully bright,
+clear eyes and iron-grey hair and beard. I might have thought him a sea
+captain, of whom many were always to be met with in that neighbourhood,
+but for his hands, which were crossed upon his stick, and which were
+white and delicate as a woman's. He turned his face and glanced at me.
+I fancied that his lips beneath the grey moustache smiled; and
+instinctively I edged a little nearer to him.
+
+“Please, sir,” I said, after awhile, “could you tell me the right time?”
+
+“Twenty minutes to eight,” he answered, looking at his watch. And his
+voice drew me towards him even more than had his beautiful strong face.
+I thanked him, and we fell back into silence.
+
+“Where do you live?” he turned and suddenly asked me.
+
+“Oh, only over there,” I answered, with a wave of my arm towards the
+chimney-fringed horizon behind us. “I needn't be in till half-past
+eight. I like this Park so much,” I added, “I often come and sit here of
+an evening.'
+
+“Why do you like to come and sit here?” he asked. “Tell me.”
+
+“Oh, I don't know,” I answered. “I think.”
+
+I marvelled at myself. With strangers generally I was shy and silent;
+but the magic of his bright eyes seemed to have loosened my tongue.
+
+I told him my name; that we lived in a street always full of ugly
+sounds, so that a gentleman could not think, not even in the evening
+time, when Thought goes a-visiting.
+
+“Mamma does not like the twilight time,” I confided to him. “It always
+makes her cry. But then mamma is--not very young, you know, and has had
+a deal of trouble; and that makes a difference, I suppose.”
+
+He laid his hand upon mine. We were sitting nearer to each other now.
+“God made women weak to teach us men to be tender,” he said. “But you,
+Paul, like this 'twilight time'?”
+
+“Yes,” I answered, “very much. Don't you?”
+
+“And why do you like it?” he asked.
+
+“Oh,” I answered, “things come to you.”
+
+“What things?”
+
+“Oh, fancies,” I explained to him. “I am going to be an author when I
+grow up, and write books.”
+
+He took my hand in his and shook it gravely, and then returned it to me.
+“I, too, am a writer of books,” he said.
+
+And then I knew what had drawn me to him.
+
+So for the first time I understood the joy of talking “shop” with a
+fellow craftsman. I told him my favourite authors--Scott, and Dumas,
+and Victor Hugo; and to my delight found they were his also; he agreeing
+with me that real stories were the best, stories in which people did
+things.
+
+“I used to read silly stuff once,” I confessed, “Indian tales and that
+sort of thing, you know. But mamma said I'd never be able to write if I
+read that rubbish.”
+
+“You will find it so all through life, Paul,” he replied. “The things
+that are nice are rarely good for us. And what do you read now?”
+
+“I am reading Marlowe's Plays and De Quincey's Confessions just now,” I
+confided to him.
+
+“And do you understand them?”
+
+“Fairly well,” I answered. “Mamma says I'll like them better as I go
+on. I want to learn to write very, very well indeed,” I admitted to him;
+“then I'll be able to earn heaps of money.”
+
+He smiled. “So you don't believe in Art for Art's sake, Paul?”
+
+I was puzzled. “What does that mean?” I asked.
+
+“It means in our case, Paul,” he answered, “writing books for the
+pleasure of writing books, without thinking of any reward, without
+desiring either money or fame.”
+
+It was a new idea to me. “Do many authors do that?” I asked.
+
+He laughed outright this time. It was a delightful laugh. It rang
+through the quiet Park, awaking echoes; and caught by it, I laughed with
+him.
+
+“Hush!” he said; and he glanced round with a whimsical expression of
+fear, lest we might have been overheard. “Between ourselves, Paul,” he
+continued, drawing me more closely towards him and whispering, “I don't
+think any of us do. We talk about it. But I'll tell you this, Paul; it
+is a trade secret and you must remember it: No man ever made money or
+fame but by writing his very best. It may not be as good as somebody
+else's best, but it is his best. Remember that, Paul.”
+
+I promised I would.
+
+“And you must not think merely of the money and the fame, Paul,” he
+added the next moment, speaking more seriously. “Money and fame are very
+good things, and only hypocrites pretend to despise them. But if you
+write books thinking only of money, you will be disappointed. It is
+earned easier in other ways. Tell me, that is not your only idea?”
+
+I pondered. “Mamma says it is a very noble calling, authorship,” I
+remembered, “and that any one ought to be very proud and glad to be able
+to write books, because they give people happiness and make them forget
+things; and that one ought to be very good if one is going to be an
+author, so as to be worthy to help and teach others.”
+
+“And do you try to be good, Paul?” he enquired.
+
+“Yes,” I answered; “but it's very hard to be quite good--until of course
+you're grown up.”
+
+He smiled, but more to himself than to me. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose it
+is difficult to be good until you are grown up. Perhaps we shall all of
+us be good when we're quite grown up.” Which, from a gentleman with a
+grey beard, appeared to me a puzzling observation.
+
+“And what else does mamma say about literature?” he asked. “Can you
+remember?”
+
+Again I pondered, and her words came back to me. “That he who can write
+a great book is greater than a king; that the gift of being able to
+write is given to anybody in trust; that an author should never forget
+he is God's servant.”
+
+He sat for awhile without speaking, his chin resting on his folded hands
+supported by his gold-topped cane. Then he turned and laid a hand upon
+my shoulder, and his clear, bright eyes were close to mine.
+
+“Your mother is a wise lady, Paul,” he said. “Remember her words always.
+In later life let them come back to you; they will guide you better than
+the chatter of the Clubs.”
+
+“And what modern authors do you read?” he asked after a silence: “any of
+them--Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, Dickens?”
+
+“I have read 'The Last of the Barons,'” I told him; “I like that. And
+I've been to Barnet and seen the church. And some of Mr. Dickens'.”
+
+“And what do you think of Mr. Dickens?” he asked. But he did not seem
+very interested in the subject. He had picked up a few small stones, and
+was throwing them carefully into the water.
+
+“I like him very much,” I answered; “he makes you laugh.”
+
+“Not always?” he asked. He stopped his stone-throwing, and turned
+sharply towards me.
+
+“Oh, no, not always,” I admitted; “but I like the funny bits best. I
+like so much where Mr. Pickwick--”
+
+“Oh, damn Mr. Pickwick!” he said.
+
+“Don't you like him?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, yes, I like him well enough, or used to,” he replied; “I'm a bit
+tired of him, that's all. Does your mamma like Mr.--Mr. Dickens?”
+
+“Not the funny parts,” I explained to him. “She thinks he is
+occasionally--”
+
+“I know,” he interrupted, rather irritably, I thought; “a trifle
+vulgar.”
+
+It surprised me that he should have guessed her exact words. “I don't
+think mamma has much sense of humour,” I explained to him. “Sometimes
+she doesn't even see papa's jokes.”
+
+At that he laughed again. “But she likes the other parts?” he enquired,
+“the parts where Mr. Dickens isn't--vulgar?”
+
+“Oh, yes,” I answered. “She says he can be so beautiful and tender, when
+he likes.”
+
+Twilight was deepening. It occurred to me to enquire of him again the
+time.
+
+“Just over the quarter,” he answered, looking at his watch.
+
+“I'm so sorry,” I said. “I must go now.”
+
+“So am I sorry, Paul,” he answered. “Perhaps we shall meet again.
+Good-bye.” Then as our hands touched: “You have never asked me my name,
+Paul,” he reminded me.
+
+“Oh, haven't I?” I answered.
+
+“No, Paul,” he replied, “and that makes me think of your future with
+hope. You are an egotist, Paul; and that is the beginning of all art.”
+
+And after that he would not tell me his name. “Perhaps next time we
+meet,” he said. “Good-bye, Paul. Good luck to you!”
+
+So I went my way. Where the path winds out of sight I turned. He was
+still seated upon the bench, but his face was towards me, and he waved
+his hand to me. I answered with a wave of mine. And then the intervening
+boughs and bushes gradually closed in around me. And across the rising
+mist there rose the hoarse, harsh cry:
+
+“All out! All out!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+IN WHICH PAUL IS SHIPWRECKED, AND CAST INTO DEEP WATERS.
+
+My father died, curiously enough, on the morning of his birthday. We had
+not expected the end to arrive for some time, and at first did not know
+that it had come.
+
+“I have left him sleeping,” said my mother, who had slipped out very
+quietly in her dressing-gown. “Washburn gave him a draught last night.
+We won't disturb him.”
+
+So we sat round the breakfast table, speaking in low tones, for the
+house was small and flimsy, all sound easily heard through its thin
+partitions. Afterwards my mother crept upstairs, I following, and
+cautiously opened the door a little way.
+
+The blinds were still down, and the room dark. It seemed a long time
+that my mother stood there listening, her ear against the jar. The
+first costermonger--a girl's voice, it sounded--passed, crying shrilly:
+“Watercreases, fine fresh watercreases with your breakfast-a'penny
+a bundle watercreases;” and further off a hoarse youth was wailing:
+“Mee-ilk-mee-ilk-oi.”
+
+Inch by inch my mother opened the door wider and we stole in. He was
+lying with his eyes still closed, the lips just slightly parted. I had
+never seen death before, and could not realise it. All that I could see
+was that he looked even younger than I had ever seen him look before.
+By slow degrees only, it came home to me, the knowledge that he was gone
+away from us. For days--for weeks, I would hear his step behind me in
+the street, his voice calling to me, see his face among the crowds,
+and hastening to meet him, stand bewildered because it had mysteriously
+disappeared. But at first I felt no pain whatever.
+
+To my mother it was but a short parting. Into her placid faith had never
+fallen fear nor doubt. He was waiting for her. In God's good time they
+would meet again. What need of sorrow! Without him the days passed
+slowly: the house must ever be a little dull when the good man's away.
+But that was all. So my mother would speak of him always--of his dear,
+kind ways, of his oddities and follies we loved so to recall, not
+through tears, but smiles, thinking of him not as of one belonging to
+the past, but as of one beckoning to her from the future.
+
+We lived on still in the old house though ever planning to move, for
+the great brick monster had crept closer round about us year by year,
+devouring in his progress all things fair. Field and garden, tree and
+cottage, time-mellowed house suggesting story, kind hedgerow hiding
+hideousness beyond--the few spots yet in that doomed land lingering to
+remind one of the sunshine, one by one had he scrunched them between his
+ugly teeth. A world apart, this east end of London, this ghetto of the
+poor for ever growing, dreariness added year by year to dreariness,
+hopelessness stretching ever farther its long, shrivelled arms, these
+endless rows of reeking cells where London herds her slaves. Often of a
+misty afternoon when we knew that without this city of the dead life was
+stirring in the sunshine, we would fare forth to house-hunt in
+pleasant suburbs, now themselves added to the weary catacomb of narrow
+streets--to Highgate, then a tiny town connected by a coach with leafy
+Holloway; to Hampstead with its rows of ancient red-brick houses, from
+whose wind-blown heath one saw beyond the woods and farms, far London's
+domes and spires, to Wood Green among the pastures, where smock-coated
+labourers discussed their politics and ale beneath wide-spreading elms;
+to Hornsey, then a village consisting of an ivy-covered church and one
+grass-bordered way. But though we often saw “the very thing for us” and
+would discuss its possibilities from every point of view and find them
+good, we yet delayed.
+
+“We must think it over,” would say my mother; “there is no hurry; for
+some reasons I shall be sorry to leave Poplar.”
+
+“For what reasons, mother?”
+
+“Oh, well, no particular reason, Paul. Only we have lived there so long,
+you know. It will be a wrench leaving the old house.”
+
+To the making of man go all things, even to the instincts of the
+clinging vine. We fling our tendrils round what is the nearest
+castle-keep or pig-stye wall, rain and sunshine fastening them but
+firmer. Dying Sir Walter Scott--do you remember?--hastening home from
+Italy, fearful lest he might not be in time to breathe again the damp
+mists of the barren hills. An ancient dame I knew, they had carried her
+from her attic in slumland that she might be fanned by the sea breezes,
+and the poor old soul lay pining for what she called her “home.” Wife,
+mother, widow, she had lived there till the alley's reek smelt good
+to her nostrils, till its riot was the voices of her people. Who shall
+understand us save He who fashioned us?
+
+So the old house held us to its dismal bosom; and not until within its
+homely but unlovely arms, first my aunt, and later on my mother had
+died, and I had said good-bye to Amy, crying in the midst of littered
+emptiness, did I leave it.
+
+My aunt died as she had lived, grumbling.
+
+“You will be glad to get rid of me, all of you!” she said, dropping for
+the first and last time I can recollect into the retort direct; “and I
+can't say I shall be very sorry to go myself. It hasn't been my idea of
+life.”
+
+Poor old lady! That was only a couple of weeks before the end. I do not
+suppose she guessed it was so certain or perhaps she might have been
+more sentimental.
+
+“Don't be foolish,” said my mother, “you're not going to die!”
+
+“What's the use of talking like an idiot,” retorted my aunt, “I've got
+to do it some time. Why not now, when everything's all ready for it. It
+isn't as if I was enjoying myself.”
+
+“I am sure we do all we can for you,” said my mother. “I know you do,”
+ replied my aunt. “I'm a burden to you. I always have been.”
+
+“Not a burden,” corrected my mother.
+
+“What does the woman call it then,” snapped back my aunt. “Does she
+reckon I've been a sunbeam in the house? I've been a trial to everybody.
+That's what I was born for; it's my metier.”
+
+My mother put her arms about the poor old soul and kissed her. “We
+should miss you very much,” she said.
+
+“I'm sure I hope they all will!” answered my aunt. “It's the only thing
+I've got to leave 'em, worth having.”
+
+My mother laughed.
+
+“Maybe it's been a good thing for you, Maggie,” grumbled my aunt; “if
+it wasn't for cantankerous, disagreeable people like me, gentle, patient
+people like you wouldn't get any practice. Perhaps, after all, I've been
+a blessing to you in disguise.”
+
+I cannot honestly say we ever wished her back; though we certainly
+did miss her--missed many a joke at her oddities, many a laugh at her
+cornery ways. It takes all sorts, as the saying goes, to make a world.
+Possibly enough if only we perfect folk were left in it we would find it
+uncomfortably monotonous.
+
+As for Amy, I believe she really regretted her.
+
+“One never knows what's good for one till one's lost it,” sighed Amy.
+
+“I'm glad to think you liked her,” said my mother.
+
+“You see, mum,” explained Amy, “I was one of a large family; and a bit
+of a row now and again cheers one up, I always think. I'll be losing the
+power of my tongue if something doesn't come along soon.”
+
+“Well, you are going to be married in a few weeks now,” my mother
+reminded her.
+
+But Amy remained despondent. “They're poor things, the men, at a few
+words, the best of them,” she replied. “As likely as not just when
+you're getting interested you turn round to find that they've put on
+their hat and gone out.”
+
+My mother and I were very much alone after my aunt's death. Barbara had
+gone abroad to put the finishing touches to her education--to learn the
+tricks of the Nobs' trade, as old Hasluck phrased it; and I had left
+school and taken employment with Mr. Stillwood, without salary, the idea
+being that I should study for the law.
+
+“You are in luck's way, my boy, in luck's way,” old Mr. Gadley had
+assured me. “To have commenced your career in the office of Stillwood,
+Waterhead and Royal will be a passport for you anywhere. It will stamp
+you, my boy.”
+
+Mr. Stillwood himself was an extremely old and feeble gentleman--so old
+and feeble it seemed strange that he, a wealthy man, had not long ago
+retired.
+
+“I am always meaning to,” he explained to me one day soon after my
+advent in his office. “When your poor father came to me he told me very
+frankly the sad fact--that he had only a few more years to live. 'Mr.
+Kelver,' I answered him, 'do not let that trouble you, so far as I am
+concerned. There are one or two matters in the office I should like to
+see cleared up, and in these you can help me. When they are completed I
+shall retire! Yet, you see, I linger on. I am like the old hackney coach
+horse, Mr. Weller--or is it Mr. Jingle--tells us of; if the shafts were
+drawn away I should probably collapse. So I jog on, I jog on.'”
+
+He had married late in life a common woman much younger than himself,
+who had brought to him a horde of needy and greedy relatives, and no
+doubt, as a refuge from her noisy neighbourhood, the daily peace of
+Lombard Street was welcome to him. We saw her occasionally. She was
+one of those blustering, “managing” women who go through life under
+the impression that making a disturbance is somehow “putting things to
+rights.” Ridiculously ashamed of her origin, she sought to hide it under
+what her friends assured her was the air of a duchess, but which, as
+a matter of fact, resembled rather the Sunday manners of an elderly
+barmaid. Mr. Gadley alone was not afraid of her; but, on the contrary,
+kept her always very much in fear of him, often speaking to her with
+refreshing candour. He had known her in the days it was her desire
+should be buried in oblivion, and had always resented as a personal
+insult her entry into the old established aristocratic firm of Stillwood
+& Co.
+
+Her history was peculiar. Mr. Stillwood, when a blase man about
+town, verging on forty, had first seen her, then a fair-haired,
+ethereal-looking child, in spite of her dirt, playing in the gutter. To
+his lasting self-reproach it was young Gadley himself, accompanying his
+employer home from Westminster, who had drawn Mr. Stillwood's attention
+to the girl by boxing her ears for having, as he passed, slapped his
+face with a convenient sprat. Stillwood, acting on the impulse of the
+moment, had taken the child by the hand and dragged her, unwilling,
+to her father's place of business--a small coal shed in the Horseferry
+Road. The arrangement he there made amounted practically to the purchase
+of the child. She was sent abroad to school and the coal shed closed.
+On her return, ten years later, a big, handsome young woman, he married
+her, and learned at leisure the truth of the old saying, “what's bred in
+the bone will come out in the flesh,” scrub it and paint it and hide it
+away under fine clothes as you will.
+
+Her constant complaint against her husband was that he was only a
+solicitor, a profession she considered vulgar; and nothing “riled” old
+Gadley more than hearing her views upon this point.
+
+“It's not fair to the gals,” I once heard her say to him. I was working
+in the next room, with the door not quite closed, added to which she
+talked at the top of her voice on all subjects. “What real gentleman, I
+should like to know, is going to marry the daughter of a City attorney?
+As I told him years ago, he ought to have retired and gone into the
+House.”
+
+“The very thing your poor father used to talk of doing whenever things
+were going a bit queer in the retail coal and potato business,” grunted
+old Gadley.
+
+Mrs. Stillwood called him a “low beast” in her most aristocratic tones,
+and swept out of the room.
+
+Not that old Stillwood himself ever expressed fondness for the law.
+
+“I am not at all sure, Kelver,” I remember his saying to me on one
+occasion, “that you have done wisely in choosing the law. It makes
+one regard humanity morally as the medical profession regards it
+physically:--as universally unsound. You suspect everybody of being a
+rogue. When people are behaving themselves, we lawyers hear nothing of
+them. All we hear of is roguery, trickery and hypocrisy. It
+deteriorates the character, Kelver. We live in a perpetual atmosphere of
+transgression. I sometimes fancy it may be infectious.”
+
+“It does not seem to have infected you, sir,” I replied; for, as I think
+I have already mentioned, the firm of Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal
+was held in legal circles as the synonym for rectitude of dealing quite
+old-fashioned.
+
+“I hope not, Kelver, I hope not,” the old gentleman replied; “and yet,
+do you know, I sometimes suspect myself--wonder if I may not perhaps
+be a scamp without realising it. A rogue, you know, Kelver, can always
+explain himself into an honest man to his own satisfaction. A scamp is
+never a scamp to himself.”
+
+His words for the moment alarmed me, for, acting on old Gadley's
+advice, I had persuaded my mother to put all her small capital into Mr.
+Stillwood's hands for re-investment, a transaction that had resulted in
+substantial increase of our small income. But, looking into his smiling
+eyes, my momentary fear vanished.
+
+Laughing, he laid his hand upon my shoulder. “One person always be
+suspicious of, Kelver--yourself. Nobody can do you so much harm as
+yourself.”
+
+Of Washburn we saw more and more. “Hal” we both called him now, for
+removing with his gentle, masterful hands my mother's shyness from about
+her, he had established himself almost as one of the family, my mother
+regarding him as she might some absurdly bearded boy entrusted to her
+care without his knowing it, I looking up to him as to some wonderful
+elder brother.
+
+“You rest me, Mrs. Kelver,” he would say, lighting his pipe and sinking
+down into the deep leathern chair that always waited for him in our
+parlour. “Your even voice, your soft eyes, your quiet hands, they soothe
+me.”
+
+“It is good for a man,” he would say, looking from one to the other of
+us through the hanging smoke, “to test his wisdom by two things:
+the face of a good woman, and the ear of a child--I beg your pardon,
+Paul--of a young man. A good woman's face is the white sunlight. Under
+the gas-lamps who shall tell diamond from paste? Bring it into the
+sunlight: does it stand that test? Then it is good. And the children!
+they are the waiting earth on which we fling our store. Is it chaff and
+dust or living seed? Wait and watch. I shower my thoughts over our Paul,
+Mrs. Kelver. They seem to me brilliant, deep, original. The young beggar
+swallows them, forgets them. They were rubbish. Then I say something
+that dwells with him, that grows. Ah, that was alive, that was a seed.
+The waiting earth, it can make use only of what is true.”
+
+“You should marry, Hal,” my mother would say. It was her panacea for all
+mankind.
+
+“I would, Mrs. Kelver,” he answered her on one occasion, “I would
+to-morrow if I could marry half a dozen women. I should make an ideal
+husband for half a dozen wives. One I should neglect for five days, and
+be a burden to upon the sixth.”
+
+From any other than Hal my mother would have taken such a remark, made
+even in jest, as an insult to her sex. But Hal's smile was a coating
+that could sugar any pill.
+
+“I am not one man, Mrs. Kelver, I am half a dozen. If I were to marry
+one wife she would be married to six husbands. It is too many for any
+woman to manage.”
+
+“Have you never fallen in love?” asked my mother.
+
+“Three of me have, but on each occasion the other five of me out-voted
+him.”
+
+“You're sure six would be sufficient?” queried my mother, smiling.
+
+“Just the right number, Mrs. Kelver. There is one of me must worship,
+adore a woman madly, abjectly; grovel before her like the Troubadour
+before his Queen of Song, eat her slipper, drink the water she has
+washed in, scourge himself before her window, die for a kiss of her
+glove flung down with a laugh. She must be scornful, contemptuous,
+cruel. There is another I would cherish, a tender, yielding creature,
+one whose face would light at my coming, cloud at my going; one to whom
+I should be a god. There is a third I, a child of Pan--an ugly little
+beast, Mrs. Kelver; horns on head and hoofs on feet, leering through the
+wood, seeking its fit mate. And a fourth would wed a wholesome, homely
+wench, deep of bosom, broad of hip; fit mother of a sturdy brood. A
+fifth could only be content with a true friend, a comrade wise and
+witty, a sharer and understander of all joys and thoughts and feelings.
+And a last, Mrs. Kelver, yearns for a woman pure and sweet, clothed in
+love and crowned with holiness. Shouldn't we be a handful, Mrs. Kelver,
+for any one woman in an eight-roomed house?”
+
+But my mother was not to be discouraged. “You will find the woman one
+day, Hal, who will be all of them to you--all of them that are worth
+having, that is. And your eight-roomed house will be a kingdom!”
+
+“A man is many, and a woman but one,” answered Hal.
+
+“That is what men say who are too blind to see more than one side of a
+woman,” retorted my mother, a little sharply; for the honour and credit
+of her own sex in all things was very dear to my mother. And indeed this
+I have learned, that the flag of Womanhood you shall ever find upheld by
+all true women, flouted only by the false. For a judge in petticoats is
+ever but a witness in a wig.
+
+Hal laid aside his pipe and leant forward in his chair. “Now tell us,
+Mrs. Kelver, for our guidance, we two young bachelors, what must the
+lover of a young girl be?”
+
+Always very serious on this subject of love, my mother answered gravely:
+“She asks for the whole of a man, Hal, not merely for a sixth, nor any
+other part of him. She is a child asking for a lover to whom she can
+look up, who will teach her, guide her, protect her. She is a queen
+demanding homage, and yet he is her king whom it is her joy to serve.
+She asks to be his partner, his fellow-worker, his playmate, and at the
+same time she loves to think of him as her child, her big baby she must
+take care of. Whatever he has to give she has also to respond with. You
+need not marry six wives, Hal; you will find your six in one.
+
+“'As the water to the vessel, woman shapes herself to man;' an old
+heathen said that three thousand years ago, and others have repeated
+him; that is what you mean.”
+
+“I don't like that way of putting it,” answered my mother. “I mean that
+as you say of man, so in every true woman is contained all women. But to
+know her completely you must love her with all love.”
+
+Sometimes the talk would be of religion, for my mother's faith was
+no dead thing that must be kept ever sheltered from the air, lest it
+crumble.
+
+One evening “Who are we that we should live?” cried Hal. “The spider
+is less cruel; the very pig less greedy, gluttonous and foul; the tiger
+less tigerish; our cousin ape less monkeyish. What are we but savages,
+clothed and ashamed, nine-tenths of us?”
+
+“But Sodom and Gomorrah,” reminded him my mother, “would have been
+spared for the sake of ten just men.”
+
+“Much more sensible to have hurried the ten men out, leaving the
+remainder to be buried with all their abominations under their own
+ashes,” growled Hal.
+
+“And we shall be purified,” continued my mother, “the evil in us washed
+away.”
+
+“Why have made us ill merely to mend us? If the Almighty were so anxious
+for our company, why not have made us decent in the beginning?” He had
+just come away from a meeting of Poor Law Guardians, and was in a state
+of dissatisfaction with human nature generally.
+
+“It is His way,” answered my mother. “The precious stone lies hid in
+clay. He has His purpose.”
+
+“Is the stone so very precious?”
+
+“Would He have taken so much pains to fashion it if it were not? You see
+it all around you, Hal, in your daily practice--heroism, self-sacrifice,
+love stronger than death. Can you think He will waste it, He who uses
+again even the dead leaf?”
+
+“Shall the new leaf remember the new flower?”
+
+“Yes, if it ever knew it. Shall memory be the only thing to die?”
+
+Often of an evening I would accompany Hal upon his rounds. By the savage
+tribe he both served and ruled he had come to be regarded as medicine
+man and priest combined. He was both their tyrant and their slave,
+working for them early and late, yet bullying them unmercifully,
+enforcing his commands sometimes with vehement tongue, and where that
+would not suffice with quick fists; the counsellor, helper, ruler,
+literally of thousands. Of income he could have made barely enough to
+live upon; but few men could have enjoyed more sense of power; and that
+I think it was that held him to the neighbourhood.
+
+“Nature laid me by and forgot me for a couple of thousand years,” was
+his own explanation of himself. “Born in my proper period, I should have
+climbed to chieftainship upon uplifted shields. I might have been an
+Attila, an Alaric. Among the civilised one can only climb by crawling,
+and I am too impatient to crawl. Here I am king at once by force of
+brain and muscle.” So in Poplar he remained, poor in fees but rich in
+honour.
+
+The love of justice was a passion with him. The oppressors of the poor
+knew and feared him well. Injustice once proved before him, vengeance
+followed sure. If the law would not help, he never hesitated to employ
+lawlessness, of which he could always command a satisfactory supply.
+Bumble might have the Board of Guardians at his back, Shylock legal
+support for his pound of flesh; but sooner or later the dark night
+brought punishment, a ducking in dock basin or canal, “Brutal Assault
+Upon a Respected Resident” (according to the local papers), the
+“miscreants” always making and keeping good their escape, for he was an
+admirable organiser.
+
+One night it seemed to him necessary that a child should go at once into
+the Infirmary.
+
+“It ain't no use my taking her now,” explained the mother, “I'll only
+get bullyragged for disturbing 'em. My old man was carried there three
+months ago when he broke his leg, but they wouldn't take him in till the
+morning.”
+
+“Oho! oho! oho!” sang Hal, taking the child up in his arms and putting
+on his hat. “You follow me; we'll have some sport. Tally ho! tally
+ho!” And away we went, Hal heading our procession through the streets,
+shouting a rollicking song, the baby staring at him openmouthed.
+
+“Now ring,” cried Hal to the mother on our reaching the Workhouse gate.
+“Ring modestly, as becomes the poor ringing at the gate of Charity.” And
+the bell tinkled faintly.
+
+“Ring again!” cried Hal, drawing back into the shadow; and at last the
+wicket opened.
+
+“Oh, if you please, sir, my baby--”
+
+“Blast your baby!” answered a husky voice, “what d'ye mean by coming
+here this time of night?”
+
+“Please, sir, I'm afraid it's dying, and the Doctor--”
+
+The man was no sentimentalist, and to do him justice made no
+hypocritical pretence of being one. He consigned the baby and its mother
+and the doctor to Hell, and the wicket would have closed but for the
+point of Hal's stick.
+
+“Open the gate!” roared Hal. It was idle pretending not to hear Hal
+anywhere within half a mile of him when he filled his lungs for a cry.
+“Open it quick, you blackguard! You gross vat-load of potato spirit,
+you--”
+
+That the Governor should speak a language familiar to the governed was
+held by the Romans, born rulers of men, essential to authority. This
+theory Hal also maintained. His command of idiom understanded by his
+people was one of his rods of power. In less time than it took the
+trembling porter to loosen the bolts, Hal had presented him with a
+word picture of himself, as seen by others, that must have lessened his
+self-esteem.
+
+“I didn't know as it was you, Doctor,” explained the man.
+
+“No, you thought you had only to deal with some helpless creature you
+could bully. Stir your fat carcass, you ugly cur! I'm in a hurry.”
+
+The House Surgeon was away, but an attendant or two were lounging about,
+unfortunately for themselves, for Hal, being there, took it upon himself
+to go round the ward setting crooked things straight; and a busy and
+alarming time they had of it. Not till a couple of hours later did he
+fling himself forth again, having enjoyed himself greatly.
+
+A gentleman came to reside in the district, a firm believer in the
+wisdom of the couplet: “A woman, a spaniel and a walnut tree, The more
+you beat them the better they be.” The spaniel and the walnut tree he
+did not possess, so his wife had the benefit of his undivided energies.
+Whether his treatment had improved her morally, one cannot say; her
+evident desire to do her best may have been natural or may have been
+assisted; but physically it was injuring her. He used to beat her about
+the head with his strap, his argument being that she always seemed half
+asleep, and that this, for the time being, woke her up. Sympathisers
+brought complaint to Hal, for the police in that neighbourhood are to
+keep the streets respectable. With the life in the little cells that
+line them they are no more concerned than are the scavengers of the
+sewers with the domestic arrangements of the rats.
+
+“What's he like?” asked Hal.
+
+“He's a big 'un,” answered the woman who had come with the tale, “and
+he's good with his fists--I've seen him. But there's no getting at him.
+He's the sort to have the law on you if you interfere with him, and
+she's the sort to help him.”
+
+“Any likely time to catch him at it?” asked Hal.
+
+“Saturdays it's as regular as early closing,” answered the woman, “but
+you might have to wait a bit.”
+
+“I'll wait in your room, granny, next Saturday,” suggested Hal.
+
+“All right,” agreed the woman, “I'll risk it, even if I do get a bloody
+head for it.”
+
+So that week end we sat very still on two rickety chairs listening to a
+long succession of sharp, cracking sounds that, had one not known,
+one might have imagined produced by some child monotonously exploding
+percussion caps, each one followed by an answering groan. Hal never
+moved, but sat smoking his pipe, an ugly smile about his mouth. Only
+once he opened his lips, and then it was to murmur to himself: “And God
+blessed them and said unto them, Be fruitful and multiply.”
+
+The horror ceased at last, and later we heard the door unlock and a
+man's foot upon the landing above. Hal beckoned to me, and swiftly we
+slipped out and down the creaking stairs. He opened the front door, and
+we waited in the evil-smelling little passage. The man came towards
+us whistling. He was a powerfully built fellow, rather good-looking,
+I remember. He stopped abruptly upon catching sight of Hal, who stood
+crouching in the shadow of the door.
+
+“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
+
+“Waiting to pull your nose!” answered Hal, suiting the action to the
+word. And then laughing he ran down the street, I following.
+
+The man gave chase, calling to us with a string of imprecations to stop.
+But Hal only ran the faster, though after a street or two he slackened,
+and the man gained on us a little.
+
+So we continued, the distance between us and our pursuer now a little
+more, now a little less. People turned and stared at us. A few boys,
+scenting grim fun, followed shouting for awhile; but these we soon
+out-paced, till at last in deserted streets, winding among warehouses
+bordering the river, we three ran alone, between long, lifeless walls. I
+looked into Hal's face from time to time, and he was laughing; but every
+now and then he would look over his shoulder at the man behind him still
+following doggedly, and then his face would be twisted into a comically
+terrified grimace. Turning into a narrow cul-de-sac, Hal suddenly ducked
+behind a wide brick buttress, and the man, still running, passed us.
+And then Hal stood up and called to him, and the man turned, looked into
+Hal's eyes, and understood.
+
+He was not a coward. Besides, even a rat when cornered will fight for
+its life. He made a rush at Hal, and Hal made no attempt to defend
+himself. He stood there laughing, and the man struck him full in the
+face, and the blood spurted out and flowed down into his mouth. The
+man came on again, though terror was in every line of his face, all his
+desire being to escape. But this time Hal drove him back again. They
+fought for awhile, if one can call it fighting, till the man, mad for
+air, reeled against the wall, stood there quivering convulsively, his
+mouth wide open, resembling more than anything else some huge dying
+fish. And Hal drew away and waited.
+
+I have no desire to see again the sight I saw that quiet, still evening,
+framed by those high, windowless walls, from behind which sounded with
+ceaseless regularity the gentle swish of the incoming tide. All sense of
+retribution was drowned in the sight of Hal's evident enjoyment of his
+sport. The judge had disappeared, leaving the work to be accomplished by
+a savage animal loosened for the purpose.
+
+The wretched creature flung itself again towards its only door of
+escape, fought with the vehemence of despair, to be flung back again, a
+hideous, bleeding mass of broken flesh. I tried to cling to Hal's arm,
+but one jerk of his steel muscles flung me ten feet away.
+
+“Keep off, you fool!” he cried. “I won't kill him. I'm keeping my head.
+I shall know when to stop.” And I crept away and waited.
+
+Hal joined me a little later, wiping the blood from his face. We made
+our way to a small public-house near the river, and from there Hal sent
+a couple of men on whom he could rely with instructions how to act. I
+never heard any more of the matter. It was a subject on which I did not
+care to speak to Hal. I can only hope that good came of it.
+
+There was a spot--it has been cleared away since to make room for the
+approach to Greenwich Tunnel--it was then the entrance to a grain depot
+in connection with the Milwall Docks. A curious brick well it resembled,
+in the centre of which a roadway wound downward, corkscrew fashion,
+disappearing at the bottom into darkness under a yawning arch. The place
+possessed the curious property of being ever filled with a ceaseless
+murmur, as though it were some aerial maelstrom, drawing into its
+silent vacuum all wandering waves of sound from the restless human ocean
+flowing round it. No single tone could one ever distinguish: it was
+a mingling of all voices, heard there like the murmur of a sea-soaked
+shell.
+
+We passed through it on our return. Its work for the day was finished,
+its strange, weary song uninterrupted by the mighty waggons thundering
+up and down its spiral way. Hal paused, leaning against the railings
+that encircled its centre, and listened.
+
+“Hark, do you not hear it, Paul?” he asked. “It is the music of
+Humanity. All human notes are needful to its making: the faint wail of
+the new-born, the cry of the dying thief; the beating of the hammers,
+the merry trip of dancers; the clatter of the teacups, the roaring of
+the streets; the crooning of the mother to her babe, the scream of the
+tortured child; the meeting kiss of lovers, the sob of those that part.
+Listen! prayers and curses, sighs and laughter; the soft breathing of
+the sleeping, the fretful feet of pain; voices of pity, voices of hate;
+the glad song of the strong, the foolish complaining of the weak. Listen
+to it, Paul! Right and wrong, good and evil, hope and despair, it is but
+one voice--a single note, drawn by the sweep of the Player's hand across
+the quivering strings of man. What is the meaning of it, Paul? Can you
+read it? Sometimes it seems to me a note of joy, so full, so endless,
+so complete, that I cry: 'Blessed be the Lord whose hammers have beaten
+upon us, whose fires have shaped us to His ends!' And sometimes it
+sounds to me a dying note, so that I could curse Him who in wantonness
+has wrung it from the anguish of His creatures--till I would that
+I could fling myself, Prometheus like, between Him and His victims,
+calling: 'My darkness, but their light; my agony, O God; their hope!'”
+
+The faint light from a neighbouring gas-lamp fell upon his face that
+an hour before I had seen the face of a wild beast. The ugly mouth was
+quivering, tears stood in his great, tender eyes. Could his prayer in
+that moment have been granted, could he have pressed against his bosom
+all the pain of the world, he would have rejoiced.
+
+He shook himself together with a laugh. “Come, Paul, we have had a busy
+afternoon, and I'm thirsty. Let us drink some beer, my boy, good sound
+beer, and plenty of it.”
+
+My mother fell ill that winter. Mountain born and mountain bred, the
+close streets had never agreed with her, and scolded by all of us, she
+promised, “come the fine weather,” to put sentiment behind her, and go
+away from them.
+
+“I'm thinking she will,” said Hal, gripping my shoulder with his strong
+hand, “but it'll be by herself that she'll go, lad. My wonder is,” he
+continued, “that she has held out so long. If anything, it is you that
+have kept her alive. Now that you are off her mind to a certain extent,
+she is worrying about your father, I expect. These women, they never
+will believe a man can take care of himself, even in Heaven. She's never
+quite trusted the Lord with him, and never will till she's there to give
+an eye to things herself.”
+
+Hal's prophecy fell true. She left “come the fine weather,” as she had
+promised: I remember it was the first day primroses were hawked in the
+street. But another death had occurred just before; which, concerning me
+closely as it does, I had better here dispose of; and that was the death
+of old Mr. Stillwood, who passed away rich in honour and regret, and was
+buried with much ostentation and much sincere sorrow; for he had been to
+many of his clients, mostly old folk, rather a friend than a mere man
+of business, and had gained from all with whom he had come in contact,
+respect, and from many real affection.
+
+In conformity with the old legal fashions that in his life he had so
+fondly clung to, his will was read aloud by Mr. Gadley after the return
+from the funeral, and many were the tears its recital called forth.
+Written years ago by himself and never altered, its quaint phraseology
+was full of kindly thought and expression. No one had been forgotten.
+Clerks, servants, poor relations, all had been treated with even-handed
+justice, while for those with claim upon him, ample provision had
+been made. Few wills, I think, could ever have been read less open to
+criticism.
+
+Old Gadley slipped his arm into mine as we left the house. “If you've
+nothing to do, young 'un,” he said, “I'll get you to come with me to the
+office. I have got all the keys in my pocket, and we shall be quiet.
+It will be sad work for me, and I had rather we were alone. A couple of
+hours will show us everything.”
+
+We lighted the wax candles--old Stillwood could never tolerate gas in
+his own room--and opening the safe took out the heavy ledgers one by
+one, and from them Gadley dictated figures which I wrote down and added
+up.
+
+“Thirty years I have kept these books for him,” said old Gadley, as we
+laid by the last of them, “thirty years come Christmas next, he and I
+together. No other hands but ours have ever touched them, and now people
+to whom they mean nothing but so much business will fling them about,
+drop greasy crumbs upon them--I know their ways, the brutes!--scribble
+all over them. And he who always would have everything so neat and
+orderly!”
+
+We came to the end of them in less than the time old Gadley had thought
+needful: in such perfect order had everything been maintained. I was
+preparing to go, but old Gadley had drawn a couple of small keys from
+his pocket, and was shuffling again towards the safe.
+
+“Only one more,” he explained in answer to my look, “his own private
+ledger. It will merely be in the nature of a summary, but we'll just
+glance through it.”
+
+He opened an inner drawer and took from it a small thick volume bound
+in green leather and closed with two brass locks. An ancient volume, it
+appeared, its strong binding faded and stained. Old Gadley sat down
+with it at the dead man's own desk, and snuffing the two shaded candles,
+unlocked and opened it. I was standing opposite, so that the book to me
+was upside down, but the date on the first page, “1841,” caught my eye,
+as also the small neat writing now brown with age.
+
+“So neat, so orderly he always was,” murmured old Gadley again,
+smoothing the page affectionately with his hand, and I waited for his
+dictation.
+
+But no glib flow of figures fell from him. His eyebrows suddenly
+contracted, his body stiffened itself. Then for the next quarter of an
+hour nothing sounded in the quiet room but his turning of the creakling
+pages. Once or twice he glanced round swiftly over his shoulder, as
+though haunted by the idea of some one behind him; then back to the
+neat, closely written folios, his little eyes, now exhibiting a comical
+look of horror, starting out of his round red face. First slowly, then
+quickly with trembling hands he turned the pages, till the continual
+ratling of the leaves sounded like strange, mocking laughter through
+the silent, empty room; almost one could imagine it coming from some
+watching creature hidden in the shadows.
+
+The end reached, he sat staring before him, his whole body quivering,
+great beads of sweat upon his shiny bald head.
+
+“Am I mad?” was all he could find to say. “Kelver, am I mad?”
+
+He handed me the book. It was a cynically truthful record of fraud,
+extending over thirty years. Every client, every friend, every relative
+that had fallen into his net he had robbed: the fortunate ones of a
+part, the majority of their all. Its very first entry debited him
+with the proceeds of his own partner's estate. Its last ran--“Re
+Kelver--various sales of stock.” To his credit were his payments year
+after year of imaginary interests on imaginary securities, the surplus
+accounted for with simple brevity: “Transferred to own account.” No
+record could have been more clear, more frank. Beneath each transaction
+was written its true history; the actual investments, sometimes
+necessary, carefully distinguished from the false. In neat red ink would
+occur here and there a note for his own guidance: “Eldest child comes of
+age August, '73. Be prepared for trustees desiring production.” Turning
+to “August, '73,” one found that genuine investment had been made, to
+be sold again a few months later on. From beginning to end not a single
+false step had he committed. Suspicious clients had been ear-marked:
+the trusting discriminated with gratitude, and milked again and again to
+meet emergency.
+
+As a piece of organisation it was magnificent. No one but a financial
+genius could have picked a dozen steps through such a network of
+chicanery. For half a lifetime he had moved among it, dignified,
+respected and secure.
+
+Whether even he could have maintained his position for another month was
+doubtful. Suicide, though hinted at, was proved to have been impossible.
+It seemed as though with his amazing audacity he had tricked even Death
+into becoming his accomplice.
+
+“But it is impossible, Kelver!” cried Gadley, “this must be some dream.
+Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal! What is the meaning of it?”
+
+He took the book into his hands again, then burst into tears. “You never
+knew him,” wailed the poor little man. “Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal!
+I came here as office boy fifty years ago. He was more like a friend to
+me than--” and again the sobs shook his little fat body.
+
+I locked the books away and put him into his hat and coat. But I had
+much difficulty in getting him out of the office.
+
+“I daren't, young 'un,” he cried, drawing back. “Fifty years I have
+walked out of this office, proud of it, proud of being connected with
+it. I daren't face the street!”
+
+All the way home his only idea was: Could it not be hidden? Honest,
+kindly little man that he was, he seemed to have no thought for the
+unfortunate victims. The good name of his master, of his friend, gone!
+Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal, a by-word! To have avoided that I
+believe he would have been willing for yet another hundred clients to be
+ruined.
+
+I saw him to his door, then turned homeward; and to my surprise in
+a dark by-street heard myself laughing heartily. I checked myself
+instantly, feeling ashamed of my callousness, of my seeming indifference
+to the trouble even of myself and my mother. Yet as there passed before
+me the remembrance of that imposing and expensive funeral with its
+mournful following of tearful faces; the hushed reading of the will with
+its accompaniment of rustling approval; the picture of the admirably
+sympathetic clergyman consoling with white hands Mrs. Stillwood,
+inclined to hysteria, but anxious concerning her two hundred pounds'
+worth of crape which by no possibility of means could now be paid
+for--recurred to me the obituary notice in “The Chelsea Weekly
+Chronicle”: the humour of the thing swept all else before it, and I
+laughed again--I could not help it--loud and long. It was my first
+introduction to the comedy of life, which is apt to be more brutal than
+the comedy of fiction.
+
+But nearing home, the serious side of the matter forced itself
+uppermost. Fortunately, our supposed dividends had been paid to us
+by Mr. Stillwood only the month before. Could I keep the thing from
+troubling my mother's last days? It would be hard work. I should have to
+do it alone, for a perhaps foolish pride prevented my taking Hal into my
+confidence, even made his friendship a dread to me, lest he should come
+to learn and offer help. There is a higher generosity, it is said, that
+can receive with pleasure as well as bestow favour; but I have never
+felt it. Could I be sure of acting my part, of not betraying myself to
+her sharp eyes, of keeping newspapers and chance gossip away from her?
+Good shrewd Amy I cautioned, but I shrank from even speaking on the
+subject to Hal, and my fear was lest he should blunder into the subject,
+which for the usual nine days occupied much public attention. But
+fortunately he appeared not even to have heard of the scandal.
+
+Possibly had the need lasted longer I might have failed, but as it was,
+a few weeks saw the end.
+
+“Don't leave me to-day, Paul,” whispered my mother to me one morning. So
+I stayed, and in the evening my mother put her arms around my neck and I
+lay beside her, my head upon her breast, as I used to when a little boy.
+And when the morning came I was alone.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK II.
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+DESCRIBES THE DESERT ISLAND TO WHICH PAUL WAS DRIFTED.
+
+“Room to let for a single gentleman.” Sometimes in an idle hour,
+impelled by foolishness, I will knock at the door. It is opened after a
+longer or shorter interval by the “slavey”--in the morning, slatternly,
+her arms concealed beneath her apron; in the afternoon, smart in dirty
+cap and apron. How well I know her! Unchanged, not grown an inch--her
+round bewildered eyes, her open mouth, her touzled hair, her scored red
+hands. With an effort I refrain from muttering: “So sorry, forgot
+my key,” from pushing past her and mounting two at a time the narrow
+stairs, carpeted to the first floor, but bare beyond. Instead, I say,
+“Oh, what rooms have you to let?” when, scuttling to the top of the
+kitchen stairs, she will call over the banisters: “A gentleman to see
+the rooms.” There comes up, panting, a harassed-looking, elderly
+female, but genteel in black. She crushes past the little “slavey,” and
+approaching, eyes me critically.
+
+“I have a very nice room on the first floor,” she informs me, “and one
+behind on the third.”
+
+I agree to see them, explaining that I am seeking them for a young
+friend of mine. We squeeze past the hat and umbrella stand: there is
+just room, but one must keep close to the wall. The first floor is
+rather an imposing apartment, with a marble-topped sideboard measuring
+quite three feet by two, the doors of which will remain closed if you
+introduce a wad of paper between them. A green table-cloth, matching the
+curtains, covers the loo-table. The lamp is perfectly safe so long as
+it stands in the exact centre of the table, but should not be shifted.
+A paper fire-stove ornament in some mysterious way bestows upon the room
+an air of chastity. Above the mantelpiece is a fly-blown mirror, between
+the once gilt frame and glass of which can be inserted invitation
+cards; indeed, one or two so remain, proving that the tenants even of
+“bed-sitting-rooms” are not excluded from social delights. The wall
+opposite is adorned by an oleograph of the kind Cheap Jacks sell
+by auction on Saturday nights in the Pimlico Road, and warrant as
+“hand-made.” Generally speaking, it is a Swiss landscape. There appears
+to be more “body” in a Swiss landscape than in scenes from less favoured
+localities. A dilapidated mill, a foaming torrent, a mountain, a maiden
+and a cow can at the least be relied upon. An easy chair (I disclaim
+all responsibility for the adjective), stuffed with many coils of steel
+wire, each possessing a “business end” in admirable working order, and
+covered with horsehair, highly glazed, awaits the uninitiated. There is
+one way of sitting upon it, and only one: by using the extreme edge, and
+planting your feet firmly on the floor. If you attempt to lean back in
+it you inevitably slide out of it. When so treated it seems to say to
+you: “Excuse me, you are very heavy, and you would really be much more
+comfortable upon the floor. Thank you so much.” The bed is behind the
+door, and the washstand behind the bed. If you sit facing the window you
+can forget the bed. On the other hand, if more than one friend come
+to call on you, you are glad of it. As a matter of fact, experienced
+visitors prefer it--make straight for it, refusing with firmness to
+exchange it for the easy chair.
+
+“And this room is?”
+
+“Eight shillings a week, sir--with attendance, of course.”
+
+“Any extras?”
+
+“The lamp, sir, is eighteenpence a week; and the kitchen fire, if the
+gentleman wishes to dine at home, two shillings.”
+
+“And fire?”
+
+“Sixpence a scuttle, sir, I charge for coals.”
+
+“It's rather a small scuttle.”
+
+The landlady bridles a little. “The usual size, I think, sir.” One
+presumes there is a special size in coal-scuttles made exclusively for
+lodging-house keepers.
+
+I agree that while I am about it I may as well see the other room,
+the third floor back. The landlady opens the door for me, but remains
+herself on the landing. She is a stout lady, and does not wish to dwarf
+the apartment by comparison. The arrangement here does not allow of your
+ignoring the bed. It is the life and soul of the room, and it
+declines to efface itself. Its only possible rival is the washstand,
+straw-coloured; with staring white basin and jug, together with other
+appurtenances. It glares defiantly from its corner. “I know I'm small,”
+ it seems to say; “but I'm very useful; and I won't be ignored.”
+ The remaining furniture consists of a couple of chairs--there is no
+hypocrisy about them: they are not easy and they do not pretend to be
+easy; a small chest of light-painted drawers before the window, with
+white china handles, upon which is a tiny looking-glass; and, occupying
+the entire remaining space, after allowing three square feet for the
+tenant, when he arrives, an attenuated four-legged table apparently
+home-made. The only ornament in the room is, suspended above the
+fireplace, a funeral card, framed in beer corks. As the corpse
+introduced by the ancient Egyptians into their banquets, it is hung
+there perhaps to remind the occupant of the apartment that the luxuries
+and allurements of life have their end; or maybe it consoles him in
+despondent moments with the reflection that after all he might be worse
+off.
+
+The rent of this room is three-and-sixpence a week, also including
+attendance; lamp, as for the first floor, eighteen-pence; but kitchen
+fire a shilling.
+
+“But why should kitchen fire for the first floor be two shillings, and
+for this only one?”
+
+“Well, as a rule, sir, the first floor wants more cooking done.”
+
+You are quite right, my dear lady, I was forgetting. The gentleman
+in the third floor back! cooking for him is not a great tax upon the
+kitchen fire. His breakfast, it is what, madam, we call plain, I think.
+His lunch he takes out. You may see him, walking round the quiet square,
+up and down the narrow street that, leading to nowhere in particular, is
+between twelve and two somewhat deserted. He carries a paper bag,
+into which at intervals, when he is sure nobody is looking, his mouth
+disappears. From studying the neighbourhood one can guess what it
+contains. Saveloys hereabouts are plentiful and only twopence each.
+There are pie shops, where meat pies are twopence and fruit pies a
+penny. The lady behind the counter, using deftly a broad, flat knife,
+lifts the little dainty with one twist clean from its tiny dish: it is
+marvellous, having regard to the thinness of the pastry, that she never
+breaks one. Roley-poley pudding, sweet and wonderfully satisfying, more
+especially when cold, is but a penny a slice. Peas pudding, though this
+is an awkward thing to eat out of a bag, is comforting upon cold days.
+Then with his tea he takes two eggs or a haddock, the fourpenny size;
+maybe on rare occasions, a chop or steak; and you fry it for him, madam,
+though every time he urges on you how much he would prefer it grilled,
+for fried in your one frying-pan its flavour becomes somewhat confused.
+But maybe this is the better for him, for, shutting his eyes and
+trusting only to smell and flavour, he can imagine himself enjoying
+variety. He can begin with herrings, pass on to liver and bacon, opening
+his eyes again for a moment perceive that he has now arrived at the
+joint, and closing them again, wind up with distinct suggestion of
+toasted cheese, thus avoiding monotony. For dinner he goes out again.
+Maybe he is not hungry, late meals are a mistake; or, maybe, putting
+his hand into his pocket and making calculations beneath a lamp-post,
+appetite may come to him. Then there are places cheerful with the sound
+of frizzling fat, where fried plaice brown and odorous may be had for
+three halfpence, and a handful of sliced potatoes for a penny; where for
+fourpence succulent stewed eels may be discussed; vinegar ad lib.; or
+for sevenpence--but these are red-letter evenings--half a sheep's head
+may be indulged in, which is a supper fit for any king, who happened to
+be hungry.
+
+I explain that I will discuss the matter with my young friend when he
+arrives. The landlady says, “Certainly, sir:” she is used to what she
+calls the “wandering Christian;” and easing my conscience by slipping a
+shilling into the “slavey's” astonished, lukewarm hand, I pass out
+again into the long, dreary street, now echoing maybe to the sad cry of
+“Muffins!”
+
+Or sometimes of an evening, the lamp lighted, the remnants of the meat
+tea cleared away, the flickering firelight cosifying the dingy rooms,
+I go a-visiting. There is no need for me to ring the bell, to mount the
+stairs. Through the thin transparent walls I can see you plainly,
+old friends of mine, fashions a little changed, that is all. We wore
+bell-shaped trousers; eight-and-six to measure, seven-and-six if from
+stock; fastened our neckties in dashing style with a horseshoe pin. I
+think in the matter of waistcoats we had the advantage of you; ours were
+gayer, braver. Our cuffs and collars were of paper: sixpence-halfpenny
+the dozen, three-halfpence the pair. On Sunday they were white and
+glistening; on Monday less aggressively obvious; on Tuesday morning
+decidedly dappled. But on Tuesday evening, when with natty cane, or
+umbrella neatly rolled in patent leather case, we took our promenade
+down Oxford Street--fashionable hour nine to ten p.m.--we could shoot
+our arms and cock our chins with the best. Your india-rubber linen has
+its advantages. Storm does not wither it; it braves better the heat and
+turmoil of the day. The passing of a sponge! and your “Dicky” is itself
+again. We had to use bread-crumbs, and so sacrifice the glaze. Yet I
+cannot help thinking that for the first few hours, at all events, our
+paper was more dazzling.
+
+For the rest I see no change in you, old friends. I wave you greeting
+from the misty street. God rest you, gallant gentlemen, lonely and
+friendless and despised; making the best of joyless lives; keeping
+yourselves genteel on twelve, fifteen, or eighteen (ah, but you are
+plutocrats!) shillings a week; saving something even of that, maybe, to
+help the old mother in the country, so proud of her “gentleman” son who
+has book learning and who is “something in the City.” May nothing you
+dismay. Bullied, and badgered, and baited from nine to six though you
+may be, from then till bedtime you are rorty young dogs. The half-guinea
+topper, “as worn by the Prince of Wales” (ah, how many a meal has it not
+cost!), warmed before the fire, brushed and polished and coaxed, shines
+resplendent. The second pair of trousers are drawn from beneath the bed;
+in the gaslight, with well-marked crease from top to toe, they will pass
+for new. A pleasant evening to you! May your cheap necktie make all the
+impression your soul can desire! May your penny cigar be mistaken for
+Havana! May the barmaid charm your simple heart by addressing you as
+“Baby!” May some sweet shop-girl throw a kindly glance at you, inviting
+you to walk with her! May she snigger at your humour; may other dogs
+cast envious looks at you, and may no harm come of it!
+
+You dreamers of dreams, you who while your companions play and sleep
+will toil upward in the night! You have read Mr. Smiles' “Self-Help,”
+Longfellow's “Psalm of Life,” and so strengthened attack with confidence
+“French Without a Master,” “Bookkeeping in Six Lessons.” With a sigh to
+yourselves you turn aside from the alluring streets, from the bright,
+bewitching eyes, into the stuffy air of Birkbeck Institutions,
+Polytechnic Schools. May success compensate you for your youth devoid of
+pleasure! May the partner's chair you seen in visions be yours before
+the end! May you live one day in Clapham in a twelve-roomed house!
+
+And, after all, we have our moments, have we not? The Saturday night at
+the play. The hours of waiting, they are short. We converse with kindred
+souls of the British Drama, its past and future: we have our views. We
+dream of Florence This, Kate That; in a little while we shall see
+her. Ah, could she but know how we loved her! Her photo is on our
+mantelpiece, transforming the dismal little room into a shrine. The poem
+we have so often commenced! when it is finished we will post it to her.
+At least she will acknowledge its receipt; we can kiss the paper her
+hand has rested on. The great doors groan, then quiver. Ah, the wild
+thrill of that moment! Now push for all you are worth: charge, wriggle,
+squirm! It is an epitome of life. We are through--collarless, panting,
+pummelled from top to toe: but what of that? Upward, still upward; then
+downward with leaps at risk of our neck, from bench to bench through the
+gloom. We have gained the front row! Would we exchange sensations with
+the stallite, strolling languidly to his seat? The extravagant dinner
+once a week! We banquet _a la Francais_, in Soho, for one-and-six,
+including wine. Does Tortoni ever give his customers a repast they enjoy
+more? I trow not.
+
+My first lodging was an attic in a square the other side of Blackfriars
+Bridge. The rent of the room, if I remember rightly, was three shillings
+a week with cooking, half-a-crown without. I purchased a methylated
+spirit stove with kettle and frying-pan, and took it without.
+
+Old Hasluck would have helped me willingly, and there were others to
+whom I might have appealed, but a boy's pride held me back. I would make
+my way alone, win my place in the world by myself. To Hal, knowing he
+would sympathise with me, I confided the truth.
+
+“Had your mother lived,” he told me, “I should have had something to say
+on the subject. Of course, I knew what had happened, but as it is--well,
+you need not be afraid, I shall not offer you help; indeed, I should
+refuse it were you to ask. Put your Carlyle in your pocket: he is not
+all voices, but he is the best maker of men I know. The great thing to
+learn of life is not to be afraid of it.”
+
+“Look me up now and then,” he added, “and we'll talk about the stars,
+the future of Socialism, and the Woman Question--anything you like
+except about yourself and your twopenny-half-penny affairs.”
+
+From another it would have sounded brutal, but I understood him. And
+so we shook hands and parted for longer than either of us at the time
+expected. The Franco-German War broke out a few weeks later on, and
+Hal, the love of adventure always strong within him, volunteered his
+services, which were accepted. It was some years before we met again.
+
+On the door-post of a house in Farringdon Street, not far from the
+Circus, stood in those days a small brass plate, announcing that the
+“Ludgate News Rooms” occupied the third and fourth floors, and that the
+admission to the same was one penny. We were a seedy company that every
+morning crowded into these rooms: clerks, shopmen, superior artisans,
+travellers, warehousemen--all of us out of work. Most of us were young,
+but with us was mingled a sprinkling of elder men, and these latter were
+always the saddest and most silent of this little whispering army of
+the down-at-heel. Roughly speaking, we were divided into two groups:
+the newcomers, cheery, confident. These would flit from newspaper to
+newspaper with buzz of pleasant anticipation, select their advertisement
+as one choosing some dainty out of a rich and varied menu card, and
+replying to it as one conferring favour.
+
+“Dear Sir,--in reply to your advertisement in to-day's _Standard_, I
+shall be pleased to accept the post vacant in your office. I am of good
+appearance and address. I am an excellent--” It was really marvellous
+the quality and number of our attainments. French! we wrote and spoke it
+fluently, _a la Ahn_. German! of this we possessed a slighter knowledge,
+it was true, but sufficient for mere purposes of commerce. Bookkeeping!
+arithmetic! geometry! we played with them. The love of work! it was a
+passion with us. Our moral character! it would have adorned a Free Kirk
+Elder. “I could call on you to-morrow or Friday between eleven and one,
+or on Saturday any time up till two. Salary required, two guineas a
+week. An early answer will oblige. Yours truly.”
+
+The old stagers did not buzz. Hour after hour they sat writing,
+steadily, methodically, with day by day less hope and heavier fears:
+
+“Sir,--Your advt. in to-day's _D. T._ I am--” of such and such an age.
+List of qualifications less lengthy, set forth with more modesty; object
+desired being air of verisimilitude.--“If you decide to engage me I will
+endeavour to give you every satisfaction. Any time you like to appoint
+I will call on you. I should not ask a high salary to start with. Yours
+obediently.”
+
+Dozens of the first letter, hundreds of the second, I wrote with painful
+care, pen carefully chosen, the one-inch margin down the left hand side
+of the paper first portioned off with dots. To three or four I received
+a curt reply, instructing me to call. But the shyness that had stood so
+in my way during the earlier half of my school days had now, I know not
+why, returned upon me, hampering me at every turn. A shy child grown-up
+folks at all events can understand and forgive; but a shy young man
+is not unnaturally regarded as a fool. I gave the impression of being
+awkward, stupid, sulky. The more I strove against my temperament
+the worse I became. My attempts to be at my ease, to assert myself,
+resulted--I could see it myself--only in rudeness.
+
+“Well, I have got to see one or two others. We will write and let you
+know,” was the conclusion of each interview, and the end, as far as I
+was concerned, of the enterprise.
+
+My few pounds, guard them how I would, were dwindling rapidly. Looking
+back, it is easy enough to regard one's early struggles from a humorous
+point of view. One knows the story, it all ended happily. But at the
+time there is no means of telling whether one's biography is going to be
+comedy or tragedy. There were moments when I felt confident it was going
+to be the latter. Occasionally, when one is feeling well, it is not
+unpleasant to contemplate with pathetic sympathy one's own death-bed.
+One thinks of the friends and relations who at last will understand and
+regret one, be sorry they had not behaved themselves better. But myself,
+there was no one to regret. I felt very small, very helpless. The world
+was big. I feared it might walk over me, trample me down, never seeing
+me. I seemed unable to attract its attention.
+
+One morning I found waiting for me at the Reading Room another of the
+usual missives. It ran: “Will Mr. P. Kelver call at the above address
+to-morrow morning between ten-thirty and eleven.” The paper was headed:
+“Lott and Co., Indian Commission Agents, Aldersgate Street.” Without
+much hope I returned to my lodgings, changed my clothes, donned my
+silk hat, took my one pair of gloves, drew its silk case over my holey
+umbrella; and so equipped for fight with Fate made my way to Aldersgate
+Street. For a quarter of an hour or so, being too soon, I walked up and
+down the pavement outside the house, gazing at the second-floor windows,
+behind which, so the door-plate had informed me, were the offices of
+Lott & Co. I could not recall their advertisement, nor my reply to it.
+The firm was evidently not in a very flourishing condition. I wondered
+idly what salary they would offer. For a moment I dreamt of a Cheeryble
+Brother asking me kindly if I thought I could do with thirty shillings
+a week as a beginning; but the next I recalled my usual fate, and
+considered whether it was even worth while to climb the stairs, go
+through what to me was a painful ordeal, merely to be impressed again
+with the sense of my own worthlessness.
+
+A fine rain began to fall. I did not wish to unroll my umbrella,
+yet felt nervous for my hat. It was five minutes to the half hour.
+Listlessly I crossed the road and mounted the bare stairs to the second
+floor. Two doors faced me, one marked “Private.” I tapped lightly at the
+second. Not hearing any response, after a second or two I tapped again.
+A sound reached me, but it was unintelligible. I knocked yet again,
+still louder. This time I heard a reply in a shrill, plaintive tone:
+
+“Oh, do come in.”
+
+The tone was one of pathetic entreaty. I turned the handle and entered.
+It was a small room, dimly lighted by a dirty window, the bottom half of
+which was rendered opaque by tissue paper pasted to its panes. The place
+suggested a village shop rather than an office. Pots of jam, jars of
+pickles, bottles of wine, biscuit tins, parcels of drapery, boxes of
+candles, bars of soap, boots, packets of stationery, boxes of cigars,
+tinned provisions, guns, cartridges--things sufficient to furnish a
+desert island littered every available corner. At a small desk under the
+window sat a youth with a remarkably small body and a remarkably
+large head; so disproportionate were the two I should hardly have been
+surprised had he put up his hands and taken it off. Half in the room and
+half out, I paused.
+
+“Is this Lott & Co.?” I enquired.
+
+“No,” he answered; “it's a room.” One eye was fixed upon me, dull and
+glassy; it never blinked, it never wavered. With the help of the other
+he continued his writing.
+
+“I mean,” I explained, coming entirely into the room, “are these the
+offices of Lott & Co.?”
+
+“It's one of them,” he replied; “the back one. If you're really anxious
+for a job, you can shut the door.”
+
+I complied with his suggestion, and then announced that I was Mr.
+Kelver--Mr. Paul Kelver.
+
+“Minikin's my name,” he returned, “Sylvanus Minikin. You don't happen by
+any chance to know what you've come for, I suppose?”
+
+Looking at his body, my inclination was to pick my way among the goods
+that covered the floor and pull his ears for him. From his grave and
+massive face, he might, for all I knew, be the head clerk.
+
+“I have called to see Mr. Lott,” I replied, with dignity; “I have an
+appointment.” I produced the letter from my pocket, and leaning across
+a sewing-machine, I handed it to him for his inspection. Having read it,
+he suddenly took from its socket the eye with which he had been hitherto
+regarding me, and proceeding to polish it upon his pocket handkerchief,
+turned upon me his other. Having satisfied himself, he handed me back my
+letter.
+
+“Want my advice?” he asked.
+
+I thought it might be useful to me, so replied in the affirmative.
+
+“Hook it,” was his curt counsel.
+
+“Why?” I asked. “Isn't he a good employer?”
+
+Replacing his glass eye, he turned again to his work. “If employment is
+what you want,” answered Mr. Minikin, “you'll get it. Best employer in
+London. He'll keep you going for twenty-four hours a day, and then offer
+you overtime at half salary.”
+
+“I must get something to do,” I confessed.
+
+“Sit down then,” suggested Mr. Minikin. “Rest while you can.”
+
+I took the chair; it was the only chair in the room, with the exception
+of the one Minikin was sitting on.
+
+“Apart from his being a bit of a driver,” I asked, “what sort of a man
+is he? Is he pleasant?”
+
+“Never saw him put out but once,” answered Minikin.
+
+It sounded well. “When was that?” I asked.
+
+“All the time I've known him.”
+
+My spirits continued to sink. Had I been left alone with Minikin much
+longer, I might have ended by following his advice, “hooking it” before
+Mr. Lott arrived. But the next moment I heard the other door open, and
+some one entered the private office. Then the bell rang, and Minikin
+disappeared, leaving the communicating door ajar behind him. The
+conversation that I overheard was as follows:
+
+“Why isn't Mr. Skeat here?”
+
+“Because he hasn't come.”
+
+“Where are the letters?”
+
+“Under your nose.”
+
+“How dare you answer me like that?”
+
+“Well, it's the truth. They are under your nose.”
+
+“Did you give Thorneycroft's man my message?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“What did he answer?”
+
+“Said you were a liar.”
+
+“Oh, he did, did he! What did you reply?”
+
+“Asked him to tell me something I didn't know.”
+
+“Thought that clever, didn't you?”
+
+“Not bad.”
+
+Whatever faults might be laid to Mr. Lott's door, he at least, I
+concluded, possesssed the virtue of self-control.
+
+“Anybody been here?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“Mr. Kelver--Mr. Paul Kelver.”
+
+“Kelver, Kelver. Who's Kelver?”
+
+“Know what he is--a fool.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“He's come after the place.”
+
+“Is he there?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“What's he like?”
+
+“Not bad looking; fair--”
+
+“Idiot! I mean is he smart?”
+
+“Just at present--got all his Sunday clothes on.”
+
+“Send him in to me. Don't go, don't go.”
+
+“How can I send him in to you if I don't go?”
+
+“Take these. Have you finished those bills of lading?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Good God! when will you have finished them?”
+
+“Half an hour after I have begun them.”
+
+“Get out, get out! Has that door been open all the time?”
+
+“Well, I don't suppose it's opened itself.”
+
+Minikin re-entered with papers in his hand. “In you go,” he said.
+“Heaven help you!” And I passed in and closed the door behind me.
+
+The room was a replica of the one I had just left. If possible, it was
+more crowded, more packed with miscellaneous articles. I picked my
+way through these and approached the desk. Mr. Lott was a small,
+dingy-looking man, with very dirty hands, and small, restless eyes. I
+was glad that he was not imposing, or my shyness might have descended
+upon me; as it was, I felt better able to do myself justice. At once he
+plunged into the business by seizing and waving in front of my eyes a
+bulky bundle of letters tied together with red tape.
+
+“One hundred and seventeen answers to an advertisement,” he cried with
+evident satisfaction, “in one day! That shows you the state of the
+labour market!”
+
+I agreed it was appalling.
+
+“Poor devils, poor devils!” murmured Mr. Lott “what will become of them?
+Some of them will starve. Terrible death, starvation, Kelver; takes such
+a long time--especially when you're young.”
+
+Here also I found myself in accord with him.
+
+“Living with your parents?”
+
+I explained to him my situation.
+
+“Any friends?”
+
+I informed him I was entirely dependent upon my own efforts.
+
+“Any money? Anything coming in?”
+
+I told him I had a few pounds still remaining to me, but that after that
+was gone I should be penniless.
+
+“And to think, Kelver, that there are hundreds, thousands of young
+fellows precisely in your position! How sad, how very sad! How long have
+you been looking for a berth?”
+
+“A month,” I answered him.
+
+“I thought as much. Do you know why I selected your letter out of the
+whole batch?”
+
+I replied I hoped it was because he judged from it I should prove
+satisfactory.
+
+“Because it's the worst written of them all.” He pushed it across to me.
+“Look at it. Awful, isn't it?”
+
+I admitted that handwriting was not my strong point.
+
+“Nor spelling either,” he added, and with truth. “Who do you think will
+engage you if I don't?”
+
+“Nobody,” he continued, without waiting for me to reply. “A month hence
+you will still be looking for a berth, and a month after that. Now, I'm
+going to do you a good turn; save you from destitution; give you a start
+in life.”
+
+I expressed my gratitude.
+
+He waived it aside. “That is my notion of philanthropy: help those that
+nobody else will help. That young fellow in the other room--he isn't a
+bad worker, he's smart, but he's impertinent.”
+
+I murmured that I had gathered so much.
+
+“Doesn't mean to be, can't help it. Noticed his trick of looking at you
+with his glass eye, keeping the other turned away from you?”
+
+I replied that I had.
+
+“Always does it. Used to irritate his last employer to madness. Said to
+him one day: 'Do turn that signal lamp of yours off, Minikin, and look
+at me with your real eye.' What do you think he answered? That it was
+the only one he'd got, and that he didn't want to expose it to shocks.
+Wouldn't have mattered so much if it hadn't been one of the ugliest men
+in London.”
+
+I murmured my indignation.
+
+“I put up with him. Nobody else would. The poor fellow must live.”
+
+I expressed admiration at Mr. Lott's humanity.
+
+“You don't mind work? You're not one of those good-for-nothings who
+sleep all day and wake up when it's time to go home?”
+
+I assured him that in whatever else I might fail I could promise him
+industry.
+
+“With some of them,” complained Mr. Lott, in a tone of bitterness, “it's
+nothing but play, girls, gadding about the streets. Work, business--oh,
+no. I may go bankrupt; my wife and children may go into the workhouse.
+No thought for me, the man that keeps them, feeds them, clothes them.
+How much salary do you want?”
+
+I hesitated. I gathered this was not a Cheeryble Brother; it would be
+necessary to be moderate in one's demands. “Five-and-twenty shillings a
+week,” I suggested.
+
+He repeated the figure in a scream. “Five-and-twenty shillings for
+writing like that! And can't spell commission! Don't know anything about
+the business. Five-and-twenty!--Tell you what I'll do: I'll give you
+twelve.”
+
+“But I can't live on twelve,” I explained.
+
+“Can't live on twelve! Do you know why? Because you don't know how to
+live. I know you all. One veal and ham pie, one roley-poley, one Dutch
+cheese and a pint of bitter.”
+
+His recital made my mouth water.
+
+“You overload your stomachs, then you can't work. Half the diseases you
+young fellows suffer from are brought about by overeating.”
+
+“Now, you take my advice,” continued Mr. Lott; “try vegetarianism. In
+the morning, a little oatmeal. Wonderfully strengthening stuff, oatmeal:
+look at the Scotch. For dinner, beans. Why, do you know there's
+more nourishment in half a pint of lentil beans than in a pound of
+beefsteak--more gluten. That's what you want, more gluten; no corpses,
+no dead bodies. Why, I've known young fellows, vegetarians, who have
+lived like fighting cocks on sevenpence a day. Seven times seven are
+forty-nine. How much do you pay for your room?”
+
+I told him.
+
+“Four-and-a-penny and two-and-six makes six-and-seven. That leaves you
+five and fivepence for mere foolery. Good God! what more do you want?”
+
+“I'll take eighteen, sir,” I answered. “I can't really manage on less.”
+
+“Very well, I won't beat you down,” he answered. “Fifteen shillings a
+week.”
+
+“I said eighteen,” I persisted.
+
+“Well, and I said fifteen,” he retorted, somewhat indignant at the
+quibbling. “That's splitting the difference, isn't it? I can't be fairer
+than that.”
+
+I dared not throw away the one opportunity that had occurred. Anything
+was better than return to the Reading Rooms, and the empty days full of
+despair. I accepted, and it was agreed that I should come the following
+Monday morning.
+
+“Nabbed?” was Minikin's enquiry on my return to the back office for my
+hat.
+
+I nodded.
+
+“What's he wasting on you?”
+
+“Fifteen shillings a week,” I whispered.
+
+“Felt sure somehow that he'd take a liking to you,” answered Minikin.
+“Don't be ungrateful and look thin on it.”
+
+Outside the door I heard Mr. Lott's shrill voice demanding to know where
+postage stamps were to be found.
+
+“At the Post-office,” was Minikin's reply.
+
+The hours were long--in fact, we had no office hours; we got away
+when we could, which was rarely before seven or eight--but my work was
+interesting. It consisted of buying for unfortunate clients in India or
+the Colonies anything they might happen to want, from a stage coach to
+a pot of marmalade; packing it and shipping it across to them. Our
+“commission” was anything they could be persuaded to pay over and above
+the value of the article. I was not much interfered with. There was that
+to be said for Lott & Co., so long as the work was done he was quite
+content to leave one to one's own way of doing it. And hastening through
+the busy streets, bargaining in shop or warehouse, bustling important in
+and out the swarming docks, I often thanked my stars that I was not as
+some poor two-pound-a-week clerk chained to a dreary desk.
+
+The fifteen shillings a week was a tight fit; but that was not my
+trouble. Reduce your denominator--you know the quotation. I found it no
+philosophical cant, but a practical solution of life. My food cost me
+on the average a shilling a day. If more of us limited our commissariat
+bill to the same figure, there would be less dyspepsia abroad. Generally
+I cooked my own meals in my own frying-pan; but occasionally I would
+indulge myself with a more orthodox dinner at a cook shop, or tea with
+hot buttered toast at a coffee-shop; and but for the greasy table-cloth
+and the dirty-handed waiter, such would have been even greater
+delights. The shilling a week for amusements afforded me at least one,
+occasionally two, visits to the theatre, for in those days there were
+Paradises where for sixpence one could be a god. Fourpence a week on
+tobacco gave me half-a-dozen cigarettes a day; I have spent more on
+smoke and derived less satisfaction. Dress was my greatest difficulty.
+One anxiety in life the poor man is saved: he knows not the haunting
+sense of debt. My tailor never dunned me. His principle was half-a-crown
+down on receipt of order, the balance on the handing over of the goods.
+No system is perfect; the method avoided friction, it is true; yet
+on the other hand it was annoying to be compelled to promenade, come
+Sundays, in shiny elbows and frayed trousers, knowing all the while
+that finished, waiting, was a suit in which one might have made one's
+mark--had only one shut one's eyes passing that pastry-cook's window on
+pay-day. Surely there should be a sumptuary law compelling pastry-cooks
+to deal in cellars or behind drawn blinds.
+
+Were it because of its mere material hardships that to this day I think
+of that period of my life with a shudder, I should not here confess to
+it. I was alone. I knew not a living soul to whom I dared to speak, who
+cared to speak to me. For those first twelve months after my mother's
+death I lived alone, thought alone, felt alone. In the morning, during
+the busy day, it was possible to bear; but in the evenings the sense
+of desolation gripped me like a physical pain. The summer evenings
+came again, bringing with them the long, lingering light so laden with
+melancholy. I would walk into the Parks and, sitting there, watch with
+hungry eyes the men and women, boys and girls, moving all around me,
+talking, laughing, interested in one another; feeling myself some
+speechless ghost, seeing but not seen, crying to the living with a voice
+they heard not. Sometimes a solitary figure would pass by and glance
+back at me; some lonely creature like myself longing for human sympathy.
+In the teeming city must have been thousands such--young men and women
+to whom a friendly ear, a kindly voice, would have been as the water of
+life. Each imprisoned in his solitary cell of shyness, we looked at one
+another through the grating with condoling eyes; further than that
+was forbidden to us. Once, in Kensington Gardens, a woman turned, then
+slowly retracing her steps, sat down beside me on the bench. Neither of
+us spoke; had I done so she would have risen and moved away; yet there
+was understanding between us. To each of us it was some comfort to sit
+thus for a little while beside the other. Had she poured out her heart
+to me, she could have told me nothing more than I knew: “I, too, am
+lonely, friendless; I, too, long for the sound of a voice, the touch of
+a hand. It is hard for you, it is harder still for me, a girl; shut out
+from the bright world that laughs around me; denied the right of
+youth to joy and pleasure; denied the right of womanhood to love and
+tenderness.”
+
+The footsteps to and fro grew fewer. She moved to rise. Stirred by an
+impulse, I stretched out my hand, then seeing the flush upon her face,
+drew it back hastily. But the next moment, changing her mind, she held
+hers out to me, and I took it. It was the first clasp of a hand I had
+felt since six months before I had said good-bye to Hal. She turned and
+walked quickly away. I stood watching her; she never looked round, and I
+never saw her again.
+
+I take no credit to myself for keeping straight, as it is termed, during
+these days. For good or evil, my shyness prevented my taking part in the
+flirtations of the streets. Whether inviting eyes were ever thrown to me
+as to others, I cannot say. Sometimes, fancying so--hoping so, I would
+follow. Yet never could I summon up sufficient resolution to face the
+possible rebuff before some less timid swain would swoop down upon the
+quarry. Then I would hurry on, cursing myself for the poorness of my
+spirit, fancying mocking contempt in the laughter that followed me.
+
+On a Sunday I would rise early and take long solitary walks into the
+country. One winter's day--I remember it was on the road between Edgware
+and Stanmore--there issued from a by-road a little ahead of me a party
+of boys and girls, young people about my own age, bound evidently on
+a skating expedition. I could hear the musical ring of their blades,
+clattering as they walked, and the sound of their merry laughter so
+clear and bell-like through the frosty air. And an aching anguish fell
+upon me. I felt a mad desire to run after them, to plead with them to
+let me walk with them a little way, to let me laugh and talk with them.
+Every now and then they would pirouette to cry some jest to one another.
+I could see their faces: the girls' so sweetly alluring, framed by their
+dainty hats and furs, the bright colour in their cheeks, the light
+in their teasing eyes. A little further on they turned aside into a
+by-lane, and I stood at the corner listening till the last echo of their
+joyous voices died away, and on a stone that still remains standing
+there I sat down and sobbed.
+
+I would walk about the streets always till very late. I dreaded the
+echoing clang of the little front door when I closed it behind me, the
+climbing of the silent stairs, the solitude that waited for me in my
+empty room. It would rise and come towards me like some living thing,
+kissing me with cold lips. Often, unable to bear the closeness of its
+presence, I would creep out into the streets. There, even though it
+followed me, I was not alone with it. Sometimes I would pace them the
+whole night, sharing them with the other outcasts while the city slept.
+
+Occasionally, during these nightly wanderings would come to me moments
+of exaltation when fear fell from me and my blood would leap with joy at
+prospect of the fierce struggle opening out before me. Then it was the
+ghostly city sighing round me that seemed dead, I the only living thing
+real among a world of shadows. In long, echoing streets I would laugh
+and shout. Misunderstanding policemen would turn their bull's-eyes on
+me, gruffly give me practical advice: they knew not who I was! I stood
+the centre of a vast galanty-show: the phantom houses came and went;
+from some there shone bright lights; the doors were open, and little
+figures flitted in and out, the tiny coaches glided to and fro, manikins
+grotesque but pitiful crept across the star-lit curtain.
+
+Then the mood would change. The city, grim and vast, stretched round
+me endless. I crawled, a mere atom, within its folds, helpless,
+insignificant, absurd. The houseless forms that shared my vigil were
+my fellows. What were we? Animalcule upon its bosom, that it saw not,
+heeded not. For company I would mingle with them: ragged men, frowsy
+women, ageless youths, gathered round the red glow of some coffee stall.
+
+Rarely would we speak to one another. More like animals we browsed
+there, sipping the halfpenny cup of hot water coloured with coffee
+grounds (at least it was warm), munching the moist slab of coarse cake;
+looking with dull, indifferent eyes each upon the wretchedness of
+the others. Perhaps some two would whisper to each other in listless,
+monotonous tone, broken here and there by a short, mirthless laugh; some
+shivering creature, not yet case-hardened to despair, seek, perhaps,
+the relief of curses that none heeded. Later, a faint chill breeze would
+shake the shadows loose, a thin, wan light streak the dark air with
+shade, and silently, stealthily, we would fade away and disappear.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+PAUL, ESCAPING FROM HIS SOLITUDE, FALLS INTO STRANGE COMPANY. AND
+BECOMES CAPTIVE TO ONE OF HAUGHTY MIEN.
+
+All things pass, even the self-inflicted sufferings of shy young men,
+condemned by temperament to solitude. Came the winter evenings, I took
+to work: in it one may drown much sorrow for oneself. With its handful
+of fire, its two candles lighted, my “apartment” was more inviting.
+I bought myself paper, pens and ink. Great or small, what more can a
+writer do? He is but the would-be medium: will the spirit voices employ
+him or reject him?
+
+London, with its million characters, grave and gay; its ten thousand
+romances, its mysteries, its pathos, and its humour, lay to my hand. It
+stretched before me, asking only intelligent observation, more or less
+truthful report. But that I could make a story out of the things I
+really knew never occurred to me. My tales were of cottage maidens, of
+bucolic yeomen. My scenes were laid in windmills, among mountains, or in
+moated granges. I fancy this phase of folly is common to most youthful
+fictionists.
+
+A trail of gentle melancholy lay over them. Sentiment was more popular
+then than it is now, and, as do all beginners, I scrupulously followed
+fashion. Generally speaking, to be a heroine of mine was fatal. However
+naturally her hair might curl--and curly hair, I believe, is the
+hall-mark of vitality; whatever other indications of vigorous health she
+might exhibit in the first chapter, such as “dancing eyes,” “colour
+that came and went,” “ringing laughter,” “fawn-like agility,” she was
+tolerably certain, poor girl, to end in an untimely grave. Snowdrops and
+early primroses (my botany I worked up from a useful little volume, “Our
+Garden Favourites, Illustrated”) grew there as in a forcing house; and
+if in the neighbourhood of the coast, the sea-breezes would choose
+that particular churchyard, somewhat irreverently, for their favourite
+playground. Years later a white-haired man would come there leading
+little children by the hand, and to them he would tell the tale anew,
+which must have been a dismal entertainment for them.
+
+Now and then, by way of change, it would be the gentleman who would
+fall a victim of the deadly atmosphere of my literature. It was of
+no particular consequence, so he himself would conclude in his last
+soliloquy; “it was better so.” Snowdrops and primroses, for whatever
+consolation they might have been to him, it was hopeless for him to
+expect; his grave, marked by a rude cross, being as a rule situate in an
+exceptionally unfrequented portion of the African veldt or amid burning
+sands. For description of final scenery on these occasions a visit to
+the British Museum reading-room would be necessary.
+
+Dismal little fledgelings! And again and again would I drive them from
+the nest; again and again they fluttered back to me, soiled, crumpled,
+physically damaged. Yet one person had admired them, cried over
+them--myself.
+
+All methods I tried. Sometimes I would send them forth accompanied by
+a curt business note of the take-it-or-leave-it order. At other times I
+would attach to it pathetic appeals for its consideration. Sometimes
+I would give value to it, stating that the price was five guineas and
+requesting that the cheque should be crossed; at other times seek to
+tickle editorial cupidity by offering this, my first contribution to
+their pages, for nothing--my sample packet, so to speak, sent gratis,
+one trial surely sufficient. Now I would write sarcastically, enclosing
+together with the stamped envelope for return a brutally penned note of
+rejection. Or I would write frankly, explaining elaborately that I was a
+beginner, and asking to be told my faults--if any.
+
+Not one found a resting place for its feet. A month, a week, a couple of
+days, they would remain away from me, then return. I never lost a single
+one. I wished I had. It would have varied the monotony.
+
+I hated the poor little slavey who, bursting joyously into the room,
+would hold them out to me from between her apron-hidden thumb and
+finger; her chronic sniff I translated into contempt. If flying down the
+stairs at the sound of the postman's knock I secured it from his hands,
+it seemed to me he smiled. Tearing them from their envelopes, I would
+curse them, abuse them, fling them into the fire sometimes; but before
+they were more than scorched I would snatch them out, smooth them,
+reread them. The editor himself could never have seen them; it was
+impossible; some jealous underling had done this thing. I had sent them
+to the wrong paper. They had arrived at the inopportune moment. Their
+triumph would come. Rewriting the first and last sheets, I would send
+them forth again with fresh hope.
+
+Meanwhile, understanding that the would-be happy warrior must shine in
+camp as well as field, I sought to fit myself also for the social side
+of life. Smoking and drinking were the twin sins I found most difficulty
+in acquiring. I am not claiming a mental excellence so much as
+confessing a bodily infirmity. The spirit had always been willing, but
+my flesh was weak. Fired by emulation, I had at school occasionally
+essayed a cigarette. The result had been distinctly unsatisfactory, and
+after some two or three attempts, I had abandoned, for the time being,
+all further endeavour; excusing my faint-heartedness by telling myself
+with sanctimonious air that smoking was bad for growing boys; attempting
+to delude myself by assuming, in presence of contemporaries of stronger
+stomach, fine pose of disapproval; yet in my heart knowing myself a
+young hypocrite, disguising physical cowardice in the robes of moral
+courage: a self-deception to which human nature is prone.
+
+So likewise now and again I had tasted the wine that was red, and that
+stood year in, year out, decanted on our sideboard. The true
+inwardness of St. Paul's prescription had been revealed to me; the
+attitude--sometimes sneered at--of those who drink it under doctor's
+orders, regarding it purely as a medicine, appeared to me reasonable.
+I had noticed also that others, some of them grown men even, making wry
+faces, when drinking my mother's claret, and had concluded therefrom
+that taste for strong liquor was an accomplishment less easily acquired
+than is generally supposed. The lack of it in a young man could be no
+disgrace, and accordingly effort in that direction also had I weakly
+postponed.
+
+But now, a gentleman at large, my education could no longer be delayed.
+To the artist in particular was training--and severe training--an
+absolute necessity. Recently fashion has changed somewhat, but a quarter
+of a century ago a genius who did not smoke and drink--and that more
+than was good for him--would have been dismissed without further
+evidence as an impostor. About the genius I was hopeful, but at no time
+positively certain. As regarded the smoking and drinking, so much at
+least I could make sure of. I set to work methodically, conscientiously.
+Smoking, experience taught me, was better practised on Saturday nights,
+Sunday affording me the opportunity of walking off the effects. Patience
+and determination were eventually crowned with success: I learned to
+smoke a cigarette to all appearance as though I were enjoying it. Young
+men of less character might here have rested content, but attainment
+of the highest has always been with me a motive force. The cigarette
+conquered, I next proceeded to attack the cigar. My first one I remember
+well: most men do. It was at a smoking concert held in the Islington
+Drill Hall, to which Minikin had invited me. Not feeling sure whether my
+growing dizziness were due solely to the cigar, or in part to the hot,
+over-crowded room, I made my excuses and slipped out. I found myself in
+a small courtyard, divided from a neighbouring garden by a low wall. The
+cause of my trouble was clearly the cigar. My inclination was to take it
+from my mouth and see how far I could throw it. Conscience, on the other
+hand, urged me to persevere. It occurred to me that if climbing on to
+the wall I could walk along it from end to end, there would be no excuse
+for my not heeding the counsels of perfection. If, on the contrary, try
+as I might, the wall proved not wide enough for my footsteps, then I
+should be entitled to lose the beastly thing, and, as best I could,
+make my way home to bed. I attained the wall with some difficulty and
+commenced my self-inflicted ordeal. Two yards further I found
+myself lying across the wall, my legs hanging down one side, my head
+overhanging the other. The position proving suitable to my requirements,
+I maintained it. Inclination, again seizing its opportunity, urged me
+then and there to take a solemn vow never to smoke again. I am proud
+to write that through that hour of temptation I remained firm;
+strengthening myself by whispering to myself: “Never despair. What
+others can do, so can you. Is not all victory won through suffering?”
+
+A liking for drink I had found, if possible, even yet more difficult of
+achievement. Spirits I almost despaired of. Once, confusing bottles, I
+drank some hair oil in mistake for whiskey, and found it decidedly less
+nauseous. But twice a week I would force myself to swallow a glass of
+beer, standing over myself insisting on my draining it to the bitter
+dregs. As reward afterwards, to take the taste out of my mouth, I
+would treat myself to chocolates; at the same time comforting myself
+by assuring myself that it was for my good, that there would come a day
+when I should really like it, and be grateful to myself for having been
+severe with myself.
+
+In other and more sensible directions I sought also to progress.
+Gradually I was overcoming my shyness. It was a slow process. I found
+the best plan was not to mind being shy, to accept it as part of my
+temperament, and with others laugh at it. The coldness of an indifferent
+world is of service in hardening a too sensitive skin. The gradual
+rubbings of existence were rounding off my many corners. I became
+possible to my fellow creatures, and they to me. I began to take
+pleasure in their company.
+
+By directing me to this particular house in Nelson Square, Fate had
+done to me a kindness. I flatter myself we were an interesting menagerie
+gathered together under its leaky roof. Mrs. Peedles, our landlady, who
+slept in the basement with the slavey, had been an actress in Charles
+Keane's company at the old Princess's. There, it is true, she had played
+only insignificant parts. London, as she would explain to us was even
+then but a poor judge of art, with prejudices. Besides an actor-manager,
+hampered by a wife--we understood. But previously in the Provinces there
+had been a career of glory: Juliet, Amy Robsart, Mrs. Haller in “The
+Stranger”--almost the entire roll of the “Legitimates”. Showed we any
+signs of disbelief, proof was forthcoming: handbills a yard long, rich
+in notes of exclamation: “On Tuesday Evening! By Special Desire!!!
+Blessington's Theatre! In the Meadow, adjoining the Falcon Arms!”--“On
+Saturday! Under the Patronage of Col. Sir William and the Officers of
+the 74th!!!! In the Corn Exchange!” Maybe it would convince us further
+were she to run through a passage here and there, say Lady Macbeth's
+sleep-walking scene, or from Ophelia's entrance in the fourth act? It
+would be no trouble; her memory was excellent. We would hasten to assure
+her of our perfect faith.
+
+Listening to her, it was difficult, as she herself would frankly admit,
+to imagine her the once “arch Miss Lucretia Barry;” looking at her, to
+remember there had been an evening when she had been “the cynosure of
+every eye.” One found it necessary to fortify oneself with perusal of
+underlined extracts from ancient journals, much thumbed and creased,
+thoughtfully lent to one for the purpose. Since those days Fate had
+woven round her a mantle of depression. She was now a faded, watery-eyed
+little woman, prone on the slightest provocation to sit down suddenly on
+the nearest chair and at once commence a history of her troubles. Quite
+unconscious of this failing, it was an idea of hers that she was an
+exceptionally cheerful person.
+
+“But there, fretting's no good. We must grin and bear things in this
+world,” she would conclude, wiping her eyes upon her apron. “It's better
+to laugh than to cry, I always say.” And to prove that this was no mere
+idle sentiment, she would laugh then and there upon the spot.
+
+Much stair-climbing had bestowed upon her a shortness of breath, which
+no amount of panting in her resting moments was able to make good.
+
+“You don't know 'ow to breathe,” explained our second floor front to
+her on one occasion, a kindly young man; “you don't swallow it, you
+only gargle with it. Take a good draught and shut your mouth; don't
+be frightened of it; don't let it out again till it's done something:
+that's what it's 'ere for.”
+
+He stood over her with his handkerchief pressed against her mouth to
+assist her; but it was of no use.
+
+“There don't seem any room for it inside me,” she explained.
+
+Bells had become to her the business of life; she lived listening
+for them. Converse to her was a filling in of time while waiting for
+interruptions.
+
+A bottle of whiskey fell into my hands that Christmas time, a present
+from a commercial traveller in the way of business. Not liking whiskey
+myself, it was no sacrifice for me to reserve it for the occasional
+comfort of Mrs. Peedles, when, breathless, with her hands to her side,
+she would sink upon the chair nearest to my door. Her poor, washed-out
+face would lighten at the suggestion.
+
+“Ah, well,” she would reply, “I don't mind if I do. It's a poor heart
+that never rejoices.”
+
+And then, her tongue unloosened, she would sit there and tell me stories
+of my predecessors, young men lodgers who like myself had taken her
+bed-sitting-rooms, and of the woes and misfortunes that had overtaken
+them. I gathered that a more unlucky house I could not have selected.
+A former tenant of my own room, of whom I strangely reminded her, had
+written poetry on my very table. He was now in Portland doing five years
+for forgery. Mrs. Peedles appeared to regard the two accomplishments as
+merely different expressions of the same art. Another of her young men,
+as she affectionately called us, had been of studious ambition. His
+career up to a point appeared to have been brilliant. “What he mightn't
+have been,” according to Mrs. Peedles, there was practically no saying;
+what he happened to be at the moment of conversation was an unpromising
+inmate of the Hanwell lunatic asylum.
+
+“I've always noticed it,” Mrs. Peedles would explain; “it's always the
+most deserving, those that try hardest, to whom trouble comes. I'm sure
+I don't know why.”
+
+I was glad on the whole when that bottle of whiskey was finished. A
+second might have driven me to suicide.
+
+There was no Mr. Peedles--at least, not for Mrs. Peedles, though as an
+individual he continued to exist. He had been “general utility” at
+the Princess's--the old terms were still in vogue at that time--a fine
+figure of a man in his day, so I was given to understand, but one easily
+led away, especially by minxes. Mrs. Peedles spoke bitterly of general
+utilities as people of not much use.
+
+For working days Mrs. Peedles had one dress and one cap, both black
+and void of ostentation; but on Sundays and holidays she would appear
+metamorphosed. She had carefully preserved the bulk of her stage
+wardrobe, even to the paste-decked shoes and tinsel jewelry. Shapeless
+in classic garb as Hermia, or bulgy in brocade and velvet as Lady
+Teazle, she would receive her few visitors on Sunday evenings, discarded
+puppets like herself, with whom the conversation was of gayer nights
+before their wires had been cut; or, her glory hid from the ribald
+street beneath a mackintosh, pay her few calls. Maybe it was the unusual
+excitement that then brought colour into her furrowed cheeks, that
+straightened and darkened her eyebrows, at other times so singularly
+unobtrusive. Be this how it may, the change was remarkable, only
+the thin grey hair and the work-worn hands remaining for purposes of
+identification. Nor was the transformation merely one of surface.
+Mrs. Peedles hung on her hook behind the kitchen door, dingy, limp,
+discarded; out of the wardrobe with the silks and satins was lifted down
+to be put on as an undergarment Miss Lucretia Barry, like her costumes
+somewhat aged, somewhat withered, but still distinctly “arch.”
+
+In the room next to me lived a law-writer and his wife. They were very
+old and miserably poor. The fault was none of theirs. Despite copy-books
+maxims, there is in this world such a thing as ill-luck-persistent,
+monotonous, that gradually wears away all power of resistance. I
+learned from them their history: it was hopelessly simple, hopelessly
+uninstructive. He had been a schoolmaster, she a pupil teacher; they had
+married young, and for a while the world had smiled upon them. Then came
+illness, attacking them both: nothing out of which any moral could be
+deduced, a mere case of bad drains resulting in typhoid fever. They had
+started again, saddled by debt, and after years of effort had succeeded
+in clearing themselves, only to fall again, this time in helping a
+friend. Nor was it even a case of folly: a poor man who had helped them
+in their trouble, hardly could they have done otherwise without proving
+themselves ungrateful. And so on, a tedious tale, commonplace, trivial.
+Now listless, patient, hard working, they had arrived at an animal-like
+indifference to their fate, content so long as they could obtain the
+bare necessities of existence, passive when these were not forthcoming,
+their interest in life limited to the one luxury of the poor--an
+occasional glass of beer or spirits. Often days would go by without
+his obtaining any work, and then they would more or less starve. Law
+documents are generally given out to such men in the evening, to be
+returned finished the next morning. Waking in the night, I would hear
+through the thin wooden partition that divided our rooms the even
+scratching of his pen.
+
+Thus cheek by jowl we worked, I my side of the screen, he his: youth and
+age, hope and realisation.
+
+Out of him my fears fashioned a vision of the future. Past his door I
+would slink on tiptoe, dread meeting him upon the stairs. Once had not
+he said to himself: “The world's mine oyster?” May not the voices of the
+night have proclaimed him also king? Might I not be but an idle dreamer,
+mistaking desire for power? Would not the world prove stronger than I?
+At such times I would see my life before me: the clerkship at thirty
+shillings a week rising by slow instalments, it may be, to one hundred
+and fifty a year; the four-roomed house at Brixton; the girl wife,
+pretty, perhaps, but sinking so soon into the slatternly woman; the
+squalling children. How could I, unaided, expect to raise myself from
+the ruck? Was not this the more likely picture?
+
+Our second floor front was a young fellow in the commercial line. Jarman
+was Young London personified--blatant yet kind-hearted; aggressively
+self-assertive, generous to a fault; cunning, yet at the same time
+frank; shrewd, cheery, and full of pluck. “Never say die” was his motto,
+and anything less dead it would be difficult to imagine. All day long
+he was noisy, and all night long he snored. He woke with a start, bathed
+like a porpoise, sang while dressing, roared for his boots, and
+whistled during his breakfast. His entrance and exit were always to an
+orchestration of banging doors, directions concerning his meals shouted
+at the top of his voice as he plunged up or down the stairs, the
+clattering and rattling of brooms and pails flying before his feet. His
+departure always left behind it the suggestion that the house was now to
+let; it came almost as a shock to meet a human being on the landing. He
+would have conveyed an atmosphere of bustle to the Egyptian pyramids.
+
+Sometimes carrying his own supper-tray, arranged for two, he would march
+into my room. At first, resenting his familiarity, I would hint at my
+desire to be alone, would explain that I was busy.
+
+“You fire away, Shakespeare Redivivus,” he would reply. “Don't delay the
+tragedy. Why should London wait? I'll keep quiet.”
+
+But his notion of keeping quiet was to retire into a corner and there
+amuse himself by enacting a tragedy of his own in a hoarse whisper,
+accompanied by appropriate gesture.
+
+“Ah, ah!” I would hear him muttering to himself, “I 'ave killed 'er good
+old father; I 'ave falsely accused 'er young man of all the crimes that
+I 'ave myself committed; I 'ave robbed 'er of 'er ancestral estates. Yet
+she loves me not! It is streeange!” Then changing his bass to a shrill
+falsetto: “It is a cold and dismal night: the snow falls fast. I will
+leave me 'at and umbrella be'ind the door and go out for a walk with the
+chee-ild. Aha! who is this? 'E also 'as forgotten 'is umbrella. Ah, now
+I know 'im in the pitch dark by 'is cigarette! Villain, murderer, silly
+josser! it is you!” Then with lightning change of voice and gesture:
+“Mary, I love yer!” “Sir Jasper Murgatroyd, let me avail myself of this
+opportunity to tell you what I think of you--” “No, no; the 'ouses close
+in 'alf an hour; there is not tee-ime. Fly with me instead!” “Never!
+Un'and me!” “'Ear me! Ah, what 'ave I done? I 'ave slipped upon a piece
+of orange peel and broke me 'ead! If you will kindly ask them to turn
+off the snow and give me a little moonlight, I will confess all.”
+
+Finding it (much to Jarman's surprise) impossible to renew the thread of
+my work, I would abandon my attempts at literature, and instead listen
+to his talk, which was always interesting. His conversation was, it is
+true, generally about himself, but it was none the less attractive on
+that account. His love affairs, which appeared to be numerous, formed
+his chief topic. There was no reserve about Jarman: his life contained
+no secret chambers. What he “told her straight,” what she “up and said
+to him” in reply was for all the world that cared to hear. So far his
+search after the ideal had met with but ill success.
+
+“Girls,” he would say, “they're all alike, till you know 'em. So long as
+they're trying to palm themselves off on yer, they'll persuade you
+there isn't such another article in all the market. When they've got yer
+order--ah, then yer find out what they're really made of. And you take
+it from me, 'Omer Junior, most of 'em are put together cheap. Bah!
+it sickens me sometimes to read the way you paper-stainers talk about 'em
+--angels, goddesses, fairies! They've just been getting at yer. You're
+giving 'em just the price they're asking without examining the article.
+Girls ain't a special make, like what you seem to think 'em. We're all
+turned out of the same old slop shop.”
+
+“Not that I say, mind yer,” he would continue, “that there are none of
+the right sort. They're to be 'ad--real good 'uns. All I say is, taking
+'em at their own valuation ain't the way to do business with 'em.”
+
+What he was on the look out for--to quote his own description--was a
+really first class article, not something from which the paint would
+come off almost before you got it home.
+
+“They're to be found,” he would cheerfully affirm, “but you've got to
+look for 'em. They're not the sort that advertises.”
+
+Behind Jarman in the second floor back resided one whom Jarman had
+nicknamed “The Lady 'Ortensia.” I believe before my arrival there had
+been love passages between the two; but neither of them, so I gathered,
+had upon closer inspection satisfied the other's standard. Their present
+attitude towards each other was that of insult thinly veiled under
+exaggerated politeness. Miss Rosina Sellars was, in her own language,
+a “lady assistant,” in common parlance, a barmaid at the Ludgate Hill
+Station refreshment room. She was a large, flabby young woman. With less
+powder, her complexion might by admirers have been termed creamy; as it
+was, it presented the appearance rather of underdone pastry. To be on
+all occasions “quite the lady” was her pride. There were those who held
+the angle of her dignity to be exaggerated. Jarman would beg her for her
+own sake to be more careful lest one day she should fall down backwards
+and hurt herself. On the other hand, her bearing was certainly
+calculated to check familiarity. Even stockbrokers' clerks--young men
+as a class with the bump of reverence but poorly developed--would in her
+presence falter and grow hesitating. She had cultivated the art of
+not noticing to something approaching perfection. She could draw the
+noisiest customer a glass of beer, which he had never ordered; exchange
+it for three of whiskey, which he had; take his money and return him his
+change without ever seeing him, hearing him, or knowing he was there. It
+shattered the self-assertion of the youngest of commercial travellers.
+Her tone and manner, outside rare moments of excitement, were suggestive
+of an offended but forgiving iceberg. Jarman invariably passed her with
+his coat collar turned up to his ears, and even thus protected might
+have been observed to shiver. Her stare, in conjunction with her “I beg
+your pardon!” was a moral douche that would have rendered apologetic and
+explanatory Don Juan himself.
+
+To me she was always gracious, which by contrast to her general attitude
+towards my sex of studied disdain, I confess flattered me. She was good
+enough to observe to Mrs. Peedles, who repeated it to me, that I was the
+only gentleman in the house who knew how to behave himself.
+
+The entire first floor was occupied by an Irishman and--they never
+minced the matter themselves, so hardly is there need for me to do so.
+She was a charming little dark-eyed woman, an ex-tight-rope dancer, and
+always greatly offended Mrs. Peedles by claiming Miss Lucretia Barry as
+a sister artiste.
+
+“Of course I don't know how it may be now,” would reply Mrs. Peedles,
+with some slight asperity; “but in my time we ladies of the legitimate
+stage used to look down upon dancers and such sort. Of course, no
+offence to you, Mrs. O'Kelly.”
+
+Neither of them was in the least offended.
+
+“Sure, Mrs. Peedles, ye could never have looked down upon the Signora,”
+ the O'Kelly would answer laughing. “Ye had to lie back and look up to
+her. Why, I've got the crick in me neck to this day!”
+
+“Ah! my dear, and you don't know how nervous I was when glancing down
+I'd see his handsome face just underneath me, thinking that with one
+false step I might spoil it for ever,” would reply the Signora.
+
+“Me darling! I'd have died happy, just smothered in loveliness!” would
+return the O'Kelly; and he and the Signora would rush into each other's
+arms, and the sound of their kisses would quite excite the little slavey
+sweeping down the stairs outside.
+
+He was a barrister attached in theory to the Western Circuit; in
+practice, somewhat indifferent to it, much more attached to the lower
+strata of Bohemia and the Signora. At the present he was earning all
+sufficient for the simple needs of himself and the Signora as a teacher
+of music and singing. His method was simple and suited admirably the
+locality. Unless specially requested, he never troubled his pupils with
+such tiresome things as scales and exercises. His plan was to discover
+the song the young man fancied himself singing, the particular jingle
+the young lady yearned to knock out of the piano, and to teach it to
+them. Was it “Tom Bowling?” Well and good. Come on; follow your leader.
+The O'Kelly would sing the first line.
+
+“Now then, try that. Don't be afraid. Just open yer mouth and gave it
+tongue. That's all right. Everything has a beginning. Sure, later on,
+we'll get the time and tune, maybe a little expression.”
+
+Whether the system had any merit in it, I cannot answer. Certain it was
+that as often as not it achieved success. Gradually--say, by the end
+of twelve eighteen-penny lessons--out of storm and chaos “Tom Bowling”
+ would emerge, recognisable for all men to hear. Had the pupil any voice
+to start with, the O'Kelly improved it; had he none, the O'Kelly would
+help him to disguise the fact.
+
+“Take it easy, now; take it easy,” the O'Kelly would counsel. “Sure,
+it's a delicate organ, yer voice. Don't ye strain it now. Ye're at yer
+best when ye're just low and sweet.”
+
+So also with the blushing pianiste. At the end of a month a tune was
+distinctly discernible; she could hear it herself, and was happy. His
+repute spread.
+
+Twice already had he eloped with the Signora (and twice again was he
+to repeat the operation, before I finally lost sight of him: to break
+oneself of habit is always difficult) and once by well-meaning friends
+had he been induced to return to home, if not to beauty. His wife, who
+was considerably older than himself, possessed, so he would inform
+me with tears in his eyes, every moral excellence that should attract
+mankind. Upon her goodness and virtue, her piety and conscientiousness
+he would descant to me by the half hour. His sincerity it was impossible
+to question. It was beyond doubt that he respected her, admired her,
+honoured her. She was a saint, an angel--a wretch, a villain such as he,
+was not fit to breathe the same pure air. To do him justice, it must
+be admitted he showed no particular desire to do so. As an aunt or
+grandmother, I believe he would have suffered her gladly. He had nothing
+to say against her, except that he found himself unable to live with
+her.
+
+That she must have been a lady of exceptional merit one felt convinced.
+The Signora, who had met her only once, and then under somewhat trying
+conditions, spoke her praises with equal enthusiasm. Had she, the
+Signora, enjoyed the advantage of meeting such a model earlier, she,
+the Signora, might have been a better woman. It seemed a pity the
+introduction could not have taken place sooner and under different
+circumstances. Could they both have adopted her as a sort of mutual
+mother-in-law, it would have given them, I am positive, the greatest
+satisfaction. On her occasional visits they would have vied with each
+other in showing her affectionate attention. For the deserted lady I
+tried to feel sorry, but could not avoid the reflection that it
+would have been better for all parties had she been less patient and
+forgiving. Her husband was evidently much more suited to the Signora.
+
+Indeed, the relationship between these two was more a true marriage than
+one generally meets with. No pair of love-birds could have been more
+snug together. In their virtues and failings alike they fitted each
+other. When sober the immorality of their behaviour never troubled them;
+in fact, when sober nothing ever troubled them. They laughed, joked,
+played through life, two happy children. To be shocked at them was
+impossible. I tried it and failed.
+
+But now and again there came an evening when they were not sober. It
+happened when funds were high. On such occasion the O'Kelly would return
+laden with bottles of a certain sweet champagne, of which they were both
+extremely fond; and a friend or two would be invited to share in the
+festivity. Whether any exceptional quality resided in this particular
+brand of champagne I am not prepared to argue; my own personal
+experience of it has prompted me to avoid it for the rest of my life.
+Its effect upon them was certainly unique. Instead of intoxicating them,
+it sobered them: there is no other way of explaining it. With the third
+or fourth glass they began to take serious views of life. Before the end
+of the second bottle they would be staring at each other, appalled
+at contemplation of their own transgression. The Signora, the tears
+streaming down her pretty face, would declare herself a wicked, wicked
+woman; she had dragged down into shame the most blameless, the most
+virtuous of men. Emptying her glass, she would bury her face in her
+hands, and with her elbows on her knees, in an agony of remorse, sit
+rocking to and fro. The O'Kelly, throwing himself at her feet, would
+passionately abjure her to “look up.” She had, it appeared, got hold of
+the thing at the wrong end; it was he who had dragged her down.
+
+At this point metaphor would become confused. Each had been dragged
+down by the other one and ruined; also each one was the other one's good
+angel. All that was commendable in the Signora, she owed to the O'Kelly.
+Whatever was not discreditable about the O'Kelly was in the nature of a
+loan from the Signora. With the help of more champagne the right course
+would grow plain to them. She would go back broken-hearted but repentant
+to the tight-rope; he would return a better but a blighted man to
+Mrs. O'Kelly and the Western Circuit. This would be their last evening
+together on earth. A fresh bottle would be broached, and the guest or
+guests called upon to assist in the ceremony of renunciation; glasses
+full to the brim this time.
+
+So much tragedy did they continue to instil into the scene that on the
+first occasion of my witnessing it I was unable to refrain from mingling
+my tears with theirs. As, however, the next morning they had forgotten
+all about it, and as nothing came of it, nor of several subsequent
+repetitions, I should have believed a separation between them impossible
+but that even while I was an inmate of the house the thing actually
+happened.
+
+It came about in this wise. His friends, having discovered him, had
+pointed out to him again his duty. The Signora--a really excellent
+little woman so far as intention was concerned--had seconded their
+endeavours, with the result that on a certain evening in autumn we of
+the house assembled all of us on the first floor to support them on the
+occasion of their final--so we all deemed it then--leave-taking. For
+eleven o'clock two four-wheeled cabs had been ordered, one to transport
+the O'Kelly with his belongings to Hampstead and respectability; in the
+other the Signora would journey sorrowfully to the Tower Basin, there to
+join a circus company sailing for the Continent.
+
+I knocked at the door some quarter of an hour before the appointed hour
+of the party. I fancy the idea had originated with the Signora.
+
+“Dear Willie has something to say to you,” she had informed me that
+morning on the stairs. “He has taken a sincere liking to you, and it is
+something very important.”
+
+They were sitting one each side the fireplace, looking very serious; a
+bottle of the sobering champagne stood upon the table. The Signora rose
+and kissed me gravely on the brow; the O'Kelly laid both hands upon my
+shoulders, and sat me down on a chair between them.
+
+“Mr. Kelver,” said the Signora, “you are very young.”
+
+I hinted--it was one of those rare occasions upon which gallantry can be
+combined with truth--that I found myself in company.
+
+The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head.
+
+“Age,” said the O'Kelly, “is a matter of feeling. Kelver, may ye never
+be as old as I am feeling now.”
+
+“As _we_ are feeling,” corrected the Signora. “Kelver,” said the
+O'Kelly, pouring out a third glass of champagne, “we want ye to promise
+us something.”
+
+“It will make us both happier,” added the Signora.
+
+“That ye will take warning,” continued the O'Kelly, “by our wretched
+example. Paul, in this world there is only one path to possible
+happiness. The path of strict--” he paused.
+
+“Propriety,” suggested the Signora.
+
+“Of strict propriety,” agreed the O'Kelly. “Deviate from it,” continued
+the O'Kelly, impressively, “and what is the result?”
+
+“Unutterable misery,” supplied the Signora.
+
+“Ye think we two have been happy here together,” said the O'Kelly.
+
+I replied that such was the conclusion to which observation had directed
+me.
+
+“We tried to appear so,” explained the Signora; “it was merely on the
+outside. In reality all the time we hated each other. Tell him, Willie,
+dear, how we have hated each other.”
+
+“It is impossible,” said the O'Kelly, finishing and putting down his
+glass, “to give ye any idea, Kelver, how we have hated each other.”
+
+“How we have quarrelled!” said the Signora. “Tell him, dear, how we have
+quarrelled.”
+
+“All day long and half the night,” concluded the O'Kelly.
+
+“Fought,” added the Signora. “You see, Mr. Kelver, people in--in our
+position always do. If it had been otherwise, if--if everything had been
+proper, then of course we should have loved each other. As it is, it has
+been a cat and dog existence. Hasn't it been a cat and dog existence,
+Willie?”
+
+“It's been just hell upon earth,” murmured the O'Kelly, with his eyes
+fixed gloomily upon the fire-stove ornament. Deadly in earnest though
+they both were, I could not repress a laugh, their excellent intention
+was so obvious. The Signora burst into tears.
+
+“He doesn't believe us,” she wailed.
+
+“Me dear,” replied the O'Kelly, throwing up his part with promptness and
+satisfaction, “how could ye expect it? How could he believe that any man
+could look at ye and hate ye?”
+
+“It's all my fault,” cried the little woman; “I am such a wicked
+creature. I cannot even be miserable when I am doing wrong. A decent
+woman in my place would have been wretched and unhappy, and made
+everybody about her wretched and unhappy, and so have set a good example
+and have been a warning. I don't seem to have any conscience, and I do
+try.” The poor little lady was sobbing her heart out.
+
+When not shy I could be sensible, and of the O'Kelly and the Signora one
+could be no more shy than of a pair of robin redbreasts. Besides, I was
+really fond of them; they had been very good to me.
+
+“Dear Miss Beltoni,” I answered, “I am going to take warning by you
+both.”
+
+She pressed my hand. “Oh, do, please do,” she murmured. “We really have
+been miserable--now and then.”
+
+“I am never going to be content,” I assured her, “until I find a lady
+as charming and as amiable as you, and if ever I get her I'll take good
+care never to run any risk of losing her.”
+
+It sounded well and pleased us all. The O'Kelly shook me warmly by the
+hand, and this time spoke his real feelings.
+
+“Me boy,” he said, “all women are good--for somebody. But the woman that
+is good for yerself is better for ye than a better woman who's the best
+for somebody else. Ye understand?”
+
+I said I did.
+
+At eight o'clock precisely Mrs. Peedles arrived--as Flora MacDonald, in
+green velvet jacket and twelve to fifteen inches of plaid stocking. As
+a topic fitting the occasion we discussed the absent Mr. Peedles and the
+subject of deserted wives in general.
+
+“A fine-looking man,” allowed Mrs. Peedles, “but weak--weak as water.”
+
+The Signora agreed that unfortunately there did exist such men: 'twas
+pitiful but true.
+
+“My dear,” continued Mrs. Peedles, “she wasn't even a lady.”
+
+The Signora expressed astonishment at the deterioration in Mr. Peedles'
+taste thus implied.
+
+“I won't go so far as to say we never had a difference,” continued Mrs.
+Peedles, whose object appeared to be an impartial statement of the whole
+case. “There may have been incompatability of temperament, as they say.
+Myself, I have always been of a playful disposition--frivolous, some
+might call me.”
+
+The Signora protested; the O'Kelly declined to listen to such aspersion
+on her character even from Mrs. Peedles herself.
+
+Mrs. Peedles, thus corrected, allowed that maybe frivolous was too
+sweeping an accusation: say sportive.
+
+“But a good wife to him I always was,” asserted Mrs. Peedles, with a
+fine sense of justice; “never flighty, like some of them. I challenge
+any one to accuse me of having been flighty.”
+
+We felt we should not believe any one who did, and told her so.
+
+Mrs. Peedles, drawing her chair closer to the Signora, assumed a
+confidential attitude. “If they want to go, let 'em go, I always say,”
+ she whispered loudly into the Signora's ear. “Ten to one they'll find
+they've only jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. One can always
+comfort oneself with that.”
+
+There seemed to be confusion in the mind of Mrs. Peedles. Her virtuous
+sympathies, I gathered, were with the Signora. Mr. O'Kelly's return
+to Mrs. O'Kelly evidently manifested itself in the light of a shameful
+desertion. Having regard to the fact, patent to all who knew him, that
+the poor fellow was sacrificing every inclination to stern sense of
+duty, such view of the matter was rough on him. But philosophers from
+all ages have agreed that our good deeds are the whips with which Fate
+punishes us for our bad.
+
+“My dear,” continued Mrs. Peedles, “when Mr. Peedles left me I thought
+that I should never smile again. Yet here you see me laughing away
+through life, just as ever. You'll get over it all right.” And Mrs.
+Peedles wiped away her tears and smiled upon the Signora; upon which the
+Signora commenced to cry again.
+
+Happily, timely diversion was made at this point by the bursting into
+the room of Jarman, who upon perceiving Mrs. Peedles, at once gave vent
+to a hoot, supposed to be expressive of Scottish joy, and without a
+moment's hesitation commenced to dance a reel.
+
+My neighbours of the first floor knocked at the door a little while
+afterwards; and genteelly late arrived Miss Rosina Sellars, coldly
+gleaming in a decollete but awe-inspiring costume of mingled black
+and scarlet, out of which her fair, if fleshy, neck and arms shone
+luxuriant.
+
+We did not go into supper; instead, supper came into us from the
+restaurant at the corner of the Blackfriars Road. I cannot say that at
+first it was a festive meal. The O'Kelly and the Signora made effort,
+as in duty bound, to be cheerful, but for awhile were somewhat
+unsuccessful. The third floor front wasted no time in speech, but ate
+and drank copiously. Miss Sellars, retaining her gloves--which was
+perhaps wise, her hands being her weak point--signalled me out, much to
+my embarrassment, as the recipient of her most polite conversation. Mrs.
+Peedles became reminiscent of parties generally. Seeing that most of
+Mrs. Peedles' former friends and acquaintances were either dead or in
+more or less trouble, her efforts did not tend to enliven the table. One
+gathering, of which the present strangely reminded her, was a funeral,
+chiefly remarkable from discovery of the romantic fact, late in the
+proceedings, that the gentleman in whose honour the whole affair had
+been organised was not dead at all; but instead, having taken advantage
+of an error arising out of a railway accident, was at the moment eloping
+with the wife of his own chief mourner. As Mrs. Peedles explained,
+and as one could well credit, it had been an awkward position for all
+present. Nobody had quite known whether to feel glad or sorry--with the
+exception of the chief mourner, upon whose personal undertaking that the
+company might regard the ceremony as merely postponed, festivities came
+to an end.
+
+Our prop and stay from a convivial point of view was Jarman. As
+a delicate attention to Mrs. Peedles and her costume he sunk
+his nationality and became for the evening, according to his own
+declaration, “a braw laddie.” With her--his “sonsie lassie,” so he
+termed her--he flirted in the broadest, if not purest, Scotch. The
+O'Kelly for him became “the Laird;” the third floor “Jamie o' the Ilk;”
+ Miss Sellars, “the bonnie wee rose;” myself, “the chiel.” Periods of
+silence were dispersed by suggestions that we should “hoot awa',” Jarman
+himself setting us the example.
+
+With the clearance away of the eatables, making room for the production
+of a more varied supply of bottles, matters began to mend. Mrs. Peedles
+became more arch, Jarman's Scotch more striking and extensive, the
+Lady 'Ortensia's remarks less depressingly genteel, her aitches less
+accentuated.
+
+Jarman rose to propose the health of the O'Kelly, coupled with that of
+the Signora. To the O'Kelly, in a burst of generosity, Jarman promised
+our united patronage. To Jarman it appeared that by employing the
+O'Kelly to defend us whenever we got into trouble with the police, and
+by recommending him to our friends, a steady income should be assured to
+him.
+
+The O'Kelly replied feelingly to the effect that Nelson Square,
+Blackfriars, would ever remain engraved upon his memory as the fairest
+and brightest spot on earth. Personally, nothing would have given him
+greater pleasure than to die among the dear friends who now surrounded
+him. But there was such a thing as duty, and he and the Signora had come
+to the conclusion that true happiness could only be obtained by acting
+according to one's conscience, even if it made one miserable.
+
+Jarman, warming to his work, then proposed the health of Mrs. Peedles,
+as true-hearted and hard-breathing a lady as ever it had been his
+privilege to know. Her talent for cheery conversation was familiar to us
+all, upon it he need not enlarge; all he would say was that personally
+never did she go out of his room without leaving him more cheerful than
+when she entered it.
+
+After that--I forget in what--we drank the health of the Lady 'Ortensia.
+Persons there were--Jarman would not attempt to disguise the fact--who
+complained that the Lady 'Ortensia was too distant, “too stand-offish.”
+ With such complaint he himself had no sympathy; but tastes differed. If
+the Lady 'Ortensia were inclined to be exclusive, who should blame her?
+Everybody knew their own business best. For use in a second floor front
+he could not honestly recommend the Lady 'Ortensia; it would not be
+giving her a fair chance, and it would not be giving the second floor a
+fair chance. But for any gentleman fitting up marble halls, for any one
+on the lookout for a really “toney article,” Jarman would say: Inquire
+for Miss Rosina Sellars, and see that you get her.
+
+There followed my turn. There had been literary chaps in the past,
+Jarman admitted so much. Against them he had nothing to say. They had no
+doubt done their best. But the gentleman whose health Jarman wished the
+company now to drink had this advantage over them: that they were
+dead, and he wasn't. Some of this gentleman's work Jarman had read--in
+manuscript; but that was a distinction purely temporary. He, Jarman,
+claimed to be no judge of literature, but this he could and would say,
+it took a good deal to make him miserable, yet this the literary efforts
+of Mr. Kelver invariably accomplished.
+
+Mrs. Peedles, speaking without rising, from personal observation in the
+daytime--which she hoped would not be deemed a liberty; literature, even
+in manuscript, being, so to speak, public property--found herself in a
+position to confirm all that Mr. Jarman had remarked. Speaking as one
+not entirely without authority on the subject of literature and the
+drama, Mrs. Peedles could say that passages she had read had struck her
+as distinctly not half bad. Some of the love-scenes, in particular, had
+made her to feel quite a girl again. How he had acquired such knowledge
+was not for her to say. Cries of “Naughty!” from Jarman, and “Oh, Mr.
+Kelver, I shall be quite afraid of you,” roguishly from Miss Sellars.
+
+The O'Kelly, who, having abandoned his favourite champagne for less
+sobering liquor, had since supper-time become rapidly more cheerful,
+felt sure there was a future before me. That he had not seen any of my
+work, so he assured me, in no way lessened his opinion of it. One thing
+only would he impress upon me: that the best work was the result of
+strict attention to virtue. His advice to me was to marry young and be
+happy.
+
+My persevering efforts of the last few months towards the acquisition of
+convivial habits appeared this evening to be receiving their reward. The
+O'Kelly's sweet champagne I had drunk with less dislike than hitherto; a
+white, syrupy sort of stuff, out of a fat and artistic-looking bottle,
+I had found distinctly grateful to the palate. Dimly the quotation about
+taking things at the flood, and so getting on quickly, floated through
+my brain, coupled with another one about fortune favouring the bold. It
+had seemed to me a good occasion to try for the second time in my life
+a full flavoured cigar. I had selected with the caution of a connoisseur
+one of mottled green complexion from the O'Kelly's largest box. And so
+far all had gone well. An easy self-confidence, delightful by reason of
+its novelty, had replaced my customary shyness; a sense of lightness--of
+positive airiness, emanating from myself, pervaded all things. Tossing
+off another glass of the champagne, I rose to reply.
+
+Modesty in my present mood would have been affectation. To such dear and
+well-beloved friends I had no hesitation in admitting the truth, that I
+was a clever fellow--a damned clever fellow. I knew it, they knew it, in
+a short time everybody would know it. But they need not fear that in
+the hour of my pride, when it arrived, I should prove ungrateful. Never
+should I forget their kindness to me, a lonely young man, alone in a
+lonely--Here the pathos of my own situation overcame me; words seemed
+weak. “Jarman--” I meant, putting my hand upon his head, to have blessed
+him for his goodness to me; but he being not exactly where he looked to
+be, I just missed him, and sat down on the edge of my chair, which was a
+hard one. I had not intended this to be the end of my speech, by a long
+one; but Jarman, whispering to me: “Ended at exactly the right moment;
+shows the born orator,” strong inclination to remain seated, now that I
+was down seconding his counsel, and the company being clearly satisfied,
+I decided to leave things where they were.
+
+A delightful dreaminess was stealing over me. Everything and everybody
+appeared to be a long way off, but, whether because of this or in
+spite of it, exceedingly attractive. Never had I noticed the Signora
+so bewitching; in a motherly sort of way even the third floor front was
+good to look upon; Mrs. Peedles I could almost have believed to be the
+real Flora MacDonald sitting in front of me. But the vision of Miss
+Rosina Sellars made literally my head to swim. Never before had I dared
+to cast upon female loveliness the satisfying gaze with which I now
+boldly regarded her every movement. Evidently she noticed it, for she
+turned away her eyes. I had heard that exceptionally strong-minded
+people merely by concentrating their will could make other, ordinary
+people, do just whatever they, the exceptionally strong-minded people,
+wished. I willed that Miss Rosina Sellars should turn her eyes again
+towards me. Victory crowned my efforts. Evidently I was one of these
+exceptionally strong-minded persons. Slowly her eyes came round and met
+mine with a smile--a helpless, pathetic smile that said, so I read it:
+“You know no woman can resist you: be merciful!”
+
+Inflamed by the brutal lust of conquest, I suppose I must have willed
+still further, for the next thing I remember is sitting with Miss
+Sellars on the sofa, holding her hand, the while the O'Kelly sang a
+sentimental ballad, only one line of which comes back to me: “For the
+angels must have told him, and he knows I love him now,” much stress
+upon the “now.” The others had their backs towards us. Miss Sellars,
+with a look that pierced my heart, dropped her somewhat large head upon
+my shoulder, leaving, as I observed the next day, a patch of powder on
+my coat.
+
+Miss Sellars observed that one of the saddest things in the world was
+unrequited love.
+
+I replied gallantly, “Whateryou know about it?”
+
+“Ah, you men, you men,” murmured Miss Sellars; “you're all alike.”
+
+This suggested a personal aspersion on my character. “Not allus,” I
+murmured.
+
+“You don't know what love is,” said Miss Sellars. “You're not old
+enough.”
+
+The O'Kelly had passed on to Sullivan's “Sweethearts,” then in its first
+popularity.
+
+     “Oh, love for a year--a week--a day!
+     But oh for the love that loves al-wa-ays!”
+
+Miss Sellars' languishing eyes were fixed upon me; Miss Sellars' red
+lips pouted and twitched; Miss Sellars' white bosom rose and fell.
+Never, so it seemed to me, had so large an amount of beauty been
+concentrated in one being.
+
+“Yeserdo,” I said. “I love you.”
+
+I stooped to kiss the red lips, but something was in my way. It turned
+out to be a cold cigar. Miss Sellars thoughtfully removed it, and threw
+it away. Our lips met. Her large arms closed about my neck and held me
+tight.
+
+“Well, I'm sure!” came the voice of Mrs. Peedles, as from afar. “Nice
+goings on!”
+
+I have vague remembrance of a somewhat heated discussion, in which
+everybody but myself appeared to be taking extreme interest--of Miss
+Sellars in her most ladylike and chilling tones defending me against the
+charge of “being no gentleman,” which Mrs. Peedles was explaining nobody
+had said I wasn't. The argument seemed to be of the circular order. No
+gentleman had ever kissed Miss Sellars who had not every right to do so,
+nor ever would. To kiss Miss Sellars without such right was to declare
+oneself no gentleman. Miss Sellars appealed to me to clear my character
+from the aspersion of being no gentleman. I was trying to understand
+the situation, when Jarman, seizing me somewhat roughly by the arm,
+suggested my going to bed. Miss Sellars, seizing my other arm, suggested
+my refusing to go to bed. So far I was with Miss Sellars. I didn't want
+to go to bed, and said so. My desire to sit up longer was proof positive
+to Miss Sellars that I was a gentleman, but to no one else. The argument
+shifted, the question being now as to whether Miss Sellars were a lady.
+To prove the point it was, according to Miss Sellars, necessary that
+I should repeat I loved her. I did repeat it, adding, with faint
+remembrance of my own fiction, that if a life's devotion was likely to
+be of the slightest further proof, my heart's blood was at her
+service. This cleared the air, Mrs. Peedles observing that under such
+circumstances it only remained for her to withdraw everything she had
+said; to which Miss Sellars replied graciously that she had always known
+Mrs. Peedles to be a good sort at the bottom.
+
+Nevertheless, gaiety was gone from among us, and for this, in some way
+I could not understand, I appeared to be responsible. Jarman was
+distinctly sulky. The O'Kelly, suddenly thinking of the time, went to
+the door and discovered that the two cabs were waiting. The third floor
+recollected that work had to be finished. I myself felt sleepy.
+
+Our host and hostess departed; Jarman again suggested bed, and this
+time I agreed with him. After a slight misunderstanding with the door, I
+found myself upon the stairs. I had never noticed before that they
+were quite perpendicular. Adapting myself to the changed conditions, I
+climbed them with the help of my hands. I accomplished the last flight
+somewhat quickly, and feeling tired, sat down the moment I was within
+my own room. Jarman knocked at the door. I told him to come in; but he
+didn't. It occurred to me that the reason was I was sitting on the floor
+with my back against the door. The discovery amused me exceedingly and
+I laughed; and Jarman, baffled, descended to his own floor. I found
+getting into bed a difficulty, owing to the strange behaviour of the
+room. It spun round and round. Now the bed was just in front of me, now
+it was behind me. I managed at last to catch it before it could get past
+me, and holding on by the ironwork, frustrated its efforts to throw me
+out again on to the floor.
+
+But it was some time before I went to sleep, and over my intervening
+experiences I draw a veil.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+GOOD FRIENDS SHOW PAUL THE ROAD TO FREEDOM. BUT BEFORE SETTING OUT, HE
+WILL GO A-VISITING.
+
+The sun was streaming into my window when I woke in the morning. I sat
+up and listened. The roar of the streets told me plainly that the day
+had begun without me. I reached out my hand for my watch; it was not in
+its usual place upon the rickety dressing-table. I raised myself still
+higher and looked about me. My clothes lay scattered on the floor. One
+boot, in solitary state, occupied the chair by the fireplace; the other
+I could not see anywhere.
+
+During the night my head appeared to have grown considerably. I
+wondered idly for the moment whether I had not made a mistake and put
+on Minikin's; if so, I should be glad to exchange back for my own.
+This thing I had got was a top-heavy affair, and was aching most
+confoundedly.
+
+Suddenly the recollection of the previous night rushed at me and shook
+me awake. From a neighbouring steeple rang chimes: I counted with care.
+Eleven o'clock. I sprang out of bed, and at once sat down upon the
+floor.
+
+I remembered how, holding on to the bed, I had felt the room waltzing
+wildly round and round. It had not quite steadied itself even yet. It
+was still rotating, not whirling now, but staggering feebly, as
+though worn out by its all-night orgie. Creeping to the wash-stand, I
+succeeded, after one or two false plunges, in getting my head inside
+the basin. Then, drawing on my trousers with difficulty and reaching
+the easy-chair, I sat down and reviewed matters so far as I was able,
+commencing from the present and working back towards the past.
+
+I was feeling very ill. That was quite clear. Something had disagreed
+with me.
+
+“That strong cigar,” I whispered feebly to myself; “I ought never to
+have ventured upon it. And then the little room with all those people
+in it. Besides, I have been working very hard. I must really take more
+exercise.”
+
+It gave me some satisfaction to observe that, shuffling and cowardly
+though I might be, I was not a person easily bamboozled.
+
+“Nonsense,” I told myself brutally; “don't try to deceive me. You were
+drunk.”
+
+“Not drunk,” I pleaded; “don't say drunk; it is such a coarse
+expression. Some people cannot stand sweet champagne, so I have heard.
+It affected my liver. Do please make it a question of liver.”
+
+“Drunk,” I persisted unrelentingly, “hopelessly, vulgarly drunk--drunk
+as any 'Arry after a Bank Holiday.”
+
+“It is the first time,” I murmured.
+
+“It was your first opportunity,” I replied.
+
+“Never again,” I promised.
+
+“The stock phrase,” I returned.
+
+“How old are you?”
+
+“Nineteen.”
+
+“So you have not even the excuse of youth. How do you know that it will
+not grow upon you; that, having thus commenced a downward career, you
+will not sink lower and lower, and so end by becoming a confirmed sot?”
+
+My heavy head dropped into my hands, and I groaned. Many a temperance
+tale perused on Sunday afternoons came back to me. Imaginative in all
+directions, I watched myself hastening toward a drunkard's grave, now
+heroically struggling against temptation, now weakly yielding, the
+craving growing upon me. In the misty air about me I saw my father's
+white face, my mother's sad eyes. I thought of Barbara, of the scorn
+that could quiver round that bewitching mouth; of Hal, with his
+tremendous contempt for all forms of weakness. Shame of the present and
+terror of the future between them racked my mind.
+
+“It shall be never again!” I cried aloud. “By God, it shall!” (At
+nineteen one is apt to be vehement.) “I will leave this house at once,”
+ I continued to myself aloud; “I will get away from its unwholesome
+atmosphere. I will wipe it out of my mind, and all connected with it. I
+will make a fresh start. I will--”
+
+Something I had been dimly conscious of at the back of my brain came
+forward and stood before me: the flabby figure of Miss Rosina Sellars.
+What was she doing here? What right had she to step between me and my
+regeneration?
+
+“The right of your affianced bride,” my other half explained, with a
+grim smile to myself.
+
+“Did I really go so far as that?”
+
+“We will not go into details,” I replied; “I do not wish to dwell upon
+them. That was the result.”
+
+“I was--I was not quite myself at the time. I did not know what I was
+doing.”
+
+“As a rule, we don't when we do foolish things; but we have to abide by
+the consequences, all the same. Unfortunately, it happened to be in the
+presence of witnesses, and she is not the sort of lady to be easily got
+rid of. You will marry her and settle down with her in two small rooms.
+Her people will be your people. You will come to know them better before
+many days are passed. Among them she is regarded as 'the lady,' from
+which you can judge of them. A nice commencement of your career, is it
+not, my ambitious young friend? A nice mess you have made of it!”
+
+“What am I to do?” I asked.
+
+“Upon my word, I don't know,” I answered.
+
+I passed a wretched day. Ashamed to face Mrs. Peedles or even the
+slavey, I kept to my room, with the door locked. At dusk, feeling a
+little better--or, rather, less bad, I stole out and indulged in a
+simple meal, consisting of tea without sugar and a kippered herring, at
+a neighbouring coffee-house. Another gentleman, taking his seat opposite
+to me and ordering hot buttered toast, I left hastily.
+
+At eight o'clock in the evening Minikin called round from the office to
+know what had happened. Seeking help from shame, I confessed to him the
+truth.
+
+“Thought as much,” he answered. “Seems to have been an A1 from the look
+of you.”
+
+“I am glad it has happened, now it is over,” I said to him. “It will be
+a lesson I shall never forget.”
+
+“I know,” said Minikin. “Nothing like a fair and square drunk for making
+you feel real good; better than a sermon.”
+
+In my trouble I felt the need of advice; and Minikin, though my junior,
+was, I knew, far more experienced in worldly affairs than I was.
+
+“That's not the worst,” I confided to him. “What do you think I've
+done?”
+
+“Killed a policeman?” suggested Minikin.
+
+“Got myself engaged.”
+
+“No one like you quiet fellows for going it when you do begin,”
+ commented Minikin. “Nice girl?”
+
+“I don't know,” I answered. “I only know I don't want her. How can I get
+out of it?”
+
+Minikin removed his left eye and commenced to polish it upon his
+handkerchief, a habit he had when in doubt. From looking into it he
+appeared to derive inspiration.
+
+“Take-her-own-part sort of a girl?”
+
+I intimated that he had diagnosed Miss Rosina Sellars correctly.
+
+“Know how much you're earning?”
+
+“She knows I live up here in this attic and do my own cooking,” I
+answered.
+
+Minikin glanced round the room. “Must be fond of you.”
+
+“She thinks I'm clever,” I explained, “and that I shall make my way.
+
+“And she's willing to wait?”
+
+I nodded.
+
+“Well, I should let her wait,” replied Minikin, replacing his eye.
+“There's plenty of time before you.”
+
+“But she's a barmaid, and she'll expect me to walk with her, to take her
+out on Sundays, to go and see her friends. I can't do it. Besides, she's
+right: I mean to get on. Then she'll stick to me. It's awful!”
+
+“How did it happen?” asked Minikin.
+
+“I don't know,” I replied. “I didn't know I had done it till it was
+over.”
+
+“Anybody present?”
+
+“Half-a-dozen of them,” I groaned.
+
+The door opened, and Jarman entered; he never troubled to knock
+anywhere. In place of his usual noisy greeting, he crossed in silence
+and shook me gravely by the hand.
+
+“Friend of yours?” he asked, indicating Minikin.
+
+I introduced them to each other.
+
+“Proud to meet you,” said Jarman.
+
+“Glad to hear it,” said Minikin. “Don't look as if you'd got much else
+to be stuck up about.”
+
+“Don't mind him,” I explained to Jarman. “He was born like it.”
+
+“Wonderful gift” replied Jarman. “D'ye know what I should do if I 'ad
+it?” He did not wait for Minikin's reply. “'Ire myself out to break up
+evening parties. Ever thought of it seriously?”
+
+Minikin replied that he would give the idea consideration.
+
+“Make your fortune going round the suburbs,” assured him Jarman. “Pity
+you weren't 'ere last night,” he continued; “might 'ave saved our young
+friend 'ere a deal of trouble. Has 'e told you the news?”
+
+I explained that I had already put Minikin in possession of all the
+facts.
+
+“Now you've got a good, steady eye,” said Jarman, upon whom Minikin,
+according to his manner, had fixed his glass orb; “'ow d'ye think 'e is
+looking?”
+
+“As well as can be expected under the circumstances, don't you think?”
+ answered Minikin.
+
+“Does 'e know the circumstances? Has 'e seen the girl?” asked Jarman.
+
+I replied he had not as yet enjoyed that privilege. “Then 'e don't know
+the worst,” said Jarman. “A hundred and sixty pounds of 'er, and still
+growing! Bit of a load for 'im, ain't it?”
+
+“Some of 'em do have luck,” was Minikin's rejoinder. Jarman
+leant forward and took further stock for a few seconds of his new
+acquaintance.
+
+“That's a fine 'ead of yours,” he remarked; “all your own? No offence,”
+ continued Jarman, without giving Minikin time for repartee. “I was
+merely thinking there must be room for a lot of sense in it. Now, what
+do you, as a practical man, advise 'im: dose of poison, or Waterloo
+Bridge and a brick?”
+
+“I suppose there's no doubt,” I interjected, “that we are actually
+engaged?”
+
+“Not a blooming shadow,” assured me Jarman, cheerfully, “so far as she's
+concerned.”
+
+“I shall tell her plainly,” I explained, “that I was drunk at the time.”
+
+“And 'ow are you going to convince 'er of it?” asked Jarman. “You think
+your telling 'er you loved 'er proves it. So it would to anybody else,
+but not to 'er. You can't expect it. Besides, if every girl is going to
+give up 'er catch just because the fellow 'adn't all 'is wits about 'im
+at the time--well, what do you think?” He appealed to Minikin.
+
+To Minikin it appeared that if such contention were allowed girls might
+as well shut up shop.
+
+Jarman, who now that he had “got even” with Minikin, was more friendly
+disposed towards that young man, drew his chair closer to him and
+entered upon a private and confidential argument, from which I appeared
+to be entirely excluded.
+
+“You see,” explained Jarman, “this ain't an ordinary case. This chap's
+going to be the future Poet Laureate. Now, when the Prince of Wales
+invites him to dine at Marlborough 'ouse, 'e don't want to go there
+tacked on to a girl that carries aitches with her in a bag, and don't
+know which end of the spoon out of which to drink 'er soup.”
+
+“It makes a difference, of course,” agreed Minikin.
+
+“What we've got to do,” said Jarman, “is to get 'im out of it. And upon
+my sivvy, blessed if I see 'ow to do it!”
+
+“She fancies him?” asked Minikin.
+
+“What she fancies,” explained Jarman, “is that nature intended 'er to be
+a lady. And it's no good pointing out to 'er the mistake she's making,
+because she ain't got sense enough to see it.”
+
+“No good talking straight to her,” suggested Minikin, “telling her that
+it can never be?”
+
+“That's our difficulty,” replied Jarman; “it can be. This chap”--I
+listened as might a prisoner in the dock to the argument of counsel,
+interested but impotent--“don't know enough to come in out of the rain,
+as the saying is. 'E's just the sort of chap this sort of thing does
+'appen to.”
+
+“But he don't want her,” urged Minikin. “He says he don't want her.”
+
+“Yes, to you and me,” answered Jarman; “and of course 'e don't. I'm
+not saying 'e's a natural born idiot. But let 'er come along and do
+a snivel--tell 'im that 'e's breaking 'er 'eart, and appeal to 'im to
+be'ave as a gentleman, and all that sort of thing, and what do you think
+will be the result?”
+
+Minikin agreed that the problem presented difficulties.
+
+“Of course, if 'twas you or me, we should just tell 'er to put 'erself
+away somewhere where the moth couldn't get at 'er and wait till we sent
+round for 'er; and there'd be an end of the matter. But with 'im it's
+different.”
+
+“He is a bit of a soft,” agreed Minikin.
+
+“'Tain't 'is fault,” explained Jarman; “'twas the way 'e was brought up.
+'E fancies girls are the sort of things one sees in plays, going about
+saying 'Un'and me!' 'Let me pass!' Maybe some of 'em are, but this ain't
+one of 'em.”
+
+“How did it happen?” asked Minikin.
+
+“'Ow does it 'appen nine times out of ten?” returned Jarman. “'E was a
+bit misty, and she was wide awake. 'E gets a bit spoony, and--well, you
+know.”
+
+“Artful things, girls,” commented Minikin.
+
+“Can't blame 'em,” returned Jarman, with generosity; “it's their
+business. Got to dispose of themselves somehow. Oughtn't to be binding
+without a written order dated the next morning; that'd make it all
+right.”
+
+“Couldn't prove a prior engagement?” suggested Minikin.
+
+“She'd want to see the girl first before she'd believe it--only
+natural,” returned Jarman.
+
+“Couldn't get a girl?” urged Minikin.
+
+“Who could you trust?” asked the cautious Jarman. “Besides, there ain't
+time. She's letting 'im rest to-day; to-morrow evening she'll be down on
+'im.”
+
+“Don't see anything for it,” said Minikin, “but for him to do a bunk.”
+
+“Not a bad idea that,” mused Jarman; “only where's 'e to bunk to?”
+
+“Needn't go far,” said Minikin.
+
+“She'd find 'im out and follow 'im,” said Jarman. “She can look after
+herself, mind you. Don't you go doing 'er any injustice.”
+
+“He could change his name,” suggested Minikin.
+
+“'Ow could 'e get a crib?” asked Jarman; “no character, no references.”
+
+“I've got it,” cried Jarman, starting up; “the stage!”
+
+“Can he act?” asked Minikin.
+
+“Can do anything,” retorted my supporter, “that don't want too much
+sense. That's 'is sanctuary, the stage. No questions asked, no character
+wanted. Lord! why didn't I think of it before?”
+
+“Wants a bit of getting on to, doesn't it?” suggested Minikin.
+
+“Depends upon where you want to get,” replied Jarman. For the first
+time since the commencement of the discussion he turned to me. “Can you
+sing?” he asked me.
+
+I replied that I could a little, though I had never done so in public.
+
+“Sing something now,” demanded Jarman; “let's 'ear you. Wait a minute!”
+ he cried.
+
+He slipped out of the room. I heard him pause upon the landing below
+and knock at the door of the fair Rosina's room. The next minute he
+returned.
+
+“It's all right,” he explained; “she's not in yet. Now, sing for all
+you're worth. Remember, it's for life and freedom.”
+
+I sang “Sally in Our Alley,” not with much spirit, I am inclined to
+think. With every mention of the lady's name there rose before me the
+abundant form and features of my _fiancee_, which checked the feeling
+that should have trembled through my voice. But Jarman, though not
+enthusiastic, was content.
+
+“It isn't what I call a grand opera voice,” he commented, “but it ought
+to do all right for a chorus where economy is the chief point to be
+considered. Now, I'll tell you what to do. You go to-morrow straight to
+the O'Kelly, and put the whole thing before 'im. 'E's a good sort; 'e'll
+touch you up a bit, and maybe give you a few introductions. Lucky for
+you, this is just the right time. There's one or two things comin'
+on, and if Fate ain't dead against you, you'll lose your amorita, or
+whatever it's called, and not find 'er again till it's too late.”
+
+I was not in the mood that evening to feel hopeful about anything; but I
+thanked both of them for their kind intentions and promised to think
+the suggestion over on the morrow, when, as it was generally agreed, I
+should be in a more fitting state to bring cool judgment to bear upon
+the subject; and they rose to take their departure.
+
+Leaving Minikin to descend alone, Jarman returned the next minute.
+“Consols are down a bit this week,” he whispered, with the door in his
+hand. “If you want a little of the ready to carry you through, don't
+go sellin' out. I can manage a few pounds. Suck a couple of lemons and
+you'll be all right in the morning. So long.”
+
+I followed his advice regarding the lemons, and finding it correct, went
+to the office next morning as usual. Lott & Co., in consideration of my
+agreeing to a deduction of two shillings on the week's salary, allowed
+himself to overlook the matter. I had intended acting on Jarman's
+advice, to call upon the O'Kelly at his address of respectability in
+Hampstead that evening, and had posted him a note saying I was coming.
+Before leaving the office, however, I received a reply to the effect
+that he would be out that evening, and asking me to make it the
+following Friday instead. Disappointed, I returned to my lodgings in a
+depressed state of mind. Jarman 's scheme, which had appeared hopeful
+and even attractive during the daytime, now loomed shadowy and
+impossible before me. The emptiness of the first floor parlour as
+I passed its open door struck a chill upon me, reminding me of the
+disappearance of a friend to whom, in spite of moral disapproval, I had
+during these last few months become attached. Unable to work, the old
+pain of loneliness returned upon me. I sat for awhile in the darkness,
+listening to the scratching of the pen of my neighbour, the old
+law-writer, and the sense of despair that its sound always communicated
+to me encompassed me about this evening with heavier weight than usual.
+
+After all, was not the sympathy of the Lady 'Ortensia, stimulated for
+personal purposes though it might be, better than nothing? At least,
+here was some living creature to whom I belonged, to whom my existence
+or nonexistence was of interest, who, if only for her own sake, was
+bound to share my hopes, my fears.
+
+It was in this mood that I heard a slight tap at the door. In the dim
+passage stood the small slavey, holding out a note. I took it, and
+returning, lighted my candle. The envelope was pink and scented. It was
+addressed, in handwriting not so bad as I had expected, to “Paul Kelver,
+Esquire.” I opened it and read:
+
+“Dr mr. Paul--I herd as how you was took hill hafter the party. I feer
+you are not strong. You must not work so hard or you will be hill and
+then I shall be very cros with you. I hop you are well now. If so I am
+going for a wark and you may come with me if you are good. With much
+love. From your affechonat ROSIE.”
+
+In spite of the spelling, a curious, tingling sensation stole over me
+as I read this my first love-letter. A faint mist swam before my eyes.
+Through it, glorified and softened, I saw the face of my betrothed,
+pasty yet alluring, her large white fleshy arms stretched out invitingly
+toward me. Moved by a sudden hot haste that seized me, I dressed myself
+with trembling hands; I appeared to be anxious to act without giving
+myself time for thought. Complete, with a colour in my cheeks unusual to
+them, and a burning in my eyes, I descended and knocked with a nervous
+hand at the door of the second floor back.
+
+“Who's that?” came in answer Miss Sellars' sharp tones.
+
+“It is I--Paul.”
+
+“Oh, wait a minute, dear.” The tone was sweeter. There followed the
+sound of scurried footsteps, a rustling of clothes, a banging of
+drawers, a few moments' dead silence, and then:
+
+“You can come in now, dear.”
+
+I entered. It was a small, untidy room, smelling of smoky lamp; but all
+I saw distinctly at the moment was Miss Sellars with her arms above her
+head, pinning her hat upon her straw-coloured hair.
+
+With the sight of her before me in the flesh, my feelings underwent a
+sudden revulsion. During the few minutes she had kept me waiting outside
+the door I had suffered from an almost uncontrollable desire to turn the
+handle and rush in. Now, had I acted on impulse, I should have run out.
+Not that she was an unpleasant-looking girl by any means; it was the
+atmosphere of coarseness, of commonness, around her that repelled me.
+The fastidiousness--finikinness; if you will--that would so often spoil
+my rare chop, put before me by a waitress with dirty finger-nails,
+forced me to disregard the ample charms she no doubt did possess, to
+fasten my eyes exclusively upon her red, rough hands and the one or two
+warts that grew thereon.
+
+“You're a very naughty boy,” told me Miss Sellars, finishing the
+fastening of her hat. “Why didn't you come in and see me in the
+dinner-_h_our? I've a great mind not to kiss you.”
+
+The powder she had evidently dabbed on hastily was plainly visible upon
+her face; the round, soft arms were hidden beneath ill-fitting sleeves
+of some crapey material, the thought of which put my teeth on edge. I
+wished her intention had been stronger. Instead, relenting, she
+offered me her flowery cheek, which I saluted gingerly, the taste of it
+reminding me of certain pale, thin dough-cakes manufactured by the wife
+of our school porter and sold to us in playtime at four a penny, and
+which, having regard to their satisfying quality, had been popular with
+me in those days.
+
+At the top of the kitchen stairs Miss Sellars paused and called down
+shrilly to Mrs. Peedles, who in course of time appeared, panting.
+
+“Oh, me and Mr. Kelver are going out for a short walk, Mrs. Peedles. I
+shan't want any supper. Good night.”
+
+“Oh, good night, my dear,” replied Mrs. Peedles. “Hope you'll enjoy
+yourselves. Is Mr. Kelver there?”
+
+“He's round the corner,” I heard Miss Sellars explain in a lower voice;
+and there followed a snigger.
+
+“He's a bit shy, ain't he?” suggested Mrs. Peedles in a whisper.
+
+“I've had enough of the other sort,” was Miss Sellars' answer in low
+tones.
+
+“Ah, well; it's the shy ones that come out the strongest after a
+bit--leastways, that's been my experience.”
+
+“He'll do all right. So long.”
+
+Miss Sellars, buttoning a burst glove, rejoined me.
+
+“I suppose you've never had a sweetheart before?” asked Miss Sellars, as
+we turned into the Blackfriars Road.
+
+I admitted that this was my first experience.
+
+“I can't a-bear a flirty man,” explained Miss Sellars. “That's why I
+took to you from the beginning. You was so quiet.”
+
+I began to wish that nature had bestowed upon me a noisier temperament.
+
+“Anybody could see you was a gentleman,” continued Miss Sellars. “Heaps
+and heaps of hoffers I've had--_h_undreds you might almost say. But what
+I've always told 'em is, 'I like you very much indeed as a friend, but
+I'm not going to marry any one but a gentleman.' Don't you think I was
+right?”
+
+I murmured it was only what I should have expected of her.
+
+“You may take my harm, if you like,” suggested Miss Sellars, as we
+crossed St. George's Circus; and linked, we pursued our way along the
+Kennington Park Road.
+
+Fortunately, there was not much need for me to talk. Miss Sellars was
+content to supply most of the conversation herself, and all of it was
+about herself.
+
+I learned that her instincts since childhood had been toward gentility.
+Nor was this to be wondered at, seeing that her family--on her mother's
+side, at all events,--were connected distinctly with “the _h_ighest in
+the land.” _Mesalliances_, however, are common in all communities, and
+one of them, a particularly flagrant specimen--her “Mar” had, alas!
+contracted, having married--what did I think? I should never guess--a
+waiter! Miss Sellars, stopping in the act of crossing Newington Butts to
+shudder at the recollection of her female parent's shame, was nearly run
+down by a tramcar.
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Sellars did not appear to have “hit it off” together. Could
+one wonder: Mrs. Sellars with an uncle on the Stock Exchange, and Mr.
+Sellars with one on Peckham Rye? I gathered his calling to have been,
+chiefly, “three shies a penny.” Mrs. Sellars was now, however, happily
+dead; and if no other good thing had come out of the catastrophe, it had
+determined Miss Sellars to take warning by her mother's error and avoid
+connection with the lowly born. She it was who, with my help, would lift
+the family back again to its proper position in society.
+
+“It used to be a joke against me,” explained Miss Sellars, “heven when
+I was quite a child. I never could tolerate anything low. Why, one day
+when I was only seven years old, what do you think happened?”
+
+I confessed my inability to guess.
+
+“Well, I'll tell you,” said Miss Sellars; “it'll just show you. Uncle
+Joseph--that was father's uncle, you understand?”
+
+I assured Miss Sellars that the point was fixed in my mind.
+
+“Well, one day when he came to see us he takes a cocoanut out of his
+pocket and offers it to me. 'Thank you,' I says; 'I don't heat cocoanuts
+that have been shied at by just anybody and missed!' It made him so
+wild. After that,” explained Miss Sellars, “they used to call me at home
+the Princess of Wales.”
+
+I murmured it was a pretty fancy.
+
+“Some people,” replied Miss Sellars, with a giggle, “says it fits me;
+but, of course, that's only their nonsense.”
+
+Not knowing what to reply, I remained silent, which appeared to somewhat
+disappoint Miss Sellars.
+
+Out of the Clapham Road we turned into a by-street of two-storeyed
+houses.
+
+“You'll come in and have a bit of supper?” suggested Miss Sellars.
+“Mar's quite hanxious to see you.”
+
+I found sufficient courage to say I was not feeling well, and would much
+rather return home.
+
+“Oh, but you must just come in for five minutes, dear. It'll look so
+funny if you don't. I told 'em we was coming.”
+
+“I would really rather not,” I urged; “some other evening.” I felt
+a presentiment, I confided to her, that on this particular evening I
+should not shine to advantage.
+
+“Oh, you mustn't be so shy,” said Miss Sellars. “I don't like shy
+fellows--not too shy. That's silly.” And Miss Sellars took my arm with
+a decided grip, making it clear to me that escape could be obtained only
+by an unseemly struggle in the street; not being prepared for which, I
+meekly yielded.
+
+We knocked at the door of one of the small houses, Miss Sellars
+retaining her hold upon me until it had been opened to us by a lank
+young man in his shirt-sleeves and closed behind us.
+
+“Don't gentlemen wear coats of a hevening nowadays?” asked Miss Sellars,
+tartly, of the lank young man. “New fashion just come in?”
+
+“I don't know what gentlemen wear in the evening or what they don't,”
+ retorted the lank young man, who appeared to be in an aggressive mood.
+“If I can find one in this street, I'll ast him and let you know.”
+
+“Mother in the droaring-room?” enquired Miss Sellars, ignoring the
+retort.
+
+“They're all of 'em in the parlour, if that's what you mean,” returned
+the lank young man, “the whole blooming shoot. If you stand up against
+the wall and don't breathe, there'll just be room for you.”
+
+Sweeping by the lank young man, Miss Sellars opened the parlour door,
+and towing me in behind her, shut it.
+
+“Well, Mar, here we are,” announced Miss Sellars. An enormously stout
+lady, ornamented with a cap that appeared to have been made out of a
+bandanna handkerchief, rose to greet us, thus revealing the fact
+that she had been sitting upon an extremely small horsehair-covered
+easy-chair, the disproportion between the lady and her support being
+quite pathetic.
+
+“I am charmed, Mr.--”
+
+“Kelver,” supplied Miss Sellars.
+
+“Kelver, to make your ac-quain-tance,” recited Mrs. Sellars in the tone
+of one repeating a lesson.
+
+I bowed, and murmured that the honour was entirely mine.
+
+“Don't mention it,” replied Mrs. Sellars. “Pray be seated.”
+
+Mrs. Sellars herself set the example by suddenly giving way and dropping
+down into her chair, which thus again became invisible. It received her
+with an agonised groan.
+
+Indeed, the insistence with which this article of furniture throughout
+the evening called attention to its sufferings was really quite
+distracting. With every breath that Mrs. Sellars took it moaned wearily.
+There were moments when it literally shrieked. I could not have accepted
+Mrs. Sellars' offer had I wished, there being no chair vacant and no
+room for another. A young man with watery eyes, sitting just behind me
+between a fat young lady and a lean one, rose and suggested my taking
+his place. Miss Sellars introduced me to him as her cousin Joseph
+something or other, and we shook hands.
+
+The watery-eyed Joseph remarked that it had been a fine day between
+the showers, and hoped that the morrow would be either wet or dry; upon
+which the lean young lady, having slapped him, asked admiringly of the
+fat young lady if he wasn't a “silly fool;” to which the fat young lady
+replied, with somewhat unnecessary severity, I thought, that no one
+could help being what they were born. To this the lean young lady
+retorted that it was with precisely similar reflection that she herself
+controlled her own feelings when tempted to resent the fat young lady's
+“nasty jealous temper.”
+
+The threatened quarrel was nipped in the bud by the discretion of Miss
+Sellars, who took the opportunity of the fat young lady's momentary
+speechlessness to introduce me promptly to both of them. They also,
+I learned, were cousins. The lean girl said she had “erd on me,” and
+immediately fell into an uncontrollable fit of giggles; of which the
+watery-eyed Joseph requested me to take no notice, explaining that she
+always went off like that at exactly three-quarters to the half-hour
+every evening, Sundays and holidays excepted; that she had taken
+everything possible for it without effect, and that what he himself
+advised was that she should have it off.
+
+The fat girl, seizing the chance afforded her, remarked genteelly that
+she too had “heard hof me,” with emphasis upon the “hof.” She also
+remarked it was a long walk from Blackfriars Bridge.
+
+“All depends upon the company, eh? Bet they didn't find it too long.”
+
+This came from a loud-voiced, red-faced man sitting on the sofa beside a
+somewhat melancholy-looking female dressed in bright green. These twain
+I discovered to be Uncle and Aunt Gutton. From an observation dropped
+later in the evening concerning government restrictions on the sale of
+methylated spirit, and hastily smothered, I gathered that their line was
+oil and colour.
+
+Mr. Gutton's forte appeared to be badinage. He it was who, on my
+explaining my heightened colour as due to the closeness of the evening,
+congratulated his niece on having secured so warm a partner.
+
+“Will be jolly handy,” shouted Uncle Gutton, “for Rosina, seeing she's
+always complaining of her cold feet.”
+
+Here the lank young man attempted to squeeze himself into the room, but
+found his entrance barred by the square, squat figure of the watery-eyed
+young man.
+
+“Don't push,” advised the watery-eyed young man. “Walk over me quietly.”
+
+“Well, why don't yer get out of the way,” growled the lank young man,
+now coated, but still aggressive.
+
+“Where am I to get to?” asked the watery-eyed young man, with some
+reason. “Say the word and I'll 'ang myself up to the gas bracket.”
+
+“In my courting days,” roared Uncle Gutton, “the girls used to be able
+to find seats, even if there wasn't enough chairs to go all round.”
+
+The sentiment was received with varying degrees of approbation. The
+watery-eyed young man, sitting down, put the lean young lady on his
+knee, and in spite of her struggles and sounding slaps, heroically
+retained her there.
+
+“Now, then, Rosie,” shouted Uncle Gutton, who appeared to have
+constituted himself master of the ceremonies, “don't stand about, my
+girl; you'll get tired.”
+
+Left to herself, I am inclined to think my _fiancee_ would have spared
+me; but Uncle Gutton, having been invited to a love comedy, was not
+to be cheated of any part of the performance, and the audience clearly
+being with him, there was nothing for it but compliance. I seated
+myself, and amid plaudits accommodated the ample and heavy Rosina upon
+my knee.
+
+“Good-bye,” called out to me the watery-eyed young man, as behind the
+fair Rosina I disappeared from his view. “See you again later on.”
+
+“I used to be a plump girl myself before I married,” observed Aunt
+Gutton. “Plump as butter I was at one time.”
+
+“It isn't what one eats,” said the maternal Sellars. “I myself don't eat
+enough to keep a fly, and my legs--”
+
+“That'll do, Mar,” interrupted the filial Sellars, tartly.
+
+“I was only going to say, my dear--”
+
+“We all know what you was going to say, Mar,” retorted Miss Sellars.
+“We've heard it before, and it isn't interesting.”
+
+Mrs. Sellars relapsed into silence.
+
+“'Ard work and plenty of it keeps you thin enough, I notice,” remarked
+the lank young man, with bitterness. To him I was now introduced, he
+being Mr. George Sellars. “Seen 'im before,” was his curt greeting.
+
+At supper--referred to by Mrs. Sellars again in the tone of one
+remembering a lesson, as a cold col-la-tion, with the accent on the
+“tion”--I sat between Miss Sellars and the lean young lady, with Aunt
+and Uncle Gutton opposite to us. It was remarked with approval that I
+did not appear to be hungry.
+
+“Had too many kisses afore he started,” suggested Uncle Gutton, with
+his mouth full of cold roast pork and pickles. “Wonderfully nourishing
+thing, kisses, eh? Look at mother and me. That's all we live on.”
+
+Aunt Gutton sighed, and observed that she had always been a poor feeder.
+
+The watery-eyed young man, observing he had never tasted them
+himself--at which sally there was much laughter--said he would not mind
+trying a sample if the lean young lady would kindly pass him one.
+
+The lean young lady opined that, not being used to high living, it might
+disagree with him.
+
+“Just one,” pleaded the watery-eyed young man, “to go with this bit of
+cracklin'.”
+
+The lean young lady, amid renewed applause, first thoughtfully wiping
+her mouth, acceded to his request.
+
+The watery-eyed young man turned it over with the air of a gourmet.
+
+“Not bad,” was his verdict. “Reminds me of onions.” At this there was
+another burst of laughter.
+
+“Now then, ain't Paul goin' to have one?” shouted Uncle Gutton, when the
+laughter had subsided.
+
+Amid silence, feeling as wretched as perhaps I have ever felt in my life
+before or since, I received one from the gracious Miss Sellars, wet and
+sounding.
+
+“Looks better for it already,” commented the delighted Uncle Gutton.
+“He'll soon get fat on 'em.”
+
+“Not too many at first,” advised the watery-eyed young man. “Looks to me
+as if he's got a weak stomach.”
+
+I think, had the meal lasted much longer, I should have made a dash for
+the street; the contemplation of such step was forming in my mind. But
+Miss Sellars, looking at her watch, declared we must be getting home at
+once, for the which I could have kissed her voluntarily; and, being a
+young lady of decision, at once rose and commenced leave-taking. Polite
+protests were attempted, but these, with enthusiastic assistance from
+myself, she swept aside.
+
+“Don't want any one to walk home with you?” suggested Uncle Gutton.
+“Sure you won't feel lonely by yourselves, eh?”
+
+“We shan't come to no harm,” assured him Miss Sellars.
+
+“P'raps you're right,” agreed Uncle Gutton. “There don't seem to be much
+of the fiery and untamed about him, so far as I can see.”
+
+“'Slow waters run deep,'” reminded us Aunt Gutton, with a waggish shake
+of her head.
+
+“No question about the slow,” assented Uncle Gutton. “If you don't like
+him--” observed Miss Sellars, speaking with dignity.
+
+“To be quite candid with you, my girl, I don't,” answered Uncle Gutton,
+whose temper, maybe as the result of too much cold pork and whiskey,
+seemed to have suddenly changed.
+
+“Well, he happens to be good enough for me,” recommenced Miss Sellars.
+
+“I'm sorry to hear a niece of mine say so,” interrupted Uncle Gutton.
+“If you want my opinion of him--”
+
+“If ever I do I'll call round some time when you're sober and ast you
+for it,” returned Miss Sellars. “And as for being your niece, you was
+here when I came, and I don't see very well as how I could have got out
+of it. You needn't throw that in my teeth.”
+
+The gust was dispersed by the practical remark of brother George to the
+effect that the last tram for Walworth left the Oval at eleven-thirty;
+to which he further added the suggestion that the Clapham Road was wide
+and well adapted to a row.
+
+“There ain't going to be no rows,” replied Uncle Gutton, returning to
+amiability as suddenly as he had departed from it. “We understand each
+other, don't we, my girl?”
+
+“That's all right, uncle. I know what you mean,” returned Miss Sellars,
+with equal handsomeness.
+
+“Bring him round again when he's feeling better,” added Uncle Gutton,
+“and we'll have another look at him.”
+
+“What you want,” advised the watery-eyed young man on shaking hands with
+me, “is complete rest and a tombstone.”
+
+I wished at the time I could have followed his prescription.
+
+The maternal Sellars waddled after us into the passage, which she
+completely blocked. She told me she was delight-ted to have met me, and
+that she was always at home on Sundays.
+
+I said I would remember it, and thanked her warmly for a pleasant
+evening, at Miss Sellars' request calling her Ma.
+
+Outside, Miss Sellars agreed that my presentiment had proved
+correct--that I had not shone to advantage. Our journey home on a
+tramcar was a somewhat silent proceeding. At the door of her room she
+forgave me, and kissed me good night. Had I been frank with her, I
+should have thanked her for that evening's experience. It had made my
+course plain to me.
+
+The next day, which was Thursday, I wandered about the streets till two
+o'clock in the morning, when I slipped in quietly, passing Miss Sellars'
+door with my boots in my hand.
+
+After Mr. Lott's departure on Friday, which, fortunately, was pay-day,
+I set my desk in order and confided to Minikin written instructions
+concerning all matters unfinished.
+
+“I shall not be here to-morrow,” I told him. “Going to follow your
+advice.”
+
+“Found anything to do?” he asked.
+
+“Not yet,” I answered.
+
+“Suppose you can't get anything?”
+
+“If the worst comes to the worst,” I replied, “I can hang myself.”
+
+“Well, you know the girl. Maybe you are right,” he agreed.
+
+“Hope it won't throw much extra work on you,” I said.
+
+“Well, I shan't be catching it if it does,” was his answer. “That's all
+right.”
+
+He walked with me to the “Angel,” and there we parted.
+
+“If you do get on to the stage,” he said, “and it's anything worth
+seeing, and you send me an order, and I can find the time, maybe I'll
+come and see you.”
+
+I thanked him for his promised support and jumped upon the tram.
+
+The O'Kelly's address was in Belsize Square. I was about to ring and
+knock, as requested by a highly-polished brass plate, when I became
+aware of pieces of small coal falling about me on the doorstep. Looking
+up, I perceived the O'Kelly leaning out of an attic window. From signs
+I gathered I was to retire from the doorstep and wait. In a few minutes
+the door opened and his hand beckoned me to enter.
+
+“Walk quietly,” he whispered; and on tip-toe we climbed up to the attic
+from where had fallen the coal. “I've been waiting for ye,” explained
+the O'Kelly, speaking low. “Me wife--a good woman, Paul; sure, a better
+woman never lived; ye'll like her when ye know her, later on--she might
+not care about ye're calling. She'd want to know where I met ye, and--ye
+understand? Besides,” added the O'Kelly, “we can smoke up here;” and
+seating himself where he could keep an eye upon the door, near to a
+small cupboard out of which he produced a pipe still alight, the O'Kelly
+prepared himself to listen.
+
+I told him briefly the reason of my visit.
+
+“It was my fault, Paul,” he was good enough to say; “my fault entirely.
+Between ourselves, it was a damned silly idea, that party, the whole
+thing altogether. Don't ye think so?”
+
+I replied that I was naturally prejudiced against it myself.
+
+“Most unfortunate for me,” continued the O'Kelly; “I know that. Me
+cabman took me to Hammersmith instead of Hampstead; said I told him
+Hammersmith. Didn't get home here till three o'clock in the morning.
+Most unfortunate--under the circumstances.”
+
+I could quite imagine it.
+
+“But I'm glad ye've come,” said the O'Kelly. “I had a notion ye did
+something foolish that evening, but I couldn't remember precisely what.
+It's been worrying me.”
+
+“It's been worrying me also, I can assure you,” I told him; and I gave
+him an account of my Wednesday evening's experience.
+
+“I'll go round to-morrow morning,” he said, “and see one or two people.
+It's not a bad idea, that of Jarman's. I think I may be able to arrange
+something for ye.”
+
+He fixed a time for me to call again upon him the next day, when Mrs.
+O'Kelly would be away from home. He instructed me to walk quietly up and
+down on the opposite side of the road with my eye on the attic window,
+and not to come across unless he waved a handkerchief.
+
+Rising to go, I thanked him for his kindness. “Don't put it that way, me
+dear Paul,” he answered. “If I don't get ye out of this scrape I shall
+never forgive meself. If we damned silly fools don't help one another,”
+ he added, with his pleasant laugh, “who is to help us?”
+
+We crept downstairs as we had crept up. As we reached the first floor,
+the drawing-room door suddenly opened.
+
+“William!” cried a sharp voice.
+
+“Me dear,” answered the O'Kelly, snatching his pipe from his mouth and
+thrusting it, still alight, into his trousers pocket. I made the rest
+of the descent by myself, and slipping out, closed the door behind me as
+noiselessly as possible.
+
+Again I did not return to Nelson Square until the early hours, and the
+next morning did not venture out until I had heard Miss Sellars, who
+appeared to be in a bad temper, leave the house. Then running to the top
+of the kitchen stairs, I called for Mrs. Peedles. I told her I was going
+to leave her, and, judging the truth to be the simplest explanation, I
+told her the reason why.
+
+“My dear,” said Mrs. Peedles, “I am only too glad to hear it. It wasn't
+for me to interfere, but I couldn't help seeing you were making a fool
+of yourself. I only hope you'll get clear off, and you may depend upon
+me to do all I can to help you.”
+
+“You don't think I'm acting dishonourably, do you, Mrs. Peedles?” I
+asked.
+
+“My dear,” replied Mrs. Peedles, “it's a difficult world to live
+in--leastways, that's been my experience of it.”
+
+I had just completed my packing--it had not taken me long--when I
+heard upon the stairs the heavy panting that always announced to me the
+up-coming of Mrs. Peedles. She entered with a bundle of old manuscripts
+under her arm, torn and tumbled booklets of various shapes and sizes.
+These she plumped down upon the rickety table, and herself upon the
+nearest chair.
+
+“Put them in your box, my dear,” said Mrs. Peedles. “They'll come in
+useful to you later on.”
+
+I glanced at the bundle. I saw it was a collection of old plays in
+manuscript-prompt copies, scored, cut and interlined. The top one I
+noticed was “The Bloodspot: Or the Maiden, the Miser and the Murderer;”
+ the second, “The Female Highwayman.”
+
+“Everybody's forgotten 'em,” explained Mrs. Peedles, “but there's some
+good stuff in all of them.”
+
+“But what am I to do with them?” I enquired.
+
+“Just whatever you like, my dear,” explained Mrs. Peedles. “It's quite
+safe. They're all of 'em dead, the authors of 'em. I've picked 'em out
+most carefully. You just take a scene from one and a scene from the
+other. With judgment and your talent you'll make a dozen good plays out
+of that little lot when your time comes.”
+
+“But they wouldn't be my plays, Mrs. Peedles,” I suggested.
+
+“They will if I give them to you,” answered Mrs. Peedles. “You put 'em
+in your box. And never mind the bit of rent,” added Mrs. Peedles; “you
+can pay me that later on.”
+
+I kissed the kind old soul good-bye and took her gift with me to my new
+lodgings in Camden Town. Many a time have I been hard put to it for
+plot or scene, and more than once in weak mood have I turned with guilty
+intent the torn and crumpled pages of Mrs. Peedles's donation to my
+literary equipment. It is pleasant to be able to put my hand upon my
+heart and reflect that never yet have I yielded to the temptation.
+Always have I laid them back within their drawer, saying to myself, with
+stern reproof:
+
+“No, no, Paul. Stand or fall by your own merits. Never plagiarise--in
+any case, not from this 'little lot.'”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+LEADS TO A MEETING.
+
+“Don't be nervous,” said the O'Kelly, “and don't try to do too much. You
+have a very fair voice, but it's not powerful. Keep cool and open your
+mouth.”
+
+It was eleven o'clock in the morning. We were standing at the entrance
+of the narrow court leading to the stage door. For a fortnight past the
+O'Kelly had been coaching me. It had been nervous work for both of us,
+but especially for the O'Kelly. Mrs. O'Kelly, a thin, acid-looking lady,
+of whom I once or twice had caught a glimpse while promenading Belsize
+Square awaiting the O'Kelly's signal, was a serious-minded lady, with a
+conscientious objection to all music not of a sacred character. With the
+hope of winning the O'Kelly from one at least of his sinful tendencies,
+the piano had been got rid of, and its place in the drawing-room filled
+by an American organ of exceptionally lugubrious tone. With this we
+had had to make shift, and though the O'Kelly--a veritable musical
+genius--had succeeded in evolving from it an accompaniment to “Sally in
+Our Alley” less misleading and confusing than might otherwise have been
+the case, the result had not been to lighten our labours. My rendering
+of the famous ballad had, in consequence, acquired a dolefulness not
+intended by the composer. Sung as I sang it, the theme became, to employ
+a definition since grown hackneyed as applied to Art, a problem ballad.
+Involuntarily one wondered whether the marriage would turn out as
+satisfactorily as the young man appeared to anticipate. Was there not,
+when one came to think of it, a melancholy, a pessimism ingrained within
+the temperament of the complainful hero that would ill assort with
+those instincts toward frivolity the careful observer could not avoid
+discerning in the charming yet nevertheless somewhat shallow character
+of Sally.
+
+“Lighter, lighter. Not so soulful,” would demand the O'Kelly, as the
+solemn notes rolled jerkily from the groaning instrument beneath his
+hands.
+
+Once we were nearly caught, Mrs. O'Kelly returning from a district
+visitors' committee meeting earlier than was expected. Hastily I was
+hidden in a small conservatory adjutting from the first floor landing,
+where, crouching behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling to
+the severe cross-examination of the O'Kelly.
+
+“William, do not prevaricate. It was not a hymn.”
+
+“Me dear, so much depends upon the time. Let me give ye an example of
+what I mean.”
+
+“William, pray in my presence not to play tricks with sacred melodies.
+If you have no respect for religion, please remember that I have.
+Besides, why should you be playing hymns in any time at ten o'clock
+in the morning? It is not like you, William, and I do not credit your
+explanation. And you were singing. I distinctly heard the word 'Sally'
+as I opened the door.”
+
+“Salvation, me dear,” corrected the O'Kelly.
+
+“Your enunciation, William, is not usually so much at fault.”
+
+“A little hoarseness, me dear,” explained the O'Kelly.
+
+“Your voice did not sound hoarse. Perhaps it will be better if we do not
+pursue the subject further.”
+
+With this the O'Kelly appeared to agree.
+
+“A lady a little difficult to get on with when ye're feeling well and
+strong,” so the O'Kelly would explain her; “but if ye happen to be ill,
+one of the kindest, most devoted of women. When I was down with typhoid
+three years ago, a tenderer nurse no man could have had. I shall never
+forget it. And so she would be again to-morrow, if there was anything
+serious the matter with me.”
+
+I murmured the well-known quotation.
+
+“Mrs. O'Kelly to a T,” concurred the O'Kelly. “I sometimes wonder if
+Lady Scott may not have been the same sort of woman.”
+
+“The unfortunate part of it is,” continued the O'Kelly, “that I'm such
+a healthy beggar; it don't give her a chance. If I were only a chronic
+invalid, now, there's nothing that woman would not do to make me happy.
+As it is--” The O'Kelly struck a chord. We resumed our studies.
+
+But to return to our conversation at the stage door.
+
+“Meet me at the Cheshire Cheese at one o'clock,” said the O'Kelly,
+shaking hands. “If ye don't get on here, we'll try something else; but
+I've spoken to Hodgson, and I think ye will. Good luck to ye!”
+
+He went his way and I mine. In a glass box just behind the door a
+curved-nose, round-eyed little man, looking like an angry bird in a
+cage, demanded of me my business. I showed him my letter of appointment.
+
+“Up the passage, across the stage, along the corridor, first floor,
+second door on the right,” he instructed me in one breath, and shut the
+window with a snap.
+
+I proceeded up the passage. It somewhat surprised me to discover that
+I was not in the least excited at the thought of this, my first
+introduction to “behind the scenes.”
+
+I recall my father's asking a young soldier on his return from the
+Crimea what had been his sensations at the commencement of his first
+charge.
+
+“Well,” replied the young fellow, “I was worrying all the time,
+remembering I had rushed out leaving the beer tap running in the
+canteen, and I could not forget it.”
+
+So far as the stage I found my way in safety. Pausing for a moment and
+glancing round, my impression was not so much disillusionment concerning
+all things theatrical as realisation of my worst forebodings. In that
+one moment all glamour connected with the stage fell from me, nor has it
+since ever returned to me. From the tawdry decorations of the auditorium
+to the childish make-belief littered around on the stage, I saw the
+Theatre a painted thing of shreds and patches--the grown child's
+doll's-house. The Drama may improve us, elevate us, interest and teach
+us. I am sure it does; long may it flourish! But so likewise does the
+dressing and undressing of dolls, the opening of the front of the house,
+and the tenderly putting of them away to bed in rooms they completely
+fill, train our little dears to the duties and the joys of motherhood.
+Toys! what wise child despises them? Art, fiction, the musical glasses:
+are they not preparing us for the time, however distant, when we shall
+at last be grown up?
+
+In a maze of ways beyond the stage I lost myself, but eventually, guided
+by voices, came to a large room furnished barely with many chairs
+and worn settees, and here I found some twenty to thirty ladies
+and gentlemen already seated. They were of varying ages, sizes
+and appearance, but all of them alike in having about them that
+impossible-to-define but impossible-to-mistake suggestion of
+theatricality. The men were chiefly remarkable for having no hair on
+their faces, but a good deal upon their heads; the ladies, one and
+all, were blessed with remarkably pink and white complexions and
+exceptionally bright eyes. The conversation, carried on in subdued but
+penetrating voices, was chiefly of “him” and “her.” Everybody appeared
+to be on an affectionate footing with everybody else, the terms of
+address being “My dear,” “My love,” “Old girl,” “Old chappie,” Christian
+names--when name of any sort was needful--alone being employed. I
+hesitated for a minute with the door in my hand, fearing I had stumbled
+upon a family gathering. As, however, nobody seemed disconcerted at my
+entry, I ventured to take a vacant seat next to an extremely small and
+boyish-looking gentleman and to ask him if this was the room in which I,
+an applicant for a place in the chorus of the forthcoming comic opera,
+ought to be waiting.
+
+He had large, fishy eyes, with which he looked me up and down. For such
+a length of time he remained thus regarding me in silence that a massive
+gentleman sitting near, who had overheard, took it upon himself to reply
+in the affirmative, adding that from what he knew of Butterworth we
+would all of us be waiting here a damned sight longer than any gentleman
+should keep other ladies and gentlemen waiting for no reason at all.
+
+“I think it exceedingly bad form,” observed the fishy-eyed gentleman,
+in deep contralto tones, “for any gentleman to take it upon himself to
+reply to a remark addressed to quite another gentleman.”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” retorted the large gentleman. “I thought you were
+asleep.”
+
+“I think it very ill manners,” remarked the small gentlemen in the same
+slow and impressive tones, “for any gentleman to tell another gentleman,
+who happens to be wide awake, that he thought he was asleep.”
+
+“Sir,” returned the massive gentleman, assuming with the help of a large
+umbrella a quite Johnsonian attitude, “I decline to alter my manners to
+suit your taste.”
+
+“If you are satisfied with them,” replied the small gentleman, “I cannot
+help it. But I think you are making a mistake.”
+
+“Does anybody know what the opera is about?” asked a bright little woman
+at the other end of the room.
+
+“Does anybody ever know what a comic opera is about?” asked another
+lady, whose appearance suggested experience.
+
+“I once asked the author,” observed a weary-looking gentleman, speaking
+from a corner. “His reply was: 'Well, if you had asked me at the
+beginning of the rehearsals I might have been able to tell you, but
+damned if I could now!'”
+
+“It wouldn't surprise me,” observed a good-looking gentleman in a velvet
+coat, “if there occurred somewhere in the proceedings a drinking chorus
+for male voices.”
+
+“Possibly, if we are good,” added a thin lady with golden hair, “the
+heroine will confide to us her love troubles, which will interest us and
+excite us.”
+
+The door at the further end of the room opened and a name was called.
+An elderly lady rose and went out.
+
+“Poor old Gertie!” remarked sympathetically the thin lady with the
+golden hair. “I'm told that she really had a voice once.”
+
+“When poor young Bond first came to London,” said the massive gentleman
+who was sitting on my left, “I remember his telling me he applied to
+Lord Barrymore's 'tiger,' Alexander Lee, I mean, of course, who was then
+running the Strand Theatre, for a place in the chorus. Lee heard him
+sing two lines, and then jumped up. 'Thanks, that'll do; good morning,'
+says Lee. Bond knew he had got a good voice, so he asked Lee what was
+wrong. 'What's wrong?' shouts Lee. 'Do you think I hire a chorus to show
+up my principals?'”
+
+“Having regard to the company present,” commented the fishy-eyed
+gentleman, “I consider that anecdote as distinctly lacking in tact.”
+
+The feeling of the company appeared to be with the fish-eyed young man.
+
+For the next half hour the door at the further end of the room continued
+to open and close, devouring, ogre-fashion, each time some dainty human
+morsel, now chorus gentleman, now chorus lady. Conversation among our
+thinning ranks became more fitful, a growing anxiety making for silence.
+
+At length, “Mr. Horace Moncrieff” called the voice of the unseen Charon.
+In common with the rest, I glanced round languidly to see what sort of
+man “Mr. Horace Moncrieff” might be. The door was pushed open further.
+Charon, now revealed as a pale-faced young man with a drooping
+moustache, put his head into the room and repeated impatiently his
+invitation to the apparently coy Moncrieff. It suddenly occurred to me
+that I was Mr. Horace Moncrieff.
+
+“So glad you've found yourself,” said the pale-faced young man, as I
+joined him at the door. “Please don't lose yourself again; we're rather
+pressed for time.”
+
+I crossed with him through a deserted refreshment bar--one of the
+saddest of sights--into a room beyond. A melancholy-looking gentleman
+was seated at the piano. Beside him stood a tall, handsome man, who
+was opening and reading rapidly from a bundle of letters he held in his
+hand. A big, burly, bored-looking gentleman was making desperate
+efforts to be amused at the staccato conversation of a sharp-faced,
+restless-eyed gentleman, whose peculiarity was that he never by any
+chance looked at the person to whom he was talking, but always at
+something or somebody else.
+
+“Moncrieff?” enquired the tall, handsome man--whom I later discovered to
+be Mr. Hodgson, the manager--without raising his eyes from his letters.
+
+The pale-faced gentleman responded for me.
+
+“Fire away,” said Mr. Hodgson.
+
+“What is it?” asked of me wearily the melancholy gentleman at the piano.
+
+“'Sally in Our Alley,'” I replied.
+
+“What are you?” interrupted Mr. Hodgson. He had never once looked at me,
+and did not now.
+
+“A tenor,” I replied. “Not a full tenor,” I added, remembering the
+O'Kelly's instructions.
+
+“Utterly impossible to fill a tenor,” remarked the restless-eyed
+gentleman, looking at me and speaking to the worried-looking gentleman.
+“Ever tried?”
+
+Everybody laughed, with the exception of the melancholy gentleman at the
+piano, Mr. Hodgson throwing in his contribution without raising his eyes
+from his letters. Throughout the proceedings the restless-eyed gentleman
+continued to make humorous observations of this nature, at which
+everybody laughed, excepting always the melancholy pianist--a short,
+sharp, mechanical laugh, devoid of the least suggestion of amusement.
+The restless-eyed gentleman, it appeared, was the leading low comedian
+of the theatre.
+
+“Go on,” said the melancholy gentleman, and commenced the accompaniment.
+
+“Tell me when he's going to begin,” remarked Mr. Hodgson at the
+conclusion of the first verse.
+
+“He has a fair voice,” said my accompanist. “He's evidently nervous.”
+
+“There is a prejudice throughout theatrical audiences,” observed Mr.
+Hodgson, “in favour of a voice they can hear. That is all I am trying to
+impress upon him.”
+
+The second verse, so I imagined, I sang in the voice of a trumpet. The
+burly gentleman--the translator of the French libretto, as he turned
+out to be; the author of the English version, as he preferred to
+be called--acknowledged to having distinctly detected a sound. The
+restless-eyed comedian suggested an announcement from the stage
+requesting strict silence during my part of the performance.
+
+The sickness of fear was stealing over me. My voice, so it seemed to me,
+disappointed at the effect it had produced, had retired, sulky, into my
+boots, whence it refused to emerge.
+
+“Your voice is all right--very good,” whispered the musical conductor.
+“They want to hear the best you can do, that's all.”
+
+At this my voice ran up my legs and out of my mouth. “Thirty shillings
+a week, half salary for rehearsals. If that's all right, Mr. Catchpole
+will give you your agreement. If not, very much obliged. Good morning,”
+ said Mr. Hodgson, still absorbed in his correspondence.
+
+With the pale-faced young man I retired to a desk in the corner, where
+a few seconds sufficed for the completion of the business. Leaving, I
+sought to catch the eye of my melancholy friend, but he appeared too
+sunk in dejection to notice anything. The restless-eyed comedian,
+looking at the author of the English version and addressing me as
+Boanerges, wished me good morning, at which the everybody laughed; and,
+informed as to the way out by the pale-faced Mr. Catchpole, I left.
+
+The first “call” was for the following Monday at two o'clock. I found
+the theatre full of life and bustle. The principals, who had just
+finished their own rehearsal, were talking together in a group. We
+ladies and gentlemen of the chorus filled the centre of the stage. I
+noticed the lady I had heard referred to as Gertie; as also the thin
+lady with the golden hair. The massive gentleman and the fishy-eyed
+young man were again in close proximity; so long as I knew them they
+always were together, possessed, apparently, of a sympathetic antipathy
+for each other. The fishy-eyed young gentleman was explaining the age at
+which he thought decayed chorus singers ought, in justice to themselves
+and the public, to retire from the profession; the massive gentleman,
+the age and size at which he thought parcels of boys ought to be
+learning manners across their mother's knee.
+
+Mr. Hodgson, still reading letters exactly as I had left him four days
+ago, stood close to the footlights. My friend, the musical director,
+armed with a violin and supported by about a dozen other musicians,
+occupied the orchestra. The adapter and the stage manager--a Frenchman
+whom I found it good policy to mistake for a born Englishman--sat
+deep in confabulation at a small table underneath a temporary gas jet.
+Quarter of an hour or so passed by, and then the stage manager, becoming
+suddenly in a hurry, rang a small bell furiously.
+
+“Clear, please; all clear,” shouted a small boy, with important air
+suggestive of a fox terrier; and, following the others, I retreated to
+the wings.
+
+The comedian and the leading lady--whom I knew well from the front,
+but whom I should never have recognised--severed themselves from their
+companions and joined Mr. Hodgson by the footlights. As a preliminary we
+were sorted out, according to our sizes, into loving couples.
+
+“Ah,” said the stage manager, casting an admiring gaze upon the
+fishy-eyed young man, whose height might have been a little over five
+feet two, “I have the very girl for you--a beauty!” Darting into the
+group of ladies, he returned with quite the biggest specimen, a lady
+of magnificent proportions, whom, with the air of the virtuous uncle
+of melodrama, he bestowed upon the fishy-eyed young man. To the massive
+gentleman was given a sharp-faced little lady, who at a distance
+appeared quite girlish. Myself I found mated to the thin lady with the
+golden hair.
+
+At last complete, we took our places in the then approved semi-circle,
+and the attenuated orchestra struck up the opening chorus. My music,
+which had been sent me by post, I had gone over with the O'Kelly, and
+about that I felt confident; but for the rest, ill at ease.
+
+“I am afraid,” said the thin lady, “I must ask you to put your arm round
+my waist. It's very shocking, I know, but, you see, our salary depends
+upon it. Do you think you could manage it?”
+
+I glanced into her face. A whimsical expression of fun replied to me and
+drove away my shyness. I carried out her instructions to the best of my
+ability.
+
+The indefatigable stage manager ran in and out among us while we sang,
+driving this couple back a foot or so, this other forward, herding this
+group closer together, throughout another making space, suggesting the
+idea of a sheep-dog at work.
+
+“Very good, very good indeed,” commented Mr. Hodgson at the conclusion.
+“We will go over it once more, and this time in tune.”
+
+“And we will make love,” added the stage manager; “not like marionettes,
+but like ladies and gentlemen all alive.” Seizing the lady nearest to
+him, he explained to us by object lesson how the real peasant invariably
+behaves when under influence of the grand passion, standing gracefully
+with hands clasped upon heart, head inclined at an angle of forty-five,
+his whole countenance eloquent with tender adoration.
+
+“If he expects” remarked the massive gentleman _sotto voce_ to an
+experienced-looking young lady, “a performance of Romeo thrown in, I,
+for one, shall want an extra ten shillings a week.”
+
+Casting the lady aside and seizing upon a gentleman, our stage manager
+then proceeded to show the ladies how a village maiden should receive
+affectionate advances: one shoulder a trifle higher than the other, body
+from the waist upward gently waggling, roguish expression in left eye.
+
+“Ah, he's a bit new to it,” replied the experienced young lady. “He'll
+get over all that.”
+
+Again we started. Whether others attempted to follow the stage manager's
+directions I cannot say, my whole attention being centred upon the
+fishy-eyed young man, who did, implicitly. Soon it became apparent that
+the whole of us were watching the fishy-eyed young man to the utter
+neglect of our own business. Mr. Hodgson even looked up from his
+letters; the orchestra was playing out of time; the author of the
+English version and the leading lady exchanged glances. Three people
+only appeared not to be enjoying themselves: the chief comedian, the
+stage manager and the fishy-eyed young gentleman himself, who pursued
+his labours methodically and conscientiously. There was a whispered
+confabulation between the leading low comedian, Mr. Hodgson and the
+stage manager. As a result, the music ceased and the fishy-eyed young
+gentleman was requested to explain what he was doing.
+
+“Only making love,” replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman.
+
+“You were playing the fool, sir,” retorted the leading low comedian,
+severely.
+
+“That is a very unkind remark,” replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman,
+evidently hurt, “to make to a gentleman who is doing his best.”
+
+Mr. Hodgson behind his letters was laughing. “Poor fellow,” he murmured;
+“I suppose he can't help it. Go on.”
+
+“We are not producing a pantomime, you know,” urged our comedian.
+
+“I want to give him a chance, poor devil,” explained Mr. Hodgson in a
+lower voice. “Only support of a widowed mother.”
+
+Our comedian appeared inclined to argue; but at this point Mr. Hodgson's
+correspondence became absorbing.
+
+For the chorus the second act was a busy one. We opened as soldiers
+and vivandieres, every warrior in this way possessing his own private
+travelling bar. Our stage manager again explained to us by example how
+a soldier behaves, first under stress of patriotic emotion, and secondly
+under stress of cheap cognac, the difference being somewhat subtle:
+patriotism displaying itself by slaps upon the chest, and cheap cognac
+by slaps upon the forehead. A little later we were conspirators; our
+stage manager, with the help of a tablecloth, showed us how to conspire.
+Next we were a mob, led by the sentimental baritone; our stage manager,
+ruffling his hair, expounded to us how a mob led by a sentimental
+baritone would naturally behave itself. The act wound up with a fight.
+Our stage manager, minus his coat, demonstrated to us how to fight and
+die, the dying being a painful and dusty performance, necessitating, as
+it did, much rolling about on the stage. The fishy-eyed young gentleman
+throughout the whole of it was again the centre of attraction. Whether
+he were solemnly slapping his chest and singing about glory, or solemnly
+patting his head and singing about grapes, was immaterial: he was the
+soldier for us. What the plot was about did not matter, so long as he
+was in it. Who led the mob one did not care; one's desire was to see
+him lead. How others fought and died was matter of no moment; to see him
+slaughtered was sufficient. Whether his unconsciousness was assumed or
+natural I cannot say; in either case it was admirable. An earnest young
+man, over-anxious, if anything, to do his duty by his employers, was
+the extent of the charge that could be brought against him. Our chief
+comedian frowned and fumed; our stage manager was in despair. Mr.
+Hodgson and the author of the English version, on the contrary, appeared
+kindly disposed towards the gentleman. In addition to the widowed
+mother, Mr. Hodgson had invented for him five younger brothers and
+sisters utterly destitute but for his earnings. To deprive so exemplary
+a son and brother of the means of earning a livelihood for dear ones
+dependent upon him was not in Mr. Hodgson's heart. Our chief comedian
+dissociated himself from all uncharitable feelings--would subscribe
+towards the subsistence of the young man out of his own pocket, his
+only concern being the success of the opera. The author of the English
+version was convinced the young man would not accept a charity; had
+known him for years--was a most sensitive creature.
+
+The rehearsal proceeded. In the last act it became necessary for me to
+kiss the thin lady.
+
+“I am very sorry,” said the thin lady, “but duty is duty. It has to be
+done.”
+
+Again I followed directions. The thin lady was good enough to
+congratulate me on my performance.
+
+The last three or four rehearsals we performed in company with the
+principals. Divided counsels rendered them decidedly harassing. Our
+chief comedian had his views, and they were decided; the leading lady
+had hers, and was generous with them. The author of the English version
+possessed his also, but of these nobody took much notice. Once every
+twenty minutes the stage manager washed his hands of the whole affair
+and left the theatre in despair, and anybody's hat that happened to
+be handy, to return a few minutes later full of renewed hope. The
+sentimental baritone was sarcastic, the tenor distinctly rude to
+everybody. Mr. Hodgson's method was to agree with all and listen to
+none. The smaller fry of the company, together with the more pushing of
+the chorus, supported each in turn, when the others were not looking. Up
+to the dress rehearsal it was anybody's opera.
+
+About one thing, and about one thing, only, had the principals fallen
+into perfect agreement, and that was that the fishy-eyed young gentleman
+was out of place in a romantic opera. The tenor would be making
+impassioned love to the leading lady. Perception would come to both of
+them that, though they might be occupying geographically the centre of
+the stage, dramatically they were not. Without a shred of evidence,
+yet with perfect justice, they would unhesitatingly blame for this the
+fishy-eyed young man.
+
+“I wasn't doing anything,” he would explain meekly. “I was only
+looking.” It was perfectly true; that was all he was doing.
+
+“Then don't look,” would comment the tenor.
+
+The fishy-eyed young gentleman obediently would turn his face away from
+them; and in some mysterious manner the situation would thereupon become
+even yet more hopelessly ridiculous.
+
+“My scene, I think, sir!” would thunder our chief comedian, a little
+later on.
+
+“I am only doing what I was told to do,” answered the fishy-eyed young
+gentleman; and nobody could say that he was not.
+
+“Take a circus, and run him as a side-show,” counselled our comedian.
+
+“I am afraid he would never be any good as a side-show,” replied Mr.
+Hodgson, who was reading letters.
+
+On the first night, passing the gallery entrance on my way to the stage
+door, the sight of the huge crowd assembled there waiting gave me my
+first taste of artistic joy. I was a part of what they had come to see,
+to praise or to condemn, to listen to, to watch. Within the theatre
+there was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement, amounting almost to
+hysteria. The bird-like gentleman in his glass cage was fluttering,
+agitated. The hands of the stage carpenters putting the finishing
+touches to the scenery were trembling, their voices passionate
+with anxiety; the fox-terrier-like call-boy was pale with sense of
+responsibility.
+
+I made my way to the dressing-room--a long, low, wooden corridor,
+furnished from end to end with a wide shelf that served as common
+dressing-table, lighted by a dozen flaring gas-jets, wire-shielded. Here
+awaited us gentlemen of the chorus the wigmaker's assistant, whose duty
+it was to make us up. From one to another he ran, armed with his hare's
+foot, his box of paints and his bundle of crepe hair. My turn arriving,
+he seized me by the head, jabbed a wig upon me, and in less than a
+couple of minutes I left his hands the orthodox peasant of the stage,
+white of forehead and pink of cheek, with curly moustache and lips of
+coral. Glancing into the glass, I could not help feeling pleased with
+myself; a moustache, without doubt, suited me.
+
+The chorus ladies, when I met them on the stage, were a revelation
+to me. Paint and powder though I knew their appearance to consist
+of chiefly, yet in that hot atmosphere of the theatre, under that
+artificial glare, it seemed fit and fascinating. The close approximation
+to so much bare flesh, its curious, subtle odour was almost
+intoxicating. Dr. Johnson's excuse to Garrick for the rarity of his
+visits to the theatre recurred to me with understanding.
+
+“How do you like my costume?” asked the thin lady with the golden hair.
+
+“I think you--” We were standing apart behind a piece of projecting
+scenery. She laid her hand upon my mouth, laughing.
+
+“How old are you?” she asked me.
+
+“Isn't that a rude question?” I answered. “I don't ask your age.
+
+“Mine,” she replied, “entitles me to talk to you as I should to a boy of
+my own--I had one once. Get out of this life if you can. It's bad for
+a woman; it's worse still for a man. To you especially it will be
+harmful.”
+
+“Why to me in particular?”
+
+“Because you are an exceedingly foolish little boy,” she answered, with
+another laugh, “and are rather nice.”
+
+She slipped away and joined the others. The chorus was now entirely
+assembled on the stage. The sound of the rapidly-filling house reached
+us, softened through the thick baize curtain, a dull, continuous
+droning, as of water pouring into some huge cistern. Suddenly there fell
+upon our ears a startling crash; the overture had commenced. The stage
+manager--more suggestive of a sheep-dog than ever, but lacking the calm
+dignity, the self-possession born of conscious capability distinctive of
+his prototype; a fussy, argumentative sheep-dog--rushed into the midst
+of us and worried us into our positions, where the more experienced
+continued to converse in whispers, the rest of us waiting nervously,
+trying to remember our words. The chorus master, taking his stand with
+his back to the proscenium, held his white-gloved hand in readiness. The
+curtain rushed up, the house, a nightmare of white faces, appearing to
+run towards us. The chorus-master's white-gloved hand flung upward. A
+roar of voices struck upon my ear, but whether my own were of them
+I could not say; if I were singing at all it was unconsciously,
+mechanically. Later, I found myself standing in the wings beside the
+thin lady; the stage was in the occupation of the principals. On my next
+entrance my senses were more with me; I was able to look about me. Here
+and there a strongly-marked face among the audience stood out, but the
+majority were as indistinguishable as so many blades of grass. Looked at
+from the stage, the house seemed no more real than from the front do the
+painted faces upon a black cloth.
+
+The curtain fell amid the usual applause, sounding to us behind it like
+the rattle of tiny stones against a window-pane. Three times it rose
+and fell, like the opening and shutting of a door; and then followed a
+scamper for the dressing-rooms, the long corridors being filled with the
+rustling of skirts and the scurrying of feet.
+
+It was in the second act that the fishy-eyed young gentleman came into
+his own. The chorus had lingered till it was quite apparent that the
+tenor and the leading lady were in love with each other; then, with the
+exquisite delicacy so characteristic of a chorus, foreseeing that its
+further presence might be embarrassing, it turned to go, half to the
+east, the other half to the west. The fishy-eyed young man, starting
+from the centre, was the last to leave the stage. In another moment he
+would have disappeared from view. There came a voice from the gallery,
+clear, distinct, pathetic with entreaty:
+
+“Don't go. Get behind a tree.”
+
+The request was instantly seconded by a roar of applause from every part
+of the house, followed by laughter. From that point onward the house was
+chiefly concerned with the fortunes of the fishy-eyed young gentleman.
+At his next entrance, disguised as a conspirator, he was welcomed
+with enthusiasm, his passing away regretted loudly. At the fall of the
+curtain, the tenor, furious, rushed up to him, and, shaking a fist in
+his face, demanded what he meant by it.
+
+“I wasn't doing anything,” explained the fishy-eyed young man.
+
+“You went off sideways!” roared the tenor.
+
+“Well, you told me not to look at you,” explained meekly the fishy-eyed
+young gentleman. “I must go off somehow. I regard you as a very
+difficult man to please.”
+
+At the final fall of the curtain the house appeared divided as regarded
+the merits of the opera; but for “Goggles” there was a unanimous and
+enthusiastic call, and the while we were dressing a message came for
+“Goggles” that Mr. Hodgson wished to see him in his private room.
+
+“He can make a funny face, no doubt about it,” commented one gentleman,
+as “Goggles” left the room.
+
+“I defy him to make a funnier one than God Almighty's made for him,”
+ responded the massive gentleman.
+
+“There's a deal in luck,” observed, with a sigh, another, a tall,
+handsome young gentleman possessed of a rich bass voice.
+
+Leaving the stage door, I encountered a group of gentlemen waiting upon
+the pavement outside. Not interested in them myself, I was hurrying
+past, when one laid a hand upon my shoulder. I turned. He was a big,
+broad-shouldered fellow, with a dark Vandyke beard and soft, dreamy
+eyes.
+
+“Dan!” I cried.
+
+“I thought it was you, young 'un, in the first act,” he answered. “In
+the second, when you came on without a moustache, I knew it. Are you in
+a hurry?”
+
+“Not at all,” I answered. “Are you?”
+
+“No,” he replied; “we don't go to press till Thursday, so I can write my
+notice to-morrow. Come and have supper with me at the Albion and we will
+talk. You look tired, young 'un.”
+
+“No,” I assured him, “only excited--partly at meeting you.”
+
+He laughed, and drew my arm through his.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+HOW ON A SWEET GREY MORNING THE FUTURE CAME TO PAUL.
+
+Over our supper Dan and I exchanged histories. They revealed points of
+similarity. Leaving school some considerable time earlier than myself,
+Dan had gone to Cambridge; but two years later, in consequence of the
+death of his father, of a wound contracted in the Indian Mutiny and
+never cured, had been compelled to bring his college career to an
+untimely termination.
+
+“You might not have expected that to grieve me,” said Dan, with a smile,
+“but, as a matter of fact, it was a severe blow to me. At Cambridge I
+discovered that I was by temperament a scholar. The reason why at school
+I took no interest in learning was because learning was, of set purpose,
+made as uninteresting as possible. Like a Cook's tourist party through a
+picture gallery, we were rushed through education; the object being not
+that we should see and understand, but that we should be able to say
+that we had done it. At college I chose my own subjects, studied them
+in my own way. I fed on knowledge, was not stuffed with it like a
+Strassburg goose.”
+
+Returning to London, he had taken a situation in a bank, the chairman of
+which had been an old friend of his father. The advantage was that while
+earning a small income he had time to continue his studies; but the
+deadly monotony of the work had appalled him, and upon the death of his
+mother he had shaken the cloying dust of the City from his brain and
+joined a small “fit-up” theatrical company. On the stage he had remained
+for another eighteen months; had played all roles, from “Romeo” to “Paul
+Pry,” had helped to paint the scenery, had assisted in the bill-posting.
+The latter, so he told me, he had found one of the most difficult of
+accomplishments, the paste-laden poster having an innate tendency to
+recoil upon the amateur's own head, and to stick there. Wearying of the
+stage proper, he had joined a circus company, had been “Signor Ricardo,
+the daring bare-back rider,” also one of the “Brothers Roscius in their
+marvellous trapeze act;” inclining again towards respectability, had
+been a waiter for three months at Ostend; from that, a footman.
+
+“One never knows,” remarked Dan. “I may come to be a society novelist;
+if so, inside knowledge of the aristocracy will give me decided
+advantage over the majority of my competitors.”
+
+Other callings he had sampled: had tramped through Ireland with a
+fiddle; through Scotland with a lecture on Palestine, assisted by
+dissolving views; had been a billiard-marker; next a schoolmaster. For
+the last three months he had been a journalist, dramatic and musical
+critic to a Sunday newspaper. Often had I dreamt of such a position for
+myself.
+
+“How did you obtain it?” I asked.
+
+“The idea occurred to me,” replied Dan, “late one afternoon, sauntering
+down the Strand, wondering what I should do next. I was on my beam ends,
+with only a few shillings in my pocket; but luck has always been with
+me. I entered the first newspaper office I came to, walked upstairs to
+the first floor, and opening the first door without knocking, passed
+through a small, empty room into a larger one, littered with books and
+papers. It was growing dark. A gentleman of extremely youthful figure
+was running round and round, cursing to himself because of three things:
+he had upset the ink, could not find the matches, and had broken the
+bell-pull. In the gloom, assuming him to be the office boy, I thought
+it would be fun to mistake him for the editor. As a matter of fact,
+he turned out to be the editor. I lit the gas for him, and found him
+another ink-pot. He was a slim young man with the voice and manner of a
+schoolboy. I don't suppose he is any more than five or six-and-twenty.
+He owes his position to the fact of his aunt's being the proprietress.
+He asked me if he knew me. Before I could tell him that he didn't, he
+went on talking. He appeared to be labouring under a general sense of
+injury.
+
+“'People come into this office,' he said; 'they seem to look upon it as
+a shelter from the rain--people I don't know from Adam. And that damned
+fool downstairs lets them march straight up--anybody, men with articles
+on safety valves, people who have merely come to kick up a row about
+something or another. Half my work I have to do on the stairs.
+
+“I recommended to him that he should insist upon strangers writing their
+business upon a slip of paper. He thought it a good idea.
+
+“'For the last three-quarters of an hour,' he said, 'have I been trying
+to finish this one column, and four times have I been interrupted.'
+
+“At that precise moment there came another knock at the door.
+
+“'I won't see him!' he cried. 'I don't care who he is; I won't see him.
+Send him away! Send everybody away!'
+
+“I went to the door. He was an elderly gentleman. He made to sweep by
+me; but I barred his way, and closed the editorial door behind me. He
+seemed surprised; but I told him it was impossible for him to see the
+editor that afternoon, and suggested his writing his business on a sheet
+of paper, which I handed to him for the purpose. I remained in that
+ante-room for half an hour, and during that time I suppose I must have
+sent away about ten or a dozen people. I don't think their business
+could have been important, or I should have heard about it afterwards.
+The last to come was a tired-looking gentleman, smoking a cigarette. I
+asked him his name.
+
+“He looked at me in surprise, and then answered, 'Idiot!'
+
+“I remained firm, however, and refused to let him pass.
+
+“'It's a bit awkward,' he retorted. 'Don't you think you could make an
+exception in favour of the sub-editor on press night?'
+
+“I replied that such would be contrary to my instructions.
+
+“'Oh, all right,' he answered. 'I'd like to know who's going to the
+Royalty to-night, that's all. It's seven o'clock already.'
+
+“An idea occurred to me. If the sub-editor of a paper doesn't know whom
+to send to a theatre, it must mean that the post of dramatic critic on
+that paper is for some reason or another vacant.
+
+“'Oh, that's all right,' I told him. 'I shall be in time enough.'
+
+“He appeared neither pleased nor displeased. 'Have you arranged with the
+Guv'nor?' he asked me.
+
+“'I'm just waiting to see him again for a few minutes,' I returned.
+'It'll be all right. Have you got the ticket?'
+
+“'Haven't seen it,' he replied.
+
+“'About a column?' I suggested.
+
+“'Three-quarters,' he preferred, and went.
+
+“The moment he was gone, I slipped downstairs and met a printer's boy
+coming up.
+
+“'What's the name of your sub?' I asked him. 'Tall man with a black
+moustache, looks tired.'
+
+“'Oh, you mean Penton,' explained the boy.
+
+“'That's the name,' I answered; 'couldn't think of it.'
+
+“I walked straight into the editor; he was still irritable. 'What is it?
+What is it now?' he snapped out.
+
+“'I only want the ticket for the Royalty Theatre,' I answered. 'Penton
+says you've got it.'
+
+“'I don't know where it is,' he growled.
+
+“I found it after some little search upon his desk.
+
+“'Who's going?' he asked.
+
+“'I am,' I said. And I went.
+
+“They have never discovered to this day that I appointed myself. Penton
+thinks I am some relation of the proprietress, and in consequence
+everybody treats me with marked respect. Mrs. Wallace herself, the
+proprietress, thinks I am the discovery of Penton, in whose judgment
+she has great faith; and with her I get on admirably. The paper I
+don't think is doing too well, and the salary is small, but sufficient.
+Journalism suits my temperament, and I dare say I shall keep to it.”
+
+“You've been somewhat of a rolling stone hitherto,” I commented.
+
+He laughed. “From the stone's point of view,” he answered, “I never
+could see the advantage of being smothered in moss. I should always
+prefer remaining the stone, unhidden, able to move and see about me. But
+now, to speak of other matters, what are your plans for the immediate
+future? Your opera, thanks to the gentlemen, the gods have dubbed
+'Goggles,' will, I fancy, run through the winter. Are you getting any
+salary?”
+
+“Thirty shillings a week,” I explained to him, “with full salary for
+matinees.”
+
+“Say two pounds,” he replied. “With my three we could set up an
+establishment of our own. I have an idea that is original. Shall we work
+it out together?”
+
+I assured him with fervour that nothing would please me better.
+
+“There are four delightful rooms in Queen's Square,” he continued. “They
+are charmingly furnished: a fine sitting-room in the front, with
+two bedrooms and a kitchen behind. Their last tenant was a Polish
+Revolutionary, who, three months ago, poor fellow, was foolish enough to
+venture back to Russia, and who is now living rent free. The landlord of
+the house is an original old fellow, Deleglise the engraver. He occupies
+the rest of the house himself. He has told me I can have the rooms for
+anything I like to offer, and I should suggest thirty shillings a week,
+though under ordinary circumstances they would be worth three or four
+pounds. But he will only let us have them on the understanding that
+we 'do for' ourselves. He is quite an oddity. He hates petticoats,
+especially elderly petticoats. He has one servant, an old Frenchwoman,
+who, I believe, was housekeeper to his mother, and he and she do the
+housework together, most of their time quarrelling over it. Nothing else
+of the genus domestic female will he allow inside the door; not even an
+occasional charwoman would be permitted to us. On the other hand, it
+is a beautiful old Georgian house, with Adams mantelpieces, a stone
+staircase, and oak-panelled rooms; and our portion would be the entire
+second floor: no pianos and no landlady. He is a widower with one child,
+a girl of about fourteen or maybe a little older. Now, what do you say?
+I am a very fair cook; will you be house-and-parlour-maid?”
+
+I needed no pressing. A week later we were installed there, and for
+nearly two years we lived there. At the risk of offending an adorable
+but somewhat touchy sex, convinced that man, left to himself, is
+capable of little more than putting himself to bed, and that only in
+a rough-and-ready fashion, truth compels me to record the fact that
+without female assistance or supervision of any kind we passed through
+those two years, and yet exist to tell the tale. Dan had not idly
+boasted. Better plain cooking I never want to taste; so good a cup of
+coffee, omelette, or devilled kidney I rarely have tasted. Had he always
+confined his efforts within the boundaries of his abilities, there
+would be little to record beyond continuous and monotonous success.
+But stirred into dangerous ambition at the call of an occasional tea or
+supper party, lured out of his depths by the example of old Deleglise,
+our landlord--a man who for twenty years had made cooking his hobby--Dan
+would at intervals venture upon experiment. Pastry, it became evident,
+was a thing he should never have touched: his hand was heavy and
+his temperament too serious. There was a thing called lemon sponge,
+necessitating much beating of eggs. In the cookery-book--a remarkably
+fat volume, luscious with illustrations of highly-coloured food--it
+appeared an airy and graceful structure of dazzling whiteness. Served as
+Dan sent it to table, it suggested rather in form and colour a miniature
+earthquake. Spongy it undoubtedly was. One forced it apart with the
+assistance of one's spoon and fork; it yielded with a gentle tearing
+sound. Another favourite dainty of his was manna-cake. Concerning it
+I would merely remark that if it in any way resembled anything the
+Children of Israel were compelled to eat, then there is explanation
+for that fretfulness and discontent for which they have been, perhaps,
+unjustly blamed--some excuse even for their backward-flung desires in
+the direction of the Egyptian fleshpots. Moses himself may have been
+blessed with exceptional digestion. It was substantial, one must say
+that for it. One slice of it--solid, firm, crusty on the outside,
+towards the centre marshy--satisfied most people to a sense of
+repletion. For supper parties Dan would essay trifles--by no means open
+to the criticism of being light as air--souffle's that guests, in spite
+of my admonishing kicks, would persist in alluding to as pudding; and in
+winter-time, pancakes. Later, as regards these latter, he acquired some
+skill; but at first the difficulty was the tossing. I think myself a
+safer plan would have been to turn them by the aid of a knife and fork;
+it is less showy, but more sure. At least, you avoid all danger of
+catching the half-baked thing upon your head instead of in the pan,
+of dropping it into the fire, or among the cinders. But “Thorough” was
+always Dan's motto; and after all, small particles of coal or a few
+hairs can always be detected by the careful feeder, and removed.
+
+A more even-tempered man than Dan for twenty-three hours out of every
+twenty-four surely never breathed. It was a revelation to me to discover
+that for the other he could be uncertain, irritable, even ungrateful.
+At first, in a spirit of pure good nature, I would offer him counsel and
+advice; explain to him why, as it seemed to me, the custard was pimply,
+the mayonnaise sauce suggestive of hair oil. What was my return? Sneers,
+insult and abuse, followed, if I did not clear out quickly, by spoilt
+tomatoes, cold coffee grounds--anything that happened to be handy.
+Pained, saddened, I would withdraw, he would kick the door to after me.
+His greatest enemy appeared to be the oven. The oven it was that set
+itself to thwart his best wrought schemes. Always it was the oven's
+fault that the snowy bun appeared to have been made of red sandstone,
+the macaroni cheese of Cambrian clay. One might have sympathised with
+him more had his language been more restrained. As it was, the virulence
+of his reproaches almost inclined one to take the part of the oven.
+
+Concerning our house-maid, I can speak in terms of unqualified praise.
+There are, alas, fussy house-maids--who has not known and suffered
+them?--who overdo the thing, have no repose, no instinct telling
+them when to ease up and let the place alone. I have always held the
+perpetual stirring up of dust a scientific error; left to itself, it is
+harmless, may even be regarded as a delicate domestic bloom, bestowing
+a touch of homeliness upon objects that without it gleam cold and
+unsympathetic. Let sleeping dogs lie. Why be continually waking up the
+stuff, filling the air with all manner of unhealthy germs? Nature in her
+infinite wisdom has ordained that upon table, floor, or picture frame it
+shall sink and settle. There it remains, quiet and inoffensive; there it
+will continue to remain so long as nobody interferes with it: why worry
+it? So also with crumbs, odd bits of string, particles of egg-shell,
+stumps of matches, ends of cigarettes: what fitter place for such than
+under the nearest mat? To sweep them up is tiresome work. They cling to
+the carpet, you get cross with them, curse them for their obstinacy,
+and feel ashamed of yourself for your childishness. For every one you
+do persuade into the dust-pan, two jump out again. You lose your temper,
+feel bitter towards the man that dropped them. Your whole character
+becomes deteriorated. Under the mat they are always willing to go.
+Compromise is true statesmanship. There will come a day when you will
+be glad of an excuse for not doing something else that you ought to
+be doing. Then you can take up the mats and feel quite industrious,
+contemplating the amount of work that really must be done--some time or
+another.
+
+To differentiate between the essential and the non-essential, that
+is where woman fails. In the name of common sense, what is the use of
+washing a cup that half an hour later is going to be made dirty again?
+If the cat be willing and able to so clean a plate that not one speck of
+grease remain upon it, why deprive her of pleasure to inflict toil upon
+yourself? If a bed looks made and feels made, then for all practical
+purposes it is made; why upset it merely to put it straight again? It
+would surprise most women the amount of labour that can be avoided in a
+house.
+
+For needlework, I confess, I never acquired skill. Dan had learnt to
+handle a thimble, but my own second finger was ever reluctant to come
+forward when wanted. It had to be found, all other fingers removed out
+of its way. Then, feebly, nervously, it would push, slip, get itself
+pricked badly with the head of the needle, and, thoroughly frightened,
+remain incapable of further action. More practical I found it to push
+the needle through by help of the door or table.
+
+The opera, as Dan had predicted, ran far into the following year. When
+it was done with, another--in which “Goggles” appeared as one of the
+principals--took its place, and was even more successful. After the
+experience of Nelson Square, my present salary of thirty-five shillings,
+occasionally forty shillings, a week seemed to me princely. There
+floated before my eyes the possibility of my becoming a great opera
+singer. On six hundred pounds a week, I felt I could be content. But the
+O'Kelly set himself to dispel this dream.
+
+“Ye'd be making a mistake, me boy,” explained the O'Kelly. “Ye'd be just
+wasting ye're time. I wouldn't tell ye so if I weren't convinced of it.”
+
+“I know it is not powerful,” I admitted.
+
+“Ye might almost call it thin,” added the O'Kelly.
+
+“It might be good enough for comic opera,” I argued. “People appear to
+succeed in comic opera without much voice.
+
+“Sure, there ye're right,” agreed the O'Kelly, with a sigh. “An' of
+course if ye had an exceptionally fine presence and were strikingly
+handsome--”
+
+“One can do a good deal with make-up,” I suggested.
+
+The O'Kelly shook his head. “It's never quite the same thing. It would
+depend upon your acting.”
+
+I dreamt of becoming a second Kean, of taking Macready's place. It need
+not interfere with my literary ambition. I could combine the two: fill
+Drury Lane in the evening, turn out epoch-making novels in the morning,
+write my own plays.
+
+Every day I studied in the reading-room of the British Museum. Wearying
+of success in Art, I might eventually go into Parliament: a Prime
+Minister with a thorough knowledge of history: why not? With Ollendorf
+for guide, I continued French and German. It might be the diplomatic
+service that would appeal to me in my old age. An ambassadorship! It
+would be a pleasant termination to a brilliant career.
+
+There was excuse for my optimistic mood about this period. All things
+were going well with me. A story of mine had been accepted. I forget for
+the moment the name of the journal: it is dead now. Most of the papers
+in which my early efforts appeared are dead. My contributions might
+be likened to their swan songs. Proofs had been sent me, which I had
+corrected and returned. But proofs are not facts. This had happened to
+me once before, and I had been lifted to the skies only to fall the more
+heavily. The paper had collapsed before my story had appeared. (Ah, why
+had they delayed? It might have saved them!) This time I remembered the
+proverb, and kept my own counsel, slipping out early each morning on the
+day of publication to buy the paper, to scan eagerly its columns. For
+weeks I suffered hope deferred. But at last, one bright winter's day in
+January, walking down the Harrow Road, I found myself standing still,
+suddenly stunned, before a bill outside a small news-vendor's shop. It
+was the first time I had seen my real name in print: “The Witch of Moel
+Sarbod: a legend of Mona, by Paul Kelver.” (For this I had even risked
+discovery by the Lady 'Ortensia.) My legs trembling under me, I entered
+the shop. A ruffianly-looking man in dirty shirt-sleeves, who appeared
+astonished that any one should want a copy, found one at length on
+the floor underneath the counter. With it in my pocket, I retraced my
+footsteps as in a dream. On a seat in Paddington Green I sat down and
+read it. The hundred best books! I have waded through them all; they
+have never charmed me as charmed me that one short story in that now
+forgotten journal. Need I add it was a sad and sentimental composition.
+Once upon a time there lived a mighty King; one--but with the names I
+will not bore you; they are somewhat unpronounceable. Their selection
+had cost me many hours of study in the British Museum reading-rooms,
+surrounded by lexicons of the Welsh language, gazetteers, translations
+from the early Celtic poets--with footnotes. He loved and was beloved by
+a beautiful Princess, whose name, being translated, was Purity. One
+day the King, hunting, lost his way, and being weary, lay down and fell
+asleep. And by chance the spot whereon he lay was near to a place which
+by infinite pains, with the aid of a magnifying glass, I had discovered
+upon the map, and which means in English the Cave of the Waters, where
+dwelt a wicked Sorceress, who, while he slept, cast her spells upon him,
+so that he awoke to forget his kingly honour and the good of all his
+people, his only desire being towards the Witch of Moel Sarbod.
+
+Now, there lived in this Kingdom by the sea a great Magician; and
+Purity, who loved the King far better than herself, bethought her of
+him, and of all she had heard concerning his power and wisdom; and went
+to him and besought his aid that she might save the King. There was but
+one way to accomplish this: with bare feet Purity must climb the rocky
+path leading to the Witch's dwelling, go boldly up to her, not fearing
+her sharp claws nor her strong teeth, and kiss her upon the mouth. In
+this way the spirit of Purity would pass into the Witch's soul, and she
+would become a woman. But the form and spirit of the Witch would pass
+into Purity, transforming her, and in the Cave of the Waters she must
+forever abide. Thus Purity gave herself that the King might live. With
+bleeding feet she climbed the rocky path, clasped the Witch's form
+within her arms, kissed her on the mouth. And the Witch became a woman
+and reigned with the King over his people, wisely and helpfully. But
+Purity became a hideous witch, and to this day abides on Moel Sarbod,
+where is the Cave of the Waters. And they who climb the mountain's side
+still hear above the roaring of the cataract the sobbing of Purity,
+the King's betrothed. But many liken it rather to a joyous song of love
+triumphant.
+
+No writer worth his salt was ever satisfied with anything he ever wrote,
+so I have been told, and so I try to believe. Evidently I am not worth
+my salt. Candid friends, and others, to whom in my salad days I used
+to show my work, asking for a frank opinion, meaning, of course, though
+never would they understand me, their unadulterated praise, would assure
+me for my good, that this, my first to whom the gods gave life, was but
+a feeble, ill-shaped child: its attempted early English a cross between
+“The Pilgrim's Progress” and “Old Moore's Almanac;” its scenery--which
+had cost me weeks of research--an apparent attempt to sum up in the
+language of a local guide book the leading characteristics of the Garden
+of Eden combined with Dante's Inferno; its pathos of the penny-plain
+and two-penny-coloured order. Maybe they were right. Much have I written
+since that at the time appeared to me good, that I have read later
+with regret, with burning cheek, with frowning brow. But of this, my
+first-born, the harbinger of all my hopes, I am no judge. Touching the
+yellowing, badly-printed pages, I feel again the deep thrill of joy with
+which I first unfolded them and read. Again I am a youngster, and life
+opens out before me--inmeasurable, no goal too high. This child of my
+brain, my work: it shall spread my name throughout the world. It shall
+be a household world in lands that I shall never see. Friends whose
+voices I shall never hear will speak of me. I shall die, but it shall
+live, yield fresh seed, bear fruit I know not of. Generations yet unborn
+shall read it and remember me. My thoughts, my words, my spirit: in it I
+shall live again; it shall keep my memory green.
+
+The long, long thoughts of boyhood! We elders smile at them. The
+little world spins round; the little voices of an hour sink hushed. The
+crawling generations come and go. The solar system drops from space. The
+eternal mechanism reforms and shapes itself anew. Time, turning, ploughs
+another furrow. So, growing sleepy, we murmur with a yawn. Is it that
+we see clearer, or that our eyes are growing dim? Let the young men
+see their visions, dream their dreams, hug to themselves their hopes of
+enduring fame; so shall they serve the world better.
+
+I brushed the tears from my eyes and looked up. Half-a-dozen urchins,
+male and female, were gaping at me open-mouthed. They scattered
+shouting, whether compliment or insult I know not: probably the latter.
+I flung them a handful of coppers, which for the moment silenced them;
+and went upon my way. How bright, how fair the bustling streets, golden
+in the winter sunshine, thronged with life, with effort! Laughter rang
+around me. Sweet music rolled from barrel-organs. The strenuous voices
+of the costermongers called invitation to the fruitful earth. Errand
+boys passed me whistling shrilly joyous melodies. Perspiring tradesmen
+shouted generous offers to the needy. Men and women hurried by with
+smiling faces. Sleek cats purred in sheltered nooks, till merry dogs
+invited them to sport. The sparrows, feasting in the roadway, chirped
+their hymn of praise.
+
+At the Marble Arch I jumped upon a 'bus. I mentioned to the conductor
+in mounting that it was a fine day. He replied that he had noticed it
+himself. The retort struck me as a brilliant repartee. Our coachman, all
+but run into by a hansom cab driven by a surly old fellow of patriarchal
+appearance, remarked upon the danger of allowing horses out in charge of
+bits of boys. How full the world of wit and humour!
+
+Almost without knowing it, I found myself in earnest conversation with
+a young man sitting next to me. We conversed of life, of love. Not until
+afterwards, reflecting upon the matter, did it surprise me that to a
+mere chance acquaintance of the moment he had spoken of the one thing
+dearest to his heart: a sweet but clearly wayward maiden, the Hebe of
+a small, old-fashioned coffee-shop the 'bus was at that moment passing.
+Hitherto I had not been the recipient of confidences. It occurred to me
+that as a rule not even my friends spoke much to me concerning their
+own affairs; generally it was I who spoke to them of mine. I sympathised
+with him, advised him--how, I do not recollect. He said, however, he
+thought that I was right; and at Regent Street he left me, expressing
+his determination to follow my counsel, whatever it may have been.
+
+Between Berners Street and the Circus I lent a shilling to a couple of
+young ladies who had just discovered with amusement, quickly swallowed
+by despair, that they neither of them had any money with them. (They
+returned it next day in postage stamps, with a charming note.) The
+assurance with which I tendered the slight service astonished me myself.
+At any other time I should have hesitated, argued with my fears, offered
+it with an appearance of sulky constraint, and been declined. For
+a moment they were doubtful, then, looking at me, accepted with a
+delightful smile. They consulted me as to the way to Paternoster Row.
+I instructed them, adding a literary anecdote, which seemed to interest
+them. I even ventured on a compliment, neatly phrased, I am inclined to
+think. Evidently it pleased--a result hitherto unusual in the case of
+my compliments. At the corner of Southampton Row I parted from them with
+regret. Why had I never noticed before how full of pleasant people this
+sweet and smiling London?
+
+At the corner of Queen's Square a decent-looking woman stopped me to ask
+the way to the Children's Hospital at Chelsea, explaining she had made a
+mistake, thinking it was the one in Great Ormond Street where her child
+lay. I directed her, then glancing into her face, noticed how tired
+she looked, and a vista of the weary pavements she would have to tramp
+flashed before me. I slipped some money into her hand and told her to
+take a 'bus. She flushed, then thanked me. I turned a few yards further
+on; she was starting after me, amazement on her face. I laughed and
+waved my hand to her. She smiled back in return, and went her way.
+
+A rain began to fall. I paused upon the doorstep for a minute, enjoying
+the cool drops upon by upturned face, the tonic sharpness of the keen
+east wind; then slipped my key into the lock and entered.
+
+The door of old Deleglise's studio on the first floor happened to be
+open. Hitherto, beyond the usual formal salutations, when by chance we
+met upon the stairs, I had exchanged but few words with my eccentric
+landlord; but remembering his kindly face, the desire came upon me
+to tell him my good fortune. I felt sure his eyes would lighten with
+delight. By instinct I knew him for a young man's man.
+
+I tapped lightly; no answer came. Someone was talking; it sounded like a
+girl's voice. I pushed the door further open and walked in; such was the
+custom of the house. It was a large room, built over the yard, lighted
+by one high window, before which was the engraving desk, shaded under
+a screen of tissue paper. At the further end of the room stood a large
+cheval-glass, and in front of this, its back towards me, was a figure
+that excited my curiosity; so that remaining where I was, partly hidden
+behind a large easel, I watched it for awhile in silence. Above a
+heavily flounced blue skirt, which fell in creases on the floor
+and trailed a couple of yards or so behind, it wore a black low-cut
+sleeveless bodice--much too big for it--of the fashion early Victorian.
+A good deal of dark-brown hair, fastened up by hair-pins that stuck out
+in all directions like quills upon a porcupine, suggesting collapse with
+every movement, was ornamented by three enormous green feathers, one
+of which hung limply over the lady's left ear. Three times, while I
+watched, unnoticed, the lady propped it into a more befitting attitude,
+and three times, limp and intoxicated-looking, it fell back into its
+former foolish position. Her long, thin arms, displaying a pair of
+brilliantly red elbows, pointed to quite a dangerous degree, terminated
+in hands so very sunburnt as to convey the impression of a pair of
+remarkably well-fitting gloves. Her right hand grasped and waved with
+determination a large lace fan, her left clutched fiercely the front of
+her skirt. With a sweeping curtsey to herself in the glass, which would
+have been more effective could she have avoided tying her legs together
+with her skirt--a _contretemps_ necessitating the use of both hands and
+a succession of jumps before she could disentangle herself--she remarked
+so soon as she had recovered her balance:
+
+“So sorry I am late. My carriage was unfortunately delayed.”
+
+The excuse, I gathered, was accepted, for with a gracious smile and
+a vigorous bow, by help of which every hairpin made distinct further
+advance towards freedom, she turned, and with much dignity and head
+over the right shoulder took a short walk to the left. At the end of six
+short steps she stopped and began kicking. For what reason, I, at first,
+could not comprehend. It dawned upon me after awhile that her object
+was the adjustment of her train. Finding the manoeuvre too difficult of
+accomplishment by feet alone, she stooped, and, taking the stuff up in
+her hands, threw it behind her. Then, facing north, she retraced
+her steps to the glass, talking to herself, as she walked, in the
+high-pitched drawl, distinctive, as my stage knowledge told me, of
+aristocratic society.
+
+“Oh, do you think so--really? Ah, yes; you say that. Certainly not! I
+shouldn't think of it.” There followed what I am inclined to believe was
+intended for a laugh, musical but tantalising. If so, want of practice
+marred the effort. The performance failed to satisfy even herself. She
+tried again; it was still only a giggle.
+
+Before the glass she paused, and with a haughty inclination of her head
+succeeded for the third time in displacing the intoxicated feather.
+
+“Oh, bother the silly thing!” she said in a voice so natural as to be,
+by contrast with her previous tone, quite startling.
+
+She fixed it again with difficulty, muttering something inarticulate.
+Then, her left hand resting on an imaginary coat-sleeve, her right
+holding her skirt sufficiently high to enable her to move, she commenced
+to majestically gyrate.
+
+Whether, hampered as she was by excess of skirt, handicapped by the
+natural clumsiness of her age, catastrophe in any case would not sooner
+or later have overtaken her, I have my doubts. I have since learnt her
+own view to be that but for catching sight, in turning, of my face,
+staring at her through the bars of the easel, all would have gone well
+and gracefully. Avoiding controversy on this point, the facts to be
+recorded are, that, seeing me, she uttered a sudden exclamation of
+surprise, dropped her skirt, trod on her train, felt her hair coming
+down, tried to do two things at once, and sat upon the floor. I ran to
+her assistance. With flaming face and flashing eyes she sprang to her
+feet. There was a sound as of the rushing down of avalanches. The blue
+flounced skirt lay round her on the floor. She stood above its billowy
+folds, reminiscent of Venus rising from the waves--a gawky, angular
+Venus in a short serge frock, reaching a little below her knees, black
+stockings and a pair of prunella boots of a size suggesting she had yet
+some inches to grow before reaching her full height.
+
+“I hope you haven't hurt yourself,” I said.
+
+The next moment I didn't care whether she had or whether she hadn't.
+She did not reply to my kindly meant enquiry. Instead, her hand swept
+through the air in the form of an ample semi-circle. It terminated on
+my ear. It was not a small hand; it was not a soft hand; it was not
+that sort of hand. The sound of the contact rang through the room like a
+pistol shot; I heard it with my other ear. I sprang at her, and catching
+her before she had recovered her equilibrium, kissed her. I did not kiss
+her because I wanted to. I kissed her because I could not box her ears
+back in return, which I should have preferred doing. I kissed her,
+hoping it would make her mad. It did. If a look could have killed me,
+such would have been the tragic ending of this story. It did not kill
+me; it did me good.
+
+“You horrid boy!” she cried. “You horrid, horrid boy!”
+
+There, I admit, she scored. I did not in the least object to her
+thinking me horrid, but at nineteen one does object to being mistaken
+for a boy.
+
+“I am not a boy,” I explained.
+
+“Yes, you are,” she retorted; “a beast of a boy!”
+
+“If you do it again,” I warned her--a sudden movement on her part
+hinting to me the possibility--“I'll kiss you again! I mean it.”
+
+“Leave the room!” she commanded, pointing with her angular arm towards
+the door.
+
+I did not wish to remain. I was about to retire with as much dignity as
+circumstances permitted.
+
+“Boy!” she added.
+
+At that I turned. “Now I won't go!” I replied. “See if I do.”
+
+We stood glaring at each other.
+
+“What right have you in here?” she demanded.
+
+“I came to see Mr. Deleglise,” I answered. “I suppose you are Miss
+Deleglise. It doesn't seem to me that you know how to treat a visitor.”
+
+“Who are you?” she asked.
+
+“Mr. Horace Moncrieff,” I replied. I was using at the period both my
+names indiscriminately, but for this occasion Horace Moncrieff I judged
+the more awe-inspiring.
+
+She snorted. “I know. You're the house-maid. You sweep all the crumbs
+under the mats.”
+
+Now this was a subject about which at the time I was feeling somewhat
+sore. “Needs must when the Devil drives;” but as matters were, Dan and I
+could well have afforded domestic assistance. It rankled in my mind that
+to fit in with the foolish fad of old Deleglise, I the future Dickens,
+Thackeray and George Eliot, Kean, Macready and Phelps rolled into one,
+should be compelled to the performance of menial duties. On this morning
+of all others, my brilliant literary career just commenced, the anomaly
+of the thing appeared naturally more glaring.
+
+Besides, how came she to know I swept the crumbs under the mat--that it
+was my method? Had she and Dan been discussing me, ridiculing me behind
+my back? What right had Dan to reveal the secrets of our menage to this
+chit of a school-girl? Had he done so? or had she been prying, poking
+her tilted nose into matters that did not concern her? Pity it was she
+had no mother to occasionally spank her, teach her proper behaviour.
+
+“Where I sweep our crumbs is nothing to do with you,” I replied with
+some spirit. “That I have to sweep them at all is the fault of your
+father. A sensible girl--”
+
+“How dare you speak against my father!” she interrupted me with blazing
+eyes.
+
+“We will not discuss the question further,” I answered, with sense and
+dignity.
+
+“I think you had better not!” she retorted.
+
+Turning her back on me, she commenced to gather up her hairpins--there
+must have been about a hundred of them. I assisted her to the extent of
+picking up about twenty, which I handed to her with a bow: it may have
+been a little stiff, but that was only to be expected. I wished to show
+her that her bad example had not affected my own manners.
+
+“I am sorry my presence should have annoyed you,” I said. “It was quite
+an accident. I entered the room thinking your father was here.”
+
+“When you saw he wasn't, you might have gone out again,” she replied,
+“instead of hiding yourself behind a picture.”
+
+“I didn't hide myself,” I explained. “The easel happened to be in the
+way.”
+
+“And you stopped there and watched me.”
+
+“I couldn't help it.”
+
+She looked round and our eyes met. They were frank, grey eyes. An
+expression of merriment shot into them. I laughed.
+
+Then she laughed: it was a delightful laugh, the laugh one would have
+expected from her.
+
+“You might at least have coughed,” she suggested.
+
+“It was so amusing,” I pleaded.
+
+“I suppose it was,” she agreed, and held out her hand. “Did I hurt you?”
+ she asked.
+
+“Yes, you did,” I answered, taking it.
+
+“Well, it was enough to annoy me, wasn't it?” she suggested.
+
+“Evidently,” I agreed.
+
+“I am going to a ball next week,” she explained, “a grown-up ball, and
+I've got to wear a skirt. I wanted to see if I could manage a train.”
+
+“Well, to be candid, you can't,” I assured her.
+
+“It does seem difficult.”
+
+“Shall I show you?” I asked.
+
+“What do you know about it?”
+
+“Well, I see it done every night.”
+
+“Oh, yes; of course, you're on the stage. Yes, do.”
+
+We readjusted the torn skirt, accommodating it better to her figure by
+the help of hairpins. I showed her how to hold the train, and, I humming
+a tune, we commenced to waltz.
+
+“I shouldn't count my steps,” I suggested to her. “It takes your mind
+away from the music.”
+
+“I don't waltz well,” she admitted meekly. “I know I don't do anything
+well--except play hockey.”
+
+“And try not to tread on your partner's feet. That's a very bad fault.”
+
+“I do try not to,” she explained.
+
+“It comes with practice,” I assured her.
+
+“I'll get Tom to give me half an hour every evening,” she said. “He
+dances beautifully.”
+
+“Who's Tom?”
+
+“Oh, father.”
+
+“Why do you call your father Tom? It doesn't sound respectful.”
+
+“Oh, he likes it; and it suits him so much better than father. Besides,
+he isn't like a real father. He does everything I want him to.”
+
+“Is that good for you?”
+
+“No; it's very bad for me--everybody says so. When you come to think of
+it, of course it isn't the way to bring up a girl. I tell him, but he
+merely laughs--says it's the only way he knows. I do hope I turn out all
+right. Am I doing it better now?”
+
+“A little. Don't be too anxious about it. Don't look at your feet.”
+
+“But if I don't they go all wrong. It was you who trod on mine that
+time.”
+
+“I know. I'm sorry. It's a little difficult not to.”
+
+“Am I holding my train all right?”
+
+“Well, there's no need to grip it as if you were afraid it would run
+away. It will follow all right. Hold it gracefully.”
+
+“I wish I wasn't a girl.”
+
+“Oh, you'll get used to it.” We concluded our dance.
+
+“What do I do--say 'Thank you'?”
+
+“Yes, prettily.”
+
+“What does he do?”
+
+“Oh, he takes you back to your chaperon, or suggests refreshment, or you
+sit and talk.”
+
+“I hate talking. I never know what to say.”
+
+“Oh, that's his duty. He'll try and amuse you, then you must laugh. You
+have a nice laugh.”
+
+“But I never know when to laugh. If I laugh when I want to it always
+offends people. What do you do if somebody asks you to dance and you
+don't want to dance with them?”
+
+“Oh, you say your programme is full.”
+
+“But if it isn't?”
+
+“Well, you tell a lie.”
+
+“Couldn't I say I don't dance well, and that I'm sure they'd get on
+better with somebody else?”
+
+“It would be the truth, but they might not believe it.”
+
+“I hope nobody asks me that I don't want.”
+
+“Well, he won't a second time, anyhow.”
+
+“You are rude.”
+
+“You are only a school-girl.”
+
+“I look a woman in my new frock, I really do.”
+
+“I should doubt it.”
+
+“You shall see me, then you'll be polite. It is because you are a boy
+you are rude. Men are much nicer.”
+
+“Oh, are they?”
+
+“Yes. You will be, when you are a man.”
+
+The sound of voices rose suddenly in the hall.
+
+“Tom!” cried Miss Deleglise; and collecting her skirt in both hands,
+bolted down the corkscrew staircase leading to the kitchen, leaving me
+standing in the centre of the studio.
+
+The door opened and old Deleglise entered, accompanied by a small,
+slight man with red hair and beard and somewhat watery eyes.
+
+Deleglise himself was a handsome old fellow, then a man of about
+fifty-five. His massive, mobile face, illuminated by bright, restless
+eyes, was crowned with a lion-like mane of iron-grey hair. Till a few
+years ago he had been a painter of considerable note. But in questions
+of art his temper was short. Pre-Raphaelism had gone out of fashion for
+the time being; the tendency of the new age was towards impressionism,
+and in disgust old Deleglise had broken his palette across his knee, and
+swore never to paint again. Artistic work of some sort being necessary
+to his temperament, he contented himself now with engraving. At the
+moment he was engaged upon the reproduction of Memlinc's Shrine of St.
+Ursula, with photographs of which he had just returned from Bruges.
+
+At sight of me his face lighted with a smile, and he advanced with
+outstretched hand.
+
+“Ah; my lad, so you have got over your shyness and come to visit the old
+bear in his den. Good boy. I like young faces.”
+
+He had a clear, musical voice, ever with the suggestion of a laugh
+behind it. He laid his hand upon my shoulder.
+
+“Why, you are looking as if you had come into a fortune,” he added, “and
+didn't know what a piece of bad luck that can be to a young fellow like
+yourself.”
+
+“How could it be bad luck?” I asked, laughing.
+
+“Takes all the sauce out of life, young man,” answered Deleglise. “What
+interest is there in running a race with the prize already in your
+possession, tell me that?”
+
+“It is not that kind of fortune,” I answered, “it is another. I have had
+my first story accepted. It is in print. Look.”
+
+I handed him the paper. He spread it out upon the engraving board before
+him.
+
+“Ah, that's better,” he said, “that's better. Charlie,” he turned to the
+red-headed man, who had seated himself listlessly in the one easy-chair
+the room contained, “come here.”
+
+The red-headed man rose and wandered towards us. “Let me introduce you
+to Mr. Paul Kelver, our new fellow servant. Our lady has accepted him.
+He has just been elected; his first story is in print.”
+
+The red-haired man stretched out his long thin hand. “I have thirty
+years of fame,” said the red-haired man--“could I say world-wide?”
+
+He turned for confirmation to old Deleglise, who laughed. “I think you
+can.”
+
+“If I could give it you would you exchange with me--at this moment?”
+
+“You would be a fool if you did,” he went on. “One's first success,
+one's first victory! It is the lover's first kiss. Fortune grows old and
+wrinkled, frowns more often than she smiles. We become indifferent to
+her, quarrel with her, make it up again. But the joy of her first kiss
+after the long wooing! Burn it into your memory, my young friend, that
+it may live with you always!”
+
+He strolled away. Old Deleglise took up the parable.
+
+“Ah, yes; one's first success, Paul! Laugh, my boy, cry! Shut yourself
+up in your room, shout, dance! Throw your hat into the air and cry
+hurrah! Make the most of it, Paul. Hug it to your heart, think of it,
+dream of it. This is the finest hour of your life, my boy. There will
+never come another like it--never!”
+
+He crossed the studio, and taking from its nail a small oil painting,
+brought it over and laid it on the board beside my paper. It was a
+fascinating little picture, painted with that exquisite minutiae and
+development of detail that a newer school was then ridiculing: as though
+Art had but one note to her voice. The dead figure of an old man lay
+upon a bed. A child had crept into the darkened room, and supporting
+itself by clutching tightly at the sheet, was gazing with solemn
+curiosity upon the white, still face.
+
+“That was mine,” said old Deleglise. “It was hung in the Academy
+thirty-six years ago, and bought for ten guineas by a dentist at Bury
+St. Edmunds. He went mad a few years later and died in a lunatic asylum.
+I had never lost sight of it, and the executors were quite agreeable
+to my having it back again for the same ten guineas. I used to go every
+morning to the Academy to look at it. I thought it the cleverest bit of
+work in the whole gallery, and I'm not at all sure that it wasn't. I
+saw myself a second Teniers, another Millet. Look how that light coming
+through the open door is treated; isn't it good? Somebody will pay a
+thousand guineas for it before I have been dead a dozen years, and it
+is worth it. But I wouldn't sell it myself now for five thousand. One's
+first success; it is worth all the rest of life!”
+
+“All?” queried the red-haired man from his easy-chair. We looked round.
+The lady of the skirt had entered, now her own proper self: a young girl
+of about fifteen, angular, awkward-looking, but bringing into the room
+with her that atmosphere of life, of hope, that is the eternal message
+of youth. She was not beautiful, not then--plain one might almost have
+called her but for her frank, grey eyes, her mass of dark-brown hair
+now gathered into a long thick plait. A light came into old Deleglise's
+eyes.
+
+“You are right, not all,” he murmured to the red-haired man.
+
+She came forward shyly. I found it difficult to recognise in her the
+flaming Fury that a few minutes before had sprung at me from the billows
+of her torn blue skirt. She shook hands with the red-haired man and
+kissed her father.
+
+“My daughter,” said old Deleglise, introducing me to her. “Mr. Paul
+Kelver, a literary gent.”
+
+“Mr. Kelver and I have met already,” she explained. “He has been waiting
+for you here in the studio.”
+
+“And have you been entertaining him?” asked Deleglise. “Oh, yes,
+I entertained him,” she replied. Her voice was singularly like her
+father's, with just the same suggestion of ever a laugh behind it.
+
+“We entertained each other,” I said.
+
+“That's all right,” said old Deleglise. “Stop and lunch with us. We will
+make ourselves a curry.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+OF THE GLORY AND GOODNESS AND THE EVIL THAT GO TO THE MAKING OF LOVE.
+
+During my time of struggle I had avoided all communication with old
+Hasluck. He was not a man to sympathise with feelings he did not
+understand. With boisterous good humour he would have insisted upon
+helping me. Why I preferred half starving with Lott and Co. to selling
+my labour for a fair wage to good-natured old Hasluck, merely because
+I knew him, I cannot explain. Though the profits may not have been so
+large, Lott and Co.'s dealings were not one whit more honest: I do not
+believe it was that which decided me. Nor do I think it was because he
+was Barbara's father. I never connected him, nor that good old soul,
+his vulgar, homely wife, in any way with Barbara. To me she was a being
+apart from all the world. Her true Parents! I should have sought them
+rather amid the sacred groves of vanished lands, within the sky-domed
+shrines of banished gods. There are instincts in us not easily
+analysed, not to be explained by reason. I have always preferred the
+finding--sometimes the losing--of my way according to the map, to the
+surer and simpler method of vocal enquiry; working out a complicated
+journey, and running the risk of never arriving at my destination,
+by aid of a Continental Bradshaw, to putting myself into the hands
+of courteous officials maintained and paid to assist the perplexed
+traveller. Possibly a far-off progenitor of mine may have been some
+morose “rogue” savage with untribal inclinations, living in his
+cave apart, fashioning his own stone hammer, shaping his own flint
+arrow-heads, shunning the merry war-dance, preferring to caper by
+himself.
+
+But now, having gained my own foothold, I could stretch out my hand
+without fear of the movement being mistaken for appeal. I wrote to old
+Hasluck; and almost by the next post received from him the friendliest
+of notes. He told me Barbara had just returned from abroad, took it upon
+himself to add that she also would be delighted to see me, and, as I
+knew he would, threw his doors open to me.
+
+Of my boyish passion for Barbara never had I spoken to a living soul,
+nor do I think, excepting Barbara herself, had any ever guessed it. To
+my mother, though she was very fond of her, Barbara was only a girl,
+with charms but also with faults, concerning which my mother would
+speak freely; hurting me, as one unwittingly might hurt a neophyte by
+philosophical discussion of his newly embraced religion. Often, choosing
+by preference late evening or the night, I would wander round and round
+the huge red-brick house standing in its ancient garden on the top
+of Stamford Hill; descending again into the noisome streets as one
+returning to the world from praying at a shrine, purified, filled with
+peace, all noble endeavour, all unselfish aims seeming within my grasp.
+
+During Barbara's four years' absence my adoration had grown and
+strengthened. Out of my memory of her my desire had evolved its ideal; a
+being of my imagination, but by reason of that, to me the more real,
+the more present. I looked forward to seeing her again, but with no
+impatience, revelling rather in the anticipation than eager for the
+realisation. As a creature of flesh and blood, the child I had played
+with, talked with, touched, she had faded further and further into the
+distance; as the vision of my dreams she stood out clearer day by day. I
+knew that when next I saw her there would be a gulf between us I had
+no wish to bridge. To worship her from afar was a sweeter thought to me
+than would have been the hope of a passionate embrace. To live with her,
+sit opposite to her while she ate and drank, see her, perhaps, with her
+hair in curl-papers, know possibly that she had a corn upon her foot,
+hear her speak maybe of a decayed tooth, or of a chilblain, would have
+been torture to me. Into such abyss of the commonplace there was no fear
+of my dragging her, and for this I was glad. In the future she would be
+yet more removed from me. She was older than I was; she must be now a
+woman. Instinctively I felt that in spite of years I was not yet a man.
+She would marry. The thought gave me no pain, my feeling for her was
+utterly devoid of appetite. No one but myself could close the temple
+I had built about her, none deny to me the right of entry there. No
+jealous priest could hide her from my eyes, her altar I had reared too
+high. Since I have come to know myself better, I perceive that she stood
+to me not as a living woman, but as a symbol; not a fellow human being
+to be walked with through life, helping and to be helped, but that
+impalpable religion of sex to which we raise up idols of poor human
+clay, alas, not always to our satisfaction, so that foolishly we fall
+into anger against them, forgetting they were but the work of our own
+hands; not the body, but the spirit of love.
+
+I allowed a week to elapse after receiving old Hasluck's letter before
+presenting myself at Stamford Hill. It was late one afternoon in early
+summer. Hasluck had not returned from the City, Mrs. Hasluck was out
+visiting, Miss Hasluck was in the garden. I told the supercilious
+footman not to trouble, I would seek her there myself. I guessed where
+she would be; her favourite spot had always been a sunny corner, bright
+with flowers, surrounded by a thick yew hedge, cut, after the Dutch
+fashion, into quaint shapes of animals and birds. She was walking there,
+as I had expected, reading a book. And again, as I saw her, came back
+to me the feeling that had swept across me as a boy, when first outlined
+against the dusty books and papers of my father's office she had flashed
+upon my eyes: that all the fairy tales had suddenly come true, only
+now, instead of the Princess, she was the Queen. Taller she was, with
+a dignity that formerly had been the only charm she lacked. She did not
+hear my coming, my way being across the soft, short grass, and for a
+little while I stood there in the shadow of the yews, drinking in the
+beauty of her clear-cut profile, bent down towards her book, the curving
+lines of her long neck, the wonder of the exquisite white hand against
+the lilac of her dress.
+
+I did not speak; rather would I have remained so watching; but turning
+at the end of the path, she saw me, and as she came towards me held out
+her hand. I knelt upon the path, and raised it to my lips. The action
+was spontaneous, till afterwards I was not aware of having done it. Her
+lips were smiling as I raised my eyes to them, the faintest suggestion
+of contempt mingling with amusement. Yet she seemed pleased, and her
+contempt, even if I were not mistaken, would not have wounded me.
+
+“So you are still in love with me? I wondered if you would be.”
+
+“Did you know that I was in love with you?”
+
+“I should have been blind if I had not.”
+
+“But I was only a boy.”
+
+“You were not the usual type of boy. You are not going to be the usual
+type of man.”
+
+“You do not mind my loving you?”
+
+“I cannot help it, can I? Nor can you.”
+
+She seated herself on a stone bench facing a sun-dial, and leaning hack,
+her hands clasped behind her head, looked at me and laughed.
+
+“I shall always love you,” I answered, “but it is with a curious sort of
+love. I do not understand it myself.”
+
+“Tell me,” she commanded, still with a smile about her lips, “describe
+it to me.”
+
+I was standing over against her, my arm resting upon the dial's stone
+column. The sun was sinking, casting long shadows on the velvety grass,
+illuminating with a golden light her upturned face.
+
+“I would you were some great queen of olden days, and that I might be
+always near you, serving you, doing your bidding. Your love in return
+would spoil all; I shall never ask it, never desire it. That I might
+look upon you, touch now and then at rare intervals with my lips your
+hand, kiss in secret the glove you had let fall, the shoe you had flung
+off, know that you knew of my love, that I was yours to do with as you
+would, to live or die according to your wish. Or that you were priestess
+in some temple of forgotten gods, where I might steal at daybreak and at
+dusk to gaze upon your beauty; kneel with clasped hands, watching your
+sandalled feet coming and going about the altar steps; lie with pressed
+lips upon the stones your trailing robes had touched.”
+
+She laughed a light mocking laugh. “I should prefer to be the queen.
+The role of priestess would not suit me. Temples are so cold.” A slight
+shiver passed through her. She made a movement with her hand, beckoning
+me to her feet. “That is how you shall love me, Paul,” she said,
+“adoring me, worshipping me--blindly. I will be your queen and treat
+you--as it chooses me. All I think, all I do, I will tell you, and you
+shall tell me it is right. The queen can do no wrong.”
+
+She took my face between her hands, and bending over me, looked long
+and steadfastly into my eyes. “You understand, Paul, the queen can do
+no wrong--never, never.” There had crept into her voice a note of
+vehemence, in her face was a look almost of appeal.
+
+“My queen can do no wrong,” I repeated. And she laughed and let her
+hands fall back upon her lap.
+
+“Now you may sit beside me. So much honour, Paul, shall you have to-day,
+but it will have to last you long. And you may tell me all you have been
+doing, maybe it will amuse me; and afterwards you shall hear what I have
+done, and shall say that it was right and good of me.”
+
+I obeyed, sketching my story briefly, yet leaving nothing untold, not
+even the transit of the Lady 'Ortensia, ashamed of the episode though I
+was. At that she looked a little grave.
+
+“You must do nothing again, Paul,” she commanded, “to make me feel
+ashamed of you, or I shall dismiss you from my presence for ever. I must
+be proud of you, or you shall not serve me. In dishonouring yourself you
+are dishonouring me. I am angry with you, Paul. Do not let me be angry
+with you again.”
+
+And so that passed; and although my love for her--as I know well she
+wished and sought it should--failed to save me at all times from the
+apish voices whispering ever to the beast within us, I know the desire
+to be worthy of her, to honour her with all my being, helped my life as
+only love can. The glory of the morning fades, the magic veil is rent;
+we see all things with cold, clear eyes. My love was a woman. She lies
+dead. They have mocked her white sweet limbs with rags and tatters, but
+they cannot cheat love's eyes. God knows I loved her in all purity! Only
+with false love we love the false. Beneath the unclean clinging garments
+she sleeps fair.
+
+My tale finished, “Now I will tell you mine,” she said. “I am going to
+be married soon. I shall be a Countess, Paul, the Countess Huescar--I
+will teach you how to pronounce it--and I shall have a real castle in
+Spain. You need not look so frightened, Paul; we shall not live there.
+It is a half-ruined, gloomy place, among the mountains, and he loves it
+even less than I do. Paris and London will be my courts, so you will
+see me often. You shall know the great world, Paul, the world I mean to
+conquer, where I mean to rule.”
+
+“Is he very rich?” I asked.
+
+“As poor,” she laughed, “as poor as a Spanish nobleman. The money I
+shall have to provide, or, rather, poor dear Dad will. He gives me
+title, position. Of course I do not love him, handsome though he is.
+Don't look so solemn, Paul. We shall get on together well enough.
+Queens, Paul, do not make love matches, they contract alliances. I have
+done well, Paul; congratulate me. Do you hear, Paul? Say that I have
+acted rightly.”
+
+“Does he love you?” I asked.
+
+“He tells me so,” she answered, with a laugh. “How uncourtier-like you
+are, Paul! Do you suggest that any man could see me and not love me?”
+
+She sprang to her feet. “I do not want his love,” she cried; “it would
+bore me. Women hate love they cannot return. I don't mean love like
+yours, devout little Paul,” she added, with a laugh. “That is sweet
+incense wafted round us that we like to scent with our noses in the air.
+Give me that, Paul; I want it, I ask for it. But the love of a hand, the
+love of a husband that one does not care for--it would be horrible!”
+
+I felt myself growing older. For the moment my goddess became a child
+needing help.
+
+“But have you thought--” I commenced.
+
+“Yes, yes,” she interrupted me quickly, “I have thought and thought till
+I can think no more. There must be some sacrifice; it must be as little
+as need be, that is all. He does not love me; he is marrying me for my
+money--I know that, and I am glad of it. You do not know me, Paul. I
+must have rank, position. What am I? The daughter of rich old Hasluck,
+who began life as a butcher in the Mile End Road. As the Princess
+Huescar, society will forget, as Mrs.”--it seemed to me she checked
+herself abruptly--“Jones or Brown it would remember, however rich
+I might be. I am vain, Paul, caring for power--ambition. I have my
+father's blood in me. All his nights and days he has spent in gaining
+wealth; he can do no more. We upstarts have our pride of race. He has
+done his share, I must do mine.”
+
+“But you need not be mere Mrs. anybody commonplace,” I argued. “Why not
+wait? You will meet someone who can give you position and whom at the
+same time you can love. Would that not be better?”
+
+“He will never come, the man I could love,” she answered. “Because,
+my little Paul, he has come already. Hush, Paul, the queen can do no
+wrong.”
+
+“Who is he?” I asked. “May I not know?”
+
+“Yes, Paul,” she answered, “you shall know; I want you to know, then you
+shall tell me that I have acted rightly. Do you hear me, Paul?--quite
+rightly--that you still respect me and honour me. He could not help me.
+As his wife, I should be less even than I am, a mere rich nobody, giving
+long dinner-parties to other rich nobodies, living amongst City men,
+retired trades-people; envied only by their fat, vulgarly dressed wives,
+courted by seedy Bohemians for the sake of my cook; with perhaps an
+opera singer or an impecunious nobleman or two out of Dad's City list
+for my show-guests. Is that the court, Paul, where you would have your
+queen reign?”
+
+“Is he so commonplace a man,” I answered, “the man you love? I cannot
+believe it.”
+
+“He is not commonplace,” she answered. “It is I who am commonplace. The
+things I desire, they are beneath him; he will never trouble himself to
+secure them.”
+
+“Not even for love of you?”
+
+“I would not have him do so even were he willing. He is great, with a
+greatness I cannot even understand. He is not the man for these times.
+In old days, I should have married him, knowing he would climb to
+greatness by sheer strength of manhood. But now men do not climb; they
+crawl to greatness. He could not do that. I have done right, Paul.”
+
+“What does he say?” I asked.
+
+“Shall I tell you?” She laughed a little bitterly. “I can give you his
+exact words, 'You are half a woman and half a fool, so woman-like you
+will follow your folly. But let your folly see to it that your woman
+makes no fool of herself.'”
+
+The words were what I could imagine his saying. I heard the strong ring
+of his voice through her mocking mimicry.
+
+“Hal!” I cried. “It is he.”
+
+“So you never guessed even that, Paul. I thought at times it would be
+sweet to cry it out aloud, that it could have made no difference, that
+everyone who knew me must have read it in my eyes.”
+
+“But he never seemed to take much notice of you,” I said.
+
+She laughed. “You needn't be so unkind, Paul. What did I ever do for
+you much more than snub you? We boys and girls; there is not so much
+difference between us: we love our masters. Yet you must not think so
+poorly of me. I was only a child to him then, but we were locked up in
+Paris together during the entire siege. Have not you heard? He did take
+a little notice of me there, Paul, I assure you.”
+
+Would it have been better, I wonder, had she followed the woman and not
+the fool? It sounds an easy question to answer; but I am thinking of
+years later, one winter's night at Tiefenkasten in the Julier Pass. I
+was on my way from San Moritz to Chur. The sole passenger, I had just
+climbed, half frozen, from the sledge, and was thawing myself before the
+stove in the common room of the hotel when the waiter put a pencilled
+note into my hand:
+
+“Come up and see me. I am a prisoner in this damned hole till the
+weather breaks. Hal.”
+
+I hardly recognised him at first. Only the poor ghost he seemed of the
+Hal I had known as a boy. His long privations endured during the Paris
+siege, added to the superhuman work he had there put upon himself, had
+commenced the ruin of even his magnificent physique--a ruin the wild,
+loose life he was now leading was soon to complete. It was a gloomy,
+vaulted room that once had been a chapel, lighted dimly by a cheap,
+evil-smelling lamp, heated to suffocation by one of those great
+green-tiled German ovens now only to be met with in rare out-of-the-way
+world corners. He was sitting propped up by pillows on the bed, placed
+close to one of the high windows, his deep eyes flaring like two
+gleaming caverns out of his drawn, haggard face.
+
+“I saw you from the window,” he explained. “It is the only excitement
+I get, twice a day when the sledges come in. I broke down coming across
+the Pass a fortnight ago, on my way from Davos. We were stuck in a drift
+for eighteen hours; it nearly finished my last lung. And I haven't even
+a book to read. By God! lad, I was glad to see your frosted face ten
+minutes ago in the light of the lantern.”
+
+He grasped me with his long bony hand. “Sit down, and let me hear
+my voice using again its mother tongue--you were always a good
+listener--for the last eight years I have hardly spoken it. Can you
+stand the room? The windows ought to be open, but what does it matter? I
+may as well get accustomed to the heat before I die.”
+
+I drew my chair close to the bed, and for awhile, between his fits
+of coughing, we talked of things that were outside our thoughts, or,
+rather, Hal talked, continuously, boisterously, meeting my remonstrances
+with shouts of laughter, ending in wild struggles for breath, so that I
+deemed it better to let him work his mad mood out.
+
+Then suddenly: “What is she doing?” he asked. “Do you ever see her?”
+
+“She is playing in--” I mentioned the name of a comic opera then running
+in Paris. “No; I have not seen her for some time.”
+
+He laid his white, wasted hand on mine. “What a pity you and I could not
+have rolled ourselves into one, Paul--you, the saint, and I, the satyr.
+Together we should have made her perfect lover.”
+
+There came back to me the memory of those long nights when I had lain
+awake listening to the angry voices of my father and mother soaking
+through the flimsy wall. It seemed my fate to stand thus helpless
+between those I loved, watching them hurting one another against their
+will.
+
+“Tell me,” I asked--“I loved her, knowing her: I was not blind. Whose
+fault was it? Yours or hers?”
+
+He laughed. “Whose fault, Paul? God made us.”
+
+Thinking of her fair, sweet face, I hated him for his mocking laugh. But
+the next moment, looking into his deep eyes, seeing the pain that dwelt
+there, my pity was for him. A smile came to his ugly mouth.
+
+“You have been on the stage, Paul; you must have heard the saying often:
+'Ah, well, the curtain must come down, however badly things are going.'
+It is only a play, Paul. We do not choose our parts. I did not even
+know I was the villain, till I heard the booing of the gallery. I even
+thought I was the hero, full of noble sentiment, sacrificing myself for
+the happiness of the heroine. She would have married me in the beginning
+had I plagued her sufficiently.”
+
+I made to speak, but he interrupted me, continuing: “Ah, yes, it might
+have been better. That is easy to say, not knowing. So, too, it might
+have been worse--in all probability much the same. All roads lead to
+the end. You know I was always a fatalist, Paul. We tried both ways. She
+loved me well enough, but she loved the world also. I thought she
+loved it better, so I kissed her on her brow, mumbled a prayer for her
+happiness and made my exit to a choking sob. So ended the first act.
+Wasn't I the hero throughout that, Paul? I thought so; slapped myself
+upon the back, told myself what a fine fellow I had been. Then--you know
+what followed. She was finer clay than she had fancied. Love is woman's
+kingdom, not the world. Even then I thought more of her than of myself.
+I could have borne my share of the burden had I not seen her fainting
+under hers, shamed, degraded. So we dared to think for ourselves,
+injuring nobody but ourselves, played the man and woman, lost the world
+for love. Wasn't it brave, Paul? Were we not hero and heroine? They had
+printed the playbill wrong, Paul, that was all. I was really the hero,
+but the printing devil had made a slip, so instead of applauding you
+booed. How could you know, any of you? It was not your fault.”
+
+“But that was not the end,” I reminded him. “If the curtain had fallen
+then, I could have forgiven you.”
+
+He grinned. “That fatal last act. Even yours don't always come right, so
+the critics tell me.”
+
+The grin faded from his face. “We may never see each other again, Paul,”
+ he went on; “don't think too badly of me. I found I had made a second
+mistake--or thought I had. She was no happier with me after a time than
+she had been with him. If all our longings were one, life would be easy;
+but they are not. What is to be done but toss for it? And if it come
+down head we wish it had been tail, and if tail we think of what we have
+lost through its not coming down head. Love is no more the whole of a
+woman's life than it is of a man's. He did not apply for a divorce: that
+was smart of him. We were shunned, ignored. To some women it might not
+have mattered; but she had been used to being sought, courted, feted.
+She made no complaint--did worse: made desperate effort to appear
+cheerful, to pretend that our humdrum life was not boring her to death.
+I watched her growing more listless, more depressed; grew angry with
+her, angrier with myself. There was no bond between us except our
+passion; that was real enough--'grand,' I believe, is the approved
+literary adjective. It is good enough for what nature intended it, a
+summer season in a cave. It makes but a poor marriage settlement in
+these more complicated days. We fell to mutual recriminations, vulgar
+scenes. Ah, most of us look better at a little distance from one
+another. The sordid, contemptible side of life became important to us. I
+was never rich; by contrast with all that she had known, miserably poor.
+The mere sight of the food our twelve-pound-a-year cook put upon the
+table would take away her appetite. Love does not change the palate,
+give you a taste for cheap claret when you have been accustomed to dry
+champagne. We have bodies to think of as well as souls; we are apt to
+forget that in moments of excitement.
+
+“She fell ill, and it seemed to me that I had dragged her from the soil
+where she had grown only to watch her die. And then he came, precisely
+at the right moment. I cannot help admiring him. Most men take their
+revenge clumsily, hurting themselves; he was so neat, had been so
+patient. I am not even ashamed of having fallen into his trap; it was
+admirably baited. Maybe I had despised him for having seemed to submit
+meekly to the blow. What cared he for me and my opinion? It was she was
+all he cared for. He knew her better than I, knew that sooner or later
+she would tire, not of love but of the cottage; look back with longing
+eyes towards all that she had lost. Fool! Cuckold! What was it to him
+that the world would laugh at him, despise him? Love such as his made
+fools of men. Would I not give her back to him?
+
+“By God! It was fine acting; half into the night we talked, I leaving
+him every now and again to creep to the top of the stairs and listen to
+her breathing. He asked me my advice, I being the hard-headed partner of
+cool judgment. What would be the best way of approaching her after I was
+gone? Where should he take her? How should they live till the nine days'
+talk had died away? And I sat opposite to him--how he must have longed
+to laugh in my silly face--advising him! We could not quite agree as
+to details of a possible yachting cruise, and I remember hunting up an
+atlas, and we pored over it, our heads close together. By God! I envy
+him that night!”
+
+He sank back on his pillows and laughed and coughed, and laughed and
+coughed again, till I feared that wild, long, broken laugh would be his
+last. But it ceased at length, and for awhile, exhausted, he lay silent
+before continuing.
+
+“Then came the question: how was I to go? She loved me still. He was
+sure of it, and, for the matter of that, so was I. So long as she
+thought that I loved her, she would never leave me. Only from her
+despair could fresh hope arise for her. Would I not make some sacrifice
+for her sake, persuade her that I had tired of her? Only by one means
+could she be convinced. My going off alone would not suffice; my reason
+for that she might suspect--she might follow. It would be for her sake.
+Again it was the hero that I played, the dear old chuckle-headed hero,
+Paul, that you ought to have cheered, not hooted. I loved her as much as
+I ever loved her in my life, that night I left her. I took my boots
+off in the passage and crept up in my stockinged feet. I told him I
+was merely going to change my coat and put a few things into a bag. He
+gripped my hand, and tears were standing in his eyes. It is odd that
+suppressed laughter and expressed grief should both display the same
+token, is it not? I stole into her room. I dared not kiss her for fear
+of waking her; but a stray lock of her hair--you remember how long it
+was--fell over the pillow, nearly reaching to the floor. I pressed my
+lips against it, where it trailed over the bedstead, till they bled. I
+have it still upon my lips, the mingling of the cold iron and the warm,
+soft silken hair. He told me, when I came down again, that I had been
+gone three-quarters of an hour. And we went out of the house together,
+he and I. That is the last time I ever saw her.”
+
+I leant across and put my arms around him; I suppose it was un-English;
+there are times when one forgets these points. “I did not know! I did
+not know,” I cried.
+
+He pressed me to him with his feeble arms. “What a cad you must have
+thought me, Paul,” he said. “But you might have given me credit for
+better taste. I was always rather a gourmet than a gourmand where women
+were concerned.”
+
+“You have never seen him either again?” I asked.
+
+“No,” he answered; “I swore to kill him when I learnt the trick he had
+played me. He commenced the divorce proceedings against her the very
+morning after I had left her. Possibly, had I succeeded in finding
+him within the next six months, I should have done so. A few newspaper
+proprietors would have been the only people really benefited. Time is
+the cheapest Bravo; a little patience is all he charges. All roads lead
+to the end, Paul.”
+
+But I tell my tale badly, marring effects of sunlight with the memory
+of shadows. At the time all promised fair. He was a handsome,
+distinguished-looking man. Not every aristocrat, if without disrespect
+to one's betters a humble observer may say so, suggests his title; this
+man would have suggested his title, had he not possessed it. I suppose
+he must have been about fifty at the time; but most men of thirty would
+have been glad to exchange with him both figure and complexion. His
+behaviour to his _fiancee_ was the essence of good taste, affectionate
+devotion, carried to the exact point beyond which, having regard to the
+disparity of their years, it would have appeared ridiculous. That he
+sincerely admired her, was fully content with her, there could be no
+doubt. I am even inclined to think he was fonder of her than, divining
+her feelings towards himself, he cared to show. Knowledge of the world
+must have told him that men of fifty find it easier to be the lovers of
+women young enough to be their daughters, than girls find it to desire
+the affection of men old enough to be their fathers; and he was not the
+man to allow impulse to lead him into absurdity.
+
+From my own peculiar point of view he appeared the ideal prince consort.
+It was difficult for me to imagine my queen in love with any mere man.
+This was one beside whom she could live, losing in my eyes nothing of
+her dignity. My feelings for her he guessed at our first interview. Most
+men in his position would have been amused, and many would have shown
+it. For what reason I cannot say, but with a tact and courtesy that left
+me only complimented, he drew from me, before I had met him half-a-dozen
+times, more frank confession than a month previously I should have
+dreamt of my yielding to anything than my own pillow. He laid his hand
+upon my shoulder.
+
+“I wonder if you know, my friend, how wise you are,” he said. “We all of
+us at your age love an image of our own carving. Ah, if only we could be
+content to worship the white, changeless statute! But we are fools. We
+pray the gods to give her life, and under our hot kisses she becomes a
+woman. I also loved when I was your age, Paul. Your countrymen, they
+are so practical, they know only one kind of love. It is business-like,
+rich--how puts it your poet? 'rich in saving common sense.' But there
+are many kinds, you understand that, my friend. You are wise, do not
+confuse them. She was a child of the mountains. I used to walk three
+leagues to Mass each day to worship her. Had I been wise--had I so left
+it, the memory of her would have coloured all my life with glory. But
+I was a fool, my friend; I turned her into a woman. Ah!”--he made a
+gesture of disgust--“such a fat, ugly woman, Paul, I turned her into. I
+had much difficulty in getting rid of her. We should never touch things
+in life that are beautiful; we have such clumsy hands, we spoil whatever
+we touch.”
+
+Hal did not return to England till the end of the year, by which time
+the Count and Countess Huescar--though I had her permission still to
+call her Barbara, I never availed myself of it; the “Countess” fitted my
+mood better--had taken up residence in the grand Paris house old Hasluck
+had bought for them.
+
+It was the high-water mark of old Hasluck's career, and, if anything,
+he was a little disappointed that with the dowry he had promised her
+Barbara had not done even better for herself.
+
+“Foreign Counts,” he grumbled to me laughingly, one day, “well, I hope
+they're worth more in Society than they are in the City. A hundred
+guineas is their price there, and they're not worth that. Who was that
+American girl that married a Russian Prince only last week? A million
+dollars was all she gave for him, and she a wholesale boot-maker's
+daughter into the bargain! Our girls are not half as smart.”
+
+But that was before he had seen his future son-in-law. After, he was
+content enough, and up to the day of the wedding, childishly elated.
+Under the Count's tuition he studied with reverential awe the Huescar
+history. Princes, statesmen, warriors, glittered, golden apples, from
+the spreading branches of its genealogical tree. Why not again! its
+attenuated blue sap strengthened with the rich, red blood, brewed
+by toil and effort in the grim laboratories of the under world. In
+imagination, old Hasluck saw himself the grandfather of Chancellors, the
+great-grandfather of Kings.
+
+“I have laid the foundation, you shall raise the edifice,” so he told
+her one evening I was spending with them, caressing her golden hair with
+his blunt, fat fingers. “I am glad you were not a boy. A boy, in all
+probability, would have squandered the money, let the name sink back
+again into the gutter. And even had he been the other sort, he could
+only have been another business man, keeping where I had left him.
+You will call your first boy Hasluck, won't you? It must always be
+the first-born's name. It shall be famous in the world yet, and for
+something else than mere money.”
+
+I began to understand the influences that had gone towards the
+making--or marring--of Barbara's character. I had never guessed he had
+cared for anything beyond money and the making of money.
+
+It was, of course, a wedding as ostentatious as possible. Old Hasluck
+knew how to advertise, and spared neither expense nor labour, with the
+result that it was the event of the season, at least according to the
+Society papers. Mrs. Hasluck was the type of woman to have escaped
+observation, even had the wedding been her own; that she was present at
+her daughter's, “becomingly dressed in grey veiling spotted white, with
+an encrustation of mousseline de soie,” I learnt the next day from the
+_Morning Post_. Old Hasluck himself had to be fetched every time he
+was wanted. At the conclusion of the ceremony, seeking him, I found him
+sitting on the stairs leading to the crypt.
+
+“Is it over?” he asked. He was mopping his face on a huge handkerchief,
+and had a small looking-glass in his hand.
+
+“All over,” I answered, “they are waiting for you to start.”
+
+“I always perspire so when I'm excited,” he explained. “Keep me out of
+it as much as possible.”
+
+But the next time I saw him, which was two or three days later, the
+reaction had set in. He was sitting in his great library, surrounded
+by books he would no more have thought of disturbing than he would of
+strumming on the gorgeous grand piano inlaid with silver that ornamented
+his drawing-room. A change had passed over him. His swelling rotundity,
+suggestive generally of a bladder inflated to its extremest limits by
+excess of self-importance, appeared to be shrinking. I put the idea
+aside as mere fancy at the time, but it was fact; he became a mere bag
+of bones before he died. He was wearing an old pair of carpet slippers
+and smoking a short clay pipe.
+
+“Well,” I said, “everything went off all right.”
+
+“Everybody's gone off all right, so far,” he grunted. He was crouching
+over the fire, though the weather was still warm, one hand spread
+out towards the blaze. “Now I've got to go off, that's the only thing
+they're waiting for. Then everything will be in order.”
+
+“I don't think they are wanting you to go off,” I answered, with a
+laugh.
+
+“You mean,” he answered, “I'm the goose that lays the golden eggs. Ah,
+but you see, so many of the eggs break, and so many of them are bad.”
+
+“Some of them hatch all right,” I replied. The simile was becoming
+somewhat confused: in conversation similes are apt to.
+
+“If I were to die this week,” he said--he paused, completing mental
+calculations, “I should be worth, roughly speaking, a couple of million.
+This time next year I may be owing a million.”
+
+I sat down opposite to him. “Why run risks?” I suggested. “Surely you
+have enough. Why not give it up--retire?”
+
+He laughed. “Do you think I haven't said that to myself, lad--sworn
+I would a dozen times a year? I can't do it; I'm a gambler. It's the
+earliest thing I can recollect doing, gambling with brace buttons. There
+are men, Paul, now dying in the workhouse--men I once knew well; I think
+of them sometimes, and wish I didn't--who any time during half their
+life might have retired on twenty thousand a year. If I were to go to
+any one of them, and settle an annuity of a hundred a year upon him, the
+moment my back was turned he'd sell it out and totter up to Threadneedle
+Street with the proceeds. It's in our blood. I shall gamble on my
+death-bed, die with the tape in my hand.”
+
+He kicked the fire into a blaze. A roaring flame made the room light
+again.
+
+“But that won't be just yet awhile,” he laughed, “and before it does,
+I'll be the richest man in Europe. I keep my head cool--that's the
+great secret.” Leaning over towards me, he sunk his voice to a whisper,
+“Drink, Paul--so many of them drink. They get worried; fifty things
+dancing round and round at the same time in their heads. Fifty questions
+to be answered in five minutes. Tick, tick, tick, taps the little devil
+at their elbow. This going down, that going up. Rumor of this, report
+of that. A fortune to be lost here, a fortune to be snatched there.
+Everything in a whirl! Tick, tick, tick, like nails into a coffin. God!
+for five minutes' peace to think. Shut the door, turn the key. Out comes
+the bottle. That's the end. All right so long as you keep away from
+that. Cool, quick brain, clear judgment--that's the secret.”
+
+“But is it worth it all?” I suggested. “Surely you have enough?”
+
+“It means power, Paul.” He slapped his trousers pocket, making the
+handful of gold and silver he always carried there jingle musically. “It
+is this that rules the world. My children shall be big pots, hobnob
+with kings and princes, slap them on the back and call them by their
+Christian names, be kings themselves--why not? It's happened before.
+My children, the children of old Noel Hasluck, son of a Whitechapel
+butcher! Here's my pedigree!” Again be slapped his tuneful pocket.
+“It's an older one than theirs! It's coming into its own at last! It's
+money--we men of money--that are the true kings now. It's our family
+that rules the world--the great money family; I mean to be its head.”
+
+The blaze died out, leaving the room almost in darkness, and for awhile
+we sat in silence.
+
+“Quiet, isn't it?” said old Hasluck, raising his head.
+
+The settling of the falling embers was the only sound about us.
+
+“Guess we'll always be like this, now,” continued old Hasluck. “Old
+woman goes to bed, you see, immediately after dinner. It used to be
+different when _she_ was about. Somehow, the house and the lackeys and
+all the rest of it seemed to be a more natural sort of thing when _she_
+was the centre of it. It frightens the old woman now she's gone. She
+likes to get away from it. Poor old Susan! A little country inn with
+herself as landlady and me fussing about behind the bar; that was always
+her ambition, poor old girl!”
+
+“You will be visiting them,” I suggested, “and they will be coming to
+stop with you.”
+
+He shook his head. “They won't want me, and it isn't my game to hamper
+them. I never mix out of my class. I've always had sense enough for
+that.”
+
+I laughed, wishing to cheer him, though I knew he was right. “Surely
+your daughter belongs to your own class,” I replied.
+
+“Do you think so?” he asked, with a grin. “That's not a pretty
+compliment to her. She was my child when she used to cling round my
+neck, while I made the sausages, calling me her dear old pig. It didn't
+trouble her then that I dropped my aitches and had a greasy skin. I was
+a Whitechapel butcher, and she was a Whitechapel brat. I could have kept
+her if I'd liked, but I was set upon making a lady of her, and I did it.
+But I lost my child. Every time she came back from school I could see
+she despised me a little more. I'm not blaming her; how could she help
+it? I was making a lady of her, teaching her to do it; though there were
+moments when I almost hated her, felt tempted to snatch her back to me,
+drag her down again to my level, make her my child again, before it was
+too late. Oh, it wasn't all unselfishness; I could have done it. She
+would have remained my class then, would have married my class, and her
+children would have been my class. I didn't want that. Everything's got
+to be paid for. I got what I asked for; I'm not grumbling at the price.
+But it ain't cheap.”
+
+He rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe. “Ring the bell, Paul, will
+you?” he said. “Let's have some light and something to drink. Don't take
+any notice of me. I've got the hump to-night.”
+
+It was a minute or two before the lamp came. He put his arm upon my
+shoulder, leaning upon me somewhat heavily.
+
+“I used to fancy sometimes, Paul,” he said, “that you and she might have
+made a match of it. I should have been disappointed for some things. But
+you'd have been a bit nearer to me, you two. It never occurred to you,
+that, I suppose?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+HOW PAUL SET FORTH UPON A QUEST.
+
+Of old Deleglise's Sunday suppers, which, costumed from head to foot
+in spotless linen, he cooked himself in his great kitchen, moving with
+flushed, earnest face about the gleaming stove, while behind him his
+guests waited, ranged round the massive oaken table glittering with cut
+glass and silver, among which fluttered the deft hands of Madeline, his
+ancient whitecapped Bonne, much has been already recorded, and by those
+possessed of greater knowledge. They who sat there talking in whispers
+until such time as old Deleglise turned towards them again, radiant
+with consciousness of success, the savoury triumph steaming between his
+hands, when, like the sudden swell of the Moonlight Sonata, the talk
+would rush once more into a roar, were men whose names were
+then--and some are still--more or less household words throughout the
+English-speaking world. Artists, musicians, actors, writers, scholars,
+droles, their wit and wisdom, their sayings and their doings must be
+tolerably familiar to readers of memoir and biography; and if to such
+their epigrams appear less brilliant, their jests less laughable than to
+us who heard them spoken, that is merely because fashion in humour and
+in understanding changes as in all else.
+
+You, gentle reader of my book, I shall not trouble with second-hand
+record of that which you can read elsewhere. For me it will be but
+to write briefly of my own brief glimpse into that charmed circle.
+Concerning this story more are the afternoon At Homes held by Dan and
+myself upon the second floor of the old Georgian house in pleasant,
+quiet Queen Square. For cook and house-maid on these days it would be a
+busy morning. Failing other supervision, Dan and I agreed that to secure
+success on these important occasions each of us should criticise the
+work of the other. I passed judgment on Dan's cooking, he upon my
+house-work.
+
+“Too much soda,” I would declare, sampling the cake.
+
+“You silly Juggins! It's meant to taste of soda--it's a soda cake.”
+
+“I know that. It isn't meant to taste of nothing but soda. There
+wants to be some cake about it also. This thing, so far as flavour
+is concerned, is nothing but a Seidlitz powder. You can't give people
+solidified Seidlitz powders for tea!”
+
+Dan would fume, but I would remain firm. The soda cake would be laid
+aside, and something else attempted. His cookery was the one thing Dan
+was obstinate about. He would never admit that anything could possibly
+be wrong with it. His most ghastly failures he would devour himself
+later on with pretended enjoyment. I have known him finish a sponge
+cake, the centre of which had to be eaten with a teaspoon, declaring it
+was delicious; that eating a dry sponge cake was like eating dust; that
+a sponge cake ought to be a trifle syrupy towards the centre. Afterwards
+he would be strangely silent and drink brandy out of a wine-glass.
+
+“Call these knives clean?” It would be Dan's turn.
+
+“Yes, I do.”
+
+Dan would draw his finger across one, producing chiaro-oscuro.
+
+“Not if you go fingering them. Why don't you leave them alone and go on
+with your own work?”
+
+“You've just wiped them, that's all.”
+
+“Well, there isn't any knife-powder.”
+
+“Yes, there is.”
+
+“Besides, it ruins knives, over-cleaning them--takes all the edge off.
+We shall want them pretty sharp to cut those lemon buns of yours.”
+
+“Over-cleaning them! You don't take any pride in the place.”
+
+“Good Lord! Don't I work from morning to night?”
+
+“You lazy young devil!”
+
+“Makes one lazy, your cooking. How can a man work when he is suffering
+all day long from indigestion?”
+
+But Dan would not be content until I had found the board and cleaned the
+knives to his complete satisfaction. Perhaps it was as well that in this
+way all things once a week were set in order. After lunch house-maid and
+cook would vanish, two carefully dressed gentlemen being left alone to
+receive their guests.
+
+These would be gathered generally from among Dan's journalistic
+acquaintances and my companions of the theatre. Occasionally, Minikin
+and Jarman would be of the number, Mrs. Peedles even once or twice
+arriving breathless on our landing. Left to myself, I perhaps should not
+have invited them, deeming them hardly fitting company to mingle with
+our other visitors; but Dan, having once been introduced to them,
+overrode such objection.
+
+“My dear Lord Chamberlain,” Dan would reply, “an ounce of originality is
+worth a ton of convention. Little tin ladies and gentlemen all made
+to pattern! One can find them everywhere. Your friends would be an
+acquisition to any society.”
+
+“But are they quite good form?” I hinted.
+
+“I'll tell you what we will do,” replied Dan. “We'll forget that Mrs.
+Peedles keeps a lodging-house in Blackfriars. We will speak of her as
+our friend, 'that dear, quaint old creature, Lady P.' A title that is
+an oddity, whose costume always suggests the wardrobe of a provincial
+actress! My dear Paul, your society novelist would make a fortune out
+of such a character. The personages of her amusing anecdotes, instead of
+being third-rate theatrical folk, shall be Earl Blank and the Baroness
+de Dash. The editors of society journals shall pay me a shilling a
+line for them. Jarman--yes, Jarman shall be the son of a South American
+millionaire. Vulgar? Nonsense! you mean racy. Minikin--he looks much
+more like forty than twenty--he shall be an eminent scientist. His
+head will then appear the natural size; his glass eye, the result of
+a chemical experiment, a touch of distinction; his uncompromising
+rudeness, a lovable characteristic. We will make him buy a yard of
+red ribbon and wear it across his shirt-front, and address him as Herr
+Professor. It will explain slight errors of English grammar and all
+peculiarities of accent. They shall be our lions. You leave it to me. We
+will invite commonplace, middle-class folk to meet them.”
+
+And this, to my terror and alarm, Dan persisted in doing. Jarman entered
+into the spirit of the joke with gusto. So far as he was concerned, our
+guests, from the beginning to the end, were one and all, I am confident,
+deceived. The more he swaggered, the more he boasted, the more he talked
+about himself--and it was a failing he was prone to--the greater was
+his success. At the persistent endeavours of Dan's journalistic
+acquaintances to excite his cupidity by visions of new journals, to be
+started with a mere couple of thousand pounds and by the inherent
+merit of their ideas to command at once a circulation of hundreds of
+thousands, I could afford to laugh. But watching the tremendous efforts
+of my actress friends to fascinate him--luring him into corners, gazing
+at him with languishing eyes, trotting out all their little tricks
+for his exclusive benefit, quarrelling about him among themselves--my
+conscience would prick me, lest our jest should end in a contretemps.
+Fortunately, Jarman himself, was a gentleman of uncommon sense, or my
+fears might have been realised. I should have been sorry myself to have
+been asked to remain stone under the blandishments of girls young and
+old, of women handsome and once, no doubt, good looking, showered upon
+him during that winter. But Jarman, as I think I have explained, was no
+slave to female charms. He enjoyed his good time while it lasted, and
+eventually married the eldest daughter of a small blacking factory. She
+was a plain girl, but pleasant, and later brought to Jarman possession
+of the factory. When I meet him--he is now stout and rubicund--he gives
+me the idea of a man who has attained to his ideals.
+
+With Minikin we had more trouble. People turned up possessed of
+scientific smattering. We had to explain that the Professor never talked
+shop. Others were owners of unexpected knowledge of German, which they
+insisted upon airing. We had to explain that the Herr Professor was
+in London to learn English, and had taken a vow during his residence
+neither to speak nor listen to his native tongue. It was remarked that
+his acquaintance with colloquial English slang, for a foreigner, was
+quite unusual. Occasionally he was too rude, even for a scientist,
+informing ladies, clamouring to know how he liked English women, that he
+didn't like them silly; telling one gentleman, a friend of Dan, a rather
+important man who once asked him, referring to his yard of ribbon, what
+he got it for, that he got it for fourpence. We had to explain him as
+a gentleman who had been soured by a love disappointment. The ladies
+forgave him; the gentlemen said it was a damned lucky thing for the
+girl. Altogether, Minikin took a good deal of explaining.
+
+Lady Peedles, our guests decided among themselves, must be the widow of
+some one in the City who had been knighted in a crowd. They made fun of
+her behind her back, but to her face were most effusive. “My dear Lady
+Peedles” was the phrase most often heard in our rooms whenever she was
+present. At the theatre “my friend Lady Peedles” became a person much
+spoken of--generally in loud tones. My own social position I found
+decidedly improved by reason of her ladyship's evident liking for
+myself. It went abroad that I was her presumptive heir. I was courted as
+a gentleman of expectations.
+
+The fishy-eyed young man became one of our regular guests. Dan won his
+heart by never laughing at him.
+
+“I like talking to you,” said the fishy-eyed young man one afternoon to
+Dan. “You don't go into fits of laughter when I remark that it has been
+a fine day; most people do. Of course, on the stage I don't mind. I
+know I am a funny little devil. I get my living by being a funny little
+devil. There is a photograph of me hanging in the theatre lobby. I saw
+a workman stop and look at it the other day as he passed; I was just
+behind him. He burst into a roar of laughter. 'Little--! He makes me
+laugh to look at him!' he cluttered to himself. Well, that's all right;
+I want the man in the gallery to think me funny, but it annoys me when
+people laugh at me off the stage. If I am out to dinner anywhere and ask
+somebody to pass the mustard, I never get it; instead, they burst out
+laughing. I don't want people to laugh at me when I am having my dinner.
+I want my dinner. It makes me very angry sometimes.”
+
+“I know,” agreed Dan, sympathetically. “The world never grasps the fact
+that man is a collection, not a single exhibit. I remember being at a
+house once where the chief guest happened to be a great Hebrew scholar.
+One tea time, a Miss Henman, passing the butter to some one in a hurry,
+let it slip out of her hand. 'Why is Miss Henman like a caterpillar?'
+asked our learned guest in a sepulchral voice. Nobody appeared to know.
+'Because she makes the butter fly.' It never occurred to any one of us
+that the Doctor could possibly joke. There was dead silence for about
+a minute. Then our hostess, looking grave, remarked: 'Oh, do you really
+think so?'”
+
+“If I were to enter a room full of people,” said the fishy-eyed young
+man, “and tell them that my mother had been run over by an omnibus, they
+would think it the funniest story they had heard in years.”
+
+He was playing a principal part now in the opera, and it was he
+undoubtedly who was drawing the house. But he was not happy.
+
+“I am not a comic actor, really,” he explained. “I could play Romeo, so
+far as feeling is concerned, and play it damned well. There is a fine
+vein of poetry in me. But of course it's no good to me with this face of
+mine.”
+
+“But are you not sinning your mercies, you fellows?” Dan replied. “There
+is young Kelver here. At school it was always his trouble that he could
+give us a good time and make us laugh, which nobody else in the whole
+school could do. His ambition was to kick a ball as well as a hundred
+other fellows could kick it. He could tell us a good story now if he
+would only write what the Almighty intended him to write, instead of
+gloomy rigmaroles about suffering Princesses in Welsh caves. I don't
+say it's bad, but a hundred others could write the same sort of thing
+better.”
+
+“Can't you understand,” answered the little man; “the poorest tragedian
+that ever lived never wished himself the best of low comedians. The
+court fool had an excellent salary, no doubt; and, likely enough, had
+got two-thirds of all the brain there was in the palace. But not a
+wooden-headed man-at-arms but looked down upon him. Every gallery boy
+who pays a shilling to laugh at me regards himself as my intellectual
+superior; while to a fourth-rate spouter of blank verse he looks up in
+admiration.”
+
+“Does it so very much matter,” suggested Dan, “how the wooden-headed
+man-at-arms or the shilling gallery boy happens to regard you?”
+
+“Yes, it does,” retorted Goggles, “because we happen to agree with them.
+If I could earn five pounds a week as juvenile lead, I would never play
+a comic part again.”
+
+“There I cannot follow you,” returned Dan. “I can understand the artist
+who would rather be the man of action, the poet who would rather be the
+statesman or the warrior; though personally my sympathies are precisely
+the other way--with Wolfe who thought it a more glorious work, the
+writing of a great poem, than the burning of so many cities and the
+killing of so many men. We all serve the community. It is difficult,
+looking at the matter from the inside, to say who serves it best. Some
+feed it, some clothe it. The churchman and the policeman between them
+look after its morals, keep it in order. The doctor mends it when it
+injures itself; the lawyer helps it to quarrel, the soldier teaches it
+to fight. We Bohemians amuse it, instruct it. We can argue that we are
+the most important. The others cater for its body, we for its mind. But
+their work is more showy than ours and attracts more attention; and to
+attract attention is the aim and object of most of us. But for Bohemians
+to worry among themselves which is the greatest, is utterly without
+reason. The story-teller, the musician, the artist, the clown, we are
+members of a sharing troupe; one, with the ambition of the fat boy in
+Pickwick, makes the people's flesh creep; another makes them hold their
+sides with laughter. The tragedian, soliloquising on his crimes, shows
+us how wicked we are; you, looking at a pair of lovers from under a
+scratch wig, show us how ridiculous we are. Both lessons are necessary:
+who shall say which is the superior teacher?”
+
+“Ah, I am not a philosopher,” replied the little man, with a sigh.
+
+“Ah,” returned Dan, with another, “and I am not a comic actor on my
+way to a salary of a hundred a week. We all of us want the other boy's
+cake.”
+
+The O'Kelly was another frequent visitor of ours. The attic in Belsize
+Square had been closed. In vain had the O'Kelly wafted incense, burned
+pastilles and sprinkled eau-de-Cologne. In vain had he talked of rats,
+hinted at drains.
+
+“A wonderful woman,” groaned the O'Kelly in tones of sorrowful
+admiration. “There's no deceiving her.”
+
+“But why submit?” was our natural argument. “Why not say you are going
+to smoke, and do it?”
+
+“It's her theory, me boy,” explained the O'Kelly, “that the home should
+be kept pure--a sort of a temple, ye know. She's convinced that in time
+it is bound to exercise an influence upon me. It's a beautiful idea,
+when ye come to think of it.”
+
+Meanwhile, in the rooms of half-a-dozen sinful men the O'Kelly kept his
+own particular pipe, together with his own particular smoking mixture;
+and one such pipe and one such tobacco jar stood always on our
+mantelpiece.
+
+In the spring the forces of temptation raged round that feeble but most
+excellently intentioned citadel, the O'Kelly's conscience. The Signora
+had returned to England, was performing then at Ashley's Theatre. The
+O'Kelly would remain under long spells of silence, puffing vigorously
+at his pipe. Or would fortify himself with paeans in praise of Mrs.
+O'Kelly.
+
+“If anything could ever make a model man of me”--he spoke in the tones
+of one whose doubts are stronger than his hopes--“it would be the
+example of that woman.”
+
+It was one Saturday afternoon. I had just returned from the matinee.
+
+“I don't believe,” continued the O'Kelly, “I don't really believe she
+has ever done one single thing she oughtn't to, or left undone one
+single thing she ought, in the whole course of her life.”
+
+“Maybe she has, and you don't know of it,” I suggested, perceiving the
+idea might comfort him.
+
+“I wish I could think so,” returned the O'Kelly. “I don't mean anything
+really wrong,” he corrected himself quickly, “but something just a
+little wrong. I feel--I really feel I should like her better if she
+had.”
+
+“Not that I mean I don't like her as it is, ye understand,” corrected
+himself the O'Kelly a second time. “I respect that woman--I cannot tell
+ye, me boy, how much I respect her. Ye don't know her. There was one
+morning, about a month ago. That woman--she's down at six every morning,
+summer and winter; we have prayers at half-past. I was a trifle late
+meself: it was never me strong point, as ye know, early rising. Seven
+o'clock struck; she didn't appear, and I thought she had overslept
+herself. I won't say I didn't feel pleased for the moment; it was an
+unworthy sentiment, but I almost wished she had. I ran up to her room.
+The door was open, the bedclothes folded down as she always leaves them.
+She came in five minutes later. She had got up at four that morning
+to welcome a troupe of native missionaries from East Africa on their
+arrival at Waterloo Station. She's a saint, that woman; I am not worthy
+of her.”
+
+“I shouldn't dwell too much on that phase of the subject,” I suggested.
+
+“I can't help it, me boy,” replied the O'Kelly. “I feel I am not.”
+
+“I don't for a moment say you are,” I returned; “but I shouldn't harp
+upon the idea. I don't think it good for you.”
+
+“I never will be,” he persisted gloomily, “never!”
+
+Evidently he was started on a dangerous train of reflection. With the
+idea of luring him away from it, I led the conversation to the subject
+of champagne.
+
+“Most people like it dry,” admitted the O'Kelly. “Meself, I have always
+preferred it with just a suggestion of fruitiness.”
+
+“There was a champagne,” I said, “you used to be rather fond of when
+we--years ago.”
+
+“I think I know the one ye mean,” said the O'Kelly. “It wasn't at all
+bad, considering the price.”
+
+“You don't happen to remember where you got it?” I asked.
+
+“It was in Bridge Street,” remembered the O'Kelly, “not so very far from
+the Circus.”
+
+“It is a pleasant evening,” I remarked; “let us take a walk.”
+
+We found the place, half wine-shop, half office.
+
+“Just the same,” commented the O'Kelly as we pushed open the door and
+entered. “Not altered a bit.”
+
+As in all probability barely twelve months had elapsed since his last
+visit, the fact in itself was not surprising. Clearly the O'Kelly had
+been calculating time rather by sensation. I ordered a bottle; and we
+sat down. Myself, being prejudiced against the brand, I called for a
+glass of claret. The O'Kelly finished the bottle. I was glad to notice
+my ruse had been successful. The virtue of that wine had not departed
+from it. With every glass the O'Kelly became morally more elevated.
+He left the place, determined that he would be worthy of Mrs. O'Kelly.
+Walking down the Embankment, he asserted his determination of buying an
+alarm-clock that very evening. At the corner of Westminster Bridge he
+became suddenly absorbed in his own thoughts. Looking to discover the
+cause of his silence, I saw that his eyes were resting on a poster
+representing a charming lady standing on one leg upon a wire; below
+her--at some distance--appeared the peaks of mountains; the artist
+had even caught the likeness. I cursed the luck that had directed our
+footsteps, but the next moment, lacking experience, was inclined to be
+reassured.
+
+“Me dear Paul,” said the O'Kelly--he laid a fatherly hand upon my
+shoulder--“there are fair-faced, laughing women--sweet creatures,
+that ye want to put yer arm around and dance with.” He shook his head
+disapprovingly. “There are the sainted women, who lead us up, Paul--up,
+always up.”
+
+A look, such as the young man with the banner might have borne with him
+to the fields of snow and ice, suffused the O'Kelly's handsome face.
+Without another word he crossed the road and entered an American store,
+where for six-and-elevenpence he purchased an alarm-clock the man
+assured us would awake an Egyptian mummy. With this in his hand he waved
+me a good-bye, and jumped upon a Hampstead 'bus, and alone I strolled on
+to the theatre.
+
+Hal returned a little after Christmas and started himself in chambers
+in the City. It was the nearest he dared venture, so he said, to
+civilisation.
+
+“I'd be no good in the West End,” he explained. “For a season I might
+attract as an eccentricity, but your swells would never stand me for
+longer--no more would any respectable folk, anywhere: we don't get on
+together. I commenced at Richmond. It was a fashionable suburb then,
+and I thought I was going to do wonders. I had everything in my favour,
+except myself. I do know my work, nobody can deny that of me. My
+father spent every penny he had, poor gentleman, in buying me an
+old-established practice: fine house, carriage and pair, white-haired
+butler--everything correct, except myself. It was of no use. I can hold
+myself in for a month or two; then I break out, the old original savage
+that I am under my frock coat. I feel I must run amuck, stabbing,
+hacking at the prim, smiling Lies mincing round about me. I can fool a
+silly woman for half-a-dozen visits; bow and rub my hands, purr round
+her sympathetically. All the while I am longing to tell her the truth:
+
+“'Go home. Wash your face; don't block up the pores of your skin with
+paint. Let out your corsets. You are thirty-three round the abdomen if
+you are an inch: how can you expect your digestion to do its work when
+you're squeezing it into twenty-one? Give up gadding about half your day
+and most of your night; you are old enough to have done with that sort
+of thing. Let the children come, and suckle them yourself. You'll be all
+the better for them. Don't loll in bed all the morning. Get up like a
+decent animal and do something for your living. Use your brain, what
+there is of it, and your body. At that price you can have health
+to-morrow, and at no other. I can do nothing for you.'
+
+“And sooner or later I blurt it out.” He laughed his great roar. “Lord!
+you should see the real face coming out of the simpering mask.
+
+“Pompous old fools, strutting into me like turkey-cocks! By Jove, it was
+worth it! They would dribble out, looking half their proper size after I
+had done telling them what was the matter with them.
+
+“'Do you want to know what you are really suffering from?' I would shout
+at them, when I could contain myself no longer. 'Gluttony, my dear sir;
+gluttony and drunkenness, and over-indulgence in other vices that shall
+be nameless. Live like a man; get a little self-respect from somewhere;
+give up being an ape. Treat your body properly and it will treat you
+properly. That's the only prescription that will do you any good.'”
+
+He laughed again. “'Tell the truth, you shame the Devil.' But the Devil
+replies by starving you. It's a fairly effective retort. I am not the
+stuff successful family physicians are made of. In the City I may manage
+to rub along. One doesn't see so much of one's patients; they come and
+go. Clerks and warehousemen my practice will be among chiefly. The poor
+man does not so much mind being told the truth about himself; it is a
+blessing to which he is accustomed.”
+
+We spoke but once of Barbara. A photograph of her in her bride's
+dress stood upon my desk. Occasionally, first fitting the room for
+the ceremony, sweeping away all impurity even from under the mats, and
+dressing myself with care, I would centre it amid flowers, and kneeling,
+kiss her hand where it rested on the back of the top-heavy looking chair
+without which no photographic studio is complete.
+
+One day he took it up, and looked at it long and hard.
+
+“The forehead denotes intellectuality; the eyes tenderness and courage.
+The lower part of the face, on the other hand, suggests a good deal
+of animalism: the finely cut nostrils show egotism--another word for
+selfishness; the nose itself, vanity; the lips, sensuousness and love
+of luxury. I wonder what sort of woman she really is.” He laid the
+photograph back upon the desk.
+
+“I did not know you were so firm a believer in Lavater,” I said.
+
+“Only when he agrees with what I know,” he answered. “Have I not
+described her rightly?”
+
+“I do not care to discuss her in that vein,” I replied, feeling the
+blood mounting to my cheeks.
+
+“Too sacred a subject?” he laughed. “It is the one ingredient of manhood
+I lack, ideality--an unfortunate deficiency for me. I must probe,
+analyse, dissect, see the thing as it really is, know it for what it
+is.”
+
+“Well, she is the Countess Huescar now,” I said. “For God's sake, leave
+her alone.”
+
+He turned to me with the snarl of a beast. “How do you know she is the
+Countess Huescar? Is it a special breed of woman made on purpose? How do
+you know she isn't my wife--brain and heart, flesh and blood, mine? If
+she was, do you think I should give her up because some fool has stuck
+his label on her?”
+
+I felt the anger burning in my eyes. “Yours, his! She is no man's
+property. She is herself,” I cried.
+
+The wrinkles round his nose and mouth smoothed themselves out. “You need
+not be afraid,” he sneered. “As you say, she is the Countess Huescar.
+Can you imagine her as Mrs. Doctor Washburn? I can't.” He took her
+photograph in his hand again. “The lower part of the face is the true
+index to the character. It shows the animal, and it is the animal that
+rules. The soul, the intellect, it comes and goes; the animal remains
+always. Sensuousness, love of luxury, vanity, those are the strings to
+which she dances. To be a Countess is of more importance to her than to
+be a woman. She is his, not mine. Let him keep her.”
+
+“You do not know her,” I answered; “you never have. You listen to what
+she says. She does not know herself.”
+
+He looked at me queerly. “What do you think her to be?” he asked me. “A
+true woman, not the shallow thing she seems?”
+
+“A true woman,” I persisted stoutly, “that you have not eyes enough to
+see.”
+
+“You little fool!” he muttered, with the same queer look--“you little
+fool. But let us hope you are wrong, Paul. Let us hope, for her sake,
+you are wrong.”
+
+It was at one of Deleglise's Sunday suppers that I first met Urban Vane.
+The position, nor even the character, I fear it must be confessed, of
+his guests was never enquired into by old Deleglise. A simple-minded,
+kindly old fellow himself, it was his fate to be occasionally surprised
+and grieved at the discovery that even the most entertaining of supper
+companions could fall short of the highest standard of conventional
+morality.
+
+“Dear, dear me!” he would complain, pacing up and down his studio
+with puzzled visage. “The last man in the world of whom I should have
+expected to hear it. So original in all his ideas. Are you quite sure?”
+
+“I am afraid there can be no doubt about it.”
+
+“I can't believe it! I really can't believe it! One of the most amusing
+men I ever met!”
+
+I remember a well-known artist one evening telling us with much sense of
+humour how he had just completed the sale of an old Spanish cabinet to
+two distinct and separate purchasers.
+
+“I sold it first,” recounted the little gentleman with glee, “to old
+Jong, the dealer. He has been worrying me about it for the last three
+months, and on Saturday afternoon, hearing that I was clearing out
+and going abroad, he came round again. 'Well, I am not sure I am in a
+position to sell it,' I told him. 'Who'll know?' he asked. 'They are not
+in, are they?' 'Not yet,' I answered, 'but I expect they will be some
+time on Monday.' 'Tell your man to open the door to me at eight o'clock
+on Monday morning,' he replied, 'we'll have it away without any fuss.
+There needn't be any receipt. I'm lending you a hundred pounds, in
+cash.' I worked him up to a hundred and twenty, and he paid me. Upon my
+word, I should never have thought of it, if he hadn't put the idea into
+my head. But turning round at the door: 'You won't go and sell it to
+some one else,' he suggested, 'between now and Monday?' It serves him
+right for his damned impertinence. 'Send and take it away to-day if you
+are at all nervous,' I told him. He looked at the thing, it is about
+twelve feet high altogether. 'I would if I could get a cart,' he
+muttered. Then an idea struck him. 'Does the top come off?' 'See for
+yourself,' I answered; 'it's your cabinet, not mine.' I was feeling
+rather annoyed with him. He examined it. 'That's all right,' he said;
+'merely a couple of screws. I'll take the top with me now on my cab.'
+He got a man in, and they took the upper cupboard away, leaving me the
+bottom. Two hours later old Sir George called to see me about his wife's
+portrait. The first thing he set eyes on was the remains of the cabinet:
+he had always admired it. 'Hallo,' he asked, 'are you breaking up the
+studio literally? What have you done with the other half?' 'I've sent
+it round to Jong's--' He didn't give me time to finish. 'Save Jong's
+commission and sell it to me direct,' he said. 'We won't argue about the
+price and I'll pay you in cash.'
+
+“Well, if Providence comes forward and insists on taking charge of
+a man, it is hardly good manners to flout her. Besides, his wife's
+portrait is worth twice as much as he is paying for it. He handed me
+over the money in notes. 'Things not going quite smoothly with you just
+at the moment?' he asked me. 'Oh, about the same as usual,' I told him.
+'You won't be offended at my taking it away with me this evening?' he
+asked. 'Not in the least,' I answered; 'you'll get it on the top of a
+four-wheeled cab.' We called in a couple of men, and I helped them down
+with it, and confoundedly heavy it was. 'I shall send round to Jong's
+for the other half on Monday morning,' he said, speaking with his head
+through the cab window, 'and explain it to him.' 'Do,' I answered;
+'he'll understand.'
+
+“I'm sorry I'm going away so early in the morning,” concluded the little
+gentleman. “I'd give back Jong ten per cent. of his money to see his
+face when he enters the studio.”
+
+Everybody laughed; but after the little gentleman was gone, the subject
+cropped up again.
+
+“If I wake sufficiently early,” remarked one, “I shall find an excuse
+to look in myself at eight o'clock. Jong's face will certainly be worth
+seeing.”
+
+“Rather rough both on him and Sir George,” observed another.
+
+“Oh, he hasn't really done anything of the kind,” chimed in old
+Deleglise in his rich, sweet voice. “He made that all up. It's just his
+fun; he's full of humour.”
+
+“I am inclined to think that would be his idea of a joke,” asserted the
+first speaker.
+
+Old Deleglise would not hear of it; but a week or two later I noticed an
+addition to old Deleglise's studio furniture in the shape of a handsome
+old carved cabinet twelve feet high.
+
+“He really had done it,” explained old Deleglise, speaking in a whisper,
+though only he and I were present. “Of course, it was only his fun; but
+it might have been misunderstood. I thought it better to put the thing
+straight. I shall get the money back from him when he returns. A most
+amusing little man!”
+
+Old Deleglise possessed a house in Gower Street which fell vacant. One
+of his guests, a writer of poetical drama, was a man who three months
+after he had earned a thousand pounds never had a penny with which
+to bless himself. They are dying out, these careless, good-natured,
+conscienceless Bohemians; but quarter of a century ago they still
+lingered in Alsatian London. Turned out of his lodgings by a Philistine
+landlord, his sole possession in the wide world, two acts of a drama,
+for which he had already been paid, the problem of his future, though
+it troubled him but little, became acute to his friends. Old Deleglise,
+treating the matter as a joke, pretending not to know who was the
+landlord, suggested he should apply to the agents for position as
+caretaker. Some furniture was found for him, and the empty house in
+Gower Street became his shelter. The immediate present thus provided
+for, kindly old Deleglise worried himself a good deal concerning what
+would become of his friend when the house was let. There appeared to be
+no need for worry. Weeks, months went by. Applications were received
+by the agents in fair number, view cards signed by the dozen; but
+prospective tenants were never seen again. One Sunday evening our poet,
+warmed by old Deleglise's Burgundy, forgetful whose recommendation
+had secured him the lowly but timely appointment, himself revealed the
+secret.
+
+“Most convenient place I've got,” so he told old Deleglise. “Whole house
+to myself. I wander about; it just suits me.”
+
+“I'm glad to hear that,” murmured old Deleglise.
+
+“Come and see me, and I'll cook you a chop,” continued the other. “I've
+had the kitchen range brought up into the back drawing-room; saves going
+up and down stairs.”
+
+“The devil you have!” growled old Deleglise. “What do you think the
+owner of the house will say?”
+
+“Haven't the least idea who the poor old duffer is myself. They've put
+me in as caretaker--an excellent arrangement: avoids all argument about
+rent.”
+
+“Afraid it will soon come to an end, that excellent arrangement;”
+ remarked old Deleglise, drily.
+
+“Why? Why should it?”
+
+“A house in Gower Street oughtn't to remain vacant long.”
+
+“This one will.”
+
+“You might tell me,” asked old Deleglise, with a grim smile; “how do you
+manage it? What happens when people come to look over the house--don't
+you let them in?”
+
+“I tried that at first,” explained the poet, “but they would go on
+knocking, and boys and policemen passing would stop and help them. It
+got to be a nuisance; so now I have them in, and get the thing over.
+I show them the room where the murder was committed. If it's a
+nervous-looking party, I let them off with a brief summary. If that
+doesn't do, I go into details and show them the blood-spots on the
+floor. It's an interesting story of the gruesome order. Come round one
+morning and I'll tell it to you. I'm rather proud of it. With the blinds
+down and a clock in the next room that ticks loudly, it goes well.”
+
+Yet this was a man who, were the merest acquaintance to call upon him
+and ask for his assistance, would at once take him by the arm and lead
+him upstairs. All notes and cheques that came into his hands he changed
+at once into gold. Into some attic half filled with lumber he would
+fling it by the handful; then, locking the door, leave it there. On
+their hands and knees he and his friends, when they wanted any, would
+grovel for it, poking into corners, hunting under boxes, groping among
+broken furniture, feeling between cracks and crevices. Nothing gave him
+greater delight than an expedition of this nature to what he termed his
+gold-field; it had for him, as he would explain, all the excitements
+of mining without the inconvenience and the distance. He never knew how
+much was there. For a certain period a pocketful could be picked up in
+five minutes. Then he would entertain a dozen men at one of the best
+restaurants in London, tip cabmen and waiters with half-sovereigns,
+shower half-crowns as he walked through the streets, lend or give to
+anybody for the asking. Later, half-an-hour's dusty search would be
+rewarded with a single coin. It made no difference to him; he would dine
+in Soho for eighteenpence, smoke shag, and run into debt.
+
+The red-haired man, to whom Deleglise had introduced me on the day of
+my first meeting with the Lady of the train, was another of his most
+constant visitors. It flattered my vanity that the red-haired man, whose
+name was famous throughout Europe and America, should condescend to
+confide to me--as he did and at some length--the deepest secrets of his
+bosom. Awed--at all events at first--I would sit and listen while by
+the hour he would talk to me in corners, telling me of the women he had
+loved. They formed a somewhat large collection. Julias, Marias, Janets,
+even Janes--he had madly worshipped, deliriously adored so many it grew
+bewildering. With a far-away look in his eyes, pain trembling through
+each note of his musical, soft voice, he would with bitter jest, with
+passionate outburst, recount how he had sobbed beneath the stars for
+love of Isabel, bitten his own flesh in frenzied yearning for Lenore. He
+appeared from his own account--if in connection with a theme so poetical
+I may be allowed a commonplace expression--to have had no luck with
+any of them. Of the remainder, an appreciable percentage had been mere
+passing visions, seen at a distance in the dawn, at twilight--generally
+speaking, when the light must have been uncertain. Never again, though
+he had wandered in the neighbourhood for months, had he succeeded in
+meeting them. It would occur to me that enquiries among the neighbours,
+applications to the local police, might possibly have been efficacious;
+but to have broken in upon his exalted mood with such suggestions would
+have demanded more nerve than at the time I possessed. In consequence,
+my thoughts I kept to myself.
+
+“My God, boy!” he would conclude, “may you never love as I loved that
+woman Miriam”--or Henrietta, or Irene, as the case might be.
+
+For my sympathetic attitude towards the red-haired man I received one
+evening commendation from old Deleglise.
+
+“Good boy,” said old Deleglise, laying his hand on my shoulder. We were
+standing in the passage. We had just shaken hands with the red-haired
+man, who, as usual, had been the last to leave. “None of the others will
+listen to him. He used to stop and confide it all to me after everybody
+else had gone. Sometimes I have dropped asleep, to wake an hour later
+and find him still talking. He gets it over early now. Good boy!”
+
+Soon I learnt it was characteristic of the artist to be willing--nay,
+anxious, to confide his private affairs to any one and every one who
+would only listen. Another characteristic appeared to be determination
+not to listen to anybody else's. As attentive recipient of other
+people's troubles and emotions I was subjected to practically no
+competition whatever. One gentleman, a leading actor of that day, I
+remember, immediately took me aside on my being introduced to him, and
+consulted me as to his best course of procedure under the extremely
+painful conditions that had lately arisen between himself and his wife.
+We discussed the unfortunate position at some length, and I did my best
+to counsel fairly and impartially.
+
+“I wish you would lunch with me at White's to-morrow,” he said. “We can
+talk it over quietly. Say half-past one. By the bye, I didn't catch your
+name.”
+
+I spelt it to him: he wrote the appointment down on his shirt-cuff. I
+went to White's the next day and waited an hour, but he did not turn
+up. I met him three weeks later at a garden-party with his wife. But he
+appeared to have forgotten me.
+
+Observing old Deleglise's guests, comparing them with their names, it
+surprised me the disconnection between the worker and the work. Writers
+of noble sentiment, of elevated ideality, I found contained in men of
+commonplace appearance, of gross appetites, of conventional ideas.
+It seemed doubtful whether they fully comprehended their own work;
+certainly it had no effect upon their own lives. On the other hand, an
+innocent, boyish young man, who lived the most correct of lives with
+a girlish-looking wife in an ivy-covered cottage near Barnes Common,
+I discovered to be the writer of decadent stories at which the Empress
+Theodora might have blushed. The men whose names were widest known were
+not the men who shone the brightest in Deleglise's kitchen; more
+often they appeared the dull dogs, listening enviously, or failing
+pathetically when they tried to compete with others who to the public
+were comparatively unknown. After a time I ceased to confound the artist
+with the man, thought no more of judging the one by the other than of
+evolving a tenant from the house to which circumstances or carelessness
+might have directed him. Clearly they were two creations originally
+independent of each other, settling down into a working partnership
+for purposes merely of mutual accommodation; the spirit evidently
+indifferent as to the particular body into which he crept, anxious only
+for a place to work in, easily contented.
+
+Varied were these guests that gathered round old Deleglise's oak.
+Cabinet Ministers reported to be in Homburg; Russian Nihilists escaped
+from Siberia; Italian revolutionaries; high church dignitaries disguised
+in grey suitings; ex-errand boys, who had discovered that with six
+strokes of the pen they could set half London laughing at whom they
+would; raw laddies with the burr yet clinging to their tongues, but
+who we knew would one day have the people dancing to the music of their
+words. Neither wealth, nor birth, nor age, nor position counted. Was a
+man interesting, amusing; had he ideas and thoughts of his own? Then he
+was welcome. Men who had come, men who were coming, met there on equal
+footing. Among them, as years ago among my schoolmates, I found my
+place--somewhat to my dissatisfaction. I amused. Much rather would I
+have shocked them by the originality of my views, impressed them with
+the depth of my judgments. They declined to be startled, refused to
+be impressed; instead, they laughed. Nor from these men could I obtain
+sympathy in my disappointment.
+
+“What do you mean, you villain!” roared Deleglise's caretaker at me one
+evening on entering the kitchen. “How dare you waste your time writing
+this sort of stuff?”
+
+He had a copy of the paper containing my “Witch of Moel Sarbod” in his
+hand--then some months old. He screwed it up into a ball and flung it in
+my face. “I've only just read it. What did you get for it?”
+
+“Nothing,” I answered.
+
+“Nothing!” he screamed. “You got off for nothing? You ought to have been
+whipped at the cart's tail!”
+
+“Oh, come, it's not as bad as that,” suggested old Deleglise.
+
+“Not bad! There isn't a laugh in it from beginning to end.”
+
+“There wasn't intended to be,” I interrupted.
+
+“Why not, you swindler? What were you sent into the world to do? To make
+it laugh.”
+
+“I want to make it think,” I told him.
+
+“Make it think! Hasn't it got enough to think about? Aren't there ten
+thousand penny-a-liners, poets, tragedians, tub-thumpers, long-eared
+philosophers, boring it to death? Who are you to turn up your nose at
+your work and tell the Almighty His own business? You are here to make
+us laugh. Get on with your work, you confounded young idiot!”
+
+Urban Vane was the only one among them who understood me, who agreed
+with me that I was fitted for higher things than merely to minister
+to the world's need of laughter. He alone it was who would listen
+with approval to my dreams of becoming a famous tragedian, a writer of
+soul-searching books, of passion-analysing plays. I never saw him laugh
+himself, certainly not at anything funny. “Humour!” he would explain
+in his languid drawl, “personally it doesn't amuse me.” One felt its
+introduction into the scheme of life had been an error. He was a large,
+fleshy man, with a dreamy, caressing voice and strangely impassive face.
+Where he came from, who he was, nobody knew. Without ever passing a
+remark himself that was worth listening to, he, nevertheless, by some
+mysterious trick of manner I am unable to explain, soon established
+himself, even throughout that company, where as a rule men found their
+proper level, as a silent authority in all contests of wit or argument.
+Stories at which he listened, bored, fell flat. The _bon mot_ at which
+some faint suggestion of a smile quivered round his clean-shaven lips
+was felt to be the crown of the discussion. I can only conclude his
+secret to have been his magnificent assumption of superiority, added to
+a sphinx-like impenetrability behind which he could always retire from
+any danger of exposure. Subjects about which he knew nothing--and I
+have come to the conclusion they were more numerous than was
+suspected--became in his presence topics outside the radius of
+cultivated consideration: one felt ashamed of having introduced them.
+His own subjects--they were few but exclusive--he had the knack of
+elevating into intellectual tests: one felt ashamed, reflecting how
+little one knew about them. Whether he really did possess a charm of
+manner, or whether the sense of his superiority with which he had imbued
+me it was that made any condescension he paid me a thing to grasp at, I
+am unable to say. Certain it is that when he suggested I should throw
+up chorus singing and accompany him into the provinces as manager of a
+theatrical company he was then engaging to run a wonderful drama that
+was going to revolutionise the English stage and educate the English
+public, I allowed myself not a moment for consideration, but accepted
+his proposal with grateful delight.
+
+“Who is he?” asked Dan. Somehow he had never impressed Dan; but then Dan
+was a fellow to impress whom was slow work. As he himself confessed, he
+had no instinct for character. “I judge,” he would explain, “purely by
+observation.”
+
+“What does that matter?” was my reply.
+
+“What does he know about the business?”
+
+“That's why he wants me.”
+
+“What do you know about it?”
+
+“There's not much to know. I can find out.”
+
+“Take care you don't find out that there's more to know than you think.
+What is this wonderful play of his?”
+
+“I haven't seen it yet; I don't think it's finished. It's something from
+the Spanish or the Russian, I'm not sure. I'm to put it into shape
+when he's done the translation. He wants me to put my name to it as the
+adaptor.”
+
+“Wonder he hasn't asked you to wear his clothes. Has he got any money?”
+
+“Of course he has money. How can you run a theatrical company without
+money?”
+
+“Have you seen the money?”
+
+“He doesn't carry it about with him in a bag.”
+
+“I should have thought your ambition to be to act, not to manage.
+Managers are to be had cheap enough. Why should he want some one who
+knows nothing about it?”
+
+“I'm going to act. I'm going to play a leading part.”
+
+“Great Scott!”
+
+“He'll do the management really himself; I shall simply advise him. But
+he doesn't want his own name to appear.
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“His people might object.”
+
+“Who are his people?”
+
+“How do I know? What a suspicious chap you are.”
+
+Dan shrugged his shoulders. “You are not an actor, you never will be;
+you are not a business man. You've made a start at writing, that's your
+proper work. Why not go on with it?”
+
+“I can't get on with it. That one thing was accepted, and never paid
+for; everything else comes back regularly, just as before. Besides, I
+can go on writing wherever I am.”
+
+“You've got friends here to help you.”
+
+“They don't believe I can do anything but write nonsense.”
+
+“Well, clever nonsense is worth writing. It's better than stodgy sense:
+literature is blocked up with that. Why not follow their advice?”
+
+“Because I don't believe they are right. I'm not a clown; I don't mean
+to be. Because a man has a sense of humour it doesn't follow he has
+nothing else. That is only one of my gifts, and by no means the highest.
+I have knowledge of human nature, poetry, dramatic instinct. I mean to
+prove it to you all. Vane's the only man that understands me.”
+
+Dan lit his pipe. “Have you made up your mind to go?”
+
+“Of course I have. It's an opportunity that doesn't occur twice.
+'There's a tide in the affairs--”
+
+“Thanks,” interrupted Dan; “I've heard it before. Well, if you've made
+up your mind, there's an end of the matter. Good luck to you! You are
+young, and it's easier to learn things then than later.”
+
+“You talk,” I answered, “as if you were old enough to be my
+grandfather.”
+
+He smiled and laid both hands upon my shoulders. “So I am,” he said,
+“quite old enough, little boy Paul. Don't be angry; you'll always be
+little Paul to me.” He put his hands in his pockets and strolled to the
+window.
+
+“What'll you do?” I enquired. “Will you keep on these rooms?”
+
+“No,” he replied. “I shall accept an offer that has been made to me to
+take the sub-editorship of a big Yorkshire paper. It is an important
+position and will give me experience.”
+
+“You'll never be happy mewed up in a provincial town,” I told him. “I
+shall want a London address, and I can easily afford it. Let's keep them
+on together.”
+
+He shook his head. “It wouldn't be the same thing,” he said.
+
+So there came a morning when we said good-bye. Before Dan returned from
+the office I should be gone. They had been pleasant months that we had
+spent together in these pretty rooms. Though my life was calling to
+me full of hope, I felt the pain of leaving them. Two years is a long
+period in a young man's life, when the sap is running swiftly. My
+affections had already taken root there. The green leaves in summer, in
+winter the bare branches of the square, the sparrows that chirped about
+the window-sills, the quiet peace of the great house, Dan, kindly old
+Deleglise: around them my fibres clung, closer than I had known. The
+Lady of the train: she managed it now less clumsily. Her hands and
+feet had grown smaller, her elbows rounder. I found myself smiling as
+I thought of her--one always did smile when one thought of Norah,
+everybody did;--of her tomboy ways, her ringing laugh--there were those
+who termed it noisy; her irrepressible frankness--there were times when
+it was inconvenient. Would she ever become lady-like, sedate, proper?
+One doubted it. I tried to picture her a wife, the mistress of a house.
+I found the smile deepening round my mouth. What a jolly wife she would
+make! I could see her bustling, full of importance; flying into tempers,
+lasting possibly for thirty seconds; then calling herself names, saving
+all argument by undertaking her own scolding, and doing it well. I
+followed her to motherhood. What a joke it would be! What would she do
+with them? She would just let them do what they liked with her. She and
+they would be a parcel of children together, she the most excited of
+them all. No; on second thoughts I could detect in her a strong vein of
+common sense. They would have to mind their p's and q's. I could see her
+romping with them, helping them to tear their clothes; but likewise I
+could see her flying after them, bringing back an armful struggling,
+bathing it, physicking it. Perhaps she would grow stout, grow grey; but
+she would still laugh more often than sigh, speak her mind, be quick,
+good-tempered Norah to the end. Her character precluded all hope of
+surprise. That, as I told myself, was its defect. About her were none of
+those glorious possibilities that make of some girls charming mysteries.
+A woman, said I to myself, should be a wondrous jewel, hiding unknown
+lights and shadows. You, my dear Norah--I spoke my thoughts aloud, as
+had become a habit with me: those who live much alone fall into this
+way--you are merely a crystal, not shallow--no, I should not call you
+shallow by any mans, but transparent.
+
+What would he be, her lover? Some plain, matter-of-fact, business-like
+young fellow, a good player of cricket and football, fond of his dinner.
+What a very uninteresting affair the love-making would be! If she liked
+him--well, she would probably tell him so; if she didn't, he would know
+it in five minutes.
+
+As for inducing her to change her mind, wooing her, cajoling her--I
+heard myself laughing at the idea.
+
+There came a quick rap at the door. “Come in,” I cried; and she entered.
+
+“I came to say good-bye to you,” she explained. “I'm just going out.
+What were you laughing at?”
+
+“Oh, at an idea that occurred to me.”
+
+“A funny one?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Tell it me.”
+
+“Well, it was something in connection with yourself. It might offend
+you.”
+
+“It wouldn't trouble you much if it did, would it?”
+
+“No, I don't suppose it would.”
+
+“Then why not tell me?”
+
+“I was thinking of your lover.”
+
+It did offend her; I thought it would. But she looked really interesting
+when she was cross. Her grey eyes would flash, and her whole body
+quiver. There was a charming spice of danger always about making her
+cross.
+
+“I suppose you think I shall never have one.”
+
+“On the contrary, I think you will have a good many.” I had not thought
+so before then. I formed the idea for the first time in that moment,
+while looking straight into her angry face. It was still a childish
+face.
+
+The anger died out of it as it always did within the minute, and she
+laughed. “It would be fun, wouldn't it. I wonder what I should do with
+him? It makes you feel very serious being in love, doesn't it?”
+
+“Very.”
+
+“Have you ever been in love?”
+
+I hesitated for a moment. Then the delight of talking about it overcame
+my fear of being chaffed. Besides, when she felt it, nobody could be
+more delightfully sympathetic. I determined to adventure it.
+
+“Yes,” I answered, “ever since I was a boy. If you are going to be
+foolish,” I added, for I saw the laugh before it came, “I shan't talk to
+you about it.”
+
+“I'm not--I won't, really,” she pleaded, making her face serious again.
+“What is she like?”
+
+I took from my breast pocket Barbara's photograph, and handed it to her
+in silence.
+
+“Is she really as beautiful as that?” she asked, gazing at it evidently
+fascinated.
+
+“More so,” I assured her. “Her expression is the most beautiful part of
+her. Those are only her features.”
+
+She sighed. “I wish I was beautiful.”
+
+“You are at an awkward age,” I told her. “It is impossible to say what
+you are going to be like.”
+
+“Mamma was a lovely woman, everybody says so; and Tom I call awfully
+handsome. Perhaps I'll be better when I'm filled out a bit more.” A
+small Venetian mirror hung between the two windows; she glanced up into
+it. “It's my nose that irritates me,” she said. She rubbed it viciously,
+as if she would rub it out.
+
+“Some people admire snub noses,” I explained to her.
+
+“No, really?”
+
+“Tennyson speaks of them as 'tip-tilted like the petals of a rose.'”
+
+“How nice of him! Do you think he meant my sort?” She rubbed it again,
+but in a kinder fashion; then looked again at Barbara's photograph. “Who
+is she?”
+
+“She was Miss Hasluck,” I answered; “she is the Countess Huescar now.
+She was married last summer.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I remember; you told us about her. You were children together.
+But what's the good of your being in love with her if she's married?”
+
+“It makes my whole life beautiful.”
+
+“Wanting somebody you can't have?”
+
+“I don't want her.”
+
+“You said you were in love with her.”
+
+“So I am.”
+
+She handed me back the photograph, and I replaced it in my pocket.
+
+“I don't understand that sort of love,” she said. “If I loved anybody I
+should want to have them with me always.
+
+“She is with me always,” I answered, “in my thoughts.” She looked at me
+with her clear grey eyes. I found myself blinking. Something seemed
+to be slipping from me, something I did not want to lose. I remember a
+similar sensation once at the moment of waking from a strange, delicious
+dream to find the sunlight pouring in upon me through an open window.
+
+“That isn't being in love,” she said. “That's being in love with the
+idea of being in love. That's the way I used to go to balls”--she
+laughed--“in front of the glass. You caught me once, do you remember?”
+
+“And was it not sweeter,” I argued, “the imagination? You were the belle
+of the evening; you danced divinely every dance, were taken in to supper
+by the Lion. In reality you trod upon your partner's toes, bumped and
+were bumped, were left a wallflower more than half the time, had a
+headache the next day. Were not the dream balls the more delightful?”
+
+“No, they weren't,” she answered without the slightest hesitation. “One
+real dance, when at last it came, was worth the whole of them. Oh, I
+know, I've heard you talking, all of you--of the faces that you see in
+dreams and that are ever so much more beautiful than the faces that you
+see when you're awake; of the wonderful songs that nobody ever sings,
+the wonderful pictures that nobody ever paints, and all the rest of it.
+I don't believe a word of it. It's tommyrot!”
+
+“I wish you wouldn't use slang.”
+
+“Well, you know what I mean. What is the proper word? Give it me.”
+
+“I suppose you mean cant,” I suggested.
+
+“No, I don't. Cant is something that you don't believe in yourself. It's
+tommyrot: there isn't any other word. When I'm in love it will be with
+something that is real.”
+
+I was feeling angry with her. “I know just what he will be like. He will
+be a good-natured, commonplace--”
+
+“Whatever he is,” she interrupted, “he'll be alive, and he'll want me
+and I shall want him. Dreams are silly. I prefer being up.” She
+clapped her hands. “That's it.” Then, silent, she looked at me with an
+expression of new interest. “I've been wondering and wondering what it
+was: you are not really awake yet. You've never got up.”
+
+I laughed at her whimsical way of putting it; but at the back of my
+brain was a troubled idea that perhaps she was revealing to me the
+truth. And if so, what would “waking up,” as she termed it, be like? A
+flash of memory recalled to me that summer evening upon Barking Bridge,
+when, as it had seemed to me, the little childish Paul had slipped away
+from me, leaving me lonely and bewildered to find another Self. Was my
+boyhood in like manner now falling from me? I found myself clinging to
+it with vague terror. Its thoughts, its feelings--dreams: they had grown
+sweet to me; must I lose them? This cold, unknown, new Self, waiting to
+receive me: I shrank away from it with fear.
+
+“Do you know, I think you will be rather nice when you wake up.”
+
+Her words recalled me to myself. “Perhaps I never shall wake up,” I
+said. “I don't want to wake up.”
+
+“Oh, but one can't go on dreaming all one's life,” she laughed. “You'll
+wake up, and fall in love with somebody real.” She came across to me,
+and taking the lapels of my coat in both her hands, gave me a vigorous
+shake. “I hope she'll be somebody nice. I am rather afraid.”
+
+“You seem to think me a fool!” I was still angry with her, without quite
+knowing why.
+
+She shook me again. “You know I don't. But it isn't the nice people that
+take best care of themselves. Tom can't. I have to take care of him.”
+
+I laughed.
+
+“I do, really. You should hear me scold him. I like taking care of
+people. Good-bye.”
+
+She held out her hand. It was white now and shapely, but one could not
+have called it small. Strong it felt and firm as it gripped mine.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+AND HOW CAME BACK AGAIN.
+
+I left London, the drums beating in my heart, the flags waving in my
+brain. Somewhat more than a year later, one foggy wet December evening,
+I sneaked back to it defeated--ah, that is a small thing, capable of
+redress--disgraced. I returned to it as to a hiding-place where, lost
+in the crowd, I might waste my days unnoticed until such time as I could
+summon up sufficient resolution to put an end to my dead life. I had
+been ambitious--dwelling again amid the bitterness of the months that
+followed my return, I write in the past tense. I had been eager to make
+a name, a position for myself. But were I to claim no higher aim, I
+should be doing injustice to my blood--to the great-souled gentleman
+whose whole life had been an ode to honour, to her of simple faith who
+had known no other prayer to teach me than the childish cry, “God help
+me to be good!” I had wished to be a great man, but it was to have
+been a great good man. The world was to have admired me, but to have
+respected me also. I was to have been the knight without fear, but,
+rarer yet, without reproach--Galahad, not Launcelot. I had learnt myself
+to be a feeble, backboneless fighter, conquered by the first serious
+assault of evil, a creature of mean fears, slave to every crack of the
+devil's whip, a feeder with swine.
+
+Urban Vane I had discovered to be a common swindler. His play he had
+stolen from the desk of a well-known dramatist whose acquaintance he had
+made in Deleglise's kitchen. The man had fallen ill, and Vane had been
+constant in his visits. Partly recovering, the man had gone abroad to
+Italy. Had he died there, as at the time was expected, the robbery might
+never have come to light. News reached us in a small northern town that
+he had taken a fresh lease of life and was on his way back to England.
+Then it was that Vane with calm indifference, smoking his cigar over
+a bottle of wine to which he had invited me, told me the bald truth,
+adorning it with some touches of wit. Had the recital come upon me
+sooner, I might have acted differently; but six months' companionship
+with Urban Vane, if it had not, by grace of the Lord, destroyed the
+roots of whatever flower of manhood might have been implanted in me, had
+most certainly withered its leaves.
+
+The man was clever. That he was not clever enough to perceive from the
+beginning what he has learnt since: that honesty is the best policy--at
+least, for men with brains--remains somewhat of a mystery to me. Where
+once he made his hundreds among shady ways, he now, I suppose, makes his
+thousands in the broad daylight of legitimate enterprise. Chicanery in
+the blood, one might imagine, has to be worked out. Urban Vanes are to
+be found in all callings. They commence as scamps; years later, to one's
+astonishment, one finds them ornaments to their profession. Wild oats
+are of various quality, according to the soil from which they are
+preserved. We sow them in our various ways.
+
+At first I stormed. Vane sat with an amused smile upon his lips and
+listened.
+
+“Your language, my dear Kelver,” he replied, my vocabulary exhausted,
+“might wound me were I able to accept you as an authority upon this
+vexed question of morals. With the rest of the world you preach one
+thing and practise another. I have noticed it so often. It is perhaps
+sad, but the preaching has ceased to interest me. You profess to be
+very indignant with me for making use of another man's ideas. It is done
+every day. You yourself were quite ready to take credit not due to you.
+For months we have been travelling with this play: 'Drama, in five acts,
+by Mr. Horace Moncrieff.' Not more than two hundred lines of it are your
+own--excellent lines, I admit, but they do not constitute the play.”
+
+This aspect of the affair had not occurred to me. “But you asked me to
+put my name to it,” I stammered. “You said you did not want your own to
+appear--for private reasons. You made a point of it.”
+
+He waved away the smoke from his cigar. “The man you are posing as would
+never have put his name to work not his own. You never hesitated; on the
+contrary, you jumped at the chance of so easy an opening to your career
+as playwright. My need, as you imagined it, was your opportunity.”
+
+“But you said it was from the French,” I argued; “you had merely
+translated it, I adapted it. I don't defend the custom, but it is the
+custom: the man who adapts a play calls himself the author. They all do
+it.”
+
+“I know,” he answered. “It has always amused me. Our sick friend
+himself, whom I am sure we are both delighted to welcome back to
+life, has done it more than once, and made a very fair profit on the
+transaction. Indeed, from internal evidence, I am strongly of opinion
+that this present play is a case in point. Well, chickens come home to
+roost: I adapt from him. What is the difference?”
+
+“Simply this,” he continued, pouring himself out another glass of wine,
+“that whereas, owing to the anomalous state of the copyright laws,
+stealing from the foreign author is legal and commendable, against
+stealing from the living English author there is a certain prejudice.”
+
+“And the consequences, I am afraid, you will find somewhat unpleasant,”
+ I suggested.
+
+He laughed: it was not a frivolity to which he was prone. “You mean, my
+dear Kelver that you will.”
+
+“Don't look so dumbfounded,” he went on. “You cannot be so stupid as you
+are pretending to be. The original manuscript at the Lord Chamberlain's
+office is in your handwriting. You knew our friend as well as I did,
+and visited him. Why, the whole tour has been under your management.
+You have arranged everything--most excellently; I have been quite
+surprised.”
+
+My anger came later. For the moment, the sudden light blinded me to
+everything but fear.
+
+“But you told me,” I cried, “it was only a matter of form, that you
+wanted to keep your name out of it because--”
+
+He was looking at me with an expression of genuine astonishment. My
+words began to appear humorous even to myself. I found it difficult to
+believe I had been the fool I was now seeing myself to have been.
+
+“I am sorry,” he said, “I am really sorry. I took you for a man of the
+world. I thought you merely did not wish to know anything.”
+
+Still, to my shame, fear was the thing uppermost in my heart. “You are
+not going to put it all on to me?” I pleaded.
+
+He had risen. He laid his hand upon my shoulder. Instead of flinging it
+off, I was glad of its kindly pressure. He was the only man to whom I
+could look for help.
+
+“Don't take it so seriously,” he said. “He will merely think the
+manuscript has been lost. As likely as not, he will be unable to
+remember whether he wrote it or merely thought of writing it. No one in
+the company will say anything: it isn't their business. We must set to
+work. I had altered it a good deal before you saw it, and changed all
+the names of the characters. We will retain the third act: it is the
+only thing of real value in the play. The situation is not original; you
+have as much right to dish it up as he had. In a fortnight we will have
+the whole thing so different that if he saw it himself he would only
+imagine we had got hold of the idea and had forestalled him.”
+
+There were moments during the next few weeks when I listened to the
+voice of my good angel, when I saw clearly that even from the lowest
+point of view he was giving me sound advice. I would go to the man, tell
+him frankly the whole truth.
+
+But Vane never left my elbow. Suspecting, I suppose, he gave me clearly
+to understand that if I did so, I must expect no mercy from him. My
+story, denounced by him as an outrageous lie, would be regarded as the
+funk-inspired subterfuge of a young rogue. At the best I should handicap
+myself with suspicion that would last me throughout my career. On the
+other hand, what harm had we done? Presented in some twenty or so small
+towns, where it would soon be forgotten, a play something like. Most
+plays were something like. Our friend would produce his version and
+reap a rich harvest; ours would disappear. If by any unlikely chance
+discussion should arise, the advertisement would be to his advantage. So
+soon as possible we would replace it by a new piece altogether. A young
+man of my genius could surely write something better than hotch-potch
+such as this; experience was all that I had lacked. As regarded
+one's own conscience, was not the world's honesty a mere question of
+convention? Had he been a young man, and had we diddled him out of his
+play for a ten-pound note, we should have been applauded as sharp men of
+business. The one commandment of the world was: Don't get found out. The
+whole trouble, left alone, would sink and fade. Later, we should tell it
+as a good joke--and be laughed with.
+
+So I fell from mine own esteem. Vane helping me--and he had brains--I
+set feverishly to work. I am glad to remember that every line I wrote
+was born in misery. I tried to persuade Vane to let me make a new
+play altogether, which I offered to give him for nothing. He expressed
+himself as grateful, but his frequently declared belief in my dramatic
+talent failed to induce his acceptance.
+
+“Later on, my dear Kelver,” was his reply. “For the present this is
+doing very well. Going on as we are, we shall soon improve it out of all
+recognition, while at the same time losing nothing that is essential.
+All your ideas are excellent.”
+
+By the end of about three weeks we had got together a concoction that,
+so far as dialogue and characters were concerned, might be said to
+be our own. There was good work in it, here and there. Under other
+conditions I might have been proud of much that I had written. As it
+was, I experienced only the terror of the thief dodging the constable:
+my cleverness might save me; it afforded me no further satisfaction.
+My humour, when I heard the people laughing at it, I remembered I had
+forged listening in vague fear to every creak upon the stairs, wondering
+in what form discovery might come upon me. There was one speech,
+addressed by the hero to the villain: “Yes, I admit it; I do love her.
+But there is that which I love better--my self-respect!” Stepping down
+to the footlights and slapping his chest (which according to stage
+convention would appear to be a sort of moral jewel-box bursting with
+assorted virtues), our juvenile lead--a gentleman who led a somewhat
+rabbit-like existence, perpetually diving down openings to avoid service
+of writs, at the instance of his wife, for alimony--would invariably
+bring down the house upon this sentiment. Every night, listening to the
+applause, I would shudder, recalling how I had written it with burning
+cheeks.
+
+There was a character in the piece, a vicious old man, that from the
+beginning Vane had wanted me to play. I had disliked the part and
+had refused, choosing instead to act a high-souled countryman, in the
+portrayal of whose irreproachable emotions I had taken pleasure. Vane
+now renewed his arguments, and my power of resistance seeming to have
+departed from me, I accepted the exchange. Certainly the old gentleman's
+scenes went with more snap, but at a cost of further degradation to
+myself. Upon an older actor the effect might have been harmless, but the
+growing tree springs back less surely; I found myself taking pleasure
+in the coarse laughter that rewarded my suggestive leers, calling up all
+the evil in my nature to help me in the development of fresh “business.”
+ Vane was enthusiastic in his praises, generous with his assistance.
+Under his tuition I succeeded in making the part as unpleasant as we
+dared. I had genius, so Vane told me; I understood so much of human
+nature. One proof of the moral deterioration creeping over me was that I
+was beginning to like Vane.
+
+Looking back at the man as I see him plainly now, a very ordinary scamp,
+his pretension not even amusing, I find it difficult to present him as
+he appeared to my boyish eyes. He was well educated and well read. He
+gave himself the airs of a superior being by freak of fate compelled to
+abide in a world of inferior creatures. To live among them in comfort it
+was necessary for him to outwardly conform to their conventions but to
+respect their reasoning would have been beneath him. To accept
+their laws as binding on one's own conscience was, using the common
+expression, to give oneself away, to confess oneself commonplace. Every
+decent instinct a man might own to was proof in Vane's eyes of his being
+“suburban,” “bourgeois”--everything that was unintellectual. It was the
+first time I had heard this sort of talk. Vane was one of the pioneers
+of the movement, which has since become somewhat tiresome. To laugh at
+it is easy to a man of the world; boys are impressed by it. From him
+I first heard the now familiar advocacy of pure Hedonism. Pan, enticed
+from his dark groves, was to sit upon Olympus.
+
+My lower nature rose within me to proclaim the foolish chatterer as
+a prophet. So life was not as I had been taught--a painful struggle
+between good and evil. There was no such thing as evil; the senseless
+epithet was a libel upon Nature. Not through wearisome repression, but
+rather through joyous expression of the animal lay advancement.
+
+Villains--workers in wrong for aesthetic pleasure of the art--are useful
+characters in fiction; in real life they do not exist. I am convinced
+the man believed most of the rubbish he talked. Since the time of which
+I write he has done some service to the world. I understand he is an
+excellent husband and father, a considerate master, a delightful
+host. He intended, I have no doubt, to improve me, to enlarge my
+understanding, to free me from soul-stifling bondage of convention. Not
+to credit him with this well-meaning intention would be to assume
+him something quite inhuman, to bestow upon him a dignity beyond his
+deserts. I find it easier to regard him merely as a fool.
+
+Our leading lady was a handsome but coarse woman, somewhat
+over-developed. Starting life as a music-hall singer, she had married
+a small tradesman in the south of London. Some three or four years
+previous, her Juno-like charms had turned the head of a youthful
+novelist--a refined, sensitive man, of whom great things in literature
+had been expected, and, judging from his earlier work, not unreasonably.
+He had run away with her, and eventually married her; the scandal was
+still fresh. Already she had repented of her bargain. These women regard
+their infatuated lovers merely as steps in the social ladder, and he
+had failed to appreciably advance her. Under her demoralising spell his
+ambition had died in him. He no longer wrote, no longer took interest
+in anything beyond his own debasement. He was with us in the company,
+playing small parts, and playing them badly; he would have remained with
+us as bill-poster rather than have been sent away.
+
+Vane planned to bring this woman and myself together. To her he pictured
+me a young gentleman of means, a coming author, who would soon be
+earning an income sufficient to keep her in every luxury. To me he
+hinted that she had fallen in love with me. I was never attracted to
+her by any feeling stronger than the admiration with which one views a
+handsome animal. It was my vanity upon which he worked. He envied me;
+any man would envy me; experience of life was what I needed to complete
+my genius. The great intellects of this earth must learn all lessons,
+even at the cost of suffering to themselves and others.
+
+As years before I had laboured to acquire a liking for cigars and
+whiskey, deeming it an accomplishment necessary to a literary career, so
+painstakingly I now applied myself to the cultivation of a pretty taste
+in passion. According to the literature, fictional and historical, Vane
+was kind enough to supply me with, men of note were invariably sad dogs.
+That my temperament was not that of the sad dog, that I lacked instinct
+and inclination for the part, appeared to this young idiot of whom I am
+writing in the light of a defect. That her languishing glances irritated
+rather than maddened me, that the occasional covert pressure of her hot,
+thick hand left me cold, I felt a reproach to my manhood. I would fall
+in love with her. Surely my blood was red like other men's. Besides, was
+I not an artist, and was not profligacy the hall-mark of the artist?
+
+But one grows tired of the confessional. Fate saved me from playing
+the part Vane had assigned me in this vulgar comedy, dragged me from my
+entanglement, flung me on my feet again. She was a little brusque in the
+process; but I do not feel inclined to blame the kind lady for that. The
+mud was creeping upward fast, and a quick hand must needs be rough.
+
+Our dramatic friend produced his play sooner than we had expected. It
+crept out that something very like it had been seen in the Provinces.
+Argument followed, enquiries were set on foot. “It will blow over,” said
+Vane. But it seemed to be blowing our way.
+
+The salaries, as a rule, were paid by me on Friday night. Vane, in the
+course of the evening, would bring me the money for me to distribute
+after the performance. We were playing in the north of Ireland. I had
+not seen Vane all that day. So soon as I had changed my clothes I left
+my dressing-room to seek him. The box-office keeper, meeting me, put a
+note into my hand. It was short and to the point. Vane had pocketed the
+evening's takings, and had left by the seven-fifty train! He regretted
+causing inconvenience, but life was replete with small comedies; the
+wise man attached no seriousness to them. We should probably meet again
+and enjoy a laugh over our experiences.
+
+Some rumour had got about. I looked up from the letter to find myself
+surrounded by suspicious faces. With dry lips I told them the truth.
+Only they happened not to regard it as the truth. Vane throughout
+had contrived cleverly to them I was the manager, the sole
+person responsible. My wearily spoken explanations were to them
+incomprehensible lies. The quarter of an hour might have been worse for
+me had I been sufficiently alive to understand or care what they were
+saying. A dull, listless apathy had come over me. I felt the scene only
+stupid, ridiculous, tiresome. There was some talk of giving me “a damned
+good hiding.” I doubt whether I should have known till the next morning
+whether the suggestion had been carried out or not. I gathered that the
+true history of the play, the reason for the sudden alterations, had
+been known to them all along. They appeared to have reserved their
+virtuous indignation till this evening. As explanation of my apparent
+sleepiness, somebody, whether in kindness to me or not I cannot say,
+suggested I was drunk. Fortunately, it carried conviction. No further
+trains left the town that night; I was allowed to depart. A deputation
+promised to be round at my lodgings early in the morning.
+
+Our leading lady had left the theatre immediately on the fall of the
+curtain; it was not necessary for her to wait, her husband acting as her
+business man. On reaching my rooms, I found her sitting by the fire.
+It reminded me that our agent in advance having fallen ill, her husband
+had, at her suggestion, been appointed in his place, and had left us on
+the Wednesday to make the necessary preparations in the next town on our
+list. I thought that perhaps she had come round for her money, and the
+idea amused me.
+
+“Well?” she said, with her one smile. I had been doing my best for some
+months to regard it as soul-consuming, but without any real success.
+
+“Well,” I answered. It bored me, her being there. I wanted to be alone.
+
+“You don't seem overjoyed to see me. What's the matter with you? What's
+happened?”
+
+I laughed. “Vane's bolted and taken the week's money with him.”
+
+“The beast!” she said. “I knew he was that sort. What ever made you take
+up with him? Will it make much difference to you?”
+
+“It makes a difference all round,” I replied. “There's no money to pay
+any of you. There's nothing to pay your fares back to London.”
+
+She had risen. “Here, let me understand this,” she said. “Are you the
+rich mug Vane's been representing you to be, or only his accomplice?”
+
+“The mug and the accomplice both,” I answered, “without the rich.
+It's his tour. He put my name to it because he didn't want his own to
+appear--for family reasons. It's his play; he stole it--”
+
+She interrupted me with a whistle. “I thought it looked a bit fishy, all
+those alterations. But such funny things do happen in this profession!
+Stole it, did he?”
+
+“The whole thing in manuscript. I put my name to it for the same
+reason--he didn't want his own to appear.”
+
+She dropped into her chair and laughed--a good-tempered laugh, loud and
+long. “Well, I'm damned!” she said. “The first man who has ever taken me
+in. I should never have signed if I had thought it was his show. I could
+see the sort he was with half an eye.” She jumped up from the chair.
+“Here, let me get out of this,” she said. “I just looked in to know what
+time to-morrow; I'd forgotten. You needn't say I came.”
+
+Her hand upon the door, laughter seized her again, so that for support
+she had to lean against the wall.
+
+“Do you know why I really did come?” she said. “You'll guess when you
+come to think it over, so I may as well tell you. It's a bit of a
+joke. I came to say 'yes' to what you asked me last night. Have you
+forgotten?”
+
+I stared at her. Last night! It seemed a long while ago--so very
+unimportant what I might have said.
+
+She laughed again. “So help me! if you haven't. Well, you asked me to
+run away with you--that's all, to let our two souls unite. Damned lucky
+I took a day to think it over! Good-night.”
+
+“Good-night,” I answered, without moving. I was gripping a chair to
+prevent myself from rushing at her, pushing her out of the room, and
+locking the door. I wanted to be alone.
+
+I heard her turn the handle. “Got a pound or two to carry you over?” It
+was a woman's voice.
+
+I put my hand into my pocket. “One pound seventeen,” I answered,
+counting it. “It will pay my fare to London--or buy me a dinner and a
+second-hand revolver. I haven't quite decided yet.”
+
+“Oh, you get back and pull yourself together,” she said. “You're only a
+kid. Good-night.”
+
+I put a few things into a small bag and walked thirty miles that night
+into Belfast. Arrived in London, I took a lodging in Deptford, where
+I was least likely to come in contact with any face I had ever seen
+before. I maintained myself by giving singing lessons at sixpence the
+half-hour, evening lessons in French and German (the Lord forgive me!)
+to ambitious shop-boys at eighteen pence a week, making up tradesmen's
+books. A few articles of jewellery I had retained enabled me to tide
+over bad periods. For some four months I existed there, never going
+outside the neighbourhood. Occasionally, wandering listlessly about
+the streets, some object, some vista, would strike me by reason of its
+familiarity. Then I would turn and hasten back into my grave of dim,
+weltering streets.
+
+Of thoughts, emotions, during these dead days I was unconscious.
+Somewhere in my brain they may have been stirring, contending; but
+myself I lived as in a long, dull dream. I ate, and drank, and woke,
+and slept, and walked and walked, and lounged by corners; staring by the
+hour together, seeing nothing.
+
+It has surprised me since to find the scenes I must then have witnessed
+photographed so clearly on my mind. Tragedies, dramas, farces, played
+before me in that teeming underworld--the scenes present themselves to
+me distinct, complete; yet I have no recollection of ever having seen
+them.
+
+I fell ill. It must have been some time in April, but I kept no count of
+days. Nobody came near me, nobody knew of me. I occupied a room at
+the top of a huge block of workmen's dwellings. A woman who kept a
+second-hand store had lent me for a shilling a week a few articles of
+furniture. Lying upon my chair-bedstead, I listened to the shrill sounds
+around me, that through the light and darkness never ceased. A pint of
+milk, left each morning on the stone landing, kept me alive. I would
+wait for the man's descending footsteps, then crawl to the door. I hoped
+I was going to die, regretting my returning strength, the desire for
+food that drove me out into the streets again.
+
+One night, a week or two after my partial recovery, I had wandered on
+and on for hour after hour. The breaking dawn recalled me to myself. I
+was outside the palings of a park. In the faint shadowy light it looked
+strange and unfamiliar. I was too tired to walk further. I scrambled
+over the low wooden fencing, and reaching a seat, dropped down and fell
+asleep.
+
+I was sitting in a sunny avenue; birds were singing joyously, bright
+flowers were all around me. Norah was beside me, her frank, sweet eyes
+were looking into mine; they were full of tenderness, mingled with
+wonder. It was a delightful dream: I felt myself smiling.
+
+Suddenly I started to my feet. Norah's strong hand drew me down again.
+
+I was in the broad walk, Regent's Park, where, I remembered, Norah often
+walked before breakfast. A park-keeper, the only other human creature
+within sight, was eyeing me suspiciously. I saw myself--without a
+looking-glass--unkempt, ragged. My intention was to run, but Norah was
+holding me by the arm. Savagely I tried to shake her off. I was weak
+from my recent illness, and, I suppose, half starved; it angered me
+to learn she was the stronger of the two. In spite of my efforts, she
+dragged me back.
+
+Ashamed of my weakness, ashamed of everything about me, I burst into
+tears; and that of course made me still more ashamed. To add to my
+discomfort, I had no handkerchief. Holding me with one hand--it was
+quite sufficient--Norah produced her own, and wiped my eyes. The
+park-keeper, satisfied, I suppose, that at all events I was not
+dangerous, with a grin passed on.
+
+“Where have you been, and what have you been doing?” asked Norah.
+She still retained her grip upon me, and in her grey eyes was quiet
+determination.
+
+So, with my face turned away from her, I told her the whole miserable
+story, taking strange satisfaction in exaggerating, if anything, my own
+share of the disgrace. My recital ended, I sat staring down the long,
+shadow-freckled way, and for awhile there was no sound but the chirping
+of the sparrows.
+
+Then behind me I heard a smothered laugh. It was impossible to imagine
+it could come from Norah. I turned quickly to see who had stolen upon
+us. It was Norah who was laughing; though to do her justice she was
+trying to suppress it, holding her handkerchief to her face. It was of
+no use, it would out; she abandoned the struggle, and gave way to it. It
+astonished the sparrows into silence; they stood in a row upon the low
+iron border and looked at one another.
+
+“I am glad you think it funny,” I said.
+
+“But it is funny,” she persisted. “Don't say you have lost your sense
+of humour, Paul; it was the one real thing you possessed. You were so
+cocky--you don't know how cocky you were! Everybody was a fool but
+Vane; nobody else but he appreciated you at your true worth. You and he
+between you were going to reform the stage, to educate the public,
+to put everything and everybody to rights. I am awfully sorry for all
+you've gone through; but now that it is over, can't you see yourself
+that it is funny?”
+
+Faintly, dimly, this aspect of the case, for the very first time, began
+to present itself to me; but I should have preferred Norah to have been
+impressed by its tragedy.
+
+“That is not all,” I said. “I nearly ran away with another man's wife.”
+
+I was glad to notice that sobered her somewhat. “Nearly? Why not quite?”
+ she asked more seriously.
+
+“She thought I was some young idiot with money,” I replied bitterly,
+pleased with the effect I had produced. “Vane had told her a pack of
+lies. When she found out I was only a poor devil, ruined, disgraced,
+without a sixpence---” I made a gesture expressive of eloquent contempt
+for female nature generally.
+
+“I am sorry,” said Norah; “I told you you would fall in love with
+something real.”
+
+Her words irritated me, unreasonably, I confess. “In love!” I replied;
+“good God, I was never in love with her!”
+
+“Then why did you nearly run away with her?”
+
+I was wishing now I had not mentioned the matter; it promised to be
+difficult of explanation. “I don't know,” I replied irritably. “I
+thought she was in love with me. She was very beautiful--at least, other
+people seemed to think she was. Artists are not like ordinary men. You
+must live--understand life, before you can teach it to others. When a
+beautiful woman is in love with you--or pretends to be, you--you must
+say something. You can't stand like a fool and--”
+
+Again her laughter interrupted me; this time she made no attempt to
+hide it. The sparrows chirped angrily, and flew off to continue their
+conversation somewhere where there would be less noise.
+
+“You are the biggest baby, Paul,” she said, so soon as she could speak,
+“I ever heard of.” She seized me by the shoulders, and turned me round.
+“If you weren't looking so ill and miserable, I would shake you, Paul,
+till there wasn't a bit of breath left in your body.”
+
+“How much money do you owe?” she asked--“to the people in the company
+and anybody else, I mean--roughly?”
+
+“About a hundred and fifty pounds,” I answered.
+
+“Then if you rest day or night, Paul, till you have paid that hundred
+and fifty--every penny of it--I'll think you the meanest cad in London!”
+
+Her grey eyes were flashing quite alarmingly. I felt almost afraid of
+her. She could be so vehement at times.
+
+“But how can I?” I asked.
+
+“Go straight home,” she commanded, “and write something funny: an
+article, story--anything you like; only mind that it is funny. Post it
+to me to-morrow, at the latest. Dan is in London, editing a new weekly.
+I'll have it copied out and sent to him. I shan't say who it is from. I
+shall merely ask him to read it and reply, at once. If you've a grain
+of grit left in you, you'll write something that he will be glad to have
+and to pay for. Pawn that ring on your finger and get yourself a
+good breakfast”--it was my mother's wedding-ring, the only piece of
+dispensable property I had not parted with--“_she_ won't mind helping
+you. But nobody else is going to--except yourself.”
+
+She looked at her watch. “I must be off.” She turned again. “There
+is something I was forgetting. B--“--she mentioned the name of the
+dramatist whose play Vane had stolen--“has been looking for you for
+the last three months. If you hadn't been an idiot you might have saved
+yourself a good deal of trouble. He is quite certain it was Vane stole
+the manuscript. He asked the nurse to bring it to him an hour after
+Vane had left the house, and it couldn't be found. Besides, the man's
+character is well known. And so is yours. I won't tell it you,” she
+laughed; “anyhow, it isn't that of a knave.”
+
+She made a step towards me, then changed her mind. “No,” she said, “I
+shan't shake hands with you till you have paid the last penny that you
+owe. Then I shall know that you are a man.”
+
+She did not look back. I watched her, till the sunlight, streaming in my
+eyes, raised a golden mist between us.
+
+Then I went to my work.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS SENDS PAUL A RING.
+
+It took me three years to win that handshake. For the first six months I
+remained in Deptford. There was excellent material to be found there
+for humorous articles, essays, stories; likewise for stories tragic
+and pathetic. But I owed a hundred and fifty pounds--a little over
+two hundred it reached to, I found, when I came to add up the actual
+figures. So I paid strict attention to business, left the tears to be
+garnered by others--better fitted maybe for the task; kept to my own
+patch, reaped and took to market only the laughter.
+
+At the beginning I sent each manuscript to Norah; she had it copied out,
+debited me with the cost received payment, and sent me the balance. At
+first my earnings were small; but Norah was an excellent agent; rapidly
+they increased. Dan grew quite cross with her, wrote in pained surprise
+at her greed. The “matter” was fair, but in no way remarkable. Any
+friend of hers, of course, he was anxious to assist; but business was
+business. In justice to his proprietors, he could not and would not pay
+more than the market value. Miss Deleglise, replying curtly in the third
+person, found herself in perfect accord with Mr. Brian as to business
+being business. If Mr. Brian could not afford to pay her price for
+material so excellent, other editors with whom Miss Deleglise was
+equally well acquainted could and would. Answer by return would greatly
+oblige, pending which the manuscript then in her hands she retained. Mr.
+Brian, understanding he had found his match, grumbled but paid. Whether
+he had any suspicion who “Jack Homer” might be, he never confessed; but
+he would have played the game, pulled his end of the rope, in either
+case. Nor was he allowed to decide the question for himself. Competition
+was introduced into the argument. Of purpose a certain proportion of
+my work my agent sent elsewhere. “Jack Homer” grew to be a commodity
+in demand. For, seated at my rickety table, I laughed as I wrote, the
+fourth wall of the dismal room fading before my eyes revealing vistas
+beyond.
+
+Still, it was slow work. Humour is not an industrious maid; declines to
+be bustled, will work only when she feels inclined--does not often feel
+inclined; gives herself a good many unnecessary airs; if worried, packs
+up and goes off, Heaven knows where! comes back when she thinks she
+will: a somewhat unreliable young person. To my literary labours I found
+it necessary to add journalism. I lacked Dan's magnificent assurance.
+Fate never befriends the nervous. Had I burst into the editorial
+sanctum, the editor most surely would have been out; if in, would have
+been a man of short ways, would have seen to it that I went out quickly.
+But the idea was not to be thought of; Robert Macaire himself in my one
+coat would have been diffident, apologetic. I joined the ranks of the
+penny-a-liners--to be literally exact, three halfpence a liners. In
+company with half a dozen other shabby outsiders--some of them young men
+like myself seeking to climb; others, older men who had sunk--I attended
+inquests, police courts; flew after fire engines; rejoiced in street
+accidents; yearned for murders. Somewhat vulture-like we lived
+precariously upon the misfortunes of others. We made occasional half
+crowns by providing the public with scandal, occasional crowns by
+keeping our information to ourselves.
+
+“I think, gentlemen,” would explain our spokesman in a hoarse whisper,
+on returning to the table, “I think the corpse's brother-in-law is
+anxious that the affair, if possible, should be kept out of the papers.”
+
+The closeness and attention with which we would follow that particular
+case, the fulness and completeness of our notes, would be quite
+remarkable. Our spokesman would rise, drift carelessly away, to return
+five minutes later, wiping his mouth.
+
+“Not a very interesting case, gentlemen, I don't think. Shall we say
+five shillings apiece?” Sometimes a sense of the dignity of our calling
+would induce us to stand out for ten.
+
+And here also my sense of humour came to my aid; gave me perhaps an
+undue advantage over my competitors. Twelve good men and true had been
+asked to say how a Lascar sailor had met his death. It was perfectly
+clear how he had met his death. A plumber, working on the roof of a
+small two-storeyed house, had slipped and fallen on him. The plumber had
+escaped with a few bruises; the unfortunate sailor had been picked
+up dead. Some blame attached to the plumber. His mate, an excellent
+witness, told us the whole story.
+
+“I was fixing a gas-pipe on the first floor,” said the man. “The
+prisoner was on the roof.”
+
+“We won't call him 'the prisoner,'” interrupted the coroner, “at least,
+not yet. Refer to him, if you please, as the 'last witness.'”
+
+“The last witness,” corrected himself the man. “He shouts down the
+chimney to know if I was ready for him.”
+
+“'Ready and waiting,' I says.
+
+“'Right,' he says; 'I'm coming in through the window.'
+
+“'Wait a bit,' I says; 'I'll go down and move the ladder for you.
+
+“'It's all right,' he says; 'I can reach it.'
+
+“'No, you can't,' I says. 'It's the other side of the chimney.'
+
+“'I can get round,' he says.
+
+“Well, before I knew what had happened, I hears him go, smack! I rushes
+to the window and looks out: I see him on the pavement, sitting up like.
+
+“'Hullo, Jim,' I says. 'Have you hurt yourself?'
+
+“'I think I'm all right,' he says, 'as far as I can tell. But I wish
+you'd come down. This bloke I've fallen on looks a bit sick.'”
+
+The others headed their flimsy “Sad Accident,” a title truthful but not
+alluring. I altered mine to “Plumber in a Hurry--Fatal Result.” Saying
+as little as possible about the unfortunate sailor, I called the
+attention of plumbers generally to the coroner's very just remarks upon
+the folly of undue haste; pointed out to them, as a body, the trouble
+that would arise if somehow they could not cure themselves of this
+tendency to rush through their work without a moment's loss of time.
+
+It established for me a useful reputation. The sub-editor of one evening
+paper condescended so far as to come out in his shirt-sleeves and shake
+hands with me.
+
+“That's the sort of thing we want,” he told me; “a light touch, a bit of
+humour.”
+
+I snatched fun from fires (I sincerely trust the insurance premiums were
+not overdue); culled quaintness from street rows; extracted merriment
+from catastrophes the most painful, and prospered.
+
+Though often within a stone's throw of the street, I unremittingly
+avoided the old house at Poplar. I was suffering inconvenience at this
+period by reason of finding myself two distinct individuals, contending
+with each other. My object was to encourage the new Paul--the sensible,
+practical, pushful Paul, whose career began to look promising; to
+drive away from interfering with me his strangely unlike twin--the old
+childish Paul of the sad, far-seeing eyes. Sometimes out of the cracked
+looking-glass his wistful, yearning face would plead to me; but I would
+sternly shake my head. I knew well his cunning. Had I let him have his
+way, he would have led me through the maze of streets he knew so well,
+past the broken railings (outside which he would have left my body
+standing), along the weedy pathway, through the cracked and dented door,
+up the creaking staircase to the dismal little chamber where we once--he
+and I together--had sat dreaming foolish dreams.
+
+“Come,” he would whisper; “it is so near. Let us push aside the chest
+of drawers very quietly, softly raise the broken sash, prop it open with
+the Latin dictionary, lean our elbows on the sill, listen to the voices
+of the weary city, voices calling to us from the darkness.”
+
+But I was too wary to be caught. “Later on,” I would reply to him; “when
+I have made my way, when I am stronger to withstand your wheedling. Then
+I will go with you, if you are still in existence, my sentimental little
+friend. We will dream again the old impractical, foolish dreams--and
+laugh at them.”
+
+So he would fade away, and in his place would nod to me approvingly a
+businesslike-looking, wide-awake young fellow.
+
+But to one sentimental temptation I succumbed. My position was by
+now assured; there was no longer any reason for my hiding myself. I
+determined to move westward. I had not intended to soar so high, but
+passing through Guildford Street one day, the creeper-covered corner
+house that my father had once thought of taking recalled itself to me.
+A card was in the fanlight. I knocked and made enquiries. A
+bed-sitting-room upon the third floor was vacant. I remembered it well
+the moment the loquacious landlady opened its door.
+
+“This shall be your room, Paul,” said my father. So clearly his voice
+sounded behind me that I turned, forgetting for the moment it was but
+a memory. “You will be quiet here, and we can shut out the bed and
+washstand with a screen.”
+
+So my father had his way. It was a pleasant, sunny little room,
+overlooking the gardens of the hospital. I followed my father's
+suggestion, shut out the bed and washstand with a screen. And sometimes
+of an evening it would amuse me to hear my father turn the handle of the
+door.
+
+“How are you getting on--all right?”
+
+“Famously.”
+
+Often there came back to me the words he had once used. “You must be the
+practical man, Paul, and get on. Myself, I have always been somewhat of
+a dreamer. I meant to do such great things in the world, and somehow I
+suppose I aimed too high. I wasn't--practical.”
+
+“But ought not one to aim high?” I had asked.
+
+My father had fidgeted in his chair. “It is very difficult to say. It
+is all so--so very ununderstandable. You aim high and you don't hit
+anything--at least, it seems as if you didn't. Perhaps, after all, it
+is better to aim at something low, and--and hit it. Yet it seems a
+pity--one's ideals, all the best part of one--I don't know why it is.
+Perhaps we do not understand.”
+
+For some months I had been writing over my own name. One day a letter
+was forwarded to me by an editor to whose care it had been addressed. It
+was a short, formal note from the maternal Sellars, inviting me to
+the wedding of her daughter with a Mr. Reginald Clapper. I had
+almost forgotten the incident of the Lady 'Ortensia, but it was not
+unsatisfactory to learn that it had terminated pleasantly. Also, I
+judged from an invitation having been sent me, that the lady wished
+me to be witness of the fact that my desertion had not left her
+disconsolate. So much gratification I felt I owed her, and accordingly,
+purchasing a present as expensive as my means would permit, I made
+my way on the following Thursday, clad in frock coat and light grey
+trousers, to Kennington Church.
+
+The ceremony was already in progress. Creeping on tiptoe up the aisle,
+I was about to slip into an empty pew, when a hand was laid upon my
+sleeve.
+
+“We're all here,” whispered the O'Kelly; “just room for ye.”
+
+Squeezing his hand as I passed, I sat down between the Signora and Mrs.
+Peedles. Both ladies were weeping; the Signora silently, one tear at a
+time clinging fondly to her pretty face as though loath to fall from
+it; Mrs. Peedles copiously, with explosive gurgles, as of water from a
+bottle.
+
+“It is such a beautiful service,” murmured the Signora, pressing my hand
+as I settled myself down. “I should so--so love to be married.”
+
+“Me darling,” whispered the O'Kelly, seizing her other hand and kissing
+it covertly behind his open Prayer Book, “perhaps ye will be--one day.”
+
+The Signora through her tears smiled at him, but with a sigh shook her
+head.
+
+Mrs. Peedles, clad, so far as the dim November light enabled me to
+judge, in the costume of Queen Elizabeth--nothing regal; the sort of
+thing one might assume to have been Her Majesty's second best, say third
+best, frock--explained that weddings always reminded her how fleeting a
+thing was love.
+
+“The poor dears!” she sobbed. “But there, there's no telling. Perhaps
+they'll be happy. I'm sure I hope they may be. He looks harmless.”
+
+Jarman, stretching out a hand to me from the other side of Mrs. Peedles,
+urged me to cheer up. “Don't wear your 'eart upon your sleeve,” he
+advised. “Try and smile.”
+
+In the vestry I met old friends. The maternal Sellars, stouter than
+ever, had been accommodated with a chair--at least, I assumed so, she
+being in a sitting posture; the chair itself was not in evidence. She
+greeted me with more graciousness than I had expected, enquiring after
+my health with pointedness and an amount of tender solicitude that,
+until the explanation broke upon me, somewhat puzzled me.
+
+Mr. Reginald Clapper was a small but energetic gentleman, much
+impressed, I was glad to notice, with a conviction of his own good
+fortune. He expressed the greatest delight at being introduced to me,
+shook me heartily by the hand, and hoped we should always be friends.
+
+“Won't be my fault if we're not,” he added. “Come and see us whenever
+you like.” He repeated this three times. I gathered the general
+sentiment to be that he was acting, if anything, with excess of
+generosity.
+
+Mrs. Reginald Clapper, as I was relieved to know she now was, received
+my salute to a subdued murmur of applause. She looked to my eyes
+handsomer than when I had last seen her, or maybe my taste was growing
+less exacting. She also trusted she might always regard me as a friend.
+I replied that it would be my hope to deserve the honour; whereupon she
+kissed me of her own accord, and embracing her mother, shed some tears,
+explaining the reason to be that everybody was so good to her.
+
+Brother George, less lank than formerly, hampered by a pair of enormous
+white kid gloves, superintended my signing of the register, whispering
+to me sympathetically: “Better luck next time, old cock.”
+
+The fat young lady--or, maybe, the lean young lady, grown stouter,
+I cannot say for certain--who feared I had forgotten her, a thing I
+assured her utterly impossible, was good enough to say that, in her
+opinion, I was worth all the others put together.
+
+“And so I told her,” added the fat young lady--or the lean one grown
+stouter, “a dozen times if I told her once. But there!”
+
+I murmured my obligations.
+
+Cousin Joseph, 'whom I found no difficulty in recognising by reason of
+his watery eyes, appeared not so chirpy as of yore.
+
+“You take my tip,” advised Cousin Joseph, drawing me aside, “and keep
+out of it.”
+
+“You speak from experience?” I suggested.
+
+“I'm as fond of a joke,” said the watery-eyed Joseph, “as any man. But
+when it comes to buckets of water--”
+
+A reminder from the maternal Sellars that breakfast had been ordered
+for eleven o'clock caused a general movement and arrested Joseph's
+revelations.
+
+“See you again, perhaps,” he murmured, and pushed past me.
+
+What Mrs. Sellars, I suppose, would have alluded to as a cold
+col-la-shon had been arranged for at a restaurant near by. I walked
+there in company with Uncle and Aunt Gutton; not because I particularly
+desired their companionship, but because Uncle Gutton, seizing me by the
+arm, left me no alternative.
+
+“Now then, young man,” commenced Uncle Gutton kindly, but boisterously
+so soon as we were in the street, at some little distance behind the
+others, “if you want to pitch into me, you pitch away. I shan't mind,
+and maybe it'll do you good.”
+
+I informed him that nothing was further from my desire.
+
+“Oh, all right,” returned Uncle Gutton, seemingly disappointed. “If
+you're willing to forgive and forget, so am I. I never liked you, as
+I daresay you saw, and so I told Rosie. 'He may be cleverer than he
+looks,' I says, 'or he may be a bigger fool than I think him, though
+that's hardly likely. You take my advice and get a full-grown article,
+then you'll know what you're doing.'”
+
+I told him I thought his advice had been admirable.
+
+“I'm glad you think so,” he returned, somewhat puzzled; “though if you
+wanted to call me names I shouldn't have blamed you. Anyhow, you've took
+it like a sensible chap. You've got over it, as I always told her you
+would. Young men out of story-books don't die of broken hearts, even
+if for a month or two they do feel like standing on their head in the
+water-butt.”
+
+“Why, I was in love myself three times,” explained Uncle Gutton, “before
+I married the old woman.”
+
+Aunt Gutton sighed and said she was afraid gentlemen didn't feel these
+things as much as they ought to.
+
+“They've got their living to earn,” retorted Uncle Gutton.
+
+I agreed with Uncle Gutton that life could not be wasted in vain regret.
+
+“As for the rest,” admitted Uncle Gutton, handsomely, “I was wrong.
+You've turned out better than I expected you would.”
+
+I thanked him for his improved opinion, and as we entered the restaurant
+we shook hands.
+
+Minikin we found there waiting for us. He explained that having been
+able to obtain only limited leave of absence from business, he had
+concluded the time would be better employed at the restaurant than at
+the church. Others were there also with whom I was unacquainted, young
+sparks, admirers, I presume, of the Lady 'Ortensia in her professional
+capacity, fellow-clerks of Mr. Clapper, who was something in the City.
+Altogether we must have numbered a score.
+
+Breakfast was laid in a large room on the first floor. The wedding
+presents stood displayed upon a side-table. My own, with my card
+attached, had not been seen by Mrs. Clapper till that moment. She and
+her mother lingered, examining it.
+
+“Real silver!” I heard the maternal Sellars whisper, “Must have paid a
+ten pound note for it.”
+
+“I hope you'll find it useful,” I said.
+
+The maternal Sellars, drifting away, joined the others gathered together
+at the opposite end of the room.
+
+“I suppose you think I set my cap at you merely because you were a
+gentleman,” said the Lady 'Ortensia.
+
+“Don't let's talk about it,” I answered. “We were both foolish.”
+
+“I don't want you to think it was merely that,” continued the Lady
+'Ortensia. “I did like you. And I wouldn't have disgraced you--at least,
+I'd have tried not to. We women are quick to learn. You never gave me
+time.”
+
+“Believe me, things are much better as they are,” I said.
+
+“I suppose so,” she answered. “I was a fool.” She glanced round; we
+still had the corner to ourselves. “I told a rare pack of lies,” she
+said; “I didn't seem able to help it; I was feeling sore all over. But
+I have always been ashamed of myself. I'll tell them the truth, if you
+like.”
+
+I thought I saw a way of making her mind easy. “My dear girl,” I said,
+“you have taken the blame upon yourself, and let me go scot-free. It was
+generous of you.”
+
+“You mean that?” she asked.
+
+“The truth,” I answered, “would shift all the shame on to me. It was I
+who broke my word, acted shabbily from beginning to end.”
+
+“I hadn't looked at it in that light,” she replied. “Very well, I'll
+hold my tongue.”
+
+My place at breakfast was to the left of the maternal Sellars, the
+Signora next to me, and the O'Kelly opposite. Uncle Gutton faced the
+bride and bridegroom. The disillusioned Joseph was hidden from me by
+flowers, so that his voice, raised from time to time, fell upon my ears,
+embellished with the mysterious significance of the unseen oracle.
+
+For the first quarter of an hour or so the meal proceeded almost in
+silence. The maternal Sellars when not engaged in whispered argument
+with the perspiring waiter, was furtively occupied in working sums upon
+the table-cloth by aid of a blunt pencil. The Signora, strangely unlike
+her usual self, was not in talkative mood.
+
+“It was so kind of them to invite me,” said the Signora, speaking low.
+“But I feel I ought not to have come.
+
+“Why not?” I asked
+
+“I'm not fit to be here,” murmured the Signora in a broken voice. “What
+right have I at wedding breakfasts? Of course, for dear Willie it is
+different. He has been married.”
+
+The O'Kelly, who never when the Signora was present seemed to care much
+for conversation in which she was unable to participate, took advantage
+of his neighbour's being somewhat deaf to lapse into abstraction. Jarman
+essayed a few witticisms of a general character, of which nobody took
+any notice. The professional admirers of the Lady 'Ortensia, seated
+together at a corner of the table, appeared to be enjoying a small
+joke among themselves. Occasionally, one or another of them would laugh
+nervously. But for the most part the only sounds to be heard were the
+clatter of the knives and forks, the energetic shuffling of the waiter,
+and a curious hissing noise as of escaping gas, caused by Uncle Gutton
+drinking champagne.
+
+With the cutting, or, rather, the smashing into a hundred fragments,
+of the wedding cake--a work that taxed the united strength of bride
+and bridegroom to the utmost--the atmosphere lost something of its
+sombreness. The company, warmed by food, displaying indications of being
+nearly done, commenced to simmer. The maternal Sellars, putting away
+with her blunt pencil considerations of material nature, embraced the
+table with a smile.
+
+“But it is a sad thing,” sighed the maternal Sellars the next moment,
+with a shake of her huge head, “when your daughter marries, and goes
+away and leaves you.”
+
+“Damned sight sadder,” commented Uncle Gutton, “when she don't go off,
+but hangs on at home year after year and expects you to keep her.”
+
+I credit Uncle Gutton with intending this as an aside for the exclusive
+benefit of the maternal Sellars; but his voice was not of the timbre
+that lends itself to secrecy. One of the bridesmaids, a plain, elderly
+girl, bending over her plate, flushed scarlet. I concluded her to be
+Miss Gutton.
+
+“It doesn't seem to me,” said Aunt Gutton from the other end of the
+table, “that gentlemen are as keen on marrying nowadays as they used to
+be.”
+
+“Got to know a bit about it, I expect,” sounded the small, shrill voice
+of the unseen Joseph.
+
+“To my thinking,” exclaimed a hatchet-faced gentleman, “one of the evils
+crying most loudly for redress at the present moment is the utterly
+needless and monstrous expense of legal proceedings.” He spoke rapidly
+and with warmth. “Take divorce. At present, what is it? The rich man's
+luxury.”
+
+Conversation appeared to be drifting in a direction unsuitable to the
+occasion; but Jarman was fortunately there to seize the helm.
+
+“The plain fact of the matter is,” said Jarman, “girls have gone up in
+value. Time was, so I've heard, when they used to be given away with
+a useful bit of household linen, maybe a chair or two. Nowadays--well,
+it's only chaps wallowing in wealth like Clapper there as can afford a
+really first-class article.”
+
+Mr. Clapper, not a gentleman in other respects of exceptional
+brilliancy, possessed one quality that popularity-seekers might have
+envied him: the ability to explode on the slightest provocation into a
+laugh instinct with all the characteristics of genuine delight.
+
+“Give and take,” observed the maternal Sellars, so soon as Mr. Clapper's
+roar had died away; “that's what you've got to do when you're married.”
+
+“Give a deal more than you bargained for and take what you don't
+want--that sums it up,” came the bitter voice of the unseen.
+
+“Oh, do be quiet, Joe,” advised the stout young lady, from which I
+concluded she had once been the lean young lady. “You talk enough for a
+man.”
+
+“Can't I open my mouth?” demanded the indignant oracle.
+
+“You look less foolish when you keep it shut,” returned the stout young
+lady.
+
+“We'll show them how to get on,” observed the Lady 'Ortensia to her
+bridegroom, with a smile.
+
+Mr. Clapper responded with a gurgle.
+
+“When me and the old girl there fixed things up,” said Uncle Gutton, “we
+didn't talk no nonsense, and we didn't start with no misunderstandings.
+'I'm not a duke,' I says--”
+
+“Had she been mistaking you for one?” enquired Minikin.
+
+Mr. Clapper commented, not tactfully, but with appreciative laugh. I
+feared for a moment lest Uncle Gutton's little eyes should leave his
+head.
+
+“Not being a natural-born, one-eyed fool,” replied Uncle Gutton, glaring
+at the unabashed Minikin, “she did not. 'I'm not a duke,' I says, and
+_she_ had sense enough to know as I was talking sarcastic like. 'I'm not
+offering you a life of luxury and ease. I'm offering you myself, just
+what you see, and nothing more.'
+
+“She took it?” asked Minikin, who was mopping up his gravy with his
+bread.
+
+“She accepted me, sir,” returned Uncle Gutton, in a voice that would
+have awed any one but Minikin. “Can you give me any good reason for her
+not doing so?”
+
+“No need to get mad with me,” explained Minikin. “I'm not blaming the
+poor woman. We all have our moments of despair.”
+
+The unfortunate Clapper again exploded. Uncle Gutton rose to his feet.
+The ready Jarman saved the situation.
+
+“'Ear! 'ear!” cried Jarman, banging the table with the handles of two
+knives. “Silence for Uncle Gutton! 'E's going to propose a toast. 'Ear,
+'ear!”
+
+Mrs. Clapper, seconding his efforts, the whole table broke into
+applause.
+
+“What, as a matter of fact, I did get up to say--” began Uncle Gutton.
+
+“Good old Uncle Gutton!” persisted the determined Jarman. “Bride and
+bridegroom--long life to 'em!”
+
+Uncle Sutton, evidently pleased, allowed his indignation against Minikin
+to evaporate.
+
+“Well,” said Uncle Gutton, “if you think I'm the one to do it--”
+
+The response was unmistakable. In our enthusiasm we broke two glasses
+and upset a cruet; a small, thin lady was unfortunate enough to shed her
+chignon. Thus encouraged, Uncle Sutton launched himself upon his task.
+Personally, I should have been better pleased had Fate not interposed to
+assign to him the duty.
+
+Starting with a somewhat uninstructive history of his own career, he
+suddenly, and for no reason at all obvious, branched off into fierce
+censure of the Adulteration Act. Reminded of the time by the maternal
+Sellars, he got in his first sensible remark by observing that with
+such questions, he took it, the present company was not particularly
+interested, and directed himself to the main argument. To his, Uncle
+Gutton's, foresight, wisdom and instinctive understanding of humanity,
+Mr. Clapper, it appeared, owed his present happiness. Uncle Gutton it
+was who had divined from the outset the sort of husband the fair
+Rosina would come eventually to desire--a plain, simple, hard-working,
+level-headed sort of chap, with no hity-tity nonsense about him: such
+an one, in short, as Mr. Clapper himself--(at this Mr. Clapper expressed
+approval by a lengthy laugh)--a gentleman who, so far as Uncle Gutton's
+knowledge went, had but one fault: a silly habit of laughing when there
+was nothing whatever to laugh at; of which, it was to be hoped, the
+cares and responsibilities of married life would cure him. (To the
+rest of the discourse Mr. Clapper listened with a gravity painfully
+maintained.) There had been moments, Uncle Gutton was compelled to
+admit, when the fair Rosina had shown inclination to make a fool of
+herself--to desire in place of honest worth mere painted baubles. He
+used the term in no offensive sense. Speaking for himself, what a man
+wanted beyond his weekly newspaper, he, Uncle Gutton, was unable to
+understand; but if there were fools in the world who wanted to read
+rubbish written by other fools, then the other fools would of course
+write it; Uncle Gutton did not blame them. He mentioned no names, but
+what he would say was: a plain man for a sensible girl, and no painted
+baubles.
+
+The waiter here entering with a message from the cabman to the effect
+that if he was to catch the twelve-forty-five from Charing Cross, it
+was about full time he started, Uncle Gutton was compelled to bring his
+speech to a premature conclusion. The bride and bridegroom were hustled
+into their clothes. There followed much female embracing and male
+hand-shaking. The rice having been forgotten, the waiter was almost
+thrown downstairs, with directions to at once procure some. There
+appearing danger of his not returning in time, the resourceful Jarman
+suggested cold semolina pudding as a substitute. But the idea was
+discouraged by the bride. A slipper of remarkable antiquity, discovered
+on the floor and regarded as a gift from Providence, was flung from the
+window by brother George, with admirable aim, and alighted on the roof
+of the cab. The waiter, on his return, not being able to find it, seemed
+surprised.
+
+
+I walked back as far as the Obelisk with the O'Kelly and the Signora,
+who were then living together in Lambeth. Till that morning I had
+not seen the O'Kelly since my departure from London, nearly two years
+before, so that we had much to tell each other. For the third time now
+had the O'Kelly proved his utter unworthiness to be the husband of the
+lady to whom he still referred as his “dear good wife.”
+
+“But, under the circumstances, would it not be better,” I suggested,
+“for her to obtain a divorce? Then you and the Signora could marry and
+there would be an end to the whole trouble.”
+
+“From a strictly worldly point of view,” replied the O'Kelly, “it
+certainly would be; but Mrs. O'Kelly”--his voice took to itself
+unconsciously a tone of reverence--“is not an ordinary woman. You can
+have no conception, my dear Kelver, of her goodness. I had a letter from
+her only two months ago, a few weeks after the--the last occurrence. Not
+one word of reproach, only that if I trespassed against her even unto
+seven times seven she would still consider it her duty to forgive me;
+that the 'home' would always be there for me to return to and repent.”
+
+A tear stood in the O'Kelly's eye. “A beautiful nature,” he commented.
+“There are not many women like her.”
+
+“Not one in a million!” added the Signora, with enthusiasm.
+
+“Well, to me it seems like pure obstinacy,” I said.
+
+The O'Kelly spoke quite angrily. “Don't ye say a word against her! I
+won't listen to it. Ye don't understand her. She never will despair of
+reforming me.”
+
+“You see, Mr. Kelver,” explained the Signora, “the whole difficulty
+arises from my unfortunate profession. It is impossible for me to keep
+out of dear Willie's way. If I could earn my living by any other means,
+I would; but I can't. And when he sees my name upon the posters, it's
+all over with him.”
+
+“I do wish, Willie, dear,” added the Signora in tones of gentle reproof,
+“that you were not quite so weak.”
+
+“Me dear,” replied the O'Kelly, “ye don't know how attractive ye are or
+ye wouldn't blame me.”
+
+I laughed. “Why don't you be firm,” I suggested to the Signora, “send
+him packing about his business?”
+
+“I ought to,” admitted the Signora. “I always mean to, until I see him.
+Then I don't seem able to say anything--not anything I ought to.”
+
+“Ye do say it,” contradicted the O'Kelly. “Ye're an angel, only I won't
+listen to ye.”
+
+“I don't say it as if I meant it,” persisted the Signora. “It's evident
+I don't.”
+
+“I still think it a pity,” I said, “someone does not explain to Mrs.
+O'Kelly that a divorce would be the truer kindness.”
+
+“It is difficult to decide,” argued the Signora. “If ever you should
+want to leave me--”
+
+“Me darling!” exclaimed the O'Kelly.
+
+“But you may,” insisted the Signora. “Something may happen to help you,
+to show you how wicked it all is. I shall be glad then to think that you
+will go back to her. Because she is a good woman, Willie, you know she
+is.”
+
+“She's a saint,” agreed Willie.
+
+At the Obelisk I shook hands with them, and alone pursued my way towards
+Fleet Street.
+
+The next friend whose acquaintance I renewed was Dan. He occupied
+chambers in the Temple, and one evening a week or two after the
+'Ortensia marriage, I called upon him. Nothing in his manner of greeting
+me suggested the necessity of explanation. Dan never demanded anything
+of his friends beyond their need of him. Shaking hands with me, he
+pushed me down into the easy-chair, and standing with his back to the
+fire, filled and lighted his pipe.
+
+“I left you alone,” he said. “You had to go through it, your slough of
+despond. It lies across every path--that leads to anywhere. Clear of
+it?”
+
+“I think so,” I replied, smiling.
+
+“You are on the high road,” he continued. “You have only to walk
+steadily. Sure you have left nothing behind you--in the slough?”
+
+“Nothing worth bringing out of it,” I said. “Why do you ask so
+seriously?”
+
+He laid his hand upon my head, rumpling my hair, as in the old days.
+
+“Don't leave him behind you,” he said; “the little boy Paul--Paul the
+dreamer.”
+
+I laughed. “Oh, he! He was only in my way.”
+
+“Yes, here,” answered Dan. “This is not his world. He is of no use to
+you here; won't help you to bread and cheese--no, nor kisses either. But
+keep him near you. Later, you will find, perhaps, that all along he has
+been the real Paul--the living, growing Paul; the other--the active,
+worldly, pushful Paul, only the stuff that dreams are made of, his
+fretful life a troubled night rounded by a sleep.”
+
+“I have been driving him away,” I said. “He is so--so impracticable.”
+
+Dan shook his head gravely. “It is not his world,” he repeated. “We must
+eat, drink--be husbands, fathers. He does not understand. Here he is the
+child. Take care of him.”
+
+We sat in silence for a little while--for longer, perhaps, than it
+seemed to us--Dan in the chair opposite to me, each of us occupied with
+his own thoughts.
+
+“You have an excellent agent,” said Dan; “retain her services as long as
+you can. She possesses the great advantage of having no conscience, as
+regards your affairs. Women never have where they--”
+
+He broke off to stir the fire.
+
+“You like her?” I asked. The words sounded feeble. It is only the writer
+who fits the language to the emotion; the living man more often selects
+by contrast.
+
+“She is my ideal woman,” returned Dan; “true and strong and tender;
+clear as crystal, pure as dawn. Like her!”
+
+He knocked the ashes from his pipe. “We do not marry our ideals,” he
+went on. “We love with our hearts, not with our souls. The woman I shall
+marry”--he sat gazing into the fire, a smile upon his face--“she will be
+some sweet, clinging, childish woman, David Copperfield's Dora. Only
+I am not Doady, who always seems to me to have been somewhat of a--He
+reminds me of you, Paul, a little. Dickens was right; her helplessness,
+as time went on, would have bored him more and more instead of appealing
+to him.”
+
+“And the women,” I suggested, “do they marry their ideals?”
+
+He laughed. “Ask them.”
+
+“The difference between men and women,” he continued, “is very slight;
+we exaggerate it for purposes of art. What sort of man do you suppose he
+is, Norah's ideal? Can't you imagine him?--But I can tell you the type
+of man she will marry, ay, and love with all her heart.”
+
+He looked at me from under his strong brows drawn down, a twinkle in his
+eye.
+
+“A nice enough fellow--clever, perhaps, but someone--well, someone who
+will want looking after, taking care of, managing; someone who will
+appeal to the mother side of her--not her ideal man, but the man for
+whom nature intended her.”
+
+“Perhaps with her help,” I said, “he may in time become her ideal.”
+
+“There's a long road before him,” growled Dan.
+
+It was Norah herself who broke to me the news of Barbara's elopement
+with Hal. I had seen neither of them since my return to London. Old
+Hasluck a month or so before I had met in the City one day by chance,
+and he had insisted on my lunching with him. I had found him greatly
+changed. His buoyant self-assurance had deserted him; in its place a
+fretful eagerness had become his motive force. At first he had talked
+boastingly: Had I seen the _Post_ for last Monday, the _Court Circular_
+for the week before? Had I read that Barbara had danced with the Crown
+Prince, that the Count and Countess Huescar had been entertaining a
+Grand Duke? What did I think of that! and such like. Was not money
+master of the world? Ay, and the nobs should be made to acknowledge it!
+
+But as he had gulped down glass after glass the brag had died away.
+
+“No children,” he had whispered to me across the table; “that's what I
+can't understand. Nearly four years and no children! What'll be the
+good of it all? Where do I come in? What do I get? Damn these rotten
+popinjays! What do they think we buy them for?”
+
+It was in the studio on a Monday morning that Norah told me. It was
+the talk of the town for the next day--and the following eight. She had
+heard it the evening before at supper, and had written to me to come and
+see her.
+
+“I thought you would rather hear it quietly,” said Norah, “than learn it
+from a newspaper paragraph. Besides, I wanted to tell you this. She did
+wrong when she married, putting aside love for position. Now she has
+done right. She has put aside her shame with all the advantages she
+derived from it. She has proved herself a woman: I respect her.”
+
+Norah would not have said that to please me had she not really thought
+it. I could see it from that light; but it brought me no comfort. My
+goddess had a heart, passions, was a mere human creature like myself.
+From her cold throne she had stepped down to mingle with the world. So
+some youthful page of Arthur's court may have felt, learning the Great
+Queen was but a woman.
+
+I never spoke with her again but once. That was an evening three years
+later in Brussels. Strolling idly after dinner the bright lights of a
+theatre invited me to enter. It was somewhat late; the second act had
+commenced. I slipped quietly into my seat, the only one vacant at the
+extreme end of the front row of the first range; then, looking down upon
+the stage, met her eyes. A little later an attendant whispered to me
+that Madame G---- would like to see me; so at the fall of the curtain I
+went round. Two men were in the dressing-room smoking, and on the table
+were some bottles of champagne. She was standing before her glass, a
+loose shawl about her shoulders.
+
+“Excuse my shaking hands,” she said. “This damned hole is like a
+furnace; I have to make up fresh after each act.”
+
+She held them up for my inspection with a laugh; they were smeared with
+grease.
+
+“D'you know my husband?” she continued. “Baron G--; Mr. Paul Kelver.”
+
+The Baron rose. He was a red-faced, pot-bellied little man. “Delighted
+to meet Mr. Kelver,” he said, speaking in excellent English. “Any friend
+of my wife's is always a friend of mine.”
+
+He held out his fat, perspiring hand. I was not in the mood to attach
+much importance to ceremony. I bowed and turned away, careless whether
+he was offended or not.
+
+“I am glad I saw you,” she continued. “Do you remember a girl called
+Barbara? You and she were rather chums, years ago.
+
+“Yes,” I answered, “I remember her.”
+
+“Well, she died, poor girl, three years ago.” She was rubbing paint into
+her cheeks as she spoke. “She asked me if ever I saw you to give you
+this. I have been carrying it about with me ever since.”
+
+She took a ring from her finger. It was the one ring Barbara had worn
+as a girl, a chrysolite set plainly in a band of gold. I had noticed
+it upon her hand the first time I had seen her, sitting in my father's
+office framed by the dusty books and papers. She dropped it into my
+outstretched palm.
+
+“Quite a pretty little romance,” laughed the Baron.
+
+“That's all,” added the woman at the glass. “She said you would
+understand.”
+
+From under her painted lashes she flashed a glance at me. I hope never
+to see again that look upon a woman's face.
+
+“Thank you,” I said. “Yes, I understand. It was very kind of you. I
+shall always wear it.”
+
+Placing the ring upon my finger, I left the room.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+PAUL FINDS HIS WAY.
+
+Slowly, surely, steadily I climbed, putting aside all dreams, paying
+strict attention to business. Often my other self, little Paul of
+the sad eyes, would seek to lure me from my work. But for my vehement
+determination never to rest for a moment till I had purchased back my
+honesty, my desire--growing day by day, till it became almost a physical
+hunger--to feel again the pressure of Norah's strong white hand in mine,
+he might possibly have succeeded. Heaven only knows what then he might
+have made of me: politician, minor poet, more or less able editor,
+hampered by convictions--something most surely of but little service to
+myself. Now and again, with a week to spare--my humour making holiday,
+nothing to be done but await patiently its return--I would write stories
+for my own pleasure. They made no mark; but success in purposeful work
+is of slower growth. Had I persisted--but there was money to be earned.
+And by the time my debts were paid, I had established a reputation.
+
+“Madness!” argued practical friends. “You would be throwing away a
+certain fortune for, at the best, a doubtful competence. The one you
+know you can do, the other--it would be beginning your career all over
+again.”
+
+“You would find it almost impossible now,” explained those who spoke, I
+knew, words of wisdom, of experience. “The world would never listen to
+you. Once a humourist always a humourist. As well might a comic actor
+insist upon playing Hamlet. It might be the best Hamlet ever seen upon
+the stage; the audience would only laugh--or stop away.”
+
+Drawn by our mutual need of sympathy, “Goggles” and I, seeking some
+quiet corner in the Club, would pour out our souls to each other.
+He would lay before me, at some length, his conception of Romeo--an
+excellent conception, I have no doubt, though I confess it failed to
+interest me. Somehow I could not picture him to myself as Romeo. But I
+listened with every sign of encouragement. It was the price I paid
+him for, in turn, listening to me while I unfolded to him my ideas how
+monumental literature, helpful to mankind, should be imagined and built
+up.
+
+“Perhaps in a future existence,” laughed Goggles, one evening, rising as
+the clock struck seven, “I shall be a great tragedian, and you a famous
+poet. Meanwhile, I suppose, as your friend Brian puts it, we are both
+sinning our mercies. After all, to live is the most important thing in
+life.”
+
+I had strolled with him so far as the cloak-room and was helping him to
+get into his coat.
+
+“Take my advice”--tapping me on the chest, he fixed his funny, fishy
+eyes upon me. Had I not known his intention to be serious, I should have
+laughed, his expression was so comical. “Marry some dear little woman”
+ (he was married himself to a placid lady of about twice his own weight);
+“one never understands life properly till the babies come to explain it
+to one.”
+
+I returned to my easy-chair before the fire. Wife, children, home!
+After all, was not that the true work of man--of the live man, not the
+dreamer? I saw them round me, giving to my life dignity, responsibility.
+The fair, sweet woman, helper, comrade, comforter, the little faces
+fashioned in our image, their questioning voices teaching us the answers
+to life's riddles. All other hopes, ambitions, dreams, what were they?
+Phantoms of the morning mist fading in the sunlight.
+
+Hodgson came to me one evening. “I want you to write me a comic opera,”
+ he said. He had an open letter in his hand which he was reading. “The
+public seem to be getting tired of these eternal translations from the
+French. I want something English, something new and original.”
+
+“The English is easy enough,” I replied; “but I shouldn't clamour for
+anything new and original if I were you.”
+
+“Why not?” he asked, looking up from his letter.
+
+“You might get it,” I answered. “Then you would be disappointed.”
+
+He laughed. “Well, you know what I mean--something we could refer to as
+'new and original' on the programme. What do you say? It will be a big
+chance for you, and I'm willing to risk it. I'm sure you can do it.
+People are beginning to talk about you.”
+
+I had written a few farces, comediettas, and they had been successful.
+But the chief piece of the evening is a serious responsibility. A young
+man may be excused for hesitating. It can make, but also it can mar him.
+A comic opera above all other forms of art--if I may be forgiven
+for using the sacred word in connection with such a subject--demands
+experience.
+
+I explained my fears. I did not explain that in my desk lay a four-act
+drama throbbing with humanity, with life, with which it had been my
+hope--growing each day fainter--to take the theatrical public by storm,
+to establish myself as a serious playwright.
+
+“It's very simple,” urged Hodgson. “Provide Atherton plenty of comic
+business; you ought to be able to do that all right. Give Gleeson
+something pretty in waltz time, and Duncan a part in which she can
+change her frock every quarter of an hour or so, and the thing is done.”
+
+“I'll tell you what,” continued Hodgson, “I'll take the whole crowd
+down to Richmond on Sunday. We'll have a coach, and leave the theatre at
+half-past ten. It will be an opportunity for you to study them. You'll
+be able to have a talk with them and get to know just what they can do.
+Atherton has ideas in his head; he'll explain them to you. Then, next
+week, we'll draw up a contract and set to work.”
+
+It was too good an opportunity to let slip, though I knew that if
+successful I should find myself pinned down firmer than ever to my role
+of jester. But it is remunerative, the writing of comic opera.
+
+A small crowd had gathered in the Strand to see us start.
+
+“Nothing wrong, is there?” enquired the leading lady, in a tone of some
+anxiety, alighting a quarter of an hour late from her cab. “It isn't a
+fire, is it?”
+
+“Merely assembled to see you,” explained Mr. Hodgson, without raising
+his eyes from his letters.
+
+“Oh, good gracious!” cried the leading lady, “do let us get away
+quickly.”
+
+“Box seat, my dear,” returned Mr. Hodgson.
+
+The leading lady, accepting the proffered assistance of myself and three
+other gentlemen, mounted the ladder with charming hesitation. Some delay
+in getting off was caused by our low comedian, who twice, making
+believe to miss his footing, slid down again into the arms of the
+stolid door-keeper. The crowd, composed for the most part of small boys
+approving the endeavour to amuse them, laughed and applauded. Our low
+comedian thus encouraged, made a third attempt upon his hands and knees,
+and, gaining the roof, sat down upon the tenor, who smiled somewhat
+mechanically.
+
+The first dozen or so 'busses we passed our low comedian greeted by
+rising to his feet and bowing profoundly, afterwards falling back
+upon either the tenor or myself. Except by the tenor and myself his
+performance appeared to be much appreciated. Charing Cross passed, and
+nobody seeming to be interested in our progress, to the relief of the
+tenor and myself, he settled down.
+
+“People sometimes ask me,” said the low comedian, brushing the dust off
+his knees, “why I do this sort of thing off the stage. It amuses me.”
+
+“I was coming up to London the other day from Birmingham,” he continued.
+“At Willesden, when the ticket collector opened the door, I sprang out
+of the carriage and ran off down the platform. Of course, he ran after
+me, shouting to all the others to stop me. I dodged them for about
+a minute. You wouldn't believe the excitement there was. Quite fifty
+people left their seats to see what it was all about. I explained
+to them when they caught me that I had been travelling second with a
+first-class ticket, which was the fact. People think I do it to attract
+attention. I do it for my own pleasure.”
+
+“It must be a troublesome way of amusing oneself,” I suggested.
+
+“Exactly what my wife says,” he replied; “she can never understand the
+desire that comes over us all, I suppose, at times, to play the fool. As
+a rule, when she is with me I don't do it.”
+
+“She's not here today?” I asked, glancing round.
+
+“She suffers so from headaches,” he answered, “she hardly ever goes
+anywhere.”
+
+“I'm sorry.” I spoke not out of mere politeness; I really did feel
+sorry.
+
+During the drive to Richmond this irrepressible desire to amuse himself
+got the better of him more than once or twice. Through Kensington he
+attracted a certain amount of attention by balancing the horn upon his
+nose. At Kew he stopped the coach to request of a young ladies' boarding
+school change for sixpence. At the foot of Richmond Hill he caused a
+crowd to assemble while trying to persuade a deaf old gentleman in a
+Bath-chair to allow his man to race us up the hill for a shilling.
+
+At these antics and such like our party laughed uproariously, with the
+exception of Hodgson, who had his correspondence to attend to, and an
+elegant young lady of some social standing who had lately emerged from
+the Divorce Court with a reputation worth to her in cash a hundred
+pounds a week.
+
+Arriving at the hotel quarter of an hour or so before lunch time,
+we strolled into the garden. Our low comedian, observing an elderly
+gentleman of dignified appearance sipping a glass of Vermouth at a small
+table, stood for a moment rooted to the earth with astonishment, then,
+making a bee-line for the stranger, seized and shook him warmly by the
+hand. We exchanged admiring glances with one another.
+
+“Charlie is in good form to-day,” we told one another, and followed at
+his heels.
+
+The elderly gentleman had risen; he looked puzzled. “And how's Aunt
+Martha?” asked him our low comedian. “Dear old Aunt Martha! Well, I am
+glad! You do look bonny! How is she?”
+
+“I'm afraid--” commenced the elderly gentleman. Our low comedian started
+back. Other visitors had gathered round.
+
+“Don't tell me anything has happened to her! Not dead? Don't tell me
+that!”
+
+He seized the bewildered gentleman by the shoulders and presented to him
+a face distorted by terror.
+
+“I really have not the faintest notion what you are talking about,”
+ returned the gentleman, who seemed annoyed. “I don't know you.”
+
+“Not know me? Do you mean to tell me you've forgotten--? Isn't your name
+Steggles?”
+
+“No, it isn't,” returned the stranger, somewhat shortly.
+
+“My mistake,” replied our low comedian. He tossed off at one gulp what
+remained of the stranger's Vermouth and walked away rapidly.
+
+The elderly gentleman, not seeing the humour of the joke, one of
+our party to soothe him explained to him that it was Atherton, _the_
+Atherton--Charlie Atherton.
+
+“Oh, is it,” growled the elderly gentleman. “Then will you tell him from
+me that when I want his damned tomfoolery I'll come to the theatre and
+pay for it.”
+
+“What a disagreeable man,” we said, as, following our low comedian, we
+made our way into the hotel.
+
+During lunch he continued in excellent spirits; kissed the bald back of
+the waiter's head, pretending to mistake it for a face, called for
+hot mustard and water, made believe to steal the silver, and when the
+finger-bowls arrived, took off his coat and requested the ladies to look
+the other way.
+
+After lunch he became suddenly serious, and slipping his arm through
+mine, led me by unfrequented paths.
+
+“Now, about this new opera,” he said; “we don't want any of the old
+stale business. Give us something new.”
+
+I suggested that to do so might be difficult.
+
+“Not at all,” he answered. “Now, my idea is this. I am a young fellow,
+and I'm in love with a girl.”
+
+I promised to make a note of it.
+
+“Her father, apoplectic old idiot--make him comic: 'Damme, sir! By gad!'
+all that sort of thing.”
+
+By persuading him that I understood what he meant, I rose in his
+estimation.
+
+“He won't have anything to say to me--thinks I'm an ass. I'm a simple
+sort of fellow--on the outside. But I'm not such a fool as I look.”
+
+“You don't think we are getting too much out of the groove?” I enquired.
+
+His opinion was that the more so the better.
+
+“Very well. Then, in the second act I disguise myself. I'll come on as
+an organ-grinder, sing a song in broken English, then as a policeman,
+or a young swell about town. Give me plenty of opportunity, that's the
+great thing--opportunity to be really funny, I mean. We don't want any
+of the old stale tricks.”
+
+I promised him my support.
+
+“Put a little pathos in it,” he added, “give me a scene where I can show
+them I've something else in me besides merely humour. We don't want to
+make them howl, but just to feel a little. Let's send them out of the
+theatre saying: 'Well, Charlie's often made me laugh, but I'm damned if
+I knew he could make me cry before!' See what I mean?”
+
+I told him I thought I did.
+
+The leading lady, meeting us on our return, requested, with pretty tone
+of authority, everybody else to go away and leave us. There were cries
+of “Naughty!” The leading lady, laughing girlishly, took me by the hand
+and ran away with me.
+
+“I want to talk to you,” said the leading lady, as soon as we had
+reached a secluded seat overlooking the river, “about my part in the new
+opera. Now, can't you give me something original? Do.”
+
+Her pleading was so pretty, there was nothing for it but to pledge
+compliance.
+
+“I am so tired of being the simple village maiden,” said the leading
+lady; “what I want is a part with some opportunity in it--a coquettish
+part. I can flirt,” assured me the leading lady, archly. “Try me.”
+
+I satisfied her of my perfect faith.
+
+“You might,” said the leading lady, “see your way to making the plot
+depend upon me. It always seems to me that the woman's part is never
+made enough of in comic opera. I am sure a comic opera built round a
+woman would be a really great success. Don't you agree with me, Mr.
+Kelver,” pouted the leading lady, laying her pretty hand on mine. “We
+are much more interesting than the men--now, aren't we?”
+
+Personally, as I told her, I agreed with her.
+
+The tenor, sipping tea with me on the balcony, beckoned me aside.
+
+“About this new opera,” said the tenor; “doesn't it seem to you the
+time has come to make more of the story--that the public might prefer a
+little more human interest and a little less clowning?”
+
+I admitted that a good plot was essential.
+
+“It seems to me,” said the tenor, “that if you could write an opera
+round an interesting love story, you would score a success. Of course,
+let there be plenty of humour, but reduce it to its proper place. As a
+support, it is excellent; when it is made the entire structure, it is
+apt to be tiresome--at least, that is my view.”
+
+I replied with sincerity that there seemed to me much truth in what he
+said.
+
+“Of course, so far as I am personally concerned,” went on the tenor,
+“it is immaterial. I draw the same salary whether I'm on the stage five
+minutes or an hour. But when you have a man of my position in the cast,
+and give him next to nothing to do--well, the public are disappointed.”
+
+“Most naturally,” I commented.
+
+“The lover,” whispered the tenor, noticing the careless approach towards
+us of the low comedian, “that's the character they are thinking about
+all the time--men and women both. It's human nature. Make your lover
+interesting--that's the secret.”
+
+Waiting for the horses to be put to, I became aware of the fact that I
+was standing some distance from the others in company with a tall, thin,
+somewhat oldish-looking man. He spoke in low, hurried tones, fearful
+evidently of being overheard and interrupted.
+
+“You'll forgive me, Mr. Kelver,” he said--“Trevor, Marmaduke Trevor. I
+play the Duke of Bayswater in the second act.”
+
+I was unable to recall him for the moment; there were quite a number of
+small parts in the second act. But glancing into his sensitive face, I
+shrank from wounding him.
+
+“A capital performance,” I lied. “It has always amused me.”
+
+He flushed with pleasure. “I made a great success some years ago,” he
+said, “in America with a soda-water syphon, and it occurred to me that
+if you could, Mr. Kelver, in a natural sort of way, drop in a small part
+leading up to a little business with a soda-water syphon, it might help
+the piece.”
+
+I wrote him his soda-water scene, I am glad to remember, and insisted
+upon it, in spite of a good deal of opposition. Some of the critics
+found fault with the incident, as lacking in originality. But Marmaduke
+Trevor was quite right, it did help a little.
+
+Our return journey was an exaggerated repetition of our morning drive.
+Our low comedian produced hideous noises from the horn, and entered into
+contests of running wit with 'bus drivers--a decided mistake from his
+point of view, the score generally remaining with the 'bus driver.
+At Hammersmith, seizing the opportunity of a block in the traffic,
+he assumed the role of Cheap Jack, and, standing up on the back seat,
+offered all our hats for sale at temptingly low prices.
+
+“Got any ideas out of them?” asked Hodgson, when the time came for us to
+say good-night.
+
+“I'm thinking, if you don't mind,” I answered, “of going down into the
+country and writing the piece quietly, away from everybody.”
+
+“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Hodgson. “Too many cooks--Be sure and
+have it ready for the autumn.”
+
+I wrote it with some pleasure to myself amid the Yorkshire Wolds, and
+was able to read it to the whole company assembled before the close of
+the season. My turning of the last page was followed by a dead silence.
+The leading lady was the first to speak. She asked if the clock upon the
+mantelpiece could be relied upon; because, if so, by leaving at once,
+she could just catch her train. Hodgson, consulting his watch, thought,
+if anything, it was a little fast. The leading lady said she hoped it
+was, and went. The only comforting words were spoken by the tenor. He
+recalled to our mind a successful comic opera produced some years before
+at the Philharmonic. He distinctly remembered that up to five minutes
+before the raising of the curtain everybody had regarded it as rubbish.
+He also had a train to catch. Marmaduke Trevor, with a covert shake of
+the hand, urged me not to despair. The low comedian, the last to go,
+told Hodgson he thought he might be able to do something with parts
+of it, if given a free hand. Hodgson and I left alone, looked at each
+other.
+
+“It's no good,” said Hodgson, “from a box-office point of view. Very
+clever.”
+
+“How do you know it is no good from a box-office point of view?” I
+ventured to enquire.
+
+“I never made a mistake in my life,” replied Hodgson.
+
+“You have produced one or two failures,” I reminded him.
+
+“And shall again,” he laughed. “The right thing isn't easy to get.”
+
+“Cheer up,” he added kindly, “this is only your first attempt. We must
+try and knock it into shape at rehearsal.”
+
+Their notion of “knocking it into shape” was knocking it to pieces.
+
+“I'll tell you what we'll do,” would say the low comedian; “we'll cut
+that scene out altogether.” Joyously he would draw his pencil through
+some four or five pages of my manuscript.
+
+“But it is essential to the story,” I would argue.
+
+“Not at all.”
+
+“But it is. It is the scene in which Roderick escapes from prison and
+falls in love with the gipsy.”
+
+“My dear boy, half-a-dozen words will do all that. I meet Roderick at
+the ball. 'Hallo, what are you doing here?' 'Oh, I have escaped from
+prison.' 'Good business. And how's Miriam?' 'Well and happy--she is
+going to be my wife!' What more do you want?”
+
+“I have been speaking to Mr. Hodgson,” would observe the leading lady,
+“and he agrees with me, that if instead of falling in love with Peter, I
+fell in love with John--”
+
+“But John is in love with Arabella.”
+
+“Oh, we've cut out Arabella. I can sing all her songs.”
+
+The tenor would lead me into a corner. “I want you to write in a little
+scene for myself and Miss Duncan at the beginning of the first act. I'll
+talk to her about it. I think it will be rather pretty. I want her--the
+second time I see her--to have come out of her room on to a balcony, and
+to be standing there bathed in moonlight.”
+
+“But the first act takes place in the early morning.”
+
+“I've thought of that. We must alter it to the evening.”
+
+“But the opera opens with a hunting scene. People don't go hunting by
+moonlight.”
+
+“It will be a novelty. That's what's wanted for comic opera. The
+ordinary hunting scene! My dear boy, it has been done to death.”
+
+I stood this sort of thing for a week. “They are people of experience,”
+ I argued to myself; “they must know more about it than I do.” By the
+end of the week I had arrived at the conclusion that anyhow they didn't.
+Added to which I lost my temper. It is a thing I should advise any lady
+or gentleman thinking of entering the ranks or dramatic authorship to
+lose as soon as possible. I took both manuscripts with me, and, entering
+Mr. Hodgson's private room, closed the door behind me. One parcel
+was the opera as I had originally written it, a neat, intelligible
+manuscript, whatever its other merits. The second, scored, interlined,
+altered, cut, interleaved, rewritten, reversed, turned inside out and
+topsy-turvy--one long, hopeless confusion from beginning to end--was the
+opera, as, everybody helping, we had “knocked it into shape.”
+
+“That's your opera,” I said, pushing across to him the bulkier bundle.
+“If you can understand it, if you can make head or tail of it, if you
+care to produce it, it is yours, and you are welcome to it. This is
+mine!” I laid it on the table beside the other. “It may be good, it may
+be bad. If it is played at all it is played as it is written. Regard the
+contract as cancelled, and make up your mind.”
+
+He argued with force, and he argued with eloquence. He appealed to my
+self-interest, he appealed to my better nature. It occupied him forty
+minutes by the clock. Then he called me an obstinate young fool, flung
+the opera as “knocked into shape” into the waste-paper basket--which
+was the only proper place for it, and, striding into the middle of the
+company, gave curt directions that the damned opera was to be played as
+it was written, and be damned to it!
+
+The company shrugged its shoulders, and for the next month kept them
+shrugged. For awhile Hodgson remained away from the rehearsals, then
+returning, developed by degrees a melancholy interest in the somewhat
+gloomy proceedings.
+
+So far I had won, but my difficulty was to maintain the position. The
+low comedian, reciting his lines with meaningless monotony, would pause
+occasionally to ask of me politely, whether this or that passage was
+intended to be serious or funny.
+
+“You think,” the leading lady would enquire, more in sorrow than in
+anger, “that any girl would behave in this way--any real girl, I mean?”
+
+“Perhaps the audience will understand it,” would console himself
+hopefully the tenor. “Myself, I confess I don't.”
+
+With a sinking heart concealed beneath an aggressively disagreeable
+manner, I remained firm in my “pigheaded conceit,” as it was regarded,
+Hodgson generously supporting me against his own judgment.
+
+“It's bound to be a failure,” he told me. “I am spending some twelve to
+fifteen hundred pounds to teach you a lesson. When you have learnt it
+we'll square accounts by your writing me an opera that will pay.”
+
+“And if it does succeed?” I suggested.
+
+“My dear boy,” replied Hodgson, “I never make mistakes.”
+
+From all which a dramatic author of more experience would have gathered
+cheerfulness and hope, knowing that the time to be depressed is when the
+manager and company unanimously and unhesitatingly predict a six months'
+run. But new to the business, I regarded my literary career as already
+at an end. Belief in oneself is merely the match with which one lights
+oneself. The oil is supplied by the belief in one of others; if that
+be not forthcoming, one goes out. Later on I might try to light myself
+again, but for the present I felt myself dark and dismal. My desire was
+to get away from my own smoke and smell. The final dress rehearsal
+over, I took my leave of all concerned. The next morning I would pack
+a knapsack and start upon a walking tour through Holland. The English
+papers would not reach me. No human being should know my address. In a
+month or so I would return, the piece would have disappeared--would be
+forgotten. With courage, I might be able to forget it myself.
+
+“I shall run it for three weeks,” said Hodgson, “then we'll withdraw it
+quietly, 'owing to previous arrangements'; or Duncan can suddenly fall
+ill--she's done it often enough to suit herself; she can do it this
+once to suit me. Don't be upset. There's nothing to be ashamed of in the
+piece; indeed, there is a good deal that will be praised. The idea is
+distinctly original. As a matter of fact, that's the fault with it,”
+ added Hodgson, “it's too original.”
+
+“You said you wanted it original,” I reminded him.
+
+He laughed. “Yes, but original for the stage, I meant--the old dolls in
+new frocks.”
+
+I thanked him for all his kindness, and went home and packed my
+knapsack.
+
+For two months I wandered, avoiding beaten tracks, my only comrades a
+few books, belonging to no age, no country. My worries fell from me, the
+personal affairs of Paul Kelver ceasing to appear the be all and the
+end all of the universe. But for a chance meeting with Wellbourne,
+Deleglise's amateur caretaker of Gower Street fame, I should have
+delayed yet longer my return. It was in one of the dead cities of the
+Zuyder Zee. I was sitting under the lindens on the grass-grown quay,
+awaiting a slow, crawling boat that, four miles off, I watched a moving
+speck across the level pastures. I heard his footsteps in the empty
+market-place behind me, and turned my head. I did not rise, felt even no
+astonishment; anything might come to pass in that still land of dreams.
+He seated himself beside me with a nod, and for awhile we smoked in
+silence.
+
+“All well with you?” I asked.
+
+“I am afraid not,” he answered; “the poor fellow is in great trouble.”
+
+“I'm not Wellbourne himself,” he went on, in answer to my look; “I am
+only his spirit. Have you ever tested that belief the Hindoos hold:
+that a man may leave his body, wander at will for a certain period,
+remembering only to return ere the thread connecting him with flesh and
+blood be stretched to breaking point? It is quite correct. I often lock
+the door of my lodging, leave myself behind, wander a free Spirit.”
+
+He pulled from his pocket a handful of loose coins and looked at them.
+“The thread that connects us, I am sorrow to say, is wearing somewhat
+thin,” he sighed; “I shall have to be getting back to him before
+long--concern myself again with his troubles, follies. It is somewhat
+vexing. Life is really beautiful, when one is dead.”
+
+“What was the trouble?” I enquired.
+
+“Haven't you heard?” he replied. “Tom died five weeks ago, quite
+suddenly, of syncope. We had none of us any idea.”
+
+So Norah was alone in the world. I rose to my feet. The slowly moving
+speck had grown into a thin, dark streak; minute by minute it took shape
+and form.
+
+“By the way, I have to congratulate you,” said Wellbourne. “Your opera
+looked like being a big thing when I left London. You didn't sell
+outright, I hope?”
+
+“No,” I answered. “Hodgson never expressed any desire to buy.”
+
+“Lucky for you,” said Wellbourne.
+
+I reached London the next evening. Passing the theatre on my way to
+Queen's Square, it occurred to me to stop my cab for a few minutes and
+look in.
+
+I met the low comedian on his way to his dressing-room. He shook me
+warmly by the hand.
+
+“Well,” he said, “we're pulling them in. I was right, you see, 'Give me
+plenty of opportunity.' That's what I told you, didn't I? Come and see
+the piece. I think you will agree with me that I have done you justice.”
+
+I thanked him.
+
+“Not at all,” he returned; “it's a pleasure to work, when you've got
+something good to work on.”
+
+I paid my respects to the leading lady.
+
+“I am so grateful to you,” said the leading lady. “It is so delightful
+to play a real live woman, for a change.”
+
+The tenor was quite fatherly.
+
+“It is what I have been telling Hodgson for years,” he said, “give them
+a simple human story.”
+
+Crossing the stage, I ran against Marmaduke Trevor.
+
+“You will stay for my scene,” he urged.
+
+“Another night,” I answered. “I have only just returned.”
+
+He sank his voice to a whisper. “I want to talk to you on business, when
+you have the time. I am thinking of taking a theatre myself--not just
+now, but later on. Of course, I don't want it to get about.”
+
+I assured him of my secrecy.
+
+“If it comes off, I want you to write for me. You understand the public.
+We will talk it over.”
+
+He passed onward with stealthy tread.
+
+I found Hodgson in the front of the house.
+
+“Two stalls not sold and six seats in the upper circle,” he informed me;
+“not bad for a Thursday night.”
+
+I expressed my gratification.
+
+“I knew you could do it,” said Hodgson, “I felt sure of it merely from
+seeing that comedietta of yours at the Queen's. I never make a mistake.”
+
+Correction under the circumstances would have been unkind. Promising to
+see him again in the morning, I left him with his customary good conceit
+of himself unimpaired, and went on to the Square. I rang twice, but
+there was no response. I was about to sound a third and final summons,
+when Norah joined me on the step. She had been out shopping and was
+laden with parcels.
+
+“We must wait to shake hands,” she laughed, as she opened the door. “I
+hope you have not been kept long. Poor Annette grows deafer every day.”
+
+“Have you nobody in the house with you but Annette?” I asked.
+
+“No one. You know it was a whim of his. I used to get quite cross with
+him at times. But I should not like to go against his wishes--now.”
+
+“Was there any reason for it?” I asked.
+
+“No,” she answered; “if there had been I could have argued him out of
+it.” She paused at the door of the studio. “I'll just get rid of these,”
+ she said, “and then I will be with you.”
+
+A wood fire was burning on the open hearth, flashing alternate beams of
+light and shadow down the long bare room. The high oak stool stood
+in its usual place beside the engraving desk, upon which lay old
+Deleglise's last unfinished plate, emitting a dull red glow. I paced the
+creaking boards with halting steps, as through some ghostly gallery
+hung with dim portraits of the dead and living. In a little while Norah
+entered and came to me with outstretched hand.
+
+“We will not light the lamp,” she said, “the firelight is so pleasant.”
+
+“But I want to see you,” I replied.
+
+She had seated herself upon the broad stone kerb. With her hand she
+stirred the logs; they shot into a clear white flame. Thus, the light
+upon her face, she raised it gravely towards mine. It spoke to me with
+fuller voice. The clear grey eyes were frank and steadfast as ever, but
+shadow had passed into them, deepening them, illuminating them.
+
+For a space we talked of our two selves, our trivial plans and doings.
+
+“Tom left something to you,” said Norah, rising, “not in his will, that
+was only a few lines. He told me to give it to you, with his love.”
+
+She brought it to me. It was the picture he had always treasured, his
+first success; a child looking on death; “The Riddle” he had named it.
+
+We spoke of him, of his work, which since had come to be appraised at
+truer value, for it was out of fashion while he lived.
+
+“Was he a disappointed man, do you think?” I asked.
+
+“No,” answered Norah. “I am sure not. He was too fond of his work.”
+
+“But he dreamt of becoming a second Millet. He confessed it to me once.
+And he died an engraver.”
+
+“But they were good engravings,” smiled Norah.
+
+“I remember a favourite saying of his,” continued Norah, after a pause;
+“I do not know whether it was original or not. 'The stars guide us. They
+are not our goal.'”
+
+“Ah, yes, we aim at the moon and--hit the currant bush.”
+
+“It is necessary always to allow for deflection,” laughed Norah.
+“Apparently it takes a would-be poet to write a successful comic opera.”
+
+“Ah, you do not understand!” I cried. “It was not mere ambition; cap
+and bells or laurel wreath! that is small matter. I wanted to help. The
+world's cry of pain, I used to hear it as a boy. I hear it yet. I meant
+to help. They that are heavy laden. I hear their cry. They cry from dawn
+to dawn and none heed them: we pass upon the other side. Man and woman,
+child and beast. I hear their dumb cry in the night. The child's sob
+in the silence, the man's fierce curse of wrong. The dog beneath the
+vivisector's knife, the overdriven brute, the creature tortured for an
+hour that a gourmet may enjoy an instant's pleasure; they cried to me.
+The wrong and the sorrow and the pain, the long, low, endless moan God's
+ears are weary of; I hear it day and night. I thought to help.”
+
+I had risen. She took my face between her quiet, cool hands.
+
+“What do we know? We see but a corner of the scheme. This fortress
+of laughter that a few of you have been set apart to guard--this
+rallying-point for all the forces of joy and gladness! how do you know
+it may not be the key to the whole battle! It is far removed from the
+grand charges and you think yourself forgotten. Trust your leader, be
+true to your post.”
+
+I looked into her sweet grey eyes.
+
+“You always help me,” I said.
+
+“Do I?” she answered. “I am so glad.”
+
+She put her firm white hand in mine.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Paul Kelver, by Jerome Klapka, AKA Jerome K.
+Jerome
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1334 ***