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diff --git a/2876-h/2876-h.htm b/2876-h/2876-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0525997 --- /dev/null +++ b/2876-h/2876-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13653 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Light that Failed, by Rudyard Kipling</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Light that Failed, by Rudyard Kipling</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Light that Failed</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Rudyard Kipling</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October, 2001 [eBook #2876]<br /> +[Most recently updated: February 1, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Reed, and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIGHT THAT FAILED ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /> +</div> + +<h1>The Light that Failed</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Rudyard Kipling</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#pref01">DEDICATION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#pref02">PREFACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="pref01"></a>DEDICATION</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +If I were hanged on the highest hill,<br /> + <i>Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!</i><br /> +I know whose love would follow me still,<br /> + <i>Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!</i><br /> +<br /> +If I were drowned in the deepest sea,<br /> + <i>Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!</i><br /> +I know whose tears would come down to me,<br /> + <i>Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!</i><br /> +<br /> +If I were damned of body and soul,<br /> +I know whose prayers would make me whole,<br /> + <i>Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!</i> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="pref02"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p class="center"> +This is the story of <i>The Light that Failed</i> as it was originally +conceived by the writer. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +RUDYARD KIPLING +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +So we settled it all when the storm was done<br /> + As comf’y as comf’y could be;<br /> +And I was to wait in the barn, my dears,<br /> + Because I was only three;<br /> +And Teddy would run to the rainbow’s foot,<br /> + Because he was five and a man;<br /> +And that’s how it all began, my dears,<br /> + And that’s how it all began.<br /> +<br /> +—<i>Big Barn Stories</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think she’d do if she caught us? We oughtn’t to +have it, you know,” said Maisie. +</p> + +<p> +“Beat me, and lock you up in your bedroom,” Dick answered, without +hesitation. “Have you got the cartridges?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; they’re in my pocket, but they are joggling horribly. Do +pin-fire cartridges go off of their own accord?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know. Take the revolver, if you are afraid, and let me carry +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m <i>not</i> afraid.” Maisie strode forward swiftly, a +hand in her pocket and her chin in the air. Dick followed with a small pin-fire +revolver. +</p> + +<p> +The children had discovered that their lives would be unendurable without +pistol-practice. After much forethought and self-denial, Dick had saved seven +shillings and sixpence, the price of a badly constructed Belgian revolver. +Maisie could only contribute half a crown to the syndicate for the purchase of +a hundred cartridges. “You can save better than I can, Dick,” she +explained; “I like nice things to eat, and it doesn’t matter to +you. Besides, boys ought to do these things.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick grumbled a little at the arrangement, but went out and made the purchase, +which the children were then on their way to test. Revolvers did not lie in the +scheme of their daily life as decreed for them by the guardian who was +incorrectly supposed to stand in the place of a mother to these two orphans. +Dick had been under her care for six years, during which time she had made her +profit of the allowances supposed to be expended on his clothes, and, partly +through thoughtlessness, partly through a natural desire to pain,—she was +a widow of some years anxious to marry again,—had made his days +burdensome on his young shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +Where he had looked for love, she gave him first aversion and then hate. +</p> + +<p> +Where he growing older had sought a little sympathy, she gave him ridicule. The +many hours that she could spare from the ordering of her small house she +devoted to what she called the home-training of Dick Heldar. Her religion, +manufactured in the main by her own intelligence and a keen study of the +Scriptures, was an aid to her in this matter. At such times as she herself was +not personally displeased with Dick, she left him to understand that he had a +heavy account to settle with his Creator; wherefore Dick learned to loathe his +God as intensely as he loathed Mrs. Jennett; and this is not a wholesome frame +of mind for the young. Since she chose to regard him as a hopeless liar, when +dread of pain drove him to his first untruth, he naturally developed into a +liar, but an economical and self-contained one, never throwing away the least +unnecessary fib, and never hesitating at the blackest, were it only plausible, +that might make his life a little easier. The treatment taught him at least the +power of living alone,—a power that was of service to him when he went to +a public school and the boys laughed at his clothes, which were poor in quality +and much mended. In the holidays he returned to the teachings of Mrs. Jennett, +and, that the chain of discipline might not be weakened by association with the +world, was generally beaten, on one account or another, before he had been +twelve hours under her roof. +</p> + +<p> +The autumn of one year brought him a companion in bondage, a long-haired, +gray-eyed little atom, as self-contained as himself, who moved about the house +silently and for the first few weeks spoke only to the goat that was her +chiefest friend on earth and lived in the back-garden. Mrs. Jennett objected to +the goat on the grounds that he was un-Christian,—which he certainly was. +“Then,” said the atom, choosing her words very deliberately, +“I shall write to my lawyer-peoples and tell them that you are a very bad +woman. Amomma is mine, mine, mine!” Mrs. Jennett made a movement to the +hall, where certain umbrellas and canes stood in a rack. The atom understood as +clearly as Dick what this meant. “I have been beaten before,” she +said, still in the same passionless voice; “I have been beaten worse than +you can ever beat me. If you beat me I shall write to my lawyer-peoples and +tell them that you do not give me enough to eat. I am not afraid of you.” +Mrs. Jennett did not go into the hall, and the atom, after a pause to assure +herself that all danger of war was past, went out, to weep bitterly on +Amomma’s neck. +</p> + +<p> +Dick learned to know her as Maisie, and at first mistrusted her profoundly, for +he feared that she might interfere with the small liberty of action left to +him. She did not, however; and she volunteered no friendliness until Dick had +taken the first steps. Long before the holidays were over, the stress of +punishment shared in common drove the children together, if it were only to +play into each other’s hands as they prepared lies for Mrs. +Jennett’s use. When Dick returned to school, Maisie whispered, “Now +I shall be all alone to take care of myself; but,” and she nodded her +head bravely, “I can do it. You promised to send Amomma a grass collar. +Send it soon.” A week later she asked for that collar by return of post, +and was not pleased when she learned that it took time to make. When at last +Dick forwarded the gift, she forgot to thank him for it. +</p> + +<p> +Many holidays had come and gone since that day, and Dick had grown into a lanky +hobbledehoy more than ever conscious of his bad clothes. Not for a moment had +Mrs. Jennett relaxed her tender care of him, but the average canings of a +public school—Dick fell under punishment about three times a +month—filled him with contempt for her powers. “She doesn’t +hurt,” he explained to Maisie, who urged him to rebellion, “and she +is kinder to you after she has whacked me.” Dick shambled through the +days unkempt in body and savage in soul, as the smaller boys of the school +learned to know, for when the spirit moved him he would hit them, cunningly and +with science. The same spirit made him more than once try to tease Maisie, but +the girl refused to be made unhappy. “We are both miserable as it +is,” said she. “What is the use of trying to make things worse? +Let’s find things to do, and forget things.” +</p> + +<p> +The pistol was the outcome of that search. It could only be used on the +muddiest foreshore of the beach, far away from the bathing-machines and +pierheads, below the grassy slopes of Fort Keeling. The tide ran out nearly two +miles on that coast, and the many-coloured mud-banks, touched by the sun, sent +up a lamentable smell of dead weed. It was late in the afternoon when Dick and +Maisie arrived on their ground, Amomma trotting patiently behind them. +</p> + +<p> +“Mf!” said Maisie, sniffing the air. “I wonder what makes the +sea so smelly? I don’t like it!” +</p> + +<p> +“You never like anything that isn’t made just for you,” said +Dick bluntly. “Give me the cartridges, and I’ll try first shot. How +far does one of these little revolvers carry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, half a mile,” said Maisie, promptly. “At least it makes +an awful noise. Be careful with the cartridges; I don’t like those jagged +stick-up things on the rim. Dick, do be careful.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. I know how to load. I’ll fire at the breakwater out +there.” +</p> + +<p> +He fired, and Amomma ran away bleating. The bullet threw up a spurt of mud to +the right of the wood-wreathed piles. +</p> + +<p> +“Throws high and to the right. You try, Maisie. Mind, it’s loaded +all round.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie took the pistol and stepped delicately to the verge of the mud, her hand +firmly closed on the butt, her mouth and left eye screwed up. +</p> + +<p> +Dick sat down on a tuft of bank and laughed. Amomma returned very cautiously. +He was accustomed to strange experiences in his afternoon walks, and, finding +the cartridge-box unguarded, made investigations with his nose. Maisie fired, +but could not see where the bullet went. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it hit the post,” she said, shading her eyes and looking +out across the sailless sea. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it has gone out to the Marazion Bell-buoy,” said Dick, with +a chuckle. “Fire low and to the left; then perhaps you’ll get it. +Oh, look at Amomma!—he’s eating the cartridges!” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie turned, the revolver in her hand, just in time to see Amomma scampering +away from the pebbles Dick threw after him. Nothing is sacred to a billy-goat. +Being well fed and the adored of his mistress, Amomma had naturally swallowed +two loaded pin-fire cartridges. Maisie hurried up to assure herself that Dick +had not miscounted the tale. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he’s eaten two.” +</p> + +<p> +“Horrid little beast! Then they’ll joggle about inside him and blow +up, and serve him right.... Oh, Dick! have I killed you?” +</p> + +<p> +Revolvers are tricky things for young hands to deal with. Maisie could not +explain how it had happened, but a veil of reeking smoke separated her from +Dick, and she was quite certain that the pistol had gone off in his face. Then +she heard him sputter, and dropped on her knees beside him, crying, +“Dick, you aren’t hurt, are you? I didn’t mean it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you didn’t, said Dick, coming out of the smoke and +wiping his cheek. “But you nearly blinded me. That powder stuff stings +awfully.” A neat little splash of gray lead on a stone showed where the +bullet had gone. Maisie began to whimper. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t,” said Dick, jumping to his feet and shaking himself. +“I’m not a bit hurt.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I might have killed you,” protested Maisie, the corners of +her mouth drooping. “What should I have done then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone home and told Mrs. Jennett.” Dick grinned at the thought; +then, softening, “Please don’t worry about it. Besides, we are +wasting time. +</p> + +<p> +We’ve got to get back to tea. I’ll take the revolver for a +bit.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie would have wept on the least encouragement, but Dick’s +indifference, albeit his hand was shaking as he picked up the pistol, +restrained her. She lay panting on the beach while Dick methodically bombarded +the breakwater. “Got it at last!” he exclaimed, as a lock of weed +flew from the wood. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me try,” said Maisie, imperiously. “I’m all right +now.” +</p> + +<p> +They fired in turns till the rickety little revolver nearly shook itself to +pieces, and Amomma the outcast—because he might blow up at any +moment—browsed in the background and wondered why stones were thrown at +him. Then they found a balk of timber floating in a pool which was commanded by +the seaward slope of Fort Keeling, and they sat down together before this new +target. +</p> + +<p> +“Next holidays,” said Dick, as the now thoroughly fouled revolver +kicked wildly in his hand, “we’ll get another pistol,—central +fire,—that will carry farther.” +</p> + +<p> +“There won’t be any next holidays for me,” said Maisie. +“I’m going away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where to?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. My lawyers have written to Mrs. Jennett, and +I’ve got to be educated somewhere,—in France, perhaps,—I +don’t know where; but I shall be glad to go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t like it a bit. I suppose I shall be left. Look here, +Maisie, is it really true you’re going? Then these holidays will be the +last I shall see anything of you; and I go back to school next week. I +wish——” +</p> + +<p> +The young blood turned his cheeks scarlet. Maisie was picking grass-tufts and +throwing them down the slope at a yellow sea-poppy nodding all by itself to the +illimitable levels of the mud-flats and the milk-white sea beyond. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish,” she said, after a pause, “that I could see you +again sometime. +</p> + +<p> +You wish that, too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but it would have been better if—if—you had—shot +straight over there—down by the breakwater.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie looked with large eyes for a moment. And this was the boy who only ten +days before had decorated Amomma’s horns with cut-paper ham-frills and +turned him out, a bearded derision, among the public ways! Then she dropped her +eyes: this was not the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be stupid,” she said reprovingly, and with swift +instinct attacked the side-issue. “How selfish you are! Just think what I +should have felt if that horrid thing had killed you! I’m quite miserable +enough already.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Because you’re going away from Mrs. Jennett?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“From me, then?” +</p> + +<p> +No answer for a long time. Dick dared not look at her. He felt, though he did +not know, all that the past four years had been to him, and this the more +acutely since he had no knowledge to put his feelings in words. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maisie, you must know. <i>I’m</i> not supposing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go home,” said Maisie, weakly. +</p> + +<p> +But Dick was not minded to retreat. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t say things,” he pleaded, “and I’m +awfully sorry for teasing you about Amomma the other day. It’s all +different now, Maisie, can’t you see? And you might have told me that you +were going, instead of leaving me to find out.” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t. I did tell. Oh, Dick, what’s the use of +worrying?” +</p> + +<p> +“There isn’t any; but we’ve been together years and years, +and I didn’t know how much I cared.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe you ever did care.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I didn’t; but I do,—I care awfully now, Maisie,” +he gulped,—“Maisie, darling, say you care too, please.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, indeed I do; but it won’t be any use.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I am going away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but if you promise before you go. Only say—will you?” A +second “darling’ came to his lips more easily than the first. There +were few endearments in Dick’s home or school life; he had to find them +by instinct. Dick caught the little hand blackened with the escaped gas of the +revolver. +</p> + +<p> +“I promise,” she said solemnly; “but if I care there is no +need for promising.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you care?” For the first time in the past few minutes their +eyes met and spoke for them who had no skill in speech.... +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Dick, don’t! Please don’t! It was all right when we said +good-morning; but now it’s all different!” Amomma looked on from +afar. +</p> + +<p> +He had seen his property quarrel frequently, but he had never seen kisses +exchanged before. The yellow sea-poppy was wiser, and nodded its head +approvingly. Considered as a kiss, that was a failure, but since it was the +first, other than those demanded by duty, in all the world that either had ever +given or taken, it opened to them new worlds, and every one of them glorious, +so that they were lifted above the consideration of any worlds at all, +especially those in which tea is necessary, and sat still, holding each +other’s hands and saying not a word. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t forget now,” said Dick, at last. There was that on +his cheek that stung more than gunpowder. +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t have forgotten anyhow,” said Maisie, and they +looked at each other and saw that each was changed from the companion of an +hour ago to a wonder and a mystery they could not understand. The sun began to +set, and a night-wind thrashed along the bents of the foreshore. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall be awfully late for tea,” said Maisie. “Let’s +go home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s use the rest of the cartridges first,” said Dick; and +he helped Maisie down the slope of the fort to the sea,—a descent that +she was quite capable of covering at full speed. Equally gravely Maisie took +the grimy hand. Dick bent forward clumsily; Maisie drew the hand away, and Dick +blushed. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very pretty,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh!” said Maisie, with a little laugh of gratified vanity. She +stood close to Dick as he loaded the revolver for the last time and fired over +the sea with a vague notion at the back of his head that he was protecting +Maisie from all the evils in the world. A puddle far across the mud caught the +last rays of the sun and turned into a wrathful red disc. The light held +Dick’s attention for a moment, and as he raised his revolver there fell +upon him a renewed sense of the miraculous, in that he was standing by Maisie +who had promised to care for him for an indefinite length of time till such +date as—— A gust of the growing wind drove the girl’s long +black hair across his face as she stood with her hand on his shoulder calling +Amomma “a little beast,” and for a moment he was in the +dark,—a darkness that stung. The bullet went singing out to the empty +sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Spoilt my aim,” said he, shaking his head. “There +aren’t any more cartridges; we shall have to run home.” But they +did not run. They walked very slowly, arm in arm. And it was a matter of +indifference to them whether the neglected Amomma with two pin-fire cartridges +in his inside blew up or trotted beside them; for they had come into a golden +heritage and were disposing of it with all the wisdom of all their years. +</p> + +<p> +“And I shall be——” quoth Dick, valiantly. Then he +checked himself: “I don’t know what I shall be. I don’t seem +to be able to pass any exams, but I can make awful caricatures of the masters. +Ho! Ho!” +</p> + +<p> +“Be an artist, then,” said Maisie. “You’re always +laughing at my trying to draw; and it will do you good.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll never laugh at anything you do,” he answered. +“I’ll be an artist, and I’ll do things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Artists always want money, don’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got a hundred and twenty pounds a year of my own. My +guardians tell me I’m to have it when I come of age. That will be enough +to begin with.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I’m rich,” said Maisie. “I’ve got three +hundred a year all my own when I’m twenty-one. That’s why Mrs. +Jennett is kinder to me than she is to you. I wish, though, that I had somebody +that belonged to me,—just a father or a mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“You belong to me,” said Dick, “for ever and ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we belong—for ever. It’s very nice.” She squeezed +his arm. The kindly darkness hid them both, and, emboldened because he could +only just see the profile of Maisie’s cheek with the long lashes veiling +the gray eyes, Dick at the front door delivered himself of the words he had +been boggling over for the last two hours. +</p> + +<p> +“And I—love you, Maisie,” he said, in a whisper that seemed +to him to ring across the world,—the world that he would to-morrow or the +next day set out to conquer. +</p> + +<p> +There was a scene, not, for the sake of discipline, to be reported, when Mrs. +Jennett would have fallen upon him, first for disgraceful unpunctuality, and +secondly for nearly killing himself with a forbidden weapon. +</p> + +<p> +“I was playing with it, and it went off by itself,” said Dick, when +the powder-pocked cheek could no longer be hidden, “but if you think +you’re going to lick me you’re wrong. You are never going to touch +me again. +</p> + +<p> +Sit down and give me my tea. You can’t cheat us out of that, +anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jennett gasped and became livid. Maisie said nothing, but encouraged Dick +with her eyes, and he behaved abominably all that evening. Mrs. Jennett +prophesied an immediate judgment of Providence and a descent into Tophet later, +but Dick walked in Paradise and would not hear. Only when he was going to bed +Mrs. Jennett recovered and asserted herself. He had bidden Maisie good-night +with down-dropped eyes and from a distance. +</p> + +<p> +“If you aren’t a gentleman you might try to behave like one,” +said Mrs. +</p> + +<p> +Jennett, spitefully. “You’ve been quarrelling with Maisie +again.” +</p> + +<p> +This meant that the usual good-night kiss had been omitted. Maisie, white to +the lips, thrust her cheek forward with a fine air of indifference, and was +duly pecked by Dick, who tramped out of the room red as fire. That night he +dreamed a wild dream. He had won all the world and brought it to Maisie in a +cartridge-box, but she turned it over with her foot, and, instead of saying +“Thank you,” cried—“Where is the grass collar you +promised for Amomma? Oh, how selfish you are!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Then we brought the lances down, then the bugles blew,<br /> +When we went to Kandahar, ridin’ two an’ two,<br /> + Ridin’, ridin’, ridin’, two an’ two,<br /> + Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra,<br /> +All the way to Kandahar, ridin’ two an’ two.<br /> +<br /> +—<i>Barrack-Room Ballad</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not angry with the British public, but I wish we had a few +thousand of them scattered among these rooks. They wouldn’t be in such a +hurry to get at their morning papers then. Can’t you imagine the +regulation householder—Lover of Justice, Constant Reader, Paterfamilias, +and all that lot—frizzling on hot gravel?” +</p> + +<p> +“With a blue veil over his head, and his clothes in strips. Has any man +here a needle? I’ve got a piece of sugar-sack.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll lend you a packing-needle for six square inches of it then. +Both my knees are worn through.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not six square acres, while you’re about it? But lend me the +needle, and I’ll see what I can do with the selvage. I don’t think +there’s enough to protect my royal body from the cold blast as it is. +What are you doing with that everlasting sketch-book of yours, Dick?” +</p> + +<p> +“Study of our Special Correspondent repairing his wardrobe,” said +Dick, gravely, as the other man kicked off a pair of sorely worn +riding-breeches and began to fit a square of coarse canvas over the most +obvious open space. He grunted disconsolately as the vastness of the void +developed itself. +</p> + +<p> +“Sugar-bags, indeed! Hi! you pilot man there! lend me all the sails for +that whale-boat.” +</p> + +<p> +A fez-crowned head bobbed up in the stern-sheets, divided itself into exact +halves with one flashing grin, and bobbed down again. The man of the tattered +breeches, clad only in a Norfolk jacket and a gray flannel shirt, went on with +his clumsy sewing, while Dick chuckled over the sketch. +</p> + +<p> +Some twenty whale-boats were nuzzling a sand-bank which was dotted with English +soldiery of half a dozen corps, bathing or washing their clothes. A heap of +boat-rollers, commissariat-boxes, sugar-bags, and flour- and +small-arm-ammunition-cases showed where one of the whale-boats had been +compelled to unload hastily; and a regimental carpenter was swearing aloud as +he tried, on a wholly insufficient allowance of white lead, to plaster up the +sun-parched gaping seams of the boat herself. +</p> + +<p> +“First the bloomin’ rudder snaps,” said he to the world in +general; “then the mast goes; an’ then, s’ “help me, +when she can’t do nothin’ else, she opens ’erself out like a +cock-eyes Chinese lotus.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly the case with my breeches, whoever you are,” said the +tailor, without looking up. “Dick, I wonder when I shall see a decent +shop again.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer, save the incessant angry murmur of the Nile as it raced +round a basalt-walled bend and foamed across a rock-ridge half a mile upstream. +It was as though the brown weight of the river would drive the white men back +to their own country. The indescribable scent of Nile mud in the air told that +the stream was falling and the next few miles would be no light thing for the +whale-boats to overpass. The desert ran down almost to the banks, where, among +gray, red, and black hillocks, a camel-corps was encamped. No man dared even +for a day lose touch of the slow-moving boats; there had been no fighting for +weeks past, and throughout all that time the Nile had never spared them. Rapid +had followed rapid, rock rock, and island-group island-group, till the rank and +file had long since lost all count of direction and very nearly of time. They +were moving somewhere, they did not know why, to do something, they did not +know what. Before them lay the Nile, and at the other end of it was one Gordon, +fighting for the dear life, in a town called Khartoum. There were columns of +British troops in the desert, or in one of the many deserts; there were yet +more columns waiting to embark on the river; there were fresh drafts waiting at +Assioot and Assuan; there were lies and rumours running over the face of the +hopeless land from Suakin to the Sixth Cataract, and men supposed generally +that there must be some one in authority to direct the general scheme of the +many movements. The duty of that particular river-column was to keep the +whale-boats afloat in the water, to avoid trampling on the villagers’ +crops when the gangs “tracked’ the boats with lines thrown from +midstream, to get as much sleep and food as was possible, and, above all, to +press on without delay in the teeth of the churning Nile. +</p> + +<p> +With the soldiers sweated and toiled the correspondents of the newspapers, and +they were almost as ignorant as their companions. But it was above all things +necessary that England at breakfast should be amused and thrilled and +interested, whether Gordon lived or died, or half the British army went to +pieces in the sands. The Soudan campaign was a picturesque one, and lent itself +to vivid word-painting. Now and again a “Special’ managed to get +slain,—which was not altogether a disadvantage to the paper that employed +him,—and more often the hand-to-hand nature of the fighting allowed of +miraculous escapes which were worth telegraphing home at eighteenpence the +word. There were many correspondents with many corps and columns,—from +the veterans who had followed on the heels of the cavalry that occupied Cairo +in ’82, what time Arabi Pasha called himself king, who had seen the first +miserable work round Suakin when the sentries were cut up nightly and the scrub +swarmed with spears, to youngsters jerked into the business at the end of a +telegraph-wire to take the places of their betters killed or invalided. +</p> + +<p> +Among the seniors—those who knew every shift and change in the perplexing +postal arrangements, the value of the seediest, weediest Egyptian garron +offered for sale in Cairo or Alexandria, who could talk a telegraph-clerk into +amiability and soothe the ruffled vanity of a newly appointed staff-officer +when press regulations became burdensome—was the man in the flannel +shirt, the black-browed Torpenhow. He represented the Central Southern +Syndicate in the campaign, as he had represented it in the Egyptian war, and +elsewhere. The syndicate did not concern itself greatly with criticisms of +attack and the like. It supplied the masses, and all it demanded was +picturesqueness and abundance of detail; for there is more joy in England over +a soldier who insubordinately steps out of square to rescue a comrade than over +twenty generals slaving even to baldness at the gross details of transport and +commissariat. +</p> + +<p> +He had met at Suakin a young man, sitting on the edge of a recently abandoned +redoubt about the size of a hat-box, sketching a clump of shell-torn bodies on +the gravel plain. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you for?” said Torpenhow. The greeting of the +correspondent is that of the commercial traveller on the road. +</p> + +<p> +“My own hand,” said the young man, without looking up. “Have +you any tobacco?” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow waited till the sketch was finished, and when he had looked at it +said, “What’s your business here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing; there was a row, so I came. I’m supposed to be doing +something down at the painting-slips among the boats, or else I’m in +charge of the condenser on one of the water-ships. I’ve forgotten +which.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve cheek enough to build a redoubt with,” said +Torpenhow, and took stock of the new acquaintance. “Do you always draw +like that?” +</p> + +<p> +The young man produced more sketches. “Row on a Chinese pig-boat,” +said he, sententiously, showing them one after another.—“Chief mate +dirked by a comprador.—Junk ashore off Hakodate.—Somali muleteer +being flogged.—Star-shelled bursting over camp at +Berbera.—Slave-dhow being chased round Tajurrah Bah.—Soldier lying +dead in the moonlight outside Suakin.—throat cut by Fuzzies.” +</p> + +<p> +“H’m!” said Torpenhow, “can’t say I care for +Verestchagin-and-water myself, but there’s no accounting for tastes. +Doing anything now, are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I’m amusing myself here.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow looked at the aching desolation of the place. “Faith, +you’ve queer notions of amusement. Got any money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Enough to go on with. Look here: do you want me to do war-work?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> don’t. My syndicate may, though. You can draw more than a +little, and I don’t suppose you care much what you get, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not this time. I want my chance first.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow looked at the sketches again, and nodded. “Yes, you’re +right to take your first chance when you can get it.” +</p> + +<p> +He rode away swiftly through the Gate of the Two War-Ships, rattled across the +causeway into the town, and wired to his syndicate, “Got man here, +picture-work. Good and cheap. Shall I arrange? Will do letterpress with +sketches.” +</p> + +<p> +The man on the redoubt sat swinging his legs and murmuring, “I knew the +chance would come, sooner or later. By Gad, they’ll have to sweat for it +if I come through this business alive!” +</p> + +<p> +In the evening Torpenhow was able to announce to his friend that the Central +Southern Agency was willing to take him on trial, paying expenses for three +months. “And, by the way, what’s your name?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“Heldar. Do they give me a free hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve taken you on chance. You must justify the choice. +You’d better stick to me. I’m going up-country with a column, and +I’ll do what I can for you. Give me some of your sketches taken here, and +I’ll send ’em along.” To himself he said, “That’s +the best bargain the Central southern has ever made; and they got me cheaply +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +So it came to pass that, after some purchase of horse-flesh and arrangements +financial and political, Dick was made free of the New and Honourable +Fraternity of war correspondents, who all possess the inalienable right of +doing as much work as they can and getting as much for it as Providence and +their owners shall please. To these things are added in time, if the brother be +worthy, the power of glib speech that neither man nor woman can resist when a +meal or a bed is in question, the eye of a horse-cope, the skill of a cook, the +constitution of a bullock, the digestion of an ostrich, and an infinite +adaptability to all circumstances. But many die before they attain to this +degree, and the past-masters in the craft appear for the most part in +dress-clothes when they are in England, and thus their glory is hidden from the +multitude. +</p> + +<p> +Dick followed Torpenhow wherever the latter’s fancy chose to lead him, +and between the two they managed to accomplish some work that almost satisfied +themselves. It was not an easy life in any way, and under its influence the two +were drawn very closely together, for they ate from the same dish, they shared +the same water-bottle, and, most binding tie of all, their mails went off +together. It was Dick who managed to make gloriously drunk a telegraph-clerk in +a palm hut far beyond the Second Cataract, and, while the man lay in bliss on +the floor, possessed himself of some laboriously acquired exclusive +information, forwarded by a confiding correspondent of an opposition syndicate, +made a careful duplicate of the matter, and brought the result to Torpenhow, +who said that all was fair in love or war correspondence, and built an +excellent descriptive article from his rival’s riotous waste of words. It +was Torpenhow who—but the tale of their adventures, together and apart, +from Philae to the waste wilderness of Herawi and Muella, would fill many +books. They had been penned into a square side by side, in deadly fear of being +shot by over-excited soldiers; they had fought with baggage-camels in the chill +dawn; they had jogged along in silence under blinding sun on indefatigable +little Egyptian horses; and they had floundered on the shallows of the Nile +when the whale-boat in which they had found a berth chose to hit a hidden rock +and rip out half her bottom-planks. +</p> + +<p> +Now they were sitting on the sand-bank, and the whale-boats were bringing up +the remainder of the column. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Torpenhow, as he put the last rude stitches into his +over-long-neglected gear, “it has been a beautiful business.” +</p> + +<p> +“The patch or the campaign?” said Dick. “Don’t think +much of either, myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You want the <i>Euryalus</i> brought up above the Third Cataract, +don’t you? and eighty-one-ton guns at Jakdul? Now, <i>I’m</i> quite +satisfied with my breeches.” He turned round gravely to exhibit himself, +after the manner of a clown. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very pretty. Specially the lettering on the sack. G.B.T. +Government Bullock Train. That’s a sack from India.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s my initials,—Gilbert Belling Torpenhow. I stole the +cloth on purpose. +</p> + +<p> +What the mischief are the camel-corps doing yonder?” Torpenhow shaded his +eyes and looked across the scrub-strewn gravel. +</p> + +<p> +A bugle blew furiously, and the men on the bank hurried to their arms and +accoutrements. +</p> + +<p> +““Pisan soldiery surprised while bathing,”’ remarked +Dick, calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“D’you remember the picture? It’s by Michael Angelo; all +beginners copy it. That scrub’s alive with enemy.” +</p> + +<p> +The camel-corps on the bank yelled to the infantry to come to them, and a +hoarse shouting down the river showed that the remainder of the column had wind +of the trouble and was hastening to take share in it. As swiftly as a reach of +still water is crisped by the wind, the rock-strewn ridges and scrub-topped +hills were troubled and alive with armed men. +</p> + +<p> +Mercifully, it occurred to these to stand far off for a time, to shout and +gesticulate joyously. One man even delivered himself of a long story. The +camel-corps did not fire. They were only too glad of a little breathing-space, +until some sort of square could be formed. The men on the sand-bank ran to +their side; and the whale-boats, as they toiled up within shouting distance, +were thrust into the nearest bank and emptied of all save the sick and a few +men to guard them. The Arab orator ceased his outcries, and his friends howled. +</p> + +<p> +“They look like the Mahdi’s men,” said Torpenhow, elbowing +himself into the crush of the square; “but what thousands of ’em +there are! The tribes hereabout aren’t against us, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the Mahdi’s taken another town,” said Dick, “and +set all these yelping devils free to show us up. Lend us your glass.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our scouts should have told us of this. We’ve been trapped,” +said a subaltern. “Aren’t the camel guns ever going to begin? Hurry +up, you men!” +</p> + +<p> +There was no need of any order. The men flung themselves panting against the +sides of the square, for they had good reason to know that whoso was left +outside when the fighting began would very probably die in an extremely +unpleasant fashion. The little hundred-and-fifty-pound camel-guns posted at one +corner of the square opened the ball as the square moved forward by its right +to get possession of a knoll of rising ground. All had fought in this manner +many times before, and there was no novelty in the entertainment; always the +same hot and stifling formation, the smell of dust and leather, the same +boltlike rush of the enemy, the same pressure on the weakest side, the few +minutes of hand-to-hand scuffle, and then the silence of the desert, broken +only by the yells of those whom their handful of cavalry attempted to pursue. +They had become careless. The camel-guns spoke at intervals, and the square +slouched forward amid the protesting of the camels. Then came the attack of +three thousand men who had not learned from books that it is impossible for +troops in close order to attack against breech-loading fire. +</p> + +<p> +A few dropping shots heralded their approach, and a few horsemen led, but the +bulk of the force was naked humanity, mad with rage, and armed with the spear +and the sword. The instinct of the desert, where there is always much war, told +them that the right flank of the square was the weakest, for they swung clear +of the front. The camel-guns shelled them as they passed and opened for an +instant lanes through their midst, most like those quick-closing vistas in a +Kentish hop-garden seen when the train races by at full speed; and the infantry +fire, held till the opportune moment, dropped them in close-packing hundreds. +No civilised troops in the world could have endured the hell through which they +came, the living leaping high to avoid the dying who clutched at their heels, +the wounded cursing and staggering forward, till they fell—a torrent +black as the sliding water above a mill-dam—full on the right flank of +the square. +</p> + +<p> +Then the line of the dusty troops and the faint blue desert sky overhead went +out in rolling smoke, and the little stones on the heated ground and the +tinder-dry clumps of scrub became matters of surpassing interest, for men +measured their agonised retreat and recovery by these things, counting +mechanically and hewing their way back to chosen pebble and branch. There was +no semblance of any concerted fighting. For aught the men knew, the enemy might +be attempting all four sides of the square at once. Their business was to +destroy what lay in front of them, to bayonet in the back those who passed over +them, and, dying, to drag down the slayer till he could be knocked on the head +by some avenging gun-butt. +</p> + +<p> +Dick waited with Torpenhow and a young doctor till the stress grew unendurable. +It was hopeless to attend to the wounded till the attack was repulsed, so the +three moved forward gingerly towards the weakest side of the square. There was +a rush from without, the short <i>hough-hough</i> of the stabbing spears, and a +man on a horse, followed by thirty or forty others, dashed through, yelling and +hacking. The right flank of the square sucked in after them, and the other +sides sent help. The wounded, who knew that they had but a few hours more to +live, caught at the enemy’s feet and brought them down, or, staggering +into a discarded rifle, fired blindly into the scuffle that raged in the centre +of the square. +</p> + +<p> +Dick was conscious that somebody had cut him violently across his helmet, that +he had fired his revolver into a black, foam-flecked face which forthwith +ceased to bear any resemblance to a face, and that Torpenhow had gone down +under an Arab whom he had tried to “collar low,” and was turning +over and over with his captive, feeling for the man’s eyes. The doctor +jabbed at a venture with a bayonet, and a helmetless soldier fired over +Dick’s shoulder: the flying grains of powder stung his cheek. It was to +Torpenhow that Dick turned by instinct. The representative of the Central +Southern Syndicate had shaken himself clear of his enemy, and rose, wiping his +thumb on his trousers. The Arab, both hands to his forehead, screamed aloud, +then snatched up his spear and rushed at Torpenhow, who was panting under +shelter of Dick’s revolver. Dick fired twice, and the man dropped limply. +His upturned face lacked one eye. The musketry-fire redoubled, but cheers +mingled with it. The rush had failed and the enemy were flying. If the heart of +the square were shambles, the ground beyond was a butcher’s shop. Dick +thrust his way forward between the maddened men. The remnant of the enemy were +retiring, as the few—the very few—English cavalry rode down the +laggards. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond the lines of the dead, a broad blood-stained Arab spear cast aside in +the retreat lay across a stump of scrub, and beyond this again the illimitable +dark levels of the desert. The sun caught the steel and turned it into a red +disc. Some one behind him was saying, “Ah, get away, you brute!” +Dick raised his revolver and pointed towards the desert. His eye was held by +the red splash in the distance, and the clamour about him seemed to die down to +a very far-away whisper, like the whisper of a level sea. There was the +revolver and the red light.... and the voice of some one scaring something +away, exactly as had fallen somewhere before,—a darkness that stung. He +fired at random, and the bullet went out across the desert as he muttered, +“Spoilt my aim. There aren’t any more cartridges. We shall have to +run home.” He put his hand to his head and brought it away covered with +blood. +</p> + +<p> +“Old man, you’re cut rather badly,” said Torpenhow. “I +owe you something for this business. Thanks. Stand up! I say, you can’t +be ill here.” +</p> + +<p> +Throughout the night, when the troops were encamped by the whale-boats, a black +figure danced in the strong moonlight on the sand-bar and shouted that Khartoum +the accursed one was dead,—was dead,—was dead,—that two +steamers were rock-staked on the Nile outside the city, and that of all their +crews there remained not one; and Khartoum was dead,—was dead,—was +dead! +</p> + +<p> +But Torpenhow took no heed. He was watching Dick, who called aloud to the +restless Nile for Maisie,—and again Maisie! +</p> + +<p> +“Behold a phenomenon,” said Torpenhow, rearranging the blanket. +“Here is a man, presumably human, who mentions the name of one woman +only. And I’ve seen a good deal of delirium, too.—Dick, +here’s some fizzy drink.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Maisie,” said Dick. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +So he thinks he shall take to the sea again<br /> + For one more cruise with his buccaneers,<br /> +To singe the beard of the King of Spain,<br /> +And capture another Dean of Jaen<br /> + And sell him in Algiers.—<i>A Dutch Picture</i>.—Longfellow +</p> + +<p> +The Soudan campaign and Dick’s broken head had been some months ended and +mended, and the Central Southern Syndicate had paid Dick a certain sum on +account for work done, which work they were careful to assure him was not +altogether up to their standard. Dick heaved the letter into the Nile at Cairo, +cashed the draft in the same town, and bade a warm farewell to Torpenhow at the +station. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to lie up for a while and rest,” said Torpenhow. +“I don’t know where I shall live in London, but if God brings us to +meet, we shall meet. Are you staying here on the off-chance of another row? +There will be none till the Southern Soudan is reoccupied by our troops. Mark +that. Good-bye; bless you; come back when your money’s spent; and give me +your address.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick loitered in Cairo, Alexandria, Ismailia, and Port Said,—especially +Port Said. There is iniquity in many parts of the world, and vice in all, but +the concentrated essence of all the iniquities and all the vices in all the +continents finds itself at Port Said. And through the heart of that +sand-bordered hell, where the mirage flickers day long above the Bitter Lake, +move, if you will only wait, most of the men and women you have known in this +life. Dick established himself in quarters more riotous than respectable. He +spent his evenings on the quay, and boarded many ships, and saw very many +friends,—gracious Englishwomen with whom he had talked not too wisely in +the veranda of Shepherd’s Hotel, hurrying war correspondents, skippers of +the contract troop-ships employed in the campaign, army officers by the score, +and others of less reputable trades. +</p> + +<p> +He had choice of all the races of the East and West for studies, and the +advantage of seeing his subjects under the influence of strong excitement, at +the gaming-tables, saloons, dancing-hells, and elsewhere. For recreation there +was the straight vista of the Canal, the blazing sands, the procession of +shipping, and the white hospitals where the English soldiers lay. He strove to +set down in black and white and colour all that Providence sent him, and when +that supply was ended sought about for fresh material. It was a fascinating +employment, but it ran away with his money, and he had drawn in advance the +hundred and twenty pounds to which he was entitled yearly. “Now I shall +have to work and starve!” thought he, and was addressing himself to this +new fate when a mysterious telegram arrived from Torpenhow in England, which +said, “Come back, quick; you have caught on. Come.” +</p> + +<p> +A large smile overspread his face. “So soon! that’s a good +hearing,” said he to himself. “There will be an orgy to-night. +I’ll stand or fall by my luck. Faith, it’s time it came!” He +deposited half of his funds in the hands of his well-known friends Monsieur and +Madame Binat, and ordered himself a Zanzibar dance of the finest. Monsieur +Binat was shaking with drink, but Madame smiles +sympathetically—“Monsieur needs a chair, of course, and of course +Monsieur will sketch; Monsieur amuses himself strangely.” +</p> + +<p> +Binat raised a blue-white face from a cot in the inner room. “I +understand,” he quavered. “We all know Monsieur. Monsieur is an +artist, as I have been.” Dick nodded. “In the end,” said +Binat, with gravity, “Monsieur will descend alive into hell, as I have +descended.” And he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You must come to the dance, too,” said Dick; “I shall want +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“For my face? I knew it would be so. For my face? My God! and for my +degradation so tremendous! I will not. Take him away. He is a devil. Or at +least do thou, Celeste, demand of him more.” The excellent Binat began to +kick and scream. +</p> + +<p> +“All things are for sale in Port Said,” said Madame. “If my +husband comes it will be so much more. Eh, “how you call—’alf +a sovereign.” +</p> + +<p> +The money was paid, and the mad dance was held at night in a walled courtyard +at the back of Madame Binat’s house. The lady herself, in faded mauve +silk always about to slide from her yellow shoulders, played the piano, and to +the tin-pot music of a Western waltz the naked Zanzibari girls danced furiously +by the light of kerosene lamps. Binat sat upon a chair and stared with eyes +that saw nothing, till the whirl of the dance and the clang of the rattling +piano stole into the drink that took the place of blood in his veins, and his +face glistened. Dick took him by the chin brutally and turned that face to the +light. Madame Binat looked over her shoulder and smiled with many teeth. Dick +leaned against the wall and sketched for an hour, till the kerosene lamps began +to smell, and the girls threw themselves panting on the hard-beaten ground. +Then he shut his book with a snap and moved away, Binat plucking feebly at his +elbow. “Show me,” he whimpered. “I too was once an artist, +even I!” Dick showed him the rough sketch. “Am I that?” he +screamed. “Will you take that away with you and show all the world that +it is I,—Binat?” He moaned and wept. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur has paid for all,” said Madame. “To the pleasure of +seeing Monsieur again.” +</p> + +<p> +The courtyard gate shut, and Dick hurried up the sandy street to the nearest +gambling-hell, where he was well known. “If the luck holds, it’s an +omen; if I lose, I must stay here.” He placed his money picturesquely +about the board, hardly daring to look at what he did. The luck held. +</p> + +<p> +Three turns of the wheel left him richer by twenty pounds, and he went down to +the shipping to make friends with the captain of a decayed cargo-steamer, who +landed him in London with fewer pounds in his pocket than he cared to think +about. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +A thin gray fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer +was in England. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a cheerful wilderness, and it hasn’t the knack of +altering much,” Dick thought, as he tramped from the Docks westward. +“Now, what must I do?” +</p> + +<p> +The packed houses gave no answer. Dick looked down the long lightless streets +and at the appalling rush of traffic. “Oh, you rabbit-hutches!” +said he, addressing a row of highly respectable semi-detached residences. +“Do you know what you’ve got to do later on? You have to supply me +with men-servants and maid-servants,”—here he smacked his +lips,—“and the peculiar treasure of kings. Meantime I’ll find +clothes and boots, and presently I will return and trample on you.” He +stepped forward energetically; he saw that one of his shoes was burst at the +side. As he stooped to make investigations, a man jostled him into the gutter. +“All right,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s another nick in the score. I’ll jostle you later +on.” +</p> + +<p> +Good clothes and boots are not cheap, and Dick left his last shop with the +certainty that he would be respectably arrayed for a time, but with only fifty +shillings in his pocket. He returned to streets by the Docks, and lodged +himself in one room, where the sheets on the bed were almost audibly marked in +case of theft, and where nobody seemed to go to bed at all. When his clothes +arrived he sought the Central Southern Syndicate for Torpenhow’s address, +and got it, with the intimation that there was still some money waiting for +him. +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” said Dick, as one who habitually dealt in millions. +</p> + +<p> +“Between thirty and forty pounds. If it would be any convenience to you, +of course we could let you have it at once; but we usually settle accounts +monthly.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I show that I want anything now, I’m lost,” he said to +himself. “All I need I’ll take later on.” Then, aloud, +“It’s hardly worth while; and I’m going to the country for a +month, too. Wait till I come back, and I’ll see about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we trust, Mr. Heldar, that you do not intend to sever your +connection with us?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s business in life was the study of faces, and he watched the +speaker keenly. “That man means something,” he said. +“I’ll do no business till I’ve seen Torpenhow. There’s +a big deal coming.” So he departed, making no promises, to his one little +room by the Docks. And that day was the seventh of the month, and that month, +he reckoned with awful distinctness, had thirty-one days in it! +</p> + +<p> +It is not easy for a man of catholic tastes and healthy appetites to exist for +twenty-four days on fifty shillings. Nor is it cheering to begin the experiment +alone in all the loneliness of London. Dick paid seven shillings a week for his +lodging, which left him rather less than a shilling a day for food and drink. +Naturally, his first purchase was of the materials of his craft; he had been +without them too long. Half a day’s investigations and comparison brought +him to the conclusion that sausages and mashed potatoes, twopence a plate, were +the best food. Now, sausages once or twice a week for breakfast are not +unpleasant. As lunch, even, with mashed potatoes, they become monotonous. At +dinner they are impertinent. At the end of three days Dick loathed sausages, +and, going forth, pawned his watch to revel on sheep’s head, which is not +as cheap as it looks, owing to the bones and the gravy. Then he returned to +sausages and mashed potatoes. Then he confined himself entirely to mashed +potatoes for a day, and was unhappy because of pain in his inside. Then he +pawned his waistcoat and his tie, and thought regretfully of money thrown away +in times past. There are few things more edifying unto Art than the actual +belly-pinch of hunger, and Dick in his few walks abroad,—he did not care +for exercise; it raised desires that could not be satisfied—found himself +dividing mankind into two classes,—those who looked as if they might give +him something to eat, and those who looked otherwise. “I never knew what +I had to learn about the human face before,” he thought; and, as a reward +for his humility, Providence caused a cab-driver at a sausage-shop where Dick +fed that night to leave half eaten a great chunk of bread. Dick took +it,—would have fought all the world for its possession,—and it +cheered him. +</p> + +<p> +The month dragged through at last, and, nearly prancing with impatience, he +went to draw his money. Then he hastened to Torpenhow’s address and smelt +the smell of cooking meats all along the corridors of the chambers. Torpenhow +was on the top floor, and Dick burst into his room, to be received with a hug +which nearly cracked his ribs, as Torpenhow dragged him to the light and spoke +of twenty different things in the same breath. +</p> + +<p> +“But you’re looking tucked up,” he concluded. +</p> + +<p> +“Got anything to eat?” said Dick, his eye roaming round the room. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be having breakfast in a minute. What do you say to +sausages?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, anything but sausages! Torp, I’ve been starving on that +accursed horse-flesh for thirty days and thirty nights.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what lunacy has been your latest?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick spoke of the last few weeks with unbridled speech. Then he opened his +coat; there was no waistcoat below. “I ran it fine, awfully fine, but +I’ve just scraped through.” +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t much sense, but you’ve got a backbone, anyhow. +Eat, and talk afterwards.” Dick fell upon eggs and bacon and gorged till +he could gorge no more. Torpenhow handed him a filled pipe, and he smoked as +men smoke who for three weeks have been deprived of good tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +“Ouf!” said he. “That’s heavenly! Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why in the world didn’t you come to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t; I owe you too much already, old man. Besides I had a +sort of superstition that this temporary starvation—that’s what it +was, and it hurt—would bring me luck later. It’s over and done with +now, and none of the syndicate know how hard up I was. Fire away. What’s +the exact state of affairs as regards myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“You had my wire? You’ve caught on here. People like your work +immensely. I don’t know why, but they do. They say you have a fresh touch +and a new way of drawing things. And, because they’re chiefly home-bred +English, they say you have insight. You’re wanted by half a dozen papers; +you’re wanted to illustrate books.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick grunted scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re wanted to work up your smaller sketches and sell them to +the dealers. They seem to think the money sunk in you is a good investment. +</p> + +<p> +Good Lord! who can account for the fathomless folly of the public?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re a remarkably sensible people.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are subject to fits, if that’s what you mean; and you happen +to be the object of the latest fit among those who are interested in what they +call Art. Just now you’re a fashion, a phenomenon, or whatever you +please. I appeared to be the only person who knew anything about you here, and +I have been showing the most useful men a few of the sketches you gave me from +time to time. Those coming after your work on the Central Southern Syndicate +appear to have done your business. You’re in luck.” +</p> + +<p> +“Huh! call it luck! Do call it luck, when a man has been kicking about +the world like a dog, waiting for it to come! I’ll luck ’em later +on. I want a place to work first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come here,” said Torpenhow, crossing the landing. “This +place is a big box room really, but it will do for you. There’s your +skylight, or your north light, or whatever window you call it, and plenty of +room to thrash about in, and a bedroom beyond. What more do you need?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good enough,” said Dick, looking round the large room that took up +a third of a top story in the rickety chambers overlooking the Thames. A pale +yellow sun shone through the skylight and showed the much dirt of the place. +Three steps led from the door to the landing, and three more to +Torpenhow’s room. The well of the staircase disappeared into darkness, +pricked by tiny gas-jets, and there were sounds of men talking and doors +slamming seven flights below, in the warm gloom. +</p> + +<p> +“Do they give you a free hand here?” said Dick, cautiously. He was +Ishmael enough to know the value of liberty. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything you like; latch-keys and license unlimited. We are permanent +tenants for the most part here. ’Tisn’t a place I would recommend +for a Young Men’s Christian Association, but it will serve. I took these +rooms for you when I wired.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a great deal too kind, old man.” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t suppose you were going away from me, did you?” +Torpenhow put his hand on Dick’s shoulder, and the two walked up and down +the room, henceforward to be called the studio, in sweet and silent communion. +They heard rapping at Torpenhow’s door. “That’s some ruffian +come up for a drink,” said Torpenhow; and he raised his voice cheerily. +There entered no one more ruffianly than a portly middle-aged gentleman in a +satin-faced frockcoat. His lips were parted and pale, and there were deep +pouches under the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Weak heart,” said Dick to himself, and, as he shook hands, +“very weak heart. His pulse is shaking his fingers.” +</p> + +<p> +The man introduced himself as the head of the Central Southern Syndicate and +“one of the most ardent admirers of your work, Mr. Heldar. I assure you, +in the name of the syndicate, that we are immensely indebted to you; and I +trust, Mr. Heldar, you won’t forget that we were largely instrumental in +bringing you before the public.” He panted because of the seven flights +of stairs. +</p> + +<p> +Dick glanced at Torpenhow, whose left eyelid lay for a moment dead on his +cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t forget,” said Dick, every instinct of defence +roused in him. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve paid me so well that I couldn’t, you know. By the +way, when I am settled in this place I should like to send and get my sketches. +There must be nearly a hundred and fifty of them with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is er—is what I came to speak about. I fear we can’t +allow it exactly, Mr. Heldar. In the absence of any specified agreement, the +sketches are our property, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to say that you are going to keep them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and we hope to have your help, on your own terms, Mr. Heldar, to +assist us in arranging a little exhibition, which, backed by our name and the +influence we naturally command among the press, should be of material service +to you. Sketches such as yours——” +</p> + +<p> +“Belong to me. You engaged me by wire, you paid me the lowest rates you +dared. You can’t mean to keep them! Good God alive, man, they’re +all I’ve got in the world!” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow watched Dick’s face and whistled. +</p> + +<p> +Dick walked up and down, thinking. He saw the whole of his little stock in +trade, the first weapon of his equipment, annexed at the outset of his campaign +by an elderly gentleman whose name Dick had not caught aright, who said that he +represented a syndicate, which was a thing for which Dick had not the least +reverence. The injustice of the proceedings did not much move him; he had seen +the strong hand prevail too often in other places to be squeamish over the +moral aspects of right and wrong. +</p> + +<p> +But he ardently desired the blood of the gentleman in the frockcoat, and when +he spoke again, and when he spoke again it was with a strained sweetness that +Torpenhow knew well for the beginning of strife. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, sir, but you have no—no younger man who can arrange +this business with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I speak for the syndicate. I see no reason for a third party +to——” +</p> + +<p> +“You will in a minute. Be good enough to give back my sketches.” +</p> + +<p> +The man stared blankly at Dick, and then at Torpenhow, who was leaning against +the wall. He was not used to ex-employees who ordered him to be good enough to +do things. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is rather a cold-blooded steal,” said Torpenhow, +critically; “but I’m afraid, I am very much afraid, you’ve +struck the wrong man. Be careful, Dick; remember, this isn’t the +Soudan.” +</p> + +<p> +“Considering what services the syndicate have done you in putting your +name before the world——” +</p> + +<p> +This was not a fortunate remark; it reminded Dick of certain vagrant years +lived out in loneliness and strife and unsatisfied desires. The memory did not +contrast well with the prosperous gentleman who proposed to enjoy the fruit of +those years. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know quite what to do with you,” began Dick, +meditatively. “Of course you’re a thief, and you ought to be half +killed, but in your case you’d probably die. I don’t want you dead +on this floor, and, besides, it’s unlucky just as one’s moving in. +Don’t hit, sir; you’ll only excite yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He put one hand on the man’s forearm and ran the other down the plump +body beneath the coat. “My goodness!” said he to Torpenhow, +“and this gray oaf dares to be a thief! I have seen an Esneh camel-driver +have the black hide taken off his body in strips for stealing half a pound of +wet dates, and <i>he</i> was as tough as whipcord. This things’ soft all +over—like a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +There are few things more poignantly humiliating than being handled by a man +who does not intend to strike. The head of the syndicate began to breathe +heavily. Dick walked round him, pawing him, as a cat paws a soft hearth-rug. +Then he traced with his forefinger the leaden pouches underneath the eyes, and +shook his head. “You were going to steal my things,—mine, mine, +mine!—you, who don’t know when you may die. Write a note to your +office,—you say you’re the head of it,—and order them to give +Torpenhow my sketches,—every one of them. Wait a minute: your +hand’s shaking. Now!” He thrust a pocket-book before him. The note +was written. Torpenhow took it and departed without a word, while Dick walked +round and round the spellbound captive, giving him such advice as he conceived +best for the welfare of his soul. When Torpenhow returned with a gigantic +portfolio, he heard Dick say, almost soothingly, “Now, I hope this will +be a lesson to you; and if you worry me when I have settled down to work with +any nonsense about actions for assault, believe me, I’ll catch you and +manhandle you, and you’ll die. You haven’t very long to live, +anyhow. Go! <i>Imshi, Vootsak</i>,—get out!” The man departed, +staggering and dazed. Dick drew a long breath: “Phew! what a lawless lot +these people are! The first thing a poor orphan meets is gang robbery, +organised burglary! Think of the hideous blackness of that man’s mind! +Are my sketches all right, Torp?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; one hundred and forty-seven of them. Well, I <i>must</i> say, Dick, +you’ve begun well.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was interfering with me. It only meant a few pounds to him, but it +was everything to me. I don’t think he’ll bring an action. I gave +him some medical advice gratis about the state of his body. It was cheap at the +little flurry it cost him. Now, let’s look at my things.” +</p> + +<p> +Two minutes later Dick had thrown himself down on the floor and was deep in the +portfolio, chuckling lovingly as he turned the drawings over and thought of the +price at which they had been bought. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon was well advanced when Torpenhow came to the door and saw Dick +dancing a wild saraband under the skylight. +</p> + +<p> +“I builded better than I knew, Torp,” he said, without stopping the +dance. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re good! They’re damned good! They’ll go like +flame! I shall have an exhibition of them on my own brazen hook. And that man +would have cheated me out of it! Do you know that I’m sorry now that I +didn’t actually hit him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go out,” said Torpenhow,—“go out and pray to be +delivered from the sin of arrogance, which you never will be. Bring your things +up from whatever place you’re staying in, and we’ll try to make +this barn a little more shipshape.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then—oh, then,” said Dick, still capering, “we +will spoil the Egyptians!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn,<br /> + When the smoke of the cooking hung gray:<br /> +He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn,<br /> + And he looked to his strength for his prey.<br /> + But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away.<br /> +And he turned from his meal in the villager’s close,<br /> +And he bayed to the moon as she rose.<br /> +<br /> +—<i>In Seonee</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and how does success taste?” said Torpenhow, some three +months later. He had just returned to chambers after a holiday in the country. +</p> + +<p> +“Good,” said Dick, as he sat licking his lips before the easel in +the studio. +</p> + +<p> +“I want more,—heaps more. The lean years have passed, and I approve +of these fat ones.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be careful, old man. That way lies bad work.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair with a small fox-terrier asleep on his +chest, while Dick was preparing a canvas. A dais, a background, and a +lay-figure were the only fixed objects in the place. They rose from a wreck of +oddments that began with felt-covered water-bottles, belts, and regimental +badges, and ended with a small bale of second-hand uniforms and a stand of +mixed arms. The mark of muddy feet on the dais showed that a military model had +just gone away. The watery autumn sunlight was falling, and shadows sat in the +corners of the studio. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Dick, deliberately, “I like the power; I like the +fun; I like the fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the people +who make the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they’re a queer +gang,—an amazingly queer gang!” +</p> + +<p> +“They have been good enough to you, at any rate. That tin-pot exhibition +of your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called it the +‘Wild Work Show’?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my word, I +believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone artist. +</p> + +<p> +I should have got better prices if I worked my things on wool or scratched them +on camel-bone instead of using mere black and white and colour. Verily, they +are a queer gang, these people. Limited isn’t the word to describe +’em. I met a fellow the other day who told me that it was impossible that +shadows on white sand should be blue,—ultramarine,—as they are. I +found out, later, that the man had been as far as Brighton beach; but he knew +all about Art, confound him. He gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me to +go to school to learn technique. I wonder what old Kami would have said to +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“When were you under Kami, man of extraordinary beginnings?” +</p> + +<p> +“I studied with him for two years in Paris. He taught by personal +magnetism. All he ever said was, ‘<i>Continuez, mes enfants</i>,’ +and you had to make the best you could of that. He had a divine touch, and he +knew something about colour. Kami used to dream colour; I swear he could never +have seen the genuine article; but he evolved it; and it was good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Recollect some of those views in the Soudan?” said Torpenhow, with +a provoking drawl. +</p> + +<p> +Dick squirmed in his place. “Don’t! It makes me want to get out +there again. What colour that was! Opal and umber and amber and claret and +brick-red and sulphur—cockatoo-crest—sulphur—against brown, +with a nigger-black rock sticking up in the middle of it all, and a decorative +frieze of camels festooning in front of a pure pale turquoise sky.” He +began to walk up and down. “And yet, you know, if you try to give these +people the thing as God gave it, keyed down to their comprehension and +according to the powers He has given you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Modest man! Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Half a dozen epicene young pagans who haven’t even been to Algiers +will tell you, first, that your notion is borrowed, and, secondly, that it +isn’t Art. +</p> + +<p> +“’This comes of my leaving town for a month. Dickie, you’ve +been promenading among the toy-shops and hearing people talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t help it,” said Dick, penitently. “You +weren’t here, and it was lonely these long evenings. A man can’t +work for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man might have gone to a pub, and got decently drunk.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had; but I forgathered with some men of sorts. They said they +were artists, and I knew some of them could draw,—but they wouldn’t +draw. They gave me tea,—tea at five in the afternoon!—and talked +about Art and the state of their souls. As if their souls mattered. I’ve +heard more about Art and seen less of her in the last six months than in the +whole of my life. Do you remember Cassavetti, who worked for some continental +syndicate, out with the desert column? He was a regular Christmas-tree of +contraptions when he took the field in full fig, with his water-bottle, +lanyard, revolver, writing-case, housewife, gig-lamps, and the Lord knows what +all. He used to fiddle about with ’em and show us how they worked; but he +never seemed to do much except fudge his reports from the Nilghai. See?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear old Nilghai! He’s in town, fatter than ever. He ought to be +up here this evening. I see the comparison perfectly. You should have kept +clear of all that man-millinery. Serves you right; and I hope it will unsettle +your mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“It won’t. It has taught me what Art—holy sacred +Art—means.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve learnt something while I’ve been away. What is +Art?” +</p> + +<p> +“Give ’em what they know, and when you’ve done it once do it +again.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick dragged forward a canvas laid face to the wall. “Here’s a +sample of real Art. It’s going to be a facsimile reproduction for a +weekly. I called it “His Last Shot.” It’s worked up from the +little water-colour I made outside El Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a +beautiful rifleman, up here with drink; I drored him, and I redrored him, and I +redrored him, and I made him a flushed, dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with +his helmet at the back of his head, and the living fear of death in his eye, +and the blood oozing out of a cut over his ankle-bone. He wasn’t pretty, +but he was all soldier and very much man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once more, modest child!” +</p> + +<p> +Dick laughed. “Well, it’s only to you I’m talking. I did him +just as well as I knew how, making allowance for the slickness of oils. Then +the art-manager of that abandoned paper said that his subscribers +wouldn’t like it. It was brutal and coarse and violent,—man being +naturally gentle when he’s fighting for his life. They wanted something +more restful, with a little more colour. I could have said a good deal, but you +might as well talk to a sheep as an art-manager. I took my “Last +Shot” back. Behold the result! I put him into a lovely red coat without a +speck on it. That is Art. I polished his boots,—observe the high light on +the toe. That is Art. I cleaned his rifle,—rifles are always clean on +service,—because that is Art. +</p> + +<p> +I pipeclayed his helmet,—pipeclay is always used on active service, and +is indispensable to Art. I shaved his chin, I washed his hands, and gave him an +air of fatted peace. Result, military tailor’s pattern-plate. Price, +thank Heaven, twice as much as for the first sketch, which was moderately +decent.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you suppose you’re going to give that thing out as your +work?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? I did it. Alone I did it, in the interests of sacred, home-bred +Art and <i>Dickenson’s Weekly</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow smoked in silence for a while. Then came the verdict, delivered from +rolling clouds: “If you were only a mass of blathering vanity, Dick, I +wouldn’t mind,—I’d let you go to the deuce on your own +mahl-stick; but when I consider what you are to me, and when I find that to +vanity you add the twopenny-halfpenny pique of a twelve-year-old girl, then I +bestir myself in your behalf. Thus!” +</p> + +<p> +The canvas ripped as Torpenhow’s booted foot shot through it, and the +terrier jumped down, thinking rats were about. +</p> + +<p> +“If you have any bad language to use, use it. You have not. I continue. +</p> + +<p> +You are an idiot, because no man born of woman is strong enough to take +liberties with his public, even though they be—which they +ain’t—all you say they are.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they don’t know any better. What can you expect from creatures +born and bred in this light?” Dick pointed to the yellow fog. “If +they want furniture-polish, let them have furniture-polish, so long as they pay +for it. +</p> + +<p> +They are only men and women. You talk as if they were gods.” +</p> + +<p> +“That sounds very fine, but it has nothing to do with the case. They are +the people you have to do work for, whether you like it or not. They are your +masters. Don’t be deceived, Dickie, you aren’t strong enough to +trifle with them,—or with yourself, which is more important. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover,—Come back, Binkie: that red daub isn’t going +anywhere,—unless you take precious good care, you will fall under the +damnation of the check-book, and that’s worse than death. You will get +drunk—you’re half drunk already—on easily acquired money. For +that money and your own infernal vanity you are willing to deliberately turn +out bad work. You’ll do quite enough bad work without knowing it. And, +Dickie, as I love you and as I know you love me, I am not going to let you cut +off your nose to spite your face for all the gold in England. That’s +settled. Now swear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know, said Dick. “I’ve been trying to make +myself angry, but I can’t, you’re so abominably reasonable. There +will be a row on <i>Dickenson’s Weekly</i>, I fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why the Dickenson do you want to work on a weekly paper? It’s slow +bleeding of power.” +</p> + +<p> +“It brings in the very desirable dollars,” said Dick, his hands in +his pockets. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow watched him with large contempt. “Why, I thought it was a +man!” said he. “It’s a child.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it isn’t,” said Dick, wheeling quickly. +“You’ve no notion what the certainty of cash means to a man who has +always wanted it badly. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing will pay me for some of my life’s joys; on that Chinese pig-boat, +for instance, when we ate bread and jam for every meal, because Ho-Wang +wouldn’t allow us anything better, and it all tasted of +pig,—Chinese pig. I’ve worked for this, I’ve sweated and +I’ve starved for this, line on line and month after month. And now +I’ve got it I am going to make the most of it while it lasts. Let them +pay—they’ve no knowledge.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does Your Majesty please to want? You can’t smoke more than +you do; you won’t drink; you’re a gross feeder; and you dress in +the dark, by the look of you. You wouldn’t keep a horse the other day +when I suggested, because, you said, it might fall lame, and whenever you cross +the street you take a hansom. Even you are not foolish enough to suppose that +theatres and all the live things you can buy thereabouts mean Life. +</p> + +<p> +What earthly need have you for money?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s there, bless its golden heart,” said Dick. +“It’s there all the time. +</p> + +<p> +Providence has sent me nuts while I have teeth to crack ’em with. I +haven’t yet found the nut I wish to crack, but I’m keeping my teeth +filed. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps some day you and I will go for a walk round the wide earth.” +</p> + +<p> +“With no work to do, nobody to worry us, and nobody to compete with? You +would be unfit to speak to in a week. Besides, I shouldn’t go. I +don’t care to profit by the price of a man’s soul,—for +that’s what it would mean. +</p> + +<p> +Dick, it’s no use arguing. You’re a fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t see it. When I was on that Chinese pig-boat, our captain got +credit for saving about twenty-five thousand very seasick little pigs, when our +old tramp of a steamer fell foul of a timber-junk. Now, taking those pigs as a +parallel——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, confound your parallels! Whenever I try to improve your soul, you +always drag in some anecdote from your very shady past. Pigs aren’t the +British public; and self-respect is self-respect the world over. Go out for a +walk and try to catch some self-respect. And, I say, if the Nilghai comes up +this evening can I show him your diggings?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely. You’ll be asking whether you must knock at my door, +next.” And Dick departed, to take counsel with himself in the rapidly +gathering London fog. +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour after he had left, the Nilghai laboured up the staircase. He was +the chiefest, as he was the youngest, of the war correspondents, and his +experiences dated from the birth of the needle-gun. Saving only his ally, Keneu +the Great War Eagle, there was no man higher in the craft than he, and he +always opened his conversation with the news that there would be trouble in the +Balkans in the spring. Torpenhow laughed as he entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind the trouble in the Balkans. Those little states are always +screeching. You’ve heard about Dick’s luck?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; he has been called up to notoriety, hasn’t he? I hope you +keep him properly humble. He wants suppressing from time to time.” +</p> + +<p> +“He does. He’s beginning to take liberties with what he thinks is +his reputation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Already! By Jove, he <i>has</i> cheek! I don’t know about his +reputation, but he’ll come a cropper if he tries that sort of +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I told him. I don’t think he believes it.” +</p> + +<p> +“They never do when they first start off. What’s that wreck on the +ground there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Specimen of his latest impertinence.” Torpenhow thrust the torn +edges of the canvas together and showed the well-groomed picture to the +Nilghai, who looked at it for a moment and whistled. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a chromo,” said he,—“a +chromo-litholeomargarine fake! What possessed him to do it? And yet how +thoroughly he has caught the note that catches a public who think with their +boots and read with their elbows! The cold-blooded insolence of the work almost +saves it; but he mustn’t go on with this. Hasn’t he been praised +and cockered up too much? You know these people here have no sense of +proportion. They’ll call him a second Detaille and a third-hand +Meissonier while his fashion lasts. It’s windy diet for a colt.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think it affects Dick much. You might as well call a young +wolf a lion and expect him to take the compliment in exchange for a shin-bone. +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s soul is in the bank. He’s working for cash.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now he has thrown up war work, I suppose he doesn’t see that the +obligations of the service are just the same, only the proprietors are +changed.” +</p> + +<p> +“How should he know? He thinks he is his own master.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does he? I could undeceive him for his good, if there’s any virtue +in print. He wants the whiplash.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lay it on with science, then. I’d flay him myself, but I like him +too much.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve no scruples. He had the audacity to try to cut me out with a +woman at Cairo once. I forgot that, but I remember now.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Did</i> he cut you out?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll see when I have dealt with him. But, after all, +what’s the good? Leave him alone and he’ll come home, if he has any +stuff in him, dragging or wagging his tail behind him. There’s more in a +week of life than in a lively weekly. None the less I’ll slate him. +I’ll slate him ponderously in the <i>Cataclysm</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good luck to you; but I fancy nothing short of a crowbar would make Dick +wince. His soul seems to have been fired before we came across him. +</p> + +<p> +He’s intensely suspicious and utterly lawless.” +</p> + +<p> +“Matter of temper,” said the Nilghai. “It’s the same +with horses. Some you wallop and they work, some you wallop and they jib, and +some you wallop and they go out for a walk with their hands in their +pockets.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s exactly what Dick has done,” said Torpenhow. +“Wait till he comes back. In the meantime, you can begin your slating +here. I’ll show you some of his last and worst work in his studio.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick had instinctively sought running water for a comfort to his mood of mind. +He was leaning over the Embankment wall, watching the rush of the Thames +through the arches of Westminster Bridge. He began by thinking of +Torpenhow’s advice, but, as of custom, lost himself in the study of the +faces flocking past. Some had death written on their features, and Dick +marvelled that they could laugh. Others, clumsy and coarse-built for the most +part, were alight with love; others were merely drawn and lined with work; but +there was something, Dick knew, to be made out of them all. The poor at least +should suffer that he might learn, and the rich should pay for the output of +his learning. Thus his credit in the world and his cash balance at the bank +would be increased. So much the better for him. He had suffered. Now he would +take toll of the ills of others. +</p> + +<p> +The fog was driven apart for a moment, and the sun shone, a blood-red wafer, on +the water. Dick watched the spot till he heard the voice of the tide between +the piers die down like the wash of the sea at low tide. A girl hard pressed by +her lover shouted shamelessly, “Ah, get away, you beast!” and a +shift of the same wind that had opened the fog drove across Dick’s face +the black smoke of a river-steamer at her berth below the wall. He was blinded +for the moment, then spun round and found himself face to face +with—Maisie. +</p> + +<p> +There was no mistaking. The years had turned the child to a woman, but they had +not altered the dark-gray eyes, the thin scarlet lips, or the firmly modelled +mouth and chin; and, that all should be as it was of old, she wore a closely +fitting gray dress. +</p> + +<p> +Since the human soul is finite and not in the least under its own command, +Dick, advancing, said “Halloo!” after the manner of schoolboys, and +Maisie answered, “Oh, Dick, is that you?” Then, against his will, +and before the brain newly released from considerations of the cash balance had +time to dictate to the nerves, every pulse of Dick’s body throbbed +furiously and his palate dried in his mouth. The fog shut down again, and +Maisie’s face was pearl-white through it. No word was spoken, but Dick +fell into step at her side, and the two paced the Embankment together, keeping +the step as perfectly as in their afternoon excursions to the mud-flats. Then +Dick, a little hoarsely—“What has happened to Amomma?” +</p> + +<p> +“He died, Dick. Not cartridges; over-eating. He was always greedy. +Isn’t it funny?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye—es. No. This. Where have you come from?” +</p> + +<p> +“Over there,” He pointed eastward through the fog. “And +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m in the north,—the black north, across all the Park. +I am very busy.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I paint a great deal. That’s all I have to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what’s happened? You had three hundred a year.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have that still. I am painting; that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you alone, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a girl living with me. Don’t walk so fast, Dick; +you’re out of step.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you noticed it too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I did. You’re always out of step.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I am. I’m sorry. You went on with the painting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. I said I should. I was at the Slade, then at Merton’s +in<i>St. John’s Wood</i>, the big studio, then I pepper-potted,—I +mean I went to the National,—and now I’m working under Kami.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Kami is in Paris surely?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; he has his teaching studio in Vitry-sur-Marne. I work with him in +the summer, and I live in London in the winter. I’m a householder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you sell much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now and again, but not often. There is my “bus. I must take it or +lose half an hour. Good-bye, Dick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Maisie. Won’t you tell me where you live? I must see you +again; and perhaps I could help you. I—I paint a little myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may be in the Park to-morrow, if there is no working light. I walk +from the Marble Arch down and back again; that is my little excursion. But of +course I shall see you again.” She stepped into the omnibus and was +swallowed up by the fog. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—I—am—damned!” exclaimed Dick, and returned +to the chambers. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow and the Nilghai found him sitting on the steps to the studio door, +repeating the phrase with an awful gravity. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be more damned when I’m done with you,” said +the Nilghai, upheaving his bulk from behind Torpenhow’s shoulder and +waving a sheaf of half-dry manuscript. “Dick, it is of common report that +you are suffering from swelled head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are the Balkans and all the little +Balkans? One side of your face is out of drawing, as usual.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind that. I am commissioned to smite you in print. Torpenhow +refuses from false delicacy. I’ve been overhauling the pot-boilers in +your studio. They are simply disgraceful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oho! that’s it, is it? If you think you can slate me, you’re +wrong. You can only describe, and you need as much room to turn in, on paper, +as a P. and O. cargo-boat. But continue, and be swift. I’m going to +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“H’m! h’m! h’m! The first part only deals with your +pictures. Here’s the peroration: “For work done without conviction, +for power wasted on trivialities, for labour expended with levity for the +deliberate purpose of winning the easy applause of a fashion-driven +public——” “That’s “His Last Shot,” +second edition. Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“——“public, there remains but one end,—the +oblivion that is preceded by toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that +fate Mr. Heldar has yet to prove himself out of danger.”’ +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Wow—wow—wow—wow—wow!</i>” said Dick, +profanely. “It’s a clumsy ending and vile journalese, but +it’s quite true. And yet,”—he sprang to his feet and snatched +at the manuscript,—“you scarred, deboshed, battered old gladiator! +you’re sent out when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, +British public’s bestial thirst for blood. They have no arenas now, but +they must have special correspondents. You’re a fat gladiator who comes +up through a trap-door and talks of what he’s seen. You stand on +precisely the same level as an energetic bishop, an affable actress, a +devastating cyclone, or—mine own sweet self. And you presume to lecture +me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I’d caricature you in +four papers!” +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this. +</p> + +<p> +“As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small—so!” The +manuscript fluttered in slips down the dark well of the staircase. “Go +home, Nilghai,” said Dick; “go home to your lonely little bed, and +leave me in peace. I am about to turn in till to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it isn’t seven yet!” said Torpenhow, with amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“It shall be two in the morning, if I choose,” said Dick, backing +to the studio door. “I go to grapple with a serious crisis, and I +shan’t want any dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +The door shut and was locked. +</p> + +<p> +“What can you do with a man like that?” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave him alone. He’s as mad as a hatter.” +</p> + +<p> +At eleven there was a kicking on the studio door. “Is the Nilghai with +you still?” said a voice from within. “Then tell him he might have +condensed the whole of his lumbering nonsense into an epigram: “Only the +free are bond, and only the bond are free.” Tell him he’s an idiot, +Torp, and tell him I’m another.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. Come out and have supper. You’re smoking on an empty +stomach.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“I have a thousand men,” said he,<br /> + “To wait upon my will,<br /> +And towers nine upon the Tyne,<br /> + And three upon the Till.” <br /> +<br /> +“And what care I for you men,” said she,<br /> + “Or towers from Tyne to Till,<br /> +Sith you must go with me,” she said,<br /> + “To wait upon my will?” <br /> +<br /> +<i>Sir Hoggie and the Fairies</i> +</p> + +<p> +Next morning Torpenhow found Dick sunk in deepest repose of tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, madman, how d’you feel?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had much better do some work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe; but I’m in no hurry. I’ve made a discovery. Torp, +there’s too much Ego in my Cosmos.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not really! Is this revelation due to my lectures, or the +Nilghai’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“It came to me suddenly, all on my own account. Much too much Ego; and +now I’m going to work.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned over a few half-finished sketches, drummed on a new canvas, cleaned +three brushes, set Binkie to bite the toes of the lay figure, rattled through +his collection of arms and accoutrements, and then went out abruptly, declaring +that he had done enough for the day. +</p> + +<p> +“This is positively indecent,” said Torpenhow, “and the first +time that Dick has ever broken up a light morning. Perhaps he has found out +that he has a soul, or an artistic temperament, or something equally valuable. +</p> + +<p> +That comes of leaving him alone for a month. Perhaps he has been going out of +evenings. I must look to this.” He rang for the bald-headed old +housekeeper, whom nothing could astonish or annoy. +</p> + +<p> +“Beeton, did Mr. Heldar dine out at all while I was out of town?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never laid ’is dress-clothes out once, sir, all the time. Mostly +’e dined in; but ’e brought some most remarkable young gentlemen up +’ere after theatres once or twice. Remarkable fancy they was. You +gentlemen on the top floor does very much as you likes, but it do seem to me, +sir, droppin’ a walkin’-stick down five flights o’ stairs +an’ then goin’ down four abreast to pick it up again at half-past +two in the mornin’, singin’, ‘Bring back the whiskey, Willie +darlin’,’—not once or twice, but scores o’ +times,—isn’t charity to the other tenants. What I say is, ‘Do +as you would be done by.’ That’s my motto.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course! of course! I’m afraid the top floor isn’t the +quietest in the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“I make no complaints, sir. I have spoke to Mr. Heldar friendly, +an’ he laughed, an’ did me a picture of the missis that is as good +as a coloured print. It ’asn’t the ’igh shine of a +photograph, but what I say is, ‘Never look a gift-horse in the +mouth.’ Mr. Heldar’s dress-clothes ’aven’t been on him +for weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s all right,” said Torpenhow to himself. +“Orgies are healthy, and Dick has a head of his own, but when it comes to +women making eyes I’m not so certain,—Binkie, never you be a man, +little dorglums. They’re contrary brutes, and they do things without any +reason.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick had turned northward across the Park, but he was walking in the spirit on +the mud-flats with Maisie. He laughed aloud as he remembered the day when he +had decked Amomma’s horns with the ham-frills, and Maisie, white with +rage, had cuffed him. How long those four years seemed in review, and how +closely Maisie was connected with every hour of them! Storm across the sea, and +Maisie in a gray dress on the beach, sweeping her drenched hair out of her eyes +and laughing at the homeward race of the fishing-smacks; hot sunshine on the +mud-flats, and Maisie sniffing scornfully, with her chin in the air; Maisie +flying before the wind that threshed the foreshore and drove the sand like +small shot about her ears; Maisie, very composed and independent, telling lies +to Mrs. Jennett while Dick supported her with coarser perjuries; Maisie picking +her way delicately from stone to stone, a pistol in her hand and her teeth +firm-set; and Maisie in a gray dress sitting on the grass between the mouth of +a cannon and a nodding yellow sea-poppy. The pictures passed before him one by +one, and the last stayed the longest. +</p> + +<p> +Dick was perfectly happy with a quiet peace that was as new to his mind as it +was foreign to his experiences. It never occurred to him that there might be +other calls upon his time than loafing across the Park in the forenoon. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a good working light now,” he said, watching his +shadow placidly. “Some poor devil ought to be grateful for this. And +there’s Maisie.” +</p> + +<p> +She was walking towards him from the Marble Arch, and he saw that no mannerism +of her gait had been changed. It was good to find her still Maisie, and, so to +speak, his next-door neighbour. No greeting passed between them, because there +had been none in the old days. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing out of your studio at this hour?” said Dick, as +one who was entitled to ask. +</p> + +<p> +“Idling. Just idling. I got angry with a chin and scraped it out. Then I +left it in a little heap of paint-chips and came away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know what palette-knifing means. What was the piccy?” +</p> + +<p> +“A fancy head that wouldn’t come right,—horrid thing!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like working over scraped paint when I’m doing +flesh. The grain comes up woolly as the paint dries.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if you scrape properly.” Maisie waved her hand to illustrate +her methods. There was a dab of paint on the white cuff. Dick laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re as untidy as ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“That comes well from you. Look at your own cuff.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, yes! It’s worse than yours. I don’t think +we’ve much altered in anything. Let’s see, though.” He looked +at Maisie critically. The pale blue haze of an autumn day crept between the +tree-trunks of the Park and made a background for the gray dress, the black +velvet toque above the black hair, and the resolute profile. +</p> + +<p> +“No, there’s nothing changed. How good it is! D’you remember +when I fastened your hair into the snap of a hand-bag?” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie nodded, with a twinkle in her eyes, and turned her full face to Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute,” said he. “That mouth is down at the corners +a little. +</p> + +<p> +Who’s been worrying you, Maisie?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one but myself. I never seem to get on with my work, and yet I try +hard enough, and Kami says——” +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>Continuez, mesdemoiselles. Continuez toujours, mes +enfants</i>.’ Kami is depressing. I beg your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s what he says. He told me last summer that I was doing +better and he’d let me exhibit this year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in this place, surely?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not. The Salon.” +</p> + +<p> +“You fly high.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been beating my wings long enough. Where do you exhibit, +Dick?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t exhibit. I sell.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is your line, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you heard?” Dick’s eyes opened. Was this thing +possible? He cast about for some means of conviction. They were not far from +the Marble Arch. “Come up Oxford Street a little and I’ll show +you.” +</p> + +<p> +A small knot of people stood round a print-shop that Dick knew well. +</p> + +<p> +“Some reproduction of my work inside,” he said, with suppressed +triumph. Never before had success tasted so sweet upon the tongue. “You +see the sort of things I paint. D’you like it?” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie looked at the wild whirling rush of a field-battery going into action +under fire. Two artillery-men stood behind her in the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve chucked the off lead-’orse’ said one to the +other. “’E’s tore up awful, but they’re makin’ +good time with the others. That lead-driver drives better nor you, Tom. See +’ow cunnin’ ’e’s nursin’ ’is +’orse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Number Three’ll be off the limber, next jolt,” was the +answer. +</p> + +<p> +“No, ’e won’t. See ’ow ’is foot’s braced +against the iron? ’E’s all right.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick watched Maisie’s face and swelled with joy—fine, rank, vulgar +triumph. She was more interested in the little crowd than in the picture. +</p> + +<p> +That was something that she could understand. +</p> + +<p> +“And I wanted it so! Oh, I did want it so!” she said at last, under +her breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Me,—all me!” said Dick, placidly. “Look at their +faces. It hits ’em. They don’t know what makes their eyes and +mouths open; but I know. And I know my work’s right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I see. Oh, what a thing to have come to one!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come to one, indeed! I had to go out and look for it. What do you +think?” +</p> + +<p> +“I call it success. Tell me how you got it.” +</p> + +<p> +They returned to the Park, and Dick delivered himself of the saga of his own +doings, with all the arrogance of a young man speaking to a woman. +</p> + +<p> +From the beginning he told the tale, the I—I—I’s flashing +through the records as telegraph-poles fly past the traveller. Maisie listened +and nodded her head. The histories of strife and privation did not move her a +hair’s-breadth. At the end of each canto he would conclude, “And +that gave me some notion of handling colour,” or light, or whatever it +might be that he had set out to pursue and understand. He led her breathless +across half the world, speaking as he had never spoken in his life before. +</p> + +<p> +And in the flood-tide of his exaltation there came upon him a great desire to +pick up this maiden who nodded her head and said, “I understand. Go +on,”—to pick her up and carry her away with him, because she was +Maisie, and because she understood, and because she was his right, and a woman +to be desired above all women. +</p> + +<p> +Then he checked himself abruptly. “And so I took all I wanted,” he +said, “and I had to fight for it. Now you tell.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie’s tale was almost as gray as her dress. It covered years of +patient toil backed by savage pride that would not be broken though dealers +laughed, and fogs delayed work, and Kami was unkind and even sarcastic, and +girls in other studios were painfully polite. It had a few bright spots, in +pictures accepted at provincial exhibitions, but it wound up with the oft +repeated wail, “And so you see, Dick, I had no success, though I worked +so hard.” +</p> + +<p> +Then pity filled Dick. Even thus had Maisie spoken when she could not hit the +breakwater, half an hour before she had kissed him. And that had happened +yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll tell you something, if +you’ll believe it.” The words were shaping themselves of their own +accord. “The whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel, isn’t worth one +big yellow sea-poppy below Fort Keeling.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie flushed a little. “It’s all very well for you to talk, but +you’ve had the success and I haven’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me talk, then. I know you’ll understand. Maisie, dear, it +sounds a bit absurd, but those ten years never existed, and I’ve come +back again. It really is just the same. Can’t you see? You’re alone +now and I’m alone. +</p> + +<p> +What’s the use of worrying? Come to me instead, darling.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie poked the gravel with her parasol. They were sitting on a bench. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” she said slowly. “But I’ve got my work +to do, and I must do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do it with me, then, dear. I won’t interrupt.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I couldn’t. It’s my +work,—mine,—mine,—mine! I’ve been alone all my life in +myself, and I’m not going to belong to anybody except myself. I remember +things as well as you do, but that doesn’t count. We were babies then, +and we didn’t know what was before us. Dick, don’t be selfish. I +think I see my way to a little success next year. Don’t take it away from +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, darling. It’s my fault for speaking stupidly. I +can’t expect you to throw up all your life just because I’m back. +I’ll go to my own place and wait a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Dick, I don’t want you to—go—out of—my +life, now you’ve just come back.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m at your orders; forgive me.” Dick devoured the troubled +little face with his eyes. There was triumph in them, because he could not +conceive that Maisie should refuse sooner or later to love him, since he loved +her. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s wrong of me,” said Maisie, more slowly than before; +“it’s wrong and selfish; but, oh, I’ve been so lonely! No, +you misunderstand. Now I’ve seen you again,—it’s absurd, but +I want to keep you in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Naturally. We belong.” +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t; but you always understood me, and there is so much in my +work that you could help me in. You know things and the ways of doing things. +You must.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, I fancy, or else I don’t know myself. Then you won’t +care to lose sight of me altogether, and—you want me to help you in your +work?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but remember, Dick, nothing will ever come of it. That’s why +I feel so selfish. Can’t things stay as they are? I do want your +help.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall have it. But let’s consider. I must see your pics first, +and overhaul your sketches, and find out about your tendencies. You should see +what the papers say about my tendencies! Then I’ll give you good advice, +and you shall paint according. Isn’t that it, Maisie?” +</p> + +<p> +Again there was triumph in Dick’s eye. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s too good of you,—much too good. Because you are +consoling yourself with what will never happen, and I know that, and yet I want +to keep you. Don’t blame me later, please.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going into the matter with my eyes open. Moreover the Queen +can do no wrong. It isn’t your selfishness that impresses me. It’s +your audacity in proposing to make use of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! You’re only Dick,—and a print-shop.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good: that’s all I am. But, Maisie, you believe, don’t +you, that I love you? I don’t want you to have any false notions about +brothers and sisters.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie looked up for a moment and dropped her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s absurd, but—I believe. I wish I could send you away +before you get angry with me. But—but the girl that lives with me is +red-haired, and an impressionist, and all our notions clash.” +</p> + +<p> +“So do ours, I think. Never mind. Three months from to-day we shall be +laughing at this together.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie shook her head mournfully. “I knew you wouldn’t understand, +and it will only hurt you more when you find out. Look at my face, Dick, and +tell me what you see.” +</p> + +<p> +They stood up and faced each other for a moment. The fog was gathering, and it +stifled the roar of the traffic of London beyond the railings. Dick brought all +his painfully acquired knowledge of faces to bear on the eyes, mouth, and chin +underneath the black velvet toque. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the same Maisie, and it’s the same me,” he said. +“We’ve both nice little wills of our own, and one or other of us +has to be broken. Now about the future. I must come and see your pictures some +day,—I suppose when the red-haired girl is on the premises.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sundays are my best times. You must come on Sundays. There are such +heaps of things I want to talk about and ask your advice about. Now I must get +back to work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Try to find out before next Sunday what I am,” said Dick. +“Don’t take my word for anything I’ve told you. Good-bye, +darling, and bless you.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie stole away like a little gray mouse. Dick watched her till she was out +of sight, but he did not hear her say to herself, very soberly, +“I’m a wretch,—a horrid, selfish wretch. But it’s Dick, +and Dick will understand.” +</p> + +<p> +No one has yet explained what actually happens when an irresistible force meets +the immovable post, though many have thought deeply, even as Dick thought. He +tried to assure himself that Maisie would be led in a few weeks by his mere +presence and discourse to a better way of thinking. Then he remembered much too +distinctly her face and all that was written on it. +</p> + +<p> +“If I know anything of heads,” he said, “there’s +everything in that face but love. I shall have to put that in myself; and that +chin and mouth won’t be won for nothing. But she’s right. She knows +what she wants, and she’s going to get it. What insolence! Me! Of all the +people in the wide world, to use me! But then she’s Maisie. There’s +no getting over that fact; and it’s good to see her again. This business +must have been simmering at the back of my head for years.... She’ll use +me as I used Binat at Port Said. +</p> + +<p> +She’s quite right. It will hurt a little. I shall have to see her every +Sunday,—like a young man courting a housemaid. She’s sure to come +around; and yet—that mouth isn’t a yielding mouth. I shall be +wanting to kiss her all the time, and I shall have to look at her +pictures,—I don’t even know what sort of work she does +yet,—and I shall have to talk about Art,—Woman’s Art! +Therefore, particularly and perpetually, damn all varieties of Art. It did me a +good turn once, and now it’s in my way. I’ll go home and do some +Art.” +</p> + +<p> +Half-way to the studio, Dick was smitten with a terrible thought. The figure of +a solitary woman in the fog suggested it. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s all alone in London, with a red-haired impressionist girl, +who probably has the digestion of an ostrich. Most red-haired people have. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie’s a bilious little body. They’ll eat like lone +women,—meals at all hours, and tea with all meals. I remember how the +students in Paris used to pig along. She may fall ill at any minute, and I +shan’t be able to help. +</p> + +<p> +Whew! this is ten times worse than owning a wife.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow entered the studio at dusk, and looked at Dick with eyes full of the +austere love that springs up between men who have tugged at the same oar +together and are yoked by custom and use and the intimacies of toil. This is a +good love, and, since it allows, and even encourages, strife, recrimination, +and brutal sincerity, does not die, but grows, and is proof against any absence +and evil conduct. +</p> + +<p> +Dick was silent after he handed Torpenhow the filled pipe of council. He +thought of Maisie and her possible needs. It was a new thing to think of +anybody but Torpenhow, who could think for himself. Here at last was an outlet +for that cash balance. He could adorn Maisie barbarically with jewelry,—a +thick gold necklace round that little neck, bracelets upon the rounded arms, +and rings of price upon her hands,—the cool, temperate, ringless hands +that he had taken between his own. It was an absurd thought, for Maisie would +not even allow him to put one ring on one finger, and she would laugh at golden +trappings. It would be better to sit with her quietly in the dusk, his arm +around her neck and her face on his shoulder, as befitted husband and wife. +Torpenhow’s boots creaked that night, and his strong voice jarred. +Dick’s brows contracted and he murmured an evil word because he had taken +all his success as a right and part payment for past discomfort, and now he was +checked in his stride by a woman who admitted all the success and did not +instantly care for him. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, old man,” said Torpenhow, who had made one or two vain +attempts at conversation, “I haven’t put your back up by anything +I’ve said lately, have I?” +</p> + +<p> +“You! No. How could you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Liver out of order?” +</p> + +<p> +“The truly healthy man doesn’t know he has a liver. I’m only +a bit worried about things in general. I suppose it’s my soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“The truly healthy man doesn’t know he has a soul. What business +have you with luxuries of that kind?” +</p> + +<p> +“It came of itself. Who’s the man that says that we’re all +islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s right, whoever he is,—except about the +misunderstanding. I don’t think we could misunderstand each other.” +</p> + +<p> +The blue smoke curled back from the ceiling in clouds. Then Torpenhow, +insinuatingly—“Dick, is it a woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Be hanged if it’s anything remotely resembling a woman; and if you +begin to talk like that, I’ll hire a red-brick studio with white paint +trimmings, and begonias and petunias and blue Hungarias to play among +three-and-sixpenny pot-palms, and I’ll mount all my pics in aniline-dye +plush plasters, and I’ll invite every woman who maunders over what her +guide-books tell her is Art, and you shall receive ’em, Torp,—in a +snuff-brown velvet coat with yellow trousers and an orange tie. You’ll +like that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Too thin, Dick. A better man than you once denied with cursing and +swearing. You’ve overdone it, just as he did. It’s no business of +mine, of course, but it’s comforting to think that somewhere under the +stars there’s saving up for you a tremendous thrashing. Whether +it’ll come from heaven or earth, I don’t know, but it’s bound +to come and break you up a little. You want hammering.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick shivered. “All right,” said he. “When this island is +disintegrated, it will call for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall come round the corner and help to disintegrate it some more. +</p> + +<p> +We’re talking nonsense. Come along to a theatre.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“And you may lead a thousand men,<br /> + Nor ever draw the rein,<br /> +But ere ye lead the Faery Queen<br /> + ’Twill burst your heart in twain.” <br /> +<br /> +He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar,<br /> + The bridle from his hand,<br /> +And he is bound by hand and foot<br /> + To the Queen o’ Faery-land.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Sir Hoggie and the Fairies</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Some weeks later, on a very foggy Sunday, Dick was returning across the Park to +his studio. “This,” he said, “is evidently the thrashing that +Torp meant. It hurts more than I expected; but the Queen can do no wrong; and +she certainly has some notion of drawing.” +</p> + +<p> +He had just finished a Sunday visit to Maisie,—always under the green +eyes of the red-haired impressionist girl, whom he learned to hate at +sight,—and was tingling with a keen sense of shame. Sunday after Sunday, +putting on his best clothes, he had walked over to the untidy house north of +the Park, first to see Maisie’s pictures, and then to criticise and +advise upon them as he realised that they were productions on which advice +would not be wasted. Sunday after Sunday, and his love grew with each visit, he +had been compelled to cram his heart back from between his lips when it +prompted him to kiss Maisie several times and very much indeed. Sunday after +Sunday, the head above the heart had warned him that Maisie was not yet +attainable, and that it would be better to talk as connectedly as possible upon +the mysteries of the craft that was all in all to her. Therefore it was his +fate to endure weekly torture in the studio built out over the clammy back +garden of a frail stuffy little villa where nothing was ever in its right place +and nobody every called,—to endure and to watch Maisie moving to and fro +with the teacups. He abhorred tea, but, since it gave him a little longer time +in her presence, he drank it devoutly, and the red-haired girl sat in an untidy +heap and eyed him without speaking. She was always watching him. +</p> + +<p> +Once, and only once, when she had left the studio, Maisie showed him an album +that held a few poor cuttings from provincial papers,—the briefest of +hurried notes on some of her pictures sent to outlying exhibitions. Dick +stooped and kissed the paint-smudged thumb on the open page. “Oh, my +love, my love,” he muttered, “do you value these things? Chuck +’em into the waste-paper basket!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not till I get something better,” said Maisie, shutting the book. +</p> + +<p> +Then Dick, moved by no respect for his public and a very deep regard for the +maiden, did deliberately propose, in order to secure more of these coveted +cuttings, that he should paint a picture which Maisie should sign. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s childish,” said Maisie, “and I didn’t +think it of you. It must be my work. Mine,—mine,—mine!” +</p> + +<p> +“Go and design decorative medallions for rich brewers’ houses. You +are thoroughly good at that.” Dick was sick and savage. +</p> + +<p> +“Better things than medallions, Dick,” was the answer, in tones +that recalled a gray-eyed atom’s fearless speech to Mrs. Jennett. Dick +would have abased himself utterly, but that other girl trailed in. +</p> + +<p> +Next Sunday he laid at Maisie’s feet small gifts of pencils that could +almost draw of themselves and colours in whose permanence he believed, and he +was ostentatiously attentive to the work in hand. It demanded, among other +things, an exposition of the faith that was in him. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow’s hair would have stood on end had he heard the fluency with +which Dick preached his own gospel of Art. +</p> + +<p> +A month before, Dick would have been equally astonished; but it was +Maisie’s will and pleasure, and he dragged his words together to make +plain to her comprehension all that had been hidden to himself of the whys and +wherefores of work. There is not the least difficulty in doing a thing if you +only know how to do it; the trouble is to explain your method. +</p> + +<p> +“I could put this right if I had a brush in my hand,” said Dick, +despairingly, over the modelling of a chin that Maisie complained would not +“look flesh,”—it was the same chin that she had scraped out +with the palette knife,—“but I find it almost impossible to teach +you. There’s a queer grim, Dutch touch about your painting that I like; +but I’ve a notion that you’re weak in drawing. You foreshorten as +though you never used the model, and you’ve caught Kami’s pasty way +of dealing with flesh in shadow. Then, again, though you don’t know it +yourself, you shirk hard work. Suppose you spend some of your time on line +alone. Line doesn’t allow of shirking. Oils do, and three square inches +of flashy, tricky stuff in the corner of a pic sometimes carry a bad thing +off,—as I know. That’s immoral. Do line-work for a little while, +and then I can tell more about your powers, as old Kami used to say.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie protested; she did not care for the pure line. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” said Dick. “You want to do your fancy heads with a +bunch of flowers at the base of the neck to hide bad modelling.” The +red-haired girl laughed a little. “You want to do landscapes with cattle +knee-deep in grass to hide bad drawing. You want to do a great deal more than +you can do. You have sense of colour, but you want form. Colour’s a +gift,—put it aside and think no more about it,—but form you can be +drilled into. +</p> + +<p> +Now, all your fancy heads—and some of them are very good—will keep +you exactly where you are. With line you must go forward or backward, and it +will show up all your weaknesses.” +</p> + +<p> +“But other people——” began Maisie. +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t mind what other people do. If their souls were your +soul, it would be different. You stand and fall by your own work, remember, and +it’s waste of time to think of any one else in this battle.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick paused, and the longing that had been so resolutely put away came back +into his eyes. He looked at Maisie, and the look asked as plainly as words, Was +it not time to leave all this barren wilderness of canvas and counsel and join +hands with Life and Love? +</p> + +<p> +Maisie assented to the new programme of schooling so adorably that Dick could +hardly restrain himself from picking her up then and there and carrying her off +to the nearest registrar’s office. It was the implicit obedience to the +spoken word and the blank indifference to the unspoken desire that baffled and +buffeted his soul. He held authority in that house,—authority limited, +indeed, to one-half of one afternoon in seven, but very real while it lasted. +Maisie had learned to appeal to him on many subjects, from the proper packing +of pictures to the condition of a smoky chimney. The red-haired girl never +consulted him about anything. +</p> + +<p> +On the other hand, she accepted his appearances without protest, and watched +him always. He discovered that the meals of the establishment were irregular +and fragmentary. They depended chiefly on tea, pickles, and biscuit, as he had +suspected from the beginning. The girls were supposed to market week and week +about, but they lived, with the help of a charwoman, as casually as the young +ravens. Maisie spent most of her income on models, and the other girl revelled +in apparatus as refined as her work was rough. Armed with knowledge, +dear-bought from the Docks, Dick warned Maisie that the end of semi-starvation +meant the crippling of power to work, which was considerably worse than death. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie took the warning, and gave more thought to what she ate and drank. When +his trouble returned upon him, as it generally did in the long winter +twilights, the remembrance of that little act of domestic authority and his +coercion with a hearth-brush of the smoky drawing-room chimney stung Dick like +a whip-lash. +</p> + +<p> +He conceived that this memory would be the extreme of his sufferings, till one +Sunday, the red-haired girl announced that she would make a study of +Dick’s head, and that he would be good enough to sit still, +and—quite as an afterthought—look at Maisie. He sat, because he +could not well refuse, and for the space of half an hour he reflected on all +the people in the past whom he had laid open for the purposes of his own craft. +He remembered Binat most distinctly,—that Binat who had once been an +artist and talked about degradation. +</p> + +<p> +It was the merest monochrome roughing in of a head, but it presented the dumb +waiting, the longing, and, above all, the hopeless enslavement of the man, in a +spirit of bitter mockery. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll buy it,” said Dick, promptly, “at your own +price.” +</p> + +<p> +“My price is too high, but I dare say you’ll be as grateful +if——” The wet sketch, fluttered from the girl’s hand +and fell into the ashes of the studio stove. When she picked it up it was +hopelessly smudged. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s all spoiled!” said Maisie. “And I never saw +it. Was it like?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Dick under his breath to the red-haired girl, and +he removed himself swiftly. +</p> + +<p> +“How that man hates me!” said the girl. “And how he loves +you, Maisie!” +</p> + +<p> +“What nonsense? I knew Dick’s very fond of me, but he had his work +to do, and I have mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he is fond of you, and I think he knows there is something in +impressionism, after all. Maisie, can’t you see?” +</p> + +<p> +“See? See what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing; only, I know that if I could get any man to look at me as that +man looks at you, I’d—I don’t know what I’d do. But he +hates me. Oh, how he hates me!” +</p> + +<p> +She was not altogether correct. Dick’s hatred was tempered with gratitude +for a few moments, and then he forgot the girl entirely. Only the sense of +shame remained, and he was nursing it across the Park in the fog. +“There’ll be an explosion one of these days,” he said +wrathfully. “But it isn’t Maisie’s fault; she’s right, +quite right, as far as she knows, and I can’t blame her. This business +has been going on for three months nearly. +</p> + +<p> +Three months!—and it cost me ten years’ knocking about to get at +the notion, the merest raw notion, of my work. That’s true; but then I +didn’t have pins, drawing-pins, and palette-knives, stuck into me every +Sunday. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, my little darling, if ever I break you, somebody will have a very bad time +of it. No, she won’t. I’d be as big a fool about her as I am now. +I’ll poison that red-haired girl on my wedding-day,—she’s +unwholesome,—and now I’ll pass on these present bad times to +Torp.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow had been moved to lecture Dick more than once lately on the sin of +levity, and Dick had listened and replied not a word. In the weeks between the +first few Sundays of his discipline he had flung himself savagely into his +work, resolved that Maisie should at least know the full stretch of his powers. +Then he had taught Maisie that she must not pay the least attention to any work +outside her own, and Maisie had obeyed him all too well. She took his counsels, +but was not interested in his pictures. +</p> + +<p> +“Your things smell of tobacco and blood,” she said once. +“Can’t you do anything except soldiers?” +</p> + +<p> +“I could do a head of you that would startle you,” thought +Dick,—this was before the red-haired girl had brought him under the +guillotine,—but he only said, “I am very sorry,” and harrowed +Torpenhow’s soul that evening with blasphemies against Art. Later, +insensibly and to a large extent against his own will, he ceased to interest +himself in his own work. +</p> + +<p> +For Maisie’s sake, and to soothe the self-respect that it seemed to him +he lost each Sunday, he would not consciously turn out bad stuff, but, since +Maisie did not care even for his best, it were better not to do anything at all +save wait and mark time between Sunday and Sunday. Torpenhow was disgusted as +the weeks went by fruitless, and then attacked him one Sunday evening when Dick +felt utterly exhausted after three hours’ biting self-restraint in +Maisie’s presence. There was Language, and Torpenhow withdrew to consult +the Nilghai, who had come in to talk continental politics. +</p> + +<p> +“Bone-idle, is he? Careless, and touched in the temper?” said the +Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t worth worrying over. Dick is probably playing the fool +with a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t that bad enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. She may throw him out of gear and knock his work to pieces for a +while. She may even turn up here some day and make a scene on the staircase: +one never knows. But until Dick speaks of his own accord you had better not +touch him. He is no easy-tempered man to handle.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I wish he were. He is such an aggressive, cocksure, you-be-damned +fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll get that knocked out of him in time. He must learn that he +can’t storm up and down the world with a box of moist tubes and a slick +brush. +</p> + +<p> +You’re fond of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d take any punishment that’s in store for him if I could; +but the worst of it is, no man can save his brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, and the worser of it is, there is no discharge in this war. Dick +must learn his lesson like the rest of us. Talking of war, there’ll be +trouble in the Balkans in the spring.” +</p> + +<p> +“That trouble is long coming. I wonder if we could drag Dick out there +when it comes off?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick entered the room soon afterwards, and the question was put to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Not good enough,” he said shortly. “I’m too +comf’y where I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you aren’t taking all the stuff in the papers +seriously?” said the Nilghai. “Your vogue will be ended in less +than six months,—the public will know your touch and go on to something +new,—and where will you be then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, in England.” +</p> + +<p> +“When you might be doing decent work among us out there? Nonsense! I +shall go, the Keneu will be there, Torp will be there, Cassavetti will be +there, and the whole lot of us will be there, and we shall have as much as ever +we can do, with unlimited fighting and the chance for you of seeing things that +would make the reputation of three Verestchagins.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” said Dick, pulling at his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“You prefer to stay here and imagine that all the world is gaping at your +pictures? Just think how full an average man’s life is of his own +pursuits and pleasures. When twenty thousand of him find time to look up +between mouthfuls and grunt something about something they aren’t the +least interested in, the net result is called fame, reputation, or notoriety, +according to the taste and fancy of the speller my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that as well as you do. Give me credit for a little +gumption.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be hanged if I do!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Be</i> hanged, then; you probably will be,—for a spy, by +excited Turks. Heigh-ho! I’m weary, dead weary, and virtue has gone out +of me.” Dick dropped into a chair, and was fast asleep in a minute. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a bad sign,” said the Nilghai, in an undertone. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow picked the pipe from the waistcoat where it was beginning to burn, +and put a pillow behind the head. “We can’t help; we can’t +help,” he said. “It’s a good ugly sort of old cocoanut, and +I’m fond of it. There’s the scar of the wipe he got when he was cut +over in the square.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shouldn’t wonder if that has made him a trifle mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should. He’s a most businesslike madman.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Dick began to snore furiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, here, no affection can stand this sort of thing. Wake up, Dick, and +go and sleep somewhere else, if you intend to make a noise about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“When a cat has been out on the tiles all night,” said the Nilghai, +in his beard, “I notice that she usually sleeps all day. This is natural +history.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick staggered away rubbing his eyes and yawning. In the night-watches he was +overtaken with an idea, so simple and so luminous that he wondered he had never +conceived it before. It was full of craft. He would seek Maisie on a +week-day,—would suggest an excursion, and would take her by train to Fort +Keeling, over the very ground that they two had trodden together ten years ago. +</p> + +<p> +“As a general rule,” he explained to his chin-lathered reflection +in the morning, “it isn’t safe to cross an old trail twice. Things +remind one of things, and a cold wind gets up, and you feel sad; but this is an +exception to every rule that ever was. I’ll go to Maisie at once.” +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately, the red-haired girl was out shopping when he arrived, and Maisie +in a paint-spattered blouse was warring with her canvas. She was not pleased to +see him; for week-day visits were a stretch of the bond; and it needed all his +courage to explain his errand. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you’ve been working too hard,” he concluded, with an +air of authority. “If you do that, you’ll break down. You had much +better come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” said Maisie, wearily. She had been standing before her +easel too long, and was very tired. +</p> + +<p> +“Anywhere you please. We’ll take a train to-morrow and see where it +stops. We’ll have lunch somewhere, and I’ll bring you back in the +evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“If there’s a good working light to-morrow, I lose a day.” +Maisie balanced the heavy white chestnut palette irresolutely. +</p> + +<p> +Dick bit back an oath that was hurrying to his lips. He had not yet learned +patience with the maiden to whom her work was all in all. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll lose ever so many more, dear, if you use every hour of +working light. Overwork’s only murderous idleness. Don’t be +unreasonable. I’ll call for you to-morrow after breakfast early.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely you are going to ask——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not. I want you and nobody else. Besides, she hates me as much +as I hate her. She won’t care to come. To-morrow, then; and pray that we +get sunshine.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick went away delighted, and by consequence did no work whatever. +</p> + +<p> +He strangled a wild desire to order a special train, but bought a great gray +kangaroo cloak lined with glossy black marten, and then retired into himself to +consider things. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going out for the day to-morrow with Dick,” said Maisie +to the red-haired girl when the latter returned, tired, from marketing in the +Edgware road. +</p> + +<p> +“He deserves it. I shall have the studio floor thoroughly scrubbed while +you’re away. It’s very dirty.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie had enjoyed no sort of holiday for months and looked forward to the +little excitement, but not without misgivings. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nobody nicer than Dick when he talks sensibly, she +thought, but I’m sure he’ll be silly and worry me, and I’m +sure I can’t tell him anything he’d like to hear. If he’d +only be sensible, I should like him so much better.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s eyes were full of joy when he made his appearance next morning and +saw Maisie, gray-ulstered and black-velvet-hatted, standing in the hallway. +Palaces of marble, and not sordid imitation of grained wood, were surely the +fittest background for such a divinity. The red-haired girl drew her into the +studio for a moment and kissed her hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie’s eyebrows climbed to the top of her forehead; she was altogether +unused to these demonstrations. “Mind my hat,” she said, hurrying +away, and ran down the steps to Dick waiting by the hansom. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you quite warm enough! Are you sure you wouldn’t like some +more breakfast? Put the cloak over you knees.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m quite comf’y, thanks. Where are we going, Dick? Oh, do +stop singing like that. People will think we’re mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let ’em think,—if the exertion doesn’t kill them. They +don’t know who we are, and I’m sure I don’t care who they +are. My faith, Maisie, you’re looking lovely!” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie stared directly in front of her and did not reply. The wind of a keen +clear winter morning had put colour into her cheeks. Overhead, the +creamy-yellow smoke-clouds were thinning away one by one against a pale-blue +sky, and the improvident sparrows broke off from water-spout committees and +cab-rank cabals to clamour of the coming of spring. +</p> + +<p> +“It will be lovely weather in the country,” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“But where are we going?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait and see.” +</p> + +<p> +They stopped at Victoria, and Dick sought tickets. For less than half the +fraction of an instant it occurred to Maisie, comfortably settled by the +waiting-room fire, that it was much more pleasant to send a man to the +booking-office than to elbow one’s own way through the crowd. Dick put +her into a Pullman,—solely on account of the warmth there; and she +regarded the extravagance with grave scandalised eyes as the train moved out +into the country. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I knew where we are going,” she repeated for the twentieth +time. +</p> + +<p> +The name of a well-remembered station flashed by, towards the end of the run, +and Maisie was delighted. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Dick, you villain!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I thought you might like to see the place again. You haven’t +been here since the old times, have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I never cared to see Mrs. Jennett again; and she was all that was +ever there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite. Look out a minute. There’s the windmill above the +potato-fields; they haven’t built villas there yet; d’you remember +when I shut you up in it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. How she beat you for it! I never told it was you.” +</p> + +<p> +“She guessed. I jammed a stick under the door and told you that I was +burying Amomma alive in the potatoes, and you believed me. You had a trusting +nature in those days.” +</p> + +<p> +They laughed and leaned to look out, identifying ancient landmarks with many +reminiscences. Dick fixed his weather eye on the curve of Maisie’s cheek, +very near his own, and watched the blood rise under the clear skin. He +congratulated himself upon his cunning, and looked that the evening would bring +him a great reward. +</p> + +<p> +When the train stopped they went out to look at an old town with new eyes. +First, but from a distance, they regarded the house of Mrs. Jennett. +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose she should come out now, what would you do?” said Dick, +with mock terror. +</p> + +<p> +“I should make a face.” +</p> + +<p> +“Show, then,” said Dick, dropping into the speech of childhood. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie made that face in the direction of the mean little villa, and Dick +laughed. +</p> + +<p> +““This is disgraceful,”’ said Maisie, mimicking Mrs. +Jennett’s tone. +</p> + +<p> +““Maisie, you run in at once, and learn the collect, gospel, and +epistle for the next three Sundays. After all I’ve taught you, too, and +three helps every Sunday at dinner! Dick’s always leading you into +mischief. If you aren’t a gentleman, Dick, you might at +least—“’ +</p> + +<p> +The sentence ended abruptly. Maisie remembered when it had last been used. +</p> + +<p> +““Try to behave like one,”’ said Dick, promptly. +“Quite right. Now we’ll get some lunch and go on to Fort +Keeling,—unless you’d rather drive there?” +</p> + +<p> +“We must walk, out of respect to the place. How little changed it all +is!” +</p> + +<p> +They turned in the direction of the sea through unaltered streets, and the +influence of old things lay upon them. Presently they passed a +confectioner’s shop much considered in the days when their joint +pocket-money amounted to a shilling a week. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, have you any pennies?” said Maisie, half to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Only three; and if you think you’re going to have two of ’em +to buy peppermints with, you’re wrong. She says peppermints aren’t +ladylike.” +</p> + +<p> +Again they laughed, and again the colour came into Maisie’s cheeks as the +blood boiled through Dick’s heart. After a large lunch they went down to +the beach and to Fort Keeling across the waste, wind-bitten land that no +builder had thought it worth his while to defile. The winter breeze came in +from the sea and sang about their ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Maisie,” said Dick, “your nose is getting a crude Prussian +blue at the tip. +</p> + +<p> +I’ll race you as far as you please for as much as you please.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked round cautiously, and with a laugh set off, swiftly as the ulster +allowed, till she was out of breath. +</p> + +<p> +“We used to run miles,” she panted. “It’s absurd that +we can’t run now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Old age, dear. This it is to get fat and sleek in town. When I wished to +pull your hair you generally ran for three miles, shrieking at the top of your +voice. I ought to know, because those shrieks of yours were meant to call up +Mrs. Jennett with a cane and——” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, I never got you a beating on purpose in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, of course you never did. Good heavens! look at the sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it’s the same as ever!” said Maisie. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Torpenhow had gathered from Mr. Beeton that Dick, properly dressed and shaved, +had left the house at half-past eight in the morning with a travelling-rug over +his arm. The Nilghai rolled in at mid-day for chess and polite conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s worse than anything I imagined,” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the everlasting Dick, I suppose! You fuss over him like a hen with +one chick. Let him run riot if he thinks it’ll amuse him. You can whip a +young pup off feather, but you can’t whip a young man.” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t a woman. It’s one woman; and it’s a +girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s your proof?” +</p> + +<p> +“He got up and went out at eight this morning,—got up in the middle +of the night, by Jove! a thing he never does except when he’s on service. +</p> + +<p> +Even then, remember, we had to kick him out of his blankets before the fight +began at El-Maghrib. It’s disgusting.” +</p> + +<p> +“It looks odd; but maybe he’s decided to buy a horse at last. He +might get up for that, mightn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Buy a blazing wheelbarrow! He’d have told us if there was a horse +in the wind. It’s a girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be certain. Perhaps it’s only a married woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick has some sense of humour, if you haven’t. Who gets up in the +gray dawn to call on another man’s wife? It’s a girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let it be a girl, then. She may teach him that there’s somebody +else in the world besides himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll spoil his hand. She’ll waste his time, and +she’ll marry him, and ruin his work for ever. He’ll be a +respectable married man before we can stop him, and—he’ll never go +on the long trail again.” +</p> + +<p> +“All quite possible, but the earth won’t spin the other way when +that happens.... No! ho! I’d give something to see Dick “go wooing +with the boys.” Don’t worry about it. These things be with Allah, +and we can only look on. Get the chessmen.” +</p> + +<p> +The red-haired girl was lying down in her own room, staring at the ceiling. The +footsteps of people on the pavement sounded, as they grew indistinct in the +distance, like a many-times-repeated kiss that was all one long kiss. Her hands +were by her side, and they opened and shut savagely from time to time. +</p> + +<p> +The charwoman in charge of the scrubbing of the studio knocked at her door: +“Beg y’ pardon, miss, but in cleanin’ of a floor +there’s two, not to say three, kind of soap, which is yaller, an’ +mottled, an’ disinfectink. +</p> + +<p> +Now, jist before I took my pail into the passage I though it would be +pre’aps jest as well if I was to come up ’ere an’ ask you +what sort of soap you was wishful that I should use on them boards. The yaller +soap, miss——” +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing in the speech to have caused the paroxysm of fury that drove +the red-haired girl into the middle of the room, almost +shouting— +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suppose <i>I</i> care what you use? Any kind will +do!—<i>any</i> kind!” +</p> + +<p> +The woman fled, and the red-haired girl looked at her own reflection in the +glass for an instant and covered her face with her hands. It was as though she +had shouted some shameless secret aloud. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Roses red and roses white<br /> +Plucked I for my love’s delight.<br /> +She would none of all my posies,—<br /> +Bade me gather her blue roses.<br /> +<br /> +Half the world I wandered through,<br /> +Seeking where such flowers grew;<br /> +Half the world unto my quest<br /> +Answered but with laugh and jest.<br /> +<br /> +It may be beyond the grave<br /> +She shall find what she would have.<br /> +Mine was but an idle quest,—<br /> +Roses white and red are best!—<i>Blue Roses</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The sea had not changed. Its waters were low on the mud-banks, and the Marazion +Bell-buoy clanked and swung in the tide-way. On the white beach-sand dried +stumps of sea-poppy shivered and chattered. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see the old breakwater,” said Maisie, under her +breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s be thankful that we have as much as we have. I don’t +believe they’ve mounted a single new gun on the fort since we were here. +Come and look.” +</p> + +<p> +They came to the glacis of Fort Keeling, and sat down in a nook sheltered from +the wind under the tarred throat of a forty-pounder cannon. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, if Ammoma were only here!” said Maisie. +</p> + +<p> +For a long time both were silent. Then Dick took Maisie’s hand and called +her by her name. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head and looked out to sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Maisie, darling, doesn’t it make any difference?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” between clenched teeth. “I’d—I’d tell +you if it did; but it doesn’t, Oh, Dick, please be sensible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think that it ever will?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m sure it won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie rested her chin on her hand, and, still regarding the sea, spoke +hurriedly—“I know what you want perfectly well, but I can’t +give it to you, Dick. It isn’t my fault; indeed, it isn’t. If I +felt that I could care for any one——But I don’t feel that I +care. I simply don’t understand what the feeling means.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that true, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been very good to me, Dickie; and the only way I can pay +you back is by speaking the truth. I daren’t tell a fib. I despise myself +quite enough as it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“What in the world for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because—because I take everything that you give me and I give you +nothing in return. It’s mean and selfish of me, and whenever I think of +it it worries me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Understand once for all, then, that I can manage my own affairs, and if +I choose to do anything you aren’t to blame. You haven’t a single +thing to reproach yourself with, darling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have, and talking only makes it worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then don’t talk about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I help myself? If you find me alone for a minute you are always +talking about it; and when you aren’t you look it. You don’t know +how I despise myself sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Great goodness!” said Dick, nearly jumping to his feet. +“Speak the truth now, Maisie, if you never speak it again! Do +I—does this worrying bore you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. It does not.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d tell me if it did?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should let you know, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. The other thing is fatal. But you must learn to forgive a man +when he’s in love. He’s always a nuisance. You must have known +that?” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie did not consider the last question worth answering, and Dick was forced +to repeat it. +</p> + +<p> +“There were other men, of course. They always worried just when I was in +the middle of my work, and wanted me to listen to them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you listen?” +</p> + +<p> +“At first; and they couldn’t understand why I didn’t care. +And they used to praise my pictures; and I thought they meant it. I used to be +proud of the praise, and tell Kami, and—I shall never forget—once +Kami laughed at me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t like being laughed at, Maisie, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hate it. I never laugh at other people unless—unless they do bad +work. +</p> + +<p> +Dick, tell me honestly what you think of my pictures generally,—of +everything of mine that you’ve seen.” +</p> + +<p> +““Honest, honest, and honest over!”’ quoted Dick from a +catchword of long ago. “Tell me what Kami always says.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie hesitated. “He—he says that there is feeling in them.” +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you tell me a fib like that? Remember, I was under Kami for two +years. I know exactly what he says.” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t a fib.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s worse; it’s a half-truth. Kami says, when he puts his +head on one side,—so,—‘<i>Il y a du sentiment, mais il n’y +a pas de parti pris</i>.’” He rolled the <i>r</i> threateningly, as +Kami used to do. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that is what he says; and I’m beginning to think that he is +right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly he is.” Dick admitted that two people in the world could +do and say no wrong. Kami was the man. +</p> + +<p> +“And now you say the same thing. It’s so disheartening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry, but you asked me to speak the truth. Besides, I love +you too much to pretend about your work. It’s strong, it’s patient +sometimes,—not always,—and sometimes there’s power in it, but +there’s no special reason why it should be done at all. At least, +that’s how it strikes me.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no special reason why anything in the world should ever be +done. You know that as well as I do. I only want success.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going the wrong way to get it, then. Hasn’t Kami ever +told you so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t quote Kami to me. I want to know what you think. My +work’s bad, to begin with.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t say that, and I don’t think it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s amateurish, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“That it most certainly is not. You’re a work-woman, darling, to +your boot-heels, and I respect you for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t laugh at me behind my back?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, dear. You see, you are more to me than any one else. Put this cloak +thing round you, or you’ll get chilled.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie wrapped herself in the soft marten skins, turning the gray kangaroo fur +to the outside. +</p> + +<p> +“This is delicious,” she said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully along +the fur. +</p> + +<p> +“Well? Why am I wrong in trying to get a little success?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just because you try. Don’t you understand, darling? Good work has +nothing to do with—doesn’t belong to—the person who does it. +It’s put into him or her from outside.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how does that affect——” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute. All we can do is to learn how to do our work, to be +masters of our materials instead of servants, and never to be afraid of +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything else comes from outside ourselves. Very good. If we sit down +quietly to work out notions that are sent to us, we may or we may not do +something that isn’t bad. A great deal depends on being master of the +bricks and mortar of the trade. But the instant we begin to think about success +and the effect of our work—to play with one eye on the gallery—we +lose power and touch and everything else. At least that’s how I have +found it. Instead of being quiet and giving every power you possess to your +work, you’re fretting over something which you can neither help no hinder +by a minute. See?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s so easy for you to talk in that way. People like what you do. +Don’t you ever think about the gallery?” +</p> + +<p> +“Much too often; but I’m always punished for it by loss of power. +It’s as simple as the Rule of Three. If we make light of our work by +using it for our own ends, our work will make light of us, and, as we’re +the weaker, we shall suffer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t treat my work lightly. You know that it’s everything +to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course; but, whether you realise it or not, you give two strokes for +yourself to one for your work. It isn’t your fault, darling. I do exactly +the same thing, and know that I’m doing it. Most of the French schools, +and all the schools here, drive the students to work for their own credit, and +for the sake of their pride. I was told that all the world was interested in my +work, and everybody at Kami’s talked turpentine, and I honestly believed +that the world needed elevating and influencing, and all manner of +impertinences, by my brushes. By Jove, I actually believed that! When my little +head was bursting with a notion that I couldn’t handle because I +hadn’t sufficient knowledge of my craft, I used to run about wondering at +my own magnificence and getting ready to astonish the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely one can do that sometimes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very seldom with malice aforethought, darling. And when it’s done +it’s such a tiny thing, and the world’s so big, and all but a +millionth part of it doesn’t care. Maisie, come with me and I’ll +show you something of the size of the world. One can no more avoid working than +eating,—that goes on by itself,—but try to see what you are working +for. I know such little heavens that I could take you to,—islands tucked +away under the Line. +</p> + +<p> +You sight them after weeks of crashing through water as black as black marble +because it’s so deep, and you sit in the fore-chains day after day and +see the sun rise almost afraid because the sea’s so lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is afraid?—you, or the sun?” +</p> + +<p> +“The sun, of course. And there are noises under the sea, and sounds +overhead in a clear sky. Then you find your island alive with hot moist orchids +that make mouths at you and can do everything except talk. +</p> + +<p> +There’s a waterfall in it three hundred feet high, just like a sliver of +green jade laced with silver; and millions of wild bees live up in the rocks; +and you can hear the fat cocoanuts falling from the palms; and you order an +ivory-white servant to sling you a long yellow hammock with tassels on it like +ripe maize, and you put up your feet and hear the bees hum and the water fall +till you go to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can one work there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. One must do something always. You hang your canvas up in a +palm tree and let the parrots criticise. When they scuffle you heave a ripe +custard-apple at them, and it bursts in a lather of cream. There are hundreds +of places. Come and see them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite like that place. It sounds lazy. Tell me +another.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of a big, red, dead city built of red sandstone, with +raw green aloes growing between the stones, lying out neglected on +honey-coloured sands? There are forty dead kings there, Maisie, each in a +gorgeous tomb finer than all the others. You look at the palaces and streets +and shops and tanks, and think that men must live there, till you find a wee +gray squirrel rubbing its nose all alone in the market-place, and a jewelled +peacock struts out of a carved doorway and spreads its tail against a marble +screen as fine pierced as point-lace. Then a monkey—a little black +monkey—walks through the main square to get a drink from a tank forty +feet deep. He slides down the creepers to the water’s edge, and a friend +holds him by the tail, in case he should fall in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all true?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been there and seen. Then evening comes, and the lights change +till it’s just as though you stood in the heart of a king-opal. A little +before sundown, as punctually as clockwork, a big bristly wild boar, with all +his family following, trots through the city gate, churning the foam on his +tusks. You climb on the shoulder of a blind black stone god and watch that pig +choose himself a palace for the night and stump in wagging his tail. Then the +night-wind gets up, and the sands move, and you hear the desert outside the +city singing, “Now I lay me down to sleep,” and everything is dark +till the moon rises. Maisie, darling, come with me and see what the world is +really like. It’s very lovely, and it’s very horrible,—but I +won’t let you see anything horrid,—and it doesn’t care your +life or mine for pictures or anything else except doing its own work and making +love. Come, and I’ll show you how to brew sangaree, and sling a hammock, +and—oh, thousands of things, and you’ll see for yourself what +colour means, and we’ll find out together what love means, and then, +maybe, we shall be allowed to do some good work. Come away!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” said Maisie. +</p> + +<p> +“How can you do anything until you have seen everything, or as much as +you can? And besides, darling, I love you. Come along with me. You have no +business here; you don’t belong to this place; you’re half a +gipsy,—your face tells that; and I—even the smell of open water +makes me restless. Come across the sea and be happy!” +</p> + +<p> +He had risen to his feet, and stood in the shadow of the gun, looking down at +the girl. The very short winter afternoon had worn away, and, before they knew, +the winter moon was walking the untroubled sea. Long ruled lines of silver +showed where a ripple of the rising tide was turning over the mud-banks. The +wind had dropped, and in the intense stillness they could hear a donkey +cropping the frosty grass many yards away. A faint beating, like that of a +muffled drum, came out of the moon-haze. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” said Maisie, quickly. “It sounds like a +heart beating. Where is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick was so angry at this sudden wrench to his pleadings that he could not +trust himself to speak, and in this silence caught the sound. Maisie from her +seat under the gun watched him with a certain amount of fear. She wished so +much that he would be sensible and cease to worry her with over-sea emotion +that she both could and could not understand. She was not prepared, however, +for the change in his face as he listened. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a steamer,” he said,—“a twin-screw steamer, +by the beat. I can’t make her out, but she must be standing very close +in-shore. Ah!” as the red of a rocket streaked the haze, +“she’s standing in to signal before she clears the Channel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it a wreck?” said Maisie, to whom these words were as Greek. +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s eyes were turned to the sea. “Wreck! What nonsense! +She’s only reporting herself. Red rocket forward—there’s a +green light aft now, and two red rockets from the bridge.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does that mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the signal of the Cross Keys Line running to Australia. I +wonder which steamer it is.” The note of his voice had changed; he seemed +to be talking to himself, and Maisie did not approve of it. The moonlight broke +the haze for a moment, touching the black sides of a long steamer working down +Channel. “Four masts and three funnels—she’s in deep draught, +too. That must be the <i>Barralong</i>, or the <i>Bhutia</i>. No, the +<i>Bhutia</i> has a clopper bow. It’s the <i>Barralong</i>, to Australia. +She’ll lift the Southern Cross in a week,—lucky old tub!—oh, +lucky old tub!” +</p> + +<p> +He stared intently, and moved up the slope of the fort to get a better view, +but the mist on the sea thickened again, and the beating of the screws grew +fainter. Maisie called to him a little angrily, and he returned, still keeping +his eyes to seaward. “Have you ever seen the Southern Cross blazing right +over your head?” he asked. “It’s superb!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said shortly, “and I don’t want to. If you +think it’s so lovely, why don’t you go and see it yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her face from the soft blackness of the marten skins about her +throat, and her eyes shone like diamonds. The moonlight on the gray kangaroo +fur turned it to frosted silver of the coldest. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, Maisie, you look like a little heathen idol tucked up +there.” The eyes showed that they did not appreciate the compliment. +“I’m sorry,” he continued. “The Southern Cross +isn’t worth looking at unless someone helps you to see. That +steamer’s out of hearing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick,” she said quietly, “suppose I were to come to you +now,—be quiet a minute,—just as I am, and caring for you just as +much as I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not as a brother, though? You said you didn’t—in the +Park.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never had a brother. Suppose I said, “Take me to those places, +and in time, perhaps, I might really care for you,” what would you +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Send you straight back to where you came from, in a cab. No, I +wouldn’t; I’d let you walk. But you couldn’t do it, dear. And +I wouldn’t run the risk. You’re worth waiting for till you can come +without reservation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you honestly believe that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a hazy sort of idea that I do. Has it never struck you in that +light?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye—es. I feel so wicked about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wickeder than usual?” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know all I think. It’s almost too awful to +tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. You promised to tell me the truth—at least.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s so ungrateful of me, but—but, though I know you care +for me, and I like to have you with me, I’d—I’d even +sacrifice you, if that would bring me what I want.” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor little darling! I know that state of mind. It doesn’t lead +to good work.” +</p> + +<p> +“You aren’t angry? Remember, I do despise myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not exactly flattered,—I had guessed as much +before,—but I’m not angry. I’m sorry for you. Surely you +ought to have left a littleness like that behind you, years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve no right to patronise me! I only want what I have worked +for so long. It came to you without any trouble, and—and I don’t +think it’s fair.” +</p> + +<p> +“What can I do? I’d give ten years of my life to get you what you +want. +</p> + +<p> +But I can’t help you; even I can’t help.” +</p> + +<p> +A murmur of dissent from Maisie. He went on—“And I know by what you +have just said that you’re on the wrong road to success. It isn’t +got at by sacrificing other people,—I’ve had that much knocked into +me; you must sacrifice yourself, and live under orders, and never think for +yourself, and never have real satisfaction in your work except just at the +beginning, when you’re reaching out after a notion.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can you believe all that?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no question of belief or disbelief. That’s the law, +and you take it or refuse it as you please. I try to obey, but I can’t, +and then my work turns bad on my hands. Under any circumstances, remember, +four-fifths of everybody’s work must be bad. But the remnant is worth the +trouble for it’s own sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it nice to get credit even for bad work?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s much too nice. But—— May I tell you something? It +isn’t a pretty tale, but you’re so like a man that I forget when +I’m talking to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once when I was out in the Soudan I went over some ground that we had +been fighting on for three days. There were twelve hundred dead; and we +hadn’t time to bury them.” +</p> + +<p> +“How ghastly!” +</p> + +<p> +“I had been at work on a big double-sheet sketch, and I was wondering +what people would think of it at home. The sight of that field taught me a good +deal. It looked just like a bed of horrible toadstools in all colours, +and—I’d never seen men in bulk go back to their beginnings before. +So I began to understand that men and women were only material to work with, +and that what they said or did was of no consequence. See? Strictly speaking, +you might just as well put your ear down to the palette to catch what your +colours are saying.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, that’s disgraceful!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute. I said, strictly speaking. Unfortunately, everybody must +be either a man or a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad you allow that much.” +</p> + +<p> +“In your case I don’t. You aren’t a woman. But ordinary +people, Maisie, must behave and work as such. That’s what makes me so +savage.” He hurled a pebble towards the sea as he spoke. “I know +that it is outside my business to care what people say; I can see that it +spoils my output if I listen to ’em; and yet, confound it +all,”—another pebble flew seaward,—“I can’t help +purring when I’m rubbed the right way. Even when I can see on a +man’s forehead that he is lying his way through a clump of pretty +speeches, those lies make me happy and play the mischief with my hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when he doesn’t say pretty things?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, belovedest,”—Dick grinned,—“I forget that +I am the steward of these gifts, and I want to make that man love and +appreciate my work with a thick stick. It’s too humiliating altogether; +but I suppose even if one were an angel and painted humans altogether from +outside, one would lose in touch what one gained in grip.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie laughed at the idea of Dick as an angel. +</p> + +<p> +“But you seem to think,” she said, “that everything nice +spoils your hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think. It’s the law,—just the same as it was +at Mrs. Jennett’s. +</p> + +<p> +Everything that is nice does spoil your hand. I’m glad you see so +clearly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like the view.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I. But—have got orders: what can do? Are you strong enough to +face it alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I must.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me help, darling. We can hold each other very tight and try to walk +straight. We shall blunder horribly, but it will be better than stumbling +apart. Maisie, can’t you see reason?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think we should get on together. We should be two of a +trade, so we should never agree.” +</p> + +<p> +“How I should like to meet the man who made that proverb! He lived in a +cave and ate raw bear, I fancy. I’d make him chew his own arrow-heads. +</p> + +<p> +Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be only half married to you. I should worry and fuss about my +work, as I do now. Four days out of the seven I’m not fit to speak +to.” +</p> + +<p> +“You talk as if no one else in the world had ever used a brush. +D’you suppose that I don’t know the feeling of worry and bother and +can’t-get-at-ness? You’re lucky if you only have it four days out +of the seven. What difference would that make?” +</p> + +<p> +“A great deal—if you had it too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but I could respect it. Another man might not. He might laugh at +you. But there’s no use talking about it. If you can think in that way +you can’t care for me—yet.” +</p> + +<p> +The tide had nearly covered the mud-banks and twenty little ripples broke on +the beach before Maisie chose to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick,” she said slowly, “I believe very much that you are +better than I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“This doesn’t seem to bear on the argument—but in what +way?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite know, but in what you said about work and things; +and then you’re so patient. Yes, you’re better than I am.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick considered rapidly the murkiness of an average man’s life. There was +nothing in the review to fill him with a sense of virtue. He lifted the hem of +the cloak to his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said Maisie, making as though she had not noticed, +“can you see things that I can’t? I don’t believe what you +believe; but you’re right, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I’ve seen anything, God knows I couldn’t have seen it but +for you, and I know that I couldn’t have said it except to you. You +seemed to make everything clear for a minute; but I don’t practice what I +preach. You would help me.... There are only us two in the world for all +purposes, and—and you like to have me with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I do. I wonder if you can realise how utterly lonely I +am!” +</p> + +<p> +“Darling, I think I can.” +</p> + +<p> +“Two years ago, when I first took the little house, I used to walk up and +down the back-garden trying to cry. I never can cry. Can you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s some time since I tried. What was the trouble? +Overwork?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; but I used to dream that I had broken down, and had +no money, and was starving in London. I thought about it all day, and it +frightened me—oh, how it frightened me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that fear. It’s the most terrible of all. It wakes me up in +the night sometimes. You oughtn’t to know anything about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do <i>you</i> know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. Is your three hundred a year safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s in Consols.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. If any one comes to you and recommends a better +investment,—even if I should come to you,—don’t you listen. +Never shift the money for a minute, and never lend a penny of it,—even to +the red-haired girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t scold me so! I’m not likely to be foolish.” +</p> + +<p> +“The earth is full of men who’d sell their souls for three hundred +a year; and women come and talk, and borrow a five-pound note here and a +ten-pound note there; and a woman has no conscience in a money debt. Stick to +your money, Maisie, for there’s nothing more ghastly in the world than +poverty in London. It’s scared me. By Jove, it put the fear into +<i>me!</i> And one oughtn’t to be afraid of anything.” +</p> + +<p> +To each man is appointed his particular dread,—the terror that, if he +does not fight against it, must cow him even to the loss of his manhood. +Dick’s experience of the sordid misery of want had entered into the deeps +of him, and, lest he might find virtue too easy, that memory stood behind him, +tempting to shame, when dealers came to buy his wares. As the Nilghai quaked +against his will at the still green water of a lake or a mill-dam, as Torpenhow +flinched before any white arm that could cut or stab and loathed himself for +flinching, Dick feared the poverty he had once tasted half in jest. His burden +was heavier than the burdens of his companions. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie watched the face working in the moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve plenty of pennies now,” she said soothingly. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall never have enough,” he began, with vicious emphasis. Then, +laughing, “I shall always be three-pence short in my accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why threepence?” +</p> + +<p> +“I carried a man’s bag once from Liverpool Street Station to +Blackfriar’s Bridge. It was a sixpenny job,—you needn’t +laugh; indeed it was,—and I wanted the money desperately. He only gave me +threepence; and he hadn’t even the decency to pay in silver. Whatever +money I make, I shall never get that odd threepence out of the world.” +</p> + +<p> +This was not language befitting the man who had preached of the sanctity of +work. It jarred on Maisie, who preferred her payment in applause, which, since +all men desire it, must be of her right. She hunted for her little purse and +gravely took out a threepenny bit. +</p> + +<p> +“There it is,” she said. “I’ll pay you, Dickie; and +don’t worry any more; it isn’t worth while. Are you paid?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” said the very human apostle of fair craft, taking the coin. +“I’m paid a thousand times, and we’ll close that account. It +shall live on my watch-chain; and you’re an angel, Maisie.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very cramped, and I’m feeling a little cold. Good +gracious! the cloak is all white, and so is your moustache! I never knew it was +so chilly.” +</p> + +<p> +A light frost lay white on the shoulder of Dick’s ulster. He, too, had +forgotten the state of the weather. They laughed together, and with that laugh +ended all serious discourse. +</p> + +<p> +They ran inland across the waste to warm themselves, then turned to look at the +glory of the full tide under the moonlight and the intense black shadows of the +furze bushes. It was an additional joy to Dick that Maisie could see colour +even as he saw it,—could see the blue in the white of the mist, the +violet that is in gray palings, and all things else as they are,—not of +one hue, but a thousand. And the moonlight came into Maisie’s soul, so +that she, usually reserved, chattered of herself and of the things she took +interest in,—of Kami, wisest of teachers, and of the girls in the +studio,—of the Poles, who will kill themselves with overwork if they are +not checked; of the French, who talk at great length of much more than they +will ever accomplish; of the slovenly English, who toil hopelessly and cannot +understand that inclination does not imply power; of the Americans, whose +rasping voices in the hush of a hot afternoon strain tense-drawn nerves to +breaking-point, and whose suppers lead to indigestion; of tempestuous Russians, +neither to hold nor to bind, who tell the girls ghost-stories till the girls +shriek; of stolid Germans, who come to learn one thing, and, having mastered +that much, stolidly go away and copy pictures for evermore. Dick listened +enraptured because it was Maisie who spoke. He knew the old life. +</p> + +<p> +“It hasn’t changed much,” he said. “Do they still steal +colours at lunch-time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not steal. Attract is the word. Of course they do. I’m +good—I only attract ultramarine; but there are students who’d +attract flake-white.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve done it myself. You can’t help it when the palettes are +hung up. +</p> + +<p> +Every colour is common property once it runs down,—even though you do +start it with a drop of oil. It teaches people not to waste their tubes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to attract some of your colours, Dick. Perhaps I might +catch your success with them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mustn’t say a bad word, but I should like to. What in the world, +which you’ve just missed a lovely chance of seeing, does success or want +of success, or a three-storied success, matter compared with—— No, +I won’t open that question again. It’s time to go back to +town.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry, Dick, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re much more interested in that than you are in me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, I don’t think I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“What will you give me if I tell you a sure short-cut to everything you +want,—the trouble and the fuss and the tangle and all the rest? Will you +promise to obey me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the first place, you must never forget a meal because you happen to +be at work. You forgot your lunch twice last week,” said Dick, at a +venture, for he knew with whom he was dealing.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,—only once, really.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s bad enough. And you mustn’t take a cup of tea and a +biscuit in place of a regular dinner, because dinner happens to be a +trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re making fun of me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I never was more in earnest in my life. Oh, my love, my love, +hasn’t it dawned on you yet what you are to me? Here’s the whole +earth in a conspiracy to give you a chill, or run over you, or drench you to +the skin, or cheat you out of your money, or let you die of overwork and +underfeeding, and I haven’t the mere right to look after you. Why, I +don’t even know if you have sense enough to put on warm things when the +weather’s cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, you’re the most awful boy to talk to—really! How do +you suppose I managed when you were away?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wasn’t here, and I didn’t know. But now I’m back +I’d give everything I have for the right of telling you to come in out of +the rain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your success too?” +</p> + +<p> +This time it cost Dick a severe struggle to refrain from bad words. +</p> + +<p> +“As Mrs. Jennett used to say, you’re a trial, Maisie! You’ve +been cooped up in the schools too long, and you think every one is looking at +you. +</p> + +<p> +There aren’t twelve hundred people in the world who understand pictures. +The others pretend and don’t care. Remember, I’ve seen twelve +hundred men dead in toadstool-beds. It’s only the voice of the tiniest +little fraction of people that makes success. The real world doesn’t care +a tinker’s—doesn’t care a bit. For aught you or I know, every +man in the world may be arguing with a Maisie of his own.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Maisie!” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Dick, I think. Do you believe while he’s fighting for +what’s dearer than his life he wants to look at a picture? And even if he +did, and if all the world did, and a thousand million people rose up and +shouted hymns to my honour and glory, would that make up to me for the +knowledge that you were out shopping in the Edgware Road on a rainy day without +an umbrella? Now we’ll go to the station.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you said on the beach——” persisted Maisie, with a +certain fear. +</p> + +<p> +Dick groaned aloud: “Yes, I know what I said. My work is everything I +have, or am, or hope to be, to me, and I believe I’ve learnt the law that +governs it; but I’ve some lingering sense of fun left,—though +you’ve nearly knocked it out of me. I can just see that it isn’t +everything to all the world. Do what I say, and not what I do.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie was careful not to reopen debatable matters, and they returned to London +joyously. The terminus stopped Dick in the midst of an eloquent harangue on the +beauties of exercise. He would buy Maisie a horse,—such a horse as never +yet bowed head to bit,—would stable it, with a companion, some twenty +miles from London, and Maisie, solely for her health’s sake should ride +with him twice or thrice a week. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s absurd,” said she. “It wouldn’t be +proper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, who in all London to-night would have sufficient interest or +audacity to call us two to account for anything we chose to do?” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie looked at the lamps, the fog, and the hideous turmoil. Dick was right; +but horseflesh did not make for Art as she understood it. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re very nice sometimes, but you’re very foolish more +times. I’m not going to let you give me horses, or take you out of your +way to-night. I’ll go home by myself. Only I want you to promise me +something. You won’t think any more about that extra threepence, will +you? Remember, you’ve been paid; and I won’t allow you to be +spiteful and do bad work for a little thing like that. You can be so big that +you mustn’t be tiny.” +</p> + +<p> +This was turning the tables with a vengeance. There remained only to put Maisie +into her hansom. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” she said simply. “You’ll come on Sunday. It +has been a beautiful day, Dick. Why can’t it be like this always?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because love’s like line-work: you must go forward or backward; +you can’t stand still. By the way, go on with your line-work. Good-night, +and, for my—for my sake, take care of yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to walk home, meditating. The day had brought him nothing that he +hoped for, but—surely this was worth many days—it had brought him +nearer to Maisie. The end was only a question of time now, and the prize well +worth the waiting. By instinct, once more, he turned to the river. +</p> + +<p> +“And she understood at once,” he said, looking at the water. +“She found out my pet besetting sin on the spot, and paid it off. My God, +how she understood! And she said I was better than she was! Better than she +was!” He laughed at the absurdity of the notion. “I wonder if girls +guess at one-half a man’s life. They can’t, or—they +wouldn’t marry us.” He took her gift out of his pocket, and +considered it in the light of a miracle and a pledge of the comprehension that, +one day, would lead to perfect happiness. Meantime, Maisie was alone in London, +with none to save her from danger. And the packed wilderness was very full of +danger. +</p> + +<p> +Dick made his prayer to Fate disjointedly after the manner of the heathen as he +threw the piece of silver into the river. If any evil were to befal, let him +bear the burden and let Maisie go unscathed, since the threepenny piece was +dearest to him of all his possessions. It was a small coin in itself, but +Maisie had given it, and the Thames held it, and surely the Fates would be +bribed for this once. +</p> + +<p> +The drowning of the coin seemed to cut him free from thought of Maisie for the +moment. He took himself off the bridge and went whistling to his chambers with +a strong yearning for some man-talk and tobacco after his first experience of +an entire day spent in the society of a woman. There was a stronger desire at +his heart when there rose before him an unsolicited vision of the +<i>Barralong</i> dipping deep and sailing free for the Southern Cross. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +And these two, as I have told you,<br /> +Were the friends of Hiawatha,<br /> +Chibiabos, the musician,<br /> +And the very strong man, Kwasind.<br /> +<br /> +—<i>Hiawatha</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow was paging the last sheets of some manuscript, while the Nilghai, who +had come for chess and remained to talk tactics, was reading through the first +part, commenting scornfully the while. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s picturesque enough and it’s sketchy,” said he; +“but as a serious consideration of affairs in Eastern Europe, it’s +not worth much.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s off my hands at any rate.... Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, +thirty-nine slips altogether, aren’t there? That should make between +eleven and twelve pages of valuable misinformation. Heigho!” Torpenhow +shuffled the writing together and hummed— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell,<br /> +If I’d as much money as I could tell,<br /> +I never would cry, Young lambs to sell! +</p> + +<p> +Dick entered, self-conscious and a little defiant, but in the best of tempers +with all the world. +</p> + +<p> +“Back at last?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“More or less. What have you been doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Work. Dickie, you behave as though the Bank of England were behind you. +Here’s Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday gone and you haven’t done a +line. It’s scandalous.” +</p> + +<p> +“The notions come and go, my children—they come and go like our +“baccy,” he answered, filling his pipe. “Moreover,” he +stooped to thrust a spill into the grate, “Apollo does not always stretch +his—— Oh, confound your clumsy jests, Nilghai!” +</p> + +<p> +“This is not the place to preach the theory of direct inspiration,” +said the Nilghai, returning Torpenhow’s large and workmanlike bellows to +their nail on the wall. “We believe in cobblers’ wax. +<i>La!</i>—where you sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you weren’t so big and fat,” said Dick, looking round for +a weapon, “I’d——” +</p> + +<p> +“No skylarking in my rooms. You two smashed half my furniture last time +you threw the cushions about. You might have the decency to say How d’you +do? to Binkie. Look at him.” +</p> + +<p> +Binkie had jumped down from the sofa and was fawning round Dick’s knee, +and scratching at his boots. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear man!” said Dick, snatching him up, and kissing him on the +black patch above his right eye. “Did ums was, Binks? Did that ugly +Nilghai turn you off the sofa? Bite him, Mr. Binkie.” He pitched him on +the Nilghai’s stomach, as the big man lay at ease, and Binkie pretended +to destroy the Nilghai inch by inch, till a sofa cushion extinguished him, and +panting he stuck out his tongue at the company. +</p> + +<p> +“The Binkie-boy went for a walk this morning before you were up, Torp. +</p> + +<p> +I saw him making love to the butcher at the corner when the shutters were being +taken down—just as if he hadn’t enough to eat in his own proper +house,” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Binks, is that a true bill?” said Torpenhow, severely. The little +dog retreated under the sofa cushion, and showed by the fat white back of him +that he really had no further interest in the discussion. +</p> + +<p> +“Strikes me that another disreputable dog went for a walk, too,” +said the Nilghai. “What made you get up so early? Torp said you might be +buying a horse.” +</p> + +<p> +“He knows it would need three of us for a serious business like that. No, +I felt lonesome and unhappy, so I went out to look at the sea, and watch the +pretty ships go by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Somewhere on the Channel. Progly or Snigly, or some watering-place was +its name; I’ve forgotten; but it was only two hours’ run from +London and the ships went by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see anything you knew?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only the <i>Barralong</i> outwards to Australia, and an Odessa +grain-boat loaded down by the head. It was a thick day, but the sea smelt +good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wherefore put on one’s best trousers to see the +<i>Barralong?</i>” said Torpenhow, pointing. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I’ve nothing except these things and my painting duds. +Besides, I wanted to do honour to the sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did She make you feel restless?” asked the Nilghai, keenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Crazy. Don’t speak of it. I’m sorry I went.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow and the Nilghai exchanged a look as Dick, stooping, busied himself +among the former’s boots and trees. +</p> + +<p> +“These will do,” he said at last; “I can’t say I think +much of your taste in slippers, but the fit’s the thing.” He +slipped his feet into a pair of sock-like sambhur-skin foot coverings, found a +long chair, and lay at length. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re my own pet pair,” Torpenhow said. “I was just +going to put them on myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“All your reprehensible selfishness. Just because you see me happy for a +minute, you want to worry me and stir me up. Find another pair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good for you that Dick can’t wear your clothes, Torp. You two live +communistically,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick never has anything that I can wear. He’s only useful to +sponge upon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound you, have you been rummaging round among my clothes, +then?” said Dick. “I put a sovereign in the tobacco-jar yesterday. +How do you expect a man to keep his accounts properly if +you——” +</p> + +<p> +Here the Nilghai began to laugh, and Torpenhow joined him. +</p> + +<p> +“Hid a sovereign yesterday! You’re no sort of financier. You lent +me a fiver about a month back. Do you remember?” Torpenhow said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember that I paid it you ten days later, and you put it at the +bottom of the tobacco?” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, did I? I thought it was in one of my colour-boxes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You thought! About a week ago I went into your studio to get some +“baccy and found it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you do with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Took the Nilghai to a theatre and fed him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You couldn’t feed the Nilghai under twice the money—not +though you gave him Army beef. Well, I suppose I should have found it out +sooner or later. What is there to laugh at?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a most amazing cuckoo in many directions,” said the +Nilghai, still chuckling over the thought of the dinner. “Never mind. We +had both been working very hard, and it was your unearned increment we spent, +and as you’re only a loafer it didn’t matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s pleasant—from the man who is bursting with my meat, +too. I’ll get that dinner back one of these days. Suppose we go to a +theatre now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Put our boots on,—and dress,—<i>and</i> wash?” The +Nilghai spoke very lazily. +</p> + +<p> +“I withdraw the motion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose, just for a change—as a startling variety, you +know—we, that is to say <i>we</i>, get our charcoal and our canvas and go +on with our work.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow spoke pointedly, but Dick only wriggled his toes inside the soft +leather moccasins. +</p> + +<p> +“What a one-ideaed clucker that is! If I had any unfinished figures on +hand, I haven’t any model; if I had my model, I haven’t any spray, +and I never leave charcoal unfixed overnight; and if I had my spray and twenty +photographs of backgrounds, I couldn’t do anything to-night. I +don’t feel that way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Binkie-dog, he’s a lazy hog, isn’t he?” said the +Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, I <i>will</i> do some work,” said Dick, rising swiftly. +“I’ll fetch the Nungapunga Book, and we’ll add another +picture to the Nilghai Saga.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you worrying him a little too much?” asked the +Nilghai, when Dick had left the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, but I know what he can turn out if he likes. It makes me savage +to hear him praised for past work when I know what he ought to do. You and I +are arranged for——” +</p> + +<p> +“By Kismet and our own powers, more’s the pity. I have dreamed of a +good deal.” +</p> + +<p> +“So have I, but we know our limitations now. I’m dashed if I know +what Dick’s may be when he gives himself to his work. That’s what +makes me so keen about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when all’s said and done, you will be put aside—quite +rightly—for a female girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder... Where do you think he has been to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“To the sea. Didn’t you see the look in his eyes when he talked +about her? He’s as restless as a swallow in autumn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but did he go alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, and I don’t care, but he has the beginnings of +the go-fever upon him. He wants to up-stakes and move out. There’s no +mistaking the signs. Whatever he may have said before, he has the call upon him +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“It might be his salvation,” Torpenhow said. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps—if you care to take the responsibility of being a +saviour.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick returned with the big clasped sketch-book that the Nilghai knew well and +did not love too much. In it Dick had drawn all manner of moving incidents, +experienced by himself or related to him by the others, of all the four corners +of the earth. But the wider range of the Nilghai’s body and life +attracted him most. When truth failed he fell back on fiction of the wildest, +and represented incidents in the Nilghai’s career that were +unseemly,—his marriages with many African princesses, his shameless +betrayal, for Arab wives, of an army corps to the Mahdi, his tattooment by +skilled operators in Burmah, his interview (and his fears) with the yellow +headsman in the blood-stained execution-ground of Canton, and finally, the +passings of his spirit into the bodies of whales, elephants, and toucans. +Torpenhow from time to time had added rhymed descriptions, and the whole was a +curious piece of art, because Dick decided, having regard to the name of the +book which being interpreted means “naked,” that it would be wrong +to draw the Nilghai with any clothes on, under any circumstances. Consequently +the last sketch, representing that much-enduring man calling on the War Office +to press his claims to the Egyptian medal, was hardly delicate. He settled +himself comfortably on Torpenhow’s table and turned over the pages. +</p> + +<p> +“What a fortune you would have been to Blake, Nilghai!” he said. +“There’s a succulent pinkness about some of these sketches +that’s more than life-like. “The Nilghai surrounded while bathing +by the Mahdieh”—that was founded on fact, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was very nearly my last bath, you irreverent dauber. Has Binkie come +into the Saga yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; the Binkie-boy hasn’t done anything except eat and kill cats. +Let’s see. Here you are as a stained-glass saint in a church. Deuced +decorative lines about your anatomy; you ought to be grateful for being handed +down to posterity in this way. Fifty years hence you’ll exist in rare and +curious facsimiles at ten guineas each. What shall I try this time? The +domestic life of the Nilghai?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hasn’t got any.” +</p> + +<p> +“The undomestic life of the Nilghai, then. Of course. Mass-meeting of his +wives in Trafalgar Square. That’s it. They came from the ends of the +earth to attend Nilghai’s wedding to an English bride. This shall be an +epic. It’s a sweet material to work with.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a scandalous waste of time,” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t worry; it keeps one’s hand in—specially when you +begin without the pencil.” He set to work rapidly. “That’s +Nelson’s Column. Presently the Nilghai will appear shinning up it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give him some clothes this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly—a veil and an orange-wreath, because he’s been +married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gad, that’s clever enough!” said Torpenhow over his +shoulder, as Dick brought out of the paper with three twirls of the brush a +very fat back and labouring shoulder pressed against stone. +</p> + +<p> +“Just imagine,” Dick continued, “if we could publish a few of +these dear little things every time the Nilghai subsidises a man who can write, +to give the public an honest opinion of my pictures.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll admit I always tell you when I have done anything of +that kind. I know I can’t hammer you as you ought to be hammered, so I +give the job to another. Young Maclagan, for instance——” +</p> + +<p> +“No-o—one half-minute, old man; stick your hand out against the +dark of the wall-paper—you only burble and call me names. That left +shoulder’s out of drawing. I must literally throw a veil over that. +Where’s my pen-knife? Well, what about Maclagan?” +</p> + +<p> +“I only gave him his riding-orders to—to lambast you on general +principles for not producing work that will last.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whereupon that young fool,”—Dick threw back his head and +shut one eye as he shifted the page under his hand,—“being left +alone with an ink-pot and what he conceived were his own notions, went and +spilt them both over me in the papers. You might have engaged a grown man for +the business, Nilghai. How do you think the bridal veil looks now, Torp?” +</p> + +<p> +“How the deuce do three dabs and two scratches make the stuff stand away +from the body as it does?” said Torpenhow, to whom Dick’s methods +were always new. +</p> + +<p> +“It just depends on where you put ’em. If Maclagan had known that +much about his business he might have done better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you put the damned dabs into something that will stay, +then?” insisted the Nilghai, who had really taken considerable trouble in +hiring for Dick’s benefit the pen of a young gentleman who devoted most +of his waking hours to an anxious consideration of the aims and ends of Art, +which, he wrote, was one and indivisible. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute till I see how I am going to manage my procession of +wives. You seem to have married extensively, and I must rough ’em in with +the pencil—Medes, Parthians, Edomites.... Now, setting aside the weakness +and the wickedness and—and the fat-headedness of deliberately trying to +do work that will live, as they call it, I’m content with the knowledge +that I’ve done my best up to date, and I shan’t do anything like it +again for some hours at least—probably years. Most probably never.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! any stuff you have in stock your best work?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything you’ve sold?” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no. It isn’t here and it isn’t sold. Better than that, it +can’t be sold, and I don’t think any one knows where it is. +I’m sure I don’t.... And yet more and more wives, on the north side +of the square. Observe the virtuous horror of the lions!” +</p> + +<p> +“You may as well explain,” said Torpenhow, and Dick lifted his head +from the paper. +</p> + +<p> +“The sea reminded me of it,” he said slowly. “I wish it +hadn’t. It weighs some few thousand tons—unless you cut it out with +a cold chisel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be an idiot. You can’t pose with us here,” said +the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no pose in the matter at all. It’s a fact. I was +loafing from Lima to Auckland in a big, old, condemned passenger-ship turned +into a cargo-boat and owned by a second-hand Italian firm. She was a crazy +basket. We were cut down to fifteen ton of coal a day, and we thought ourselves +lucky when we kicked seven knots an hour out of her. Then we used to stop and +let the bearings cool down, and wonder whether the crack in the shaft was +spreading.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you a steward or a stoker in those days?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was flush for the time being, so I was a passenger, or else I should +have been a steward, I think,” said Dick, with perfect gravity, returning +to the procession of angry wives. “I was the only other passenger from +Lima, and the ship was half empty, and full of rats and cockroaches and +scorpions.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what has this to do with the picture?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute. She had been in the China passenger trade and her lower +decks had bunks for two thousand pigtails. Those were all taken down, and she +was empty up to her nose, and the lights came through the port holes—most +annoying lights to work in till you got used to them. I hadn’t anything +to do for weeks. The ship’s charts were in pieces and our skipper +daren’t run south for fear of catching a storm. So he did his best to +knock all the Society Islands out of the water one by one, and I went into the +lower deck, and did my picture on the port side as far forward in her as I +could go. There was some brown paint and some green paint that they used for +the boats, and some black paint for ironwork, and that was all I had.” +</p> + +<p> +“The passengers must have thought you mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was only one, and it was a woman; but it gave me the notion of my +picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was she like?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“She was a sort of Negroid-Jewess-Cuban; with morals to match. She +couldn’t read or write, and she didn’t want to, but she used to +come down and watch me paint, and the skipper didn’t like it, because he +was paying her passage and had to be on the bridge occasionally.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. That must have been cheerful.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was the best time I ever had. To begin with, we didn’t know +whether we should go up or go down any minute when there was a sea on; and when +it was calm it was paradise; and the woman used to mix the paints and talk +broken English, and the skipper used to steal down every few minutes to the +lower deck, because he said he was afraid of fire. So, you see, we could never +tell when we might be caught, and I had a splendid notion to work out in only +three keys of colour.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was the notion?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two lines in Poe— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Neither the angels in Heaven above nor the demons down under the sea,<br /> +Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +It came out of the sea—all by itself. I drew that fight, fought out in +green water over the naked, choking soul, and the woman served as the model for +the devils and the angels both—sea-devils and sea-angels, and the soul +half drowned between them. It doesn’t sound much, but when there was a +good light on the lower deck it looked very fine and creepy. It was seven by +fourteen feet, all done in shifting light for shifting light.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did the woman inspire you much?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“She and the sea between them—immensely. There was a heap of bad +drawing in that picture. I remember I went out of my way to foreshorten for +sheer delight of doing it, and I foreshortened damnably, but for all that +it’s the best thing I’ve ever done; and now I suppose the +ship’s broken up or gone down. Whew! What a time that was!” +</p> + +<p> +“What happened after all?” +</p> + +<p> +“It all ended. They were loading her with wool when I left the ship, but +even the stevedores kept the picture clear to the last. The eyes of the demons +scared them, I honestly believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“She was scared too when it was finished. She used to cross herself +before she went down to look at it. Just three colours and no chance of getting +any more, and the sea outside and unlimited love-making inside, and the fear of +death atop of everything else, O Lord!” He had ceased to look at the +sketch, but was staring straight in front of him across the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you try something of the same kind now?” said the +Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“Because those things come not by fasting and prayer. When I find a +cargo-boat and a Jewess-Cuban and another notion and the same old life, I +may.” +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t find them here,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I shall not.” Dick shut the sketch-book with a bang. +“This room’s as hot as an oven. Open the window, some one.” +</p> + +<p> +He leaned into the darkness, watching the greater darkness of London below him. +The chambers stood much higher than the other houses, commanding a hundred +chimneys—crooked cowls that looked like sitting cats as they swung round, +and other uncouth brick and zinc mysteries supported by iron stanchions and +clamped by 8-pieces. Northward the lights of Piccadilly Circus and Leicester +Square threw a copper-coloured glare above the black roofs, and southward by +all the orderly lights of the Thames. A train rolled out across one of the +railway bridges, and its thunder drowned for a minute the dull roar of the +streets. The Nilghai looked at his watch and said shortly, “That’s +the Paris night-mail. You can book from here to St. Petersburg if you +choose.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick crammed head and shoulders out of the window and looked across the river. +Torpenhow came to his side, while the Nilghai passed over quietly to the piano +and opened it. Binkie, making himself as large as possible, spread out upon the +sofa with the air of one who is not to be lightly disturbed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Nilghai to the two pairs of shoulders, “have +you never seen this place before?” +</p> + +<p> +A steam-tug on the river hooted as she towed her barges to wharf. Then the boom +of the traffic came into the room. Torpenhow nudged Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Good place to bank in—bad place to bunk in, Dickie, isn’t +it?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s chin was in his hand as he answered, in the words of a general not +without fame, still looking out on the darkness—“‘My God, +what a city to loot!’” +</p> + +<p> +Binkie found the night air tickling his whiskers and sneezed plaintively. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall give the Binkie-dog a cold,” said Torpenhow. “Come +in,” and they withdrew their heads. “You’ll be buried in +Kensal Green, Dick, one of these days, if it isn’t closed by the time you +want to go there—buried within two feet of some one else, his wife and +his family.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allah forbid! I shall get away before that time comes. Give a man room +to stretch his legs, Mr. Binkie.” Dick flung himself down on the sofa and +tweaked Binkie’s velvet ears, yawning heavily the while. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll find that wardrobe-case very much out of tune,” +Torpenhow said to the Nilghai. “It’s never touched except by +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“A piece of gross extravagance,” Dick grunted. “The Nilghai +only comes when I’m out.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s because you’re always out. Howl, Nilghai, and let him +hear.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The life of the Nilghai is fraud and slaughter,<br /> +His writings are watered Dickens and water;<br /> +But the voice of the Nilghai raised on high<br /> +Makes even the Mahdieh glad to die!” +</p> + +<p> +Dick quoted from Torpenhow’s letterpress in the Nungapunga Book. +</p> + +<p> +“How do they call moose in Canada, Nilghai?” +</p> + +<p> +The man laughed. Singing was his one polite accomplishment, as many Press-tents +in far-off lands had known. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I sing?” said he, turning in the chair. +</p> + +<p> +““Moll Roe in the Morning,”’ said Torpenhow, at a +venture. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Dick, sharply, and the Nilghai opened his eyes. The old +chanty whereof he, among a very few, possessed all the words was not a pretty +one, but Dick had heard it many times before without wincing. Without prelude +he launched into that stately tune that calls together and troubles the hearts +of the gipsies of the sea— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies,<br /> +Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Dick turned uneasily on the sofa, for he could hear the bows of the Barralong +crashing into the green seas on her way to the Southern Cross. +</p> + +<p> +Then came the chorus— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,<br /> +We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt seas,<br /> +Until we take soundings in the Channel of Old England<br /> +From Ushant to Scilly ’tis forty-five leagues.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty-five-thirty-five,” said Dick, petulantly. +“Don’t tamper with Holy Writ. Go on, Nilghai.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The first land we made it was called the Deadman,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and they sang to the end very vigourously. +</p> + +<p> +“That would be a better song if her head were turned the other +way—to the Ushant light, for instance,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“Flinging his arms about like a mad windmill,” said Torpenhow. +“Give us something else, Nilghai. You’re in fine fog-horn form +tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give us the “Ganges Pilot”; you sang that in the square the +night before El-Maghrib. By the way, I wonder how many of the chorus are alive +to-night,” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow considered for a minute. “By Jove! I believe only you and I. +</p> + +<p> +Raynor, Vicery, and Deenes—all dead; Vincent caught smallpox in Cairo, +carried it here and died of it. Yes, only you and I and the Nilghai.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph! And yet the men here who’ve done their work in a well-warmed +studio all their lives, with a policeman at each corner, say that I charge too +much for my pictures.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are buying your work, not your insurance policies, dear +child,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“I gambled with one to get at the other. Don’t preach. Go on with +the “Pilot.” Where in the world did you get that song?” +</p> + +<p> +“On a tombstone,” said the Nilghai. “On a tombstone in a +distant land. I made it an accompaniment with heaps of base chords.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Vanity! Begin.” And the Nilghai began— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I have slipped my cable, messmates, I’m drifting down with the +tide,<br /> +I have my sailing orders, while yet an anchor ride.<br /> +And never on fair June morning have I put out to sea<br /> +With clearer conscience or better hope, or a heart more light and free.<br /> +<br /> +“Shoulder to shoulder, Joe, my boy, into the crowd like a wedge<br /> +Strike with the hangers, messmates, but do not cut with the edge.<br /> +Cries Charnock, “Scatter the faggots, double that Brahmin in two,<br /> +The tall pale widow for me, Joe, the little brown girl for you!”<br /> +<br /> +“Young Joe (you’re nearing sixty), why is your hide so dark?<br /> +Katie has soft fair blue eyes, who blackened yours?—Why, hark!” +</p> + +<p> +They were all singing now, Dick with the roar of the wind of the open sea about +his ears as the deep bass voice let itself go. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The morning gun—Ho, steady! the arquebuses to me!<br /> +I ha’ sounded the Dutch High Admiral’s heart as my lead doth sound the sea.<br /> +“Sounding, sounding the Ganges, floating down with the tide,<br /> +Moore me close to Charnock, next to my nut-brown bride.<br /> +My blessing to Kate at Fairlight—Holwell, my thanks to you;<br /> +Steady! We steer for heaven, through sand-drifts cold and blue.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now what is there in that nonsense to make a man restless?” said +Dick, hauling Binkie from his feet to his chest. +</p> + +<p> +“It depends on the man,” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“The man who has been down to look at the sea,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know she was going to upset me in this fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what men say when they go to say good-bye to a woman. +It’s more easy though to get rid of three women than a piece of +one’s life and surroundings.” +</p> + +<p> +“But a woman can be——” began Dick, unguardedly. +</p> + +<p> +“A piece of one’s life,” continued Torpenhow. “No, she +can’t. His face darkened for a moment. “She says she wants to +sympathise with you and help you in your work, and everything else that clearly +a man must do for himself. Then she sends round five notes a day to ask why the +dickens you haven’t been wasting your time with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t generalise,” said the Nilghai. “By the time you +arrive at five notes a day you must have gone through a good deal and behaved +accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +Shouldn’t begin these things, my son.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t have gone down to the sea,” said Dick, just a +little anxious to change the conversation. “And you shouldn’t have +sung.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sea isn’t sending you five notes a day,” said the +Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I’m fatally compromised. She’s an enduring old hag, +and I’m sorry I ever met her. Why wasn’t I born and bred and dead +in a three-pair back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear him blaspheming his first love! Why in the world shouldn’t +you listen to her?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +Before Dick could reply the Nilghai lifted up his voice with a shout that shook +the windows, in “The Men of the Sea,” that begins, as all know, +“The sea is a wicked old woman,” and after rading through eight +lines whose imagery is truthful, ends in a refrain, slow as the clacking of a +capstan when the boat comes unwillingly up to the bars where the men sweat and +tramp in the shingle. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Ye that bore us, O restore us!<br /> +She is kinder than ye;<br /> +For the call is on our heart-strings!’<br /> +Said The Men of the Sea.” +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai sang that verse twice, with simple cunning, intending that Dick +should hear. But Dick was waiting for the farewell of the men to their wives. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Ye that love us, can ye move us?<br /> +She is dearer than ye;<br /> +And your sleep will be the sweeter,’<br /> +Said The Men of the Sea.” +</p> + +<p> +The rough words beat like the blows of the waves on the bows of the rickety +boat from Lima in the days when Dick was mixing paints, making love, drawing +devils and angels in the half dark, and wondering whether the next minute would +put the Italian captain’s knife between his shoulder-blades. And the +go-fever which is more real than many doctors’ diseases, waked and raged, +urging him who loved Maisie beyond anything in the world, to go away and taste +the old hot, unregenerate life again,—to scuffle, swear, gamble, and love +light loves with his fellows; to take ship and know the sea once more, and by +her beget pictures; to talk to Binat among the sands of Port Said while Yellow +“Tina mixed the drinks; to hear the crackle of musketry, and see the +smoke roll outward, thin and thicken again till the shining black faces came +through, and in that hell every man was strictly responsible for his own head, +and his own alone, and struck with an unfettered arm. It was impossible, +utterly impossible, but— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Oh, our fathers in the churchyard,<br /> +She is older than ye,<br /> +And our graves will be the greener,’<br /> +Said The Men of the Sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>is</i> there to hinder?” said Torpenhow, in the long hush +that followed the song. +</p> + +<p> +“You said a little time since that you wouldn’t come for a walk +round the world, Torp.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was months ago, and I only objected to your making money for +travelling expenses. You’ve shot your bolt here and it has gone home. Go +away and do some work, and see some things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Get some of the fat off you; you’re disgracefully out of +condition,” said the Nilghai, making a plunge from the chair and grasping +a handful of Dick generally over the right ribs. “Soft as +putty—pure tallow born of over-feeding. Train it off, Dickie.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re all equally gross, Nilghai. Next time you have to take the +field you’ll sit down, wink your eyes, gasp, and die in a fit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. You go away on a ship. Go to Lima again, or to Brazil. +</p> + +<p> +There’s always trouble in South America.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suppose I want to be told where to go? Great Heavens, the only +difficulty is to know where I’m to stop. But I shall stay here, as I told +you before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’ll be buried in Kensal Green and turn into adipocere with +the others,” said Torpenhow. “Are you thinking of commissions in +hand? Pay forfeit and go. You’ve money enough to travel as a king if you +please.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve the grisliest notions of amusement, Torp. I think I see +myself shipping first class on a six-thousand-ton hotel, and asking the third +engineer what makes the engines go round, and whether it isn’t very warm +in the stokehold. Ho! ho! I should ship as a loafer if ever I shipped at all, +which I’m not going to do. I shall compromise, and go for a small trip to +begin with.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s something at any rate. Where will you go?” said +Torpenhow. “It would do you all the good in the world, old man.” +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai saw the twinkle in Dick’s eye, and refrained from speech. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go in the first place to Rathray’s stable, where I shall +hire one horse, and take him very carefully as far as Richmond Hill. Then I +shall walk him back again, in case he should accidentally burst into a lather +and make Rathray angry. I shall do that to-morrow, for the sake of air and +exercise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” Dick had barely time to throw up his arm and ward off the +cushion that the disgusted Torpenhow heaved at his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Air and exercise indeed,” said the Nilghai, sitting down heavily +on Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s give him a little of both. Get the bellows, Torp.” +</p> + +<p> +At this point the conference broke up in disorder, because Dick would not open +his mouth till the Nilghai held his nose fast, and there was some trouble in +forcing the nozzle of the bellows between his teeth; and even when it was there +he weakly tried to puff against the force of the blast, and his cheeks blew up +with a great explosion; and the enemy becoming helpless with laughter he so +beat them over the head with a soft sofa cushion that that became unsewn and +distributed its feathers, and Binkie, interfering in Torpenhow’s +interests, was bundled into the half-empty bag and advised to scratch his way +out, which he did after a while, travelling rapidly up and down the floor in +the shape of an agitated green haggis, and when he came out looking for +satisfaction, the three pillars of his world were picking feathers out of their +hair. +</p> + +<p> +“A prophet has no honour in his own country,” said Dick, ruefully, +dusting his knees. “This filthy fluff will never brush off my +legs.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was all for your own good,” said the Nilghai. “Nothing +like air and exercise.” +</p> + +<p> +“All for your good,” said Torpenhow, not in the least with +reference to past clowning. “It would let you focus things at their +proper worth and prevent your becoming slack in this hothouse of a town. Indeed +it would, old man. I shouldn’t have spoken if I hadn’t thought so. +Only, you make a joke of everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before God I do no such thing,” said Dick, quickly and earnestly. +“You don’t know me if you think that.” +</p> + +<p> +<i>I</i> don’t think it,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“How can fellows like ourselves, who know what life and death really +mean, dare to make a joke of anything? I know we pretend it, to save ourselves +from breaking down or going to the other extreme. Can’t I see, old man, +how you’re always anxious about me, and try to advise me to make my work +better? Do you suppose I don’t think about that myself? But you +can’t help me—you can’t help me—not even you. I must +play my own hand alone in my own way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear, hear,” from the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the one thing in the Nilghai Saga that I’ve never +drawn in the Nungapunga Book?” Dick continued to Torpenhow, who was a +little astonished at the outburst. +</p> + +<p> +Now there was one blank page in the book given over to the sketch that Dick had +not drawn of the crowning exploit in the Nilghai’s life; when that man, +being young and forgetting that his body and bones belonged to the paper that +employed him, had ridden over sunburned slippery grass in the rear of +Bredow’s brigade on the day that the troopers flung themselves at +Caurobert’s artillery, and for aught they knew twenty battalions in +front, to save the battered 24th German Infantry, to give time to decide the +fate of Vionville, and to learn ere their remnant came back to Flavigay that +cavalry can attack and crumple and break unshaken infantry. Whenever he was +inclined to think over a life that might have been better, an income that might +have been larger, and a soul that might have been considerably cleaner, the +Nilghai would comfort himself with the thought, “I rode with +Bredow’s brigade at Vionville,” and take heart for any lesser +battle the next day might bring. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” he said very gravely. “I was always glad that you +left it out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I left it out because Nilghai taught me what the Germany army learned +then, and what Schmidt taught their cavalry. I don’t know German. +</p> + +<p> +What is it? “Take care of the time and the dressing will take care of +itself.” I must ride my own line to my own beat, old man.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Tempo ist richtung</i>. You’ve learned your lesson well,” said +the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“He must go alone. He speaks truth, Torp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe I’m as wrong as I can be—hideously wrong. I must find +that out for myself, as I have to think things out for myself, but I +daren’t turn my head to dress by the next man. It hurts me a great deal +more than you know not to be able to go, but I cannot, that’s all. I must +do my own work and live my own life in my own way, because I’m +responsible for both. +</p> + +<p> +Only don’t think I frivol about it, Torp. I have my own matches and +sulphur, and I’ll make my own hell, thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Torpenhow said blandly, “What did +the Governor of North Carolina say to the Governor of South Carolina?” +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent notion. It is a long time between drinks. There are the +makings of a very fine prig in you, Dick,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve liberated my mind, estimable Binkie, with the feathers in his +mouth.” Dick picked up the still indignant one and shook him tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re tied up in a sack and made to run about blind, Binkie-wee, +without any reason, and it has hurt your little feelings. Never mind. <i>Sic +volo, sic jubeo, stet pro ratione voluntas</i>, and don’t sneeze in my +eye because I talk Latin. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +He went out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s distinctly one for you,” said the Nilghai. “I +told you it was hopeless to meddle with him. He’s not pleased.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’d swear at me if he weren’t. I can’t make it out. +He has the go-fever upon him and he won’t go. I only hope that he +mayn’t have to go some day when he doesn’t want to,” said +Torpenhow. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +In his own room Dick was settling a question with himself—and the +question was whether all the world, and all that was therein, and a burning +desire to exploit both, was worth one threepenny piece thrown into the Thames. +</p> + +<p> +“It came of seeing the sea, and I’m a cur to think about it,” +he decided. +</p> + +<p> +“After all, the honeymoon will be that tour—with reservations; +only... only I didn’t realise that the sea was so strong. I didn’t +feel it so much when I was with Maisie. These damnable songs did it. He’s +beginning again.” +</p> + +<p> +But it was only Herrick’s Nightpiece to Julia that the Nilghai sang, and +before it was ended Dick reappeared on the threshold, not altogether clothed +indeed, but in his right mind, thirsty and at peace. +</p> + +<p> +The mood had come and gone with the rising and the falling of the tide by Fort +Keeling. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“If I have taken the common clay<br /> + And wrought it cunningly<br /> +In the shape of a god that was digged a clod,<br /> + The greater honour to me.” <br /> +<br /> +“If thou hast taken the common clay,<br /> + And thy hands be not free<br /> +From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil<br /> + The greater shame to thee.”—<i>The Two Potters</i>. +</p> + +<p> +He did no work of any kind for the rest of the week. Then came another Sunday. +He dreaded and longed for the day always, but since the red-haired girl had +sketched him there was rather more dread than desire in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +He found that Maisie had entirely neglected his suggestions about line-work. +She had gone off at score filled with some absurd notion for a “fancy +head.” It cost Dick something to command his temper. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the good of suggesting anything?” he said pointedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but this will be a picture,—a real picture; and I know that +Kami will let me send it to the Salon. You don’t mind, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose not. But you won’t have time for the Salon.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie hesitated a little. She even felt uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re going over to France a month sooner because of it. I shall +get the idea sketched out here and work it up at Kami’s. +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s heart stood still, and he came very near to being disgusted with +his queen who could do no wrong. “Just when I thought I had made some +headway, she goes off chasing butterflies. It’s too maddening!” +</p> + +<p> +There was no possibility of arguing, for the red-haired girl was in the studio. +Dick could only look unutterable reproach. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry,” he said, “and I think you make a mistake. +But what’s the idea of your new picture?” +</p> + +<p> +“I took it from a book.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s bad, to begin with. Books aren’t the places for +pictures. And——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s this,” said the red-haired girl behind him. “I +was reading it to Maisie the other day from <i>The City of Dreadful Night</i>. +D’you know the book?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little. I am sorry I spoke. There are pictures in it. What has taken +her fancy?” +</p> + +<p> +“The description of the Melancolia— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle,<br /> +But all too impotent to lift the regal<br /> +Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And here again. (Maisie, get the tea, dear.) +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The forehead charged with baleful thoughts and dreams,<br /> +The household bunch of keys, the housewife’s gown,<br /> + Voluminous indented, and yet rigid<br /> + As though a shell of burnished metal frigid,<br /> +Her feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no attempt to conceal the scorn of the lazy voice. Dick winced. +</p> + +<p> +“But that has been done already by an obscure artist by the name of +Durer,” said he. “How does the poem run?— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Three centuries and threescore years ago,<br /> +With phantasies of his peculiar thought. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +You might as well try to rewrite <i>Hamlet</i>. It will be a waste of time. +</p> + +<p> +“No, it won’t,” said Maisie, putting down the teacups with a +clatter to reassure herself. “And I mean to do it. Can’t you see +what a beautiful thing it would make?” +</p> + +<p> +“How in perdition can one do work when one hasn’t had the proper +training? Any fool can get a notion. It needs training to drive the thing +through,—training and conviction; not rushing after the first +fancy.” Dick spoke between his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t understand,” said Maisie. “I think I can do +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the voice of the girl behind him— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Baffled and beaten back, she works on still;<br /> + Weary and sick of soul, she works the more.<br /> +Sustained by her indomitable will,<br /> + The hands shall fashion, and the brain shall pore,<br /> +And all her sorrow shall be turned to labour—— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +I fancy Maisie means to embody herself in the picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sitting on a throne of rejected pictures? No, I shan’t, dear. The +notion in itself has fascinated me.—Of course you don’t care for +fancy heads, Dick. +</p> + +<p> +I don’t think you could do them. You like blood and bones.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a direct challenge. If you can do a Melancolia that +isn’t merely a sorrowful female head, I can do a better one; and I will, +too. What d’you know about Melacolias?” Dick firmly believed that +he was even then tasting three-quarters of all the sorrow in the world. +</p> + +<p> +“She was a woman,” said Maisie, “and she suffered a great +deal,—till she could suffer no more. Then she began to laugh at it all, +and then I painted her and sent her to the Salon.” +</p> + +<p> +The red-haired girl rose up and left the room, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +Dick looked at Maisie humbly and hopelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind about the picture,” he said. “Are you really +going back to Kami’s for a month before your time?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must, if I want to get the picture done.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that’s all you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. Don’t be stupid, Dick.” +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t the power. You have only the ideas—the ideas and +the little cheap impulses. How you could have kept at your work for ten years +steadily is a mystery to me. So you are really going,—a month before you +need?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must do my work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your work—bah!... No, I didn’t mean that. It’s all +right, dear. Of course you must do your work, and—I think I’ll say +good-bye for this week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you even stay for tea? “No, thank you. Have I your +leave to go, dear? There’s nothing more you particularly want me to do, +and the line-work doesn’t matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you could stay, and then we could talk over my picture. If only +one single picture’s a success, it draws attention to all the others. I +know some of my work is good, if only people could see. And you needn’t +have been so rude about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry. We’ll talk the Melancolia over some one of the +other Sundays. +</p> + +<p> +There are four more—yes, one, two, three, four—before you go. +Good-bye, Maisie.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie stood by the studio window, thinking, till the red-haired girl returned, +a little white at the corners of her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick’s gone off,” said Maisie. “Just when I wanted to +talk about the picture. Isn’t it selfish of him?” +</p> + +<p> +Her companion opened her lips as if to speak, shut them again, and went on +reading <i>The City of Dreadful Night</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Dick was in the Park, walking round and round a tree that he had chosen as his +confidante for many Sundays past. He was swearing audibly, and when he found +that the infirmities of the English tongue hemmed in his rage, he sought +consolation in Arabic, which is expressly designed for the use of the +afflicted. He was not pleased with the reward of his patient service; nor was +he pleased with himself; and it was long before he arrived at the proposition +that the queen could do no wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a losing game,” he said. “I’m worth nothing +when a whim of hers is in question. But in a losing game at Port Said we used +to double the stakes and go on. She do a Melancolia! She hasn’t the +power, or the insight, or the training. Only the desire. She’s cursed +with the curse of Reuben. She won’t do line-work, because it means real +work; and yet she’s stronger than I am. I’ll make her understand +that I can beat her on her own Melancolia. Even then she wouldn’t care. +She says I can only do blood and bones. I don’t believe she has blood in +her veins. All the same I love her; and I must go on loving her; and if I can +humble her inordinate vanity I will. I’ll do a Melancolia that shall be +something like a Melancolia—“the Melancolia that transcends all +wit.” I’ll do it at once, con—bless her.” +</p> + +<p> +He discovered that the notion would not come to order, and that he could not +free his mind for an hour from the thought of Maisie’s departure. He took +very small interest in her rough studies for the Melancolia when she showed +them next week. The Sundays were racing past, and the time was at hand when all +the church bells in London could not ring Maisie back to him. Once or twice he +said something to Binkie about “hermaphroditic futilities,” but the +little dog received so many confidences both from Torpenhow and Dick that he +did not trouble his tulip-ears to listen. +</p> + +<p> +Dick was permitted to see the girls off. They were going by the Dover +night-boat; and they hoped to return in August. It was then February, and Dick +felt that he was being hardly used. Maisie was so busy stripping the small +house across the Park, and packing her canvases, that she had not time for +thought. Dick went down to Dover and wasted a day there fretting over a +wonderful possibility. Would Maisie at the very last allow him one small kiss? +He reflected that he might capture her by the strong arm, as he had seem women +captured in the Southern Soudan, and lead her away; but Maisie would never be +led. She would turn her gray eyes upon him and say, “Dick, how selfish +you are!” Then his courage would fail him. It would be better, after all, +to beg for that kiss. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie looked more than usually kissable as she stepped from the night-mail on +to the windy pier, in a gray waterproof and a little gray cloth travelling-cap. +The red-haired girl was not so lovely. Her green eyes were hollow and her lips +were dry. Dick saw the trunks aboard, and went to Maisie’s side in the +darkness under the bridge. The mail-bags were thundering into the forehold, and +the red-haired girl was watching them. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll have a rough passage to-night,” said Dick. +“It’s blowing outside. I suppose I may come over and see you if +I’m good?” +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t. I shall be busy. At least, if I want you I’ll +send for you. But I shall write from Vitry-sur-Marne. I shall have heaps of +things to consult you about. Oh, Dick, you have been so good to me!—so +good to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for that, dear. It hasn’t made any difference, has +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t tell a fib. It hasn’t—in that way. But +don’t think I’m not grateful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn the gratitude!” said Dick, huskily, to the paddle-box. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the use of worrying? You know I should ruin your life, and +you’d ruin mine, as things are now. You remember what you said when you +were so angry that day in the Park? One of us has to be broken. +</p> + +<p> +Can’t you wait till that day comes?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, love. I want you unbroken—all to myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie shook her head. “My poor Dick, what can I say!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say anything. Give me a kiss. Only one kiss, Maisie. +I’ll swear I won’t take any more. You might as well, and then I can +be sure you’re grateful.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie put her cheek forward, and Dick took his reward in the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +It was only one kiss, but, since there was no time-limit specified, it was a +long one. Maisie wrenched herself free angrily, and Dick stood abashed and +tingling from head to toe. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, darling. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. +Only—keep well and do good work,—specially the Melancolia. +I’m going to do one, too. Remember me to Kami, and be careful what you +drink. Country drinking-water is bad everywhere, but it’s worse in +France. Write to me if you want anything, and good-bye. Say good-bye to the +whatever-you-call-um girl, and—can’t I have another kiss? No. +You’re quite right. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +A shout told him that it was not seemly to charge up the mail-bag incline. He +reached the pier as the steamer began to move off, and he followed her with his +heart. +</p> + +<p> +“And there’s nothing—nothing in the wide world—to keep +us apart except her obstinacy. These Calais night-boats are much too small. +I’ll get Torp to write to the papers about it. She’s beginning to +pitch already.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie stood where Dick had left her till she heard a little gasping cough at +her elbow. The red-haired girl’s eyes were alight with cold flame. +</p> + +<p> +“He kissed you!” she said. “How could you let him, when he +wasn’t anything to you? How dared you to take a kiss from him? Oh, +Maisie, let’s go to the ladies’ cabin. I’m sick,—deadly +sick.” +</p> + +<p> +“We aren’t into open water yet. Go down, dear, and I’ll stay +here. I don’t like the smell of the engines.... Poor Dick! He deserved +one,—only one. +</p> + +<p> +But I didn’t think he’d frighten me so.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick returned to town next day just in time for lunch, for which he had +telegraphed. To his disgust, there were only empty plates in the studio. +</p> + +<p> +He lifted up his voice like the bears in the fairy-tale, and Torpenhow entered, +looking guilty. +</p> + +<p> +“H’sh!” said he. “Don’t make such a noise. I took +it. Come into my rooms, and I’ll show you why.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick paused amazed at the threshold, for on Torpenhow’s sofa lay a girl +asleep and breathing heavily. The little cheap sailor-hat, the blue-and-white +dress, fitter for June than for February, dabbled with mud at the skirts, the +jacket trimmed with imitation Astrakhan and ripped at the shoulder-seams, the +one-and-elevenpenny umbrella, and, above all, the disgraceful condition of the +kid-topped boots, declared all things. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I say, old man, this is too bad! You mustn’t bring this sort +up here. +</p> + +<p> +They steal things from the rooms.” +</p> + +<p> +“It looks bad, I admit, but I was coming in after lunch, and she +staggered into the hall. I thought she was drunk at first, but it was collapse. +I couldn’t leave her as she was, so I brought her up here and gave her +your lunch. She was fainting from want of food. She went fast asleep the minute +she had finished.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know something of that complaint. She’s been living on sausages, +I suppose. Torp, you should have handed her over to a policeman for presuming +to faint in a respectable house. Poor little wretch! Look at the face! There +isn’t an ounce of immorality in it. Only folly,—slack, fatuous, +feeble, futile folly. It’s a typical head. D’you notice how the +skull begins to show through the flesh padding on the face and +cheek-bone?” +</p> + +<p> +“What a cold-blooded barbarian it is! Don’t hit a woman when +she’s down. Can’t we do anything? She was simply dropping with +starvation. +</p> + +<p> +She almost fell into my arms, and when she got to the food she ate like a wild +beast. It was horrible.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can give her money, which she would probably spend in drinks. Is she +going to sleep for ever?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl opened her eyes and glared at the men between terror and effrontery. +</p> + +<p> +“Feeling better?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Thank you. There aren’t many gentlemen that are as kind as +you are. Thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did you leave service?” said Dick, who had been watching the +scarred and chapped hands. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you know I was in service? I was. General servant. I +didn’t like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how do you like being your own mistress?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I look as if I liked it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose not. One moment. Would you be good enough to turn your face to +the window?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl obeyed, and Dick watched her face keenly,—so keenly that she +made as if to hide behind Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“The eyes have it,” said Dick, walking up and down. “They are +superb eyes for my business. And, after all, every head depends on the eyes. +This has been sent from heaven to make up for—what was taken away. Now +the weekly strain’s off my shoulders, I can get to work in earnest. +</p> + +<p> +Evidently sent from heaven. Yes. Raise your chin a little, please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gently, old man, gently. You’re scaring somebody out of her +wits,” said Torpenhow, who could see the girl trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t let him hit me! Oh, please don’t let him hit me! +I’ve been hit cruel to-day because I spoke to a man. Don’t let him +look at me like that! He’s reg’lar wicked, that one. Don’t +let him look at me like that, neither! Oh, I feel as if I hadn’t nothing +on when he looks at me like that!” +</p> + +<p> +The overstrained nerves in the frail body gave way, and the girl wept like a +little child and began to scream. Dick threw open the window, and Torpenhow +flung the door back. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are,” said Dick, soothingly. “My friend here can +call for a policeman, and you can run through that door. Nobody is going to +hurt you.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl sobbed convulsively for a few minutes, and then tried to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing in the world to hurt you. Now listen to me for a minute. +I’m what they call an artist by profession. You know what artists +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“They draw the things in red and black ink on the pop-shop labels.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say. I haven’t risen to pop-shop labels yet. Those are done +by the Academicians. I want to draw your head.” +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it’s pretty. That is why you will come to the room across +the landing three times a week at eleven in the morning, and I’ll give +you three quid a week just for sitting still and being drawn. And there’s +a quid on account.” +</p> + +<p> +“For nothing? Oh, my!” The girl turned the sovereign in her hand, +and with more foolish tears, “Ain’t neither o’ you two +gentlemen afraid of my bilking you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Only ugly girls do that. Try and remember this place. And, by the +way, what’s your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m Bessie,—Bessie—— It’s no use giving +the rest. Bessie Broke,—Stone-broke, if you like. What’s your +names? But there,—no one ever gives the real ones.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick consulted Torpenhow with his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“My name’s Heldar, and my friend’s called Torpenhow; and you +must be sure to come here. Where do you live?” +</p> + +<p> +“South-the-water,—one room,—five and sixpence a week. +Aren’t you making fun of me about that three quid?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll see later on. And, Bessie, next time you come, remember, +you needn’t wear that paint. It’s bad for the skin, and I have all +the colours you’ll be likely to need.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessie withdrew, scrubbing her cheek with a ragged pocket-handkerchief. The two +men looked at each other. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a man,” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I’ve been a fool. It isn’t our business to +run about the earth reforming Bessie Brokes. And a woman of any kind has no +right on this landing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps she won’t come back.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will if she thinks she can get food and warmth here. I know she +will, worse luck. But remember, old man, she isn’t a woman; she’s +my model; and be careful.” +</p> + +<p> +“The idea! She’s a dissolute little scarecrow,—a +gutter-snippet and nothing more.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you think. Wait till she has been fed a little and freed from fear. +That fair type recovers itself very quickly. You won’t know her in a week +or two, when that abject fear has died out of her eyes. She’ll be too +happy and smiling for my purposes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely you’re not taking her out of charity?—to please +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not in the habit of playing with hot coals to please anybody. She +has been sent from heaven, as I may have remarked before, to help me with my +Melancolia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard a word about the lady before.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the use of having a friend, if you must sling your notions +at him in words? You ought to know what I’m thinking about. You’ve +heard me grunt lately?” +</p> + +<p> +“Even so; but grunts mean anything in your language, from bad +“baccy to wicked dealers. And I don’t think I’ve been much in +your confidence for some time.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a high and soulful grunt. You ought to have understood that it +meant the Melancolia.” Dick walked Torpenhow up and down the room, +keeping silence. Then he smote him in the ribs, “<i>Now</i> don’t +you see it? Bessie’s abject futility, and the terror in her eyes, welded +on to one or two details in the way of sorrow that have come under my +experience lately. Likewise some orange and black,—two keys of each. But +I can’t explain on an empty stomach.” +</p> + +<p> +“It sounds mad enough. You’d better stick to your soldiers, Dick, +instead of maundering about heads and eyes and experiences.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think so?” Dick began to dance on his heels, singing— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“They’re as proud as a turkey when they hold the ready cash,<br /> + You ought to ’ear the way they laugh an’ joke;<br /> +They are tricky an’ they’re funny when they’ve got the ready money,—<br /> + Ow! but see ’em when they’re all stone-broke.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Then he sat down to pour out his heart to Maisie in a four-sheet letter of +counsel and encouragement, and registered an oath that he would get to work +with an undivided heart as soon as Bessie should reappear. +</p> + +<p> +The girl kept her appointment unpainted and unadorned, afraid and overbold by +turns. When she found that she was merely expected to sit still, she grew +calmer, and criticised the appointments of the studio with freedom and some +point. She liked the warmth and the comfort and the release from fear of +physical pain. Dick made two or three studies of her head in monochrome, but +the actual notion of the Melancolia would not arrive. +</p> + +<p> +“What a mess you keep your things in!” said Bessie, some days +later, when she felt herself thoroughly at home. “I s’pose your +clothes are just as bad. +</p> + +<p> +Gentlemen never think what buttons and tape are made for.” +</p> + +<p> +“I buy things to wear, and wear ’em till they go to pieces. I +don’t know what Torpenhow does.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessie made diligent inquiry in the latter’s room, and unearthed a bale +of disreputable socks. “Some of these I’ll mend now,” she +said, “and some I’ll take home. D’you know, I sit all day +long at home doing nothing, just like a lady, and no more noticing them other +girls in the house than if they was so many flies. I don’t have any +unnecessary words, but I put ’em down quick, I can tell you, when they +talk to me. No; it’s quite nice these days. I lock my door, and they can +only call me names through the keyhole, and I sit inside, just like a lady, +mending socks. Mr. Torpenhow wears his socks out both ends at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Three quid a week from me, and the delights of my society. No socks +mended. Nothing from Torp except a nod on the landing now and again, and all +his socks mended. Bessie is very much a woman,” thought Dick; and he +looked at her between half-shut eyes. Food and rest had transformed the girl, +as Dick knew they would. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you looking at me like that for?” she said quickly. +“Don’t. You look reg’lar bad when you look that way. You +don’t think much o’ me, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“That depends on how you behave.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessie behaved beautifully. Only it was difficult at the end of a sitting to +bid her go out into the gray streets. She very much preferred the studio and a +big chair by the stove, with some socks in her lap as an excuse for delay. Then +Torpenhow would come in, and Bessie would be moved to tell strange and +wonderful stories of her past, and still stranger ones of her present improved +circumstances. She would make them tea as though she had a right to make it; +and once or twice on these occasions Dick caught Torpenhow’s eyes fixed +on the trim little figure, and because Bessie’s flittings about the room +made Dick ardently long for Maisie, he realised whither Torpenhow’s +thoughts were tending. And Bessie was exceedingly careful of the condition of +Torpenhow’s linen. She spoke very little to him, but sometimes they +talked together on the landing. +</p> + +<p> +“I was a great fool,” Dick said to himself. “I know what red +firelight looks like when a man’s tramping through a strange town; and +ours is a lonely, selfish sort of life at the best. I wonder Maisie +doesn’t feel that sometimes. But I can’t order Bessie away. +That’s the worst of beginning things. One never knows where they +stop.” +</p> + +<p> +One evening, after a sitting prolonged to the last limit of the light, Dick was +roused from a nap by a broken voice in Torpenhow’s room. He jumped to his +feet. “Now what ought I to do? It looks foolish to go in.—Oh, bless +you, Binkie!” The little terrier thrust Torpenhow’s door open with +his nose and came out to take possession of Dick’s chair. The door swung +wide unheeded, and Dick across the landing could see Bessie in the half-light +making her little supplication to Torpenhow. She was kneeling by his side, and +her hands were clasped across his knee. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,—I know,” she said thickly. +“’Tisn’t right o’ me to do this, but I can’t help +it; and you were so kind,—so kind; and you never took any notice o’ +me. And I’ve mended all your things so carefully,—I did. Oh, +please, ’tisn’t as if I was asking you to marry me. I +wouldn’t think of it. +</p> + +<p> +But you—couldn’t you take and live with me till Miss Right comes +along? I’m only Miss Wrong, I know, but I’d work my hands to the +bare bone for you. And I’m not ugly to look at. Say you will!” +</p> + +<p> +Dick hardly recognised Torpenhow’s voice in reply—“But look +here. It’s no use. I’m liable to be ordered off anywhere at a +minute’s notice if a war breaks out. At a minute’s +notice—dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does that matter? Until you go, then. Until you go. +’Tisn’t much I’m asking, and—you don’t know how +good I can cook.” She had put an arm round his neck and was drawing his +head down. +</p> + +<p> +“Until—I—go, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Torp,” said Dick, across the landing. He could hardly steady his +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here a minute, old man. I’m in +trouble’—“Heaven send he’ll listen to me!” There +was something very like an oath from Bessie’s lips. She was afraid of +Dick, and disappeared down the staircase in panic, but it seemed an age before +Torpenhow entered the studio. He went to the mantelpiece, buried his head on +his arms, and groaned like a wounded bull. +</p> + +<p> +“What the devil right have you to interfere?” he said, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s interfering with which? Your own sense told you long ago you +couldn’t be such a fool. It was a tough rack, St. Anthony, but +you’re all right now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I oughtn’t to have seen her moving about these rooms as if they +belonged to her. That’s what upset me. It gives a lonely man a sort of +hankering, doesn’t it?” said Torpenhow, piteously. +</p> + +<p> +“Now you talk sense. It does. But, since you aren’t in a condition +to discuss the disadvantages of double housekeeping, do you know what +you’re going to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t. I wish I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going away for a season on a brilliant tour to regain tone. +You’re going to Brighton, or Scarborough, or Prawle Point, to see the +ships go by. And you’re going at once. Isn’t it odd? I’ll +take care of Binkie, but out you go immediately. Never resist the devil. He +holds the bank. Fly from him. Pack your things and go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you’re right. Where shall I go?” +</p> + +<p> +“And you call yourself a special correspondent! Pack first and inquire +afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +An hour later Torpenhow was despatched into the night for a hansom. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll probably think of some place to go to while you’re +moving,” said Dick. “On to Euston, to begin with, and—oh +yes—get drunk to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +He returned to the studio, and lighted more candles, for he found the room very +dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you Jezebel! you futile little Jezebel! Won’t you hate me +to-morrow!—Binkie, come here.” +</p> + +<p> +Binkie turned over on his back on the hearth-rug, and Dick stirred him with a +meditative foot. +</p> + +<p> +“I said she was not immoral. I was wrong. She said she could cook. That +showed premeditated sin. Oh, Binkie, if you are a man you will go to perdition; +but if you are a woman, and say that you can cook, you will go to a much worse +place.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +What’s you that follows at my side?—<br /> + The foe that ye must fight, my lord.—<br /> +That hirples swift as I can ride?—<br /> + The shadow of the night, my lord.—<br /> +Then wheel my horse against the foe!—<br /> + He’s down and overpast, my lord.<br /> +Ye war against the sunset glow;<br /> + The darkness gathers fast, my lord.<br /> +<br /> +—<i>The Fight of Heriot’s Ford</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a cheerful life,” said Dick, some days later. +“Torp’s away; Bessie hates me; I can’t get at the notion of +the Melancolia; Maisie’s letters are scrappy; and I believe I have +indigestion. What give a man pains across the head and spots before his eyes, +Binkie? Shall us take some liver pills?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick had just gone through a lively scene with Bessie. She had for the fiftieth +time reproached him for sending Torpenhow away. She explained her enduring +hatred for Dick, and made it clear to him that she only sat for the sake of his +money. “And Mr. Torpenhow’s ten times a better man than you,” +she concluded. +</p> + +<p> +“He is. That’s why he went away. <i>I</i> should have stayed and +made love to you.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl sat with her chin on her hand, scowling. “To me! I’d like +to catch you! If I wasn’t afraid o’ being hung I’d kill you. +That’s what I’d do. +</p> + +<p> +D’you believe me?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick smiled wearily. It is not pleasant to live in the company of a notion that +will not work out, a fox-terrier that cannot talk, and a woman who talks too +much. He would have answered, but at that moment there unrolled itself from one +corner of the studio a veil, as it were, of the flimsiest gauze. He rubbed his +eyes, but the gray haze would not go. +</p> + +<p> +“This is disgraceful indigestion. Binkie, we will go to a medicine-man. +We can’t have our eyes interfered with, for by these we get our bread; +also mutton-chop bones for little dogs.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor was an affable local practitioner with white hair, and he said +nothing till Dick began to describe the gray film in the studio. +</p> + +<p> +“We all want a little patching and repairing from time to time,” he +chirped. “Like a ship, my dear sir,—exactly like a ship. Sometimes +the hull is out of order, and we consult the surgeon; sometimes the rigging, +and then I advise; sometimes the engines, and we go to the brain-specialist; +sometimes the look-out on the bridge is tired, and then we see an oculist. I +should recommend you to see an oculist. A little patching and repairing from +time to time is all we want. An oculist, by all means.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick sought an oculist,—the best in London. He was certain that the local +practitioner did not know anything about his trade, and more certain that +Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced to wear spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve neglected the warnings of my lord the stomach too long. Hence +these spots before the eyes, Binkie. I can see as well as I ever could.” +</p> + +<p> +As he entered the dark hall that led to the consulting-room a man cannoned +against him. Dick saw the face as it hurried out into the street. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the writer-type. He has the same modelling of the forehead +as Torp. He looks very sick. Probably heard something he didn’t +like.” +</p> + +<p> +Even as he thought, a great fear came upon Dick, a fear that made him hold his +breath as he walked into the oculist’s waiting room, with the heavy +carved furniture, the dark-green paper, and the sober-hued prints on the wall. +He recognised a reproduction of one of his own sketches. +</p> + +<p> +Many people were waiting their turn before him. His eye was caught by a flaming +red-and-gold Christmas-carol book. Little children came to that eye-doctor, and +they needed large-type amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s idolatrous bad Art,” he said, drawing the book +towards himself. +</p> + +<p> +“From the anatomy of the angels, it has been made in Germany.” He +opened in mechanically, and there leaped to his eyes a verse printed in red +ink— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The next good joy that Mary had,<br /> + It was the joy of three,<br /> +To see her good Son Jesus Christ<br /> + Making the blind to see;<br /> +Making the blind to see, good Lord,<br /> + And happy we may be.<br /> +Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost<br /> + To all eternity! +</p> + +<p> +Dick read and re-read the verse till his turn came, and the doctor was bending +above him seated in an arm-chair. The blaze of the gas-microscope in his eyes +made him wince. The doctor’s hand touched the scar of the sword-cut on +Dick’s head, and Dick explained briefly how he had come by it. When the +flame was removed, Dick saw the doctor’s face, and the fear came upon him +again. The doctor wrapped himself in a mist of words. Dick caught allusions to +“scar,” “frontal bone,” “optic nerve,” +“extreme caution,” and the “avoidance of mental +anxiety.” +</p> + +<p> +“Verdict?” he said faintly. “My business is painting, and I +daren’t waste time. What do you make of it?” +</p> + +<p> +Again the whirl of words, but this time they conveyed a meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you give me anything to drink?” +</p> + +<p> +Many sentences were pronounced in that darkened room, and the prisoners often +needed cheering. Dick found a glass of liqueur brandy in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“As far as I can gather,” he said, coughing above the spirit, +“you call it decay of the optic nerve, or something, and therefore +hopeless. What is my time-limit, avoiding all strain and worry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps one year.” +</p> + +<p> +“My God! And if I don’t take care of myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I really could not say. One cannot ascertain the exact amount of injury +inflicted by the sword-cut. The scar is an old one, and—exposure to the +strong light of the desert, did you say?—with excessive application to +fine work? I really could not say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, but it has come without any warning. If you will let +me, I’ll sit here for a minute, and then I’ll go. You have been +very good in telling me the truth. Without any warning; without any warning. +</p> + +<p> +Thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick went into the street, and was rapturously received by Binkie. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got it very badly, little dog! Just as badly as we can get +it. We’ll go to the Park to think it out.” +</p> + +<p> +They headed for a certain tree that Dick knew well, and they sat down to think, +because his legs were trembling under him and there was cold fear at the pit of +his stomach. +</p> + +<p> +“How could it have come without any warning? It’s as sudden as +being shot. It’s the living death, Binkie. We’re to be shut up in +the dark in one year if we’re careful, and we shan’t see anybody, +and we shall never have anything we want, not though we live to be a +hundred!” Binkie wagged his tail joyously. “Binkie, we must think. +Let’s see how it feels to be blind.” Dick shut his eyes, and +flaming commas and Catherine-wheels floated inside the lids. Yet when he looked +across the Park the scope of his vision was not contracted. He could see +perfectly, until a procession of slow-wheeling fireworks defiled across his +eyeballs. +</p> + +<p> +“Little dorglums, we aren’t at all well. Let’s go home. If +only Torp were back, now!” +</p> + +<p> +But Torpenhow was in the south of England, inspecting dockyards in the company +of the Nilghai. His letters were brief and full of mystery. +</p> + +<p> +Dick had never asked anybody to help him in his joys or his sorrows. He argued, +in the loneliness of his studio, henceforward to be decorated with a film of +gray gauze in one corner, that, if his fate were blindness, all the Torpenhows +in the world could not save him. “I can’t call him off his trip to +sit down and sympathise with me. I must pull through this business +alone,” he said. He was lying on the sofa, eating his moustache and +wondering what the darkness of the night would be like. Then came to his mind +the memory of a quaint scene in the Soudan. A soldier had been nearly hacked in +two by a broad-bladed Arab spear. For one instant the man felt no pain. Looking +down, he saw that his life-blood was going from him. The stupid bewilderment on +his face was so intensely comic that both Dick and Torpenhow, still panting and +unstrung from a fight for life, had roared with laughter, in which the man +seemed as if he would join, but, as his lips parted in a sheepish grin, the +agony of death came upon him, and he pitched grunting at their feet. Dick +laughed again, remembering the horror. It seemed so exactly like his own case. +</p> + +<p> +“But I have a little more time allowed me,” he said. He paced up +and down the room, quietly at first, but afterwards with the hurried feet of +fear. It was as though a black shadow stood at his elbow and urged him to go +forward; and there were only weaving circles and floating pin-dots before his +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“We need to be calm, Binkie; we must be calm.” He talked aloud for +the sake of distraction. “This isn’t nice at all. What shall we do? +We must do something. Our time is short. I shouldn’t have believed that +this morning; but now things are different. Binkie, where was Moses when the +light went out?” +</p> + +<p> +Binkie smiled from ear to ear, as a well-bred terrier should, but made no +suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +““Were there but world enough and time, This coyness, Binkie, were +not crime.... But at my back I always hear——“’ He wiped +his forehead, which was unpleasantly damp. “What can I do? What can I do? +I haven’t any notions left, and I can’t think connectedly, but I +must do something, or I shall go off my head.” +</p> + +<p> +The hurried walk recommenced, Dick stopping every now and again to drag forth +long-neglected canvases and old note-books; for he turned to his work by +instinct, as a thing that could not fail. “You won’t do, and you +won’t do,” he said, at each inspection. “No more soldiers. I +couldn’t paint ’em. Sudden death comes home too nearly, and this is +battle and murder for me.” +</p> + +<p> +The day was failing, and Dick thought for a moment that the twilight of the +blind had come upon him unaware. “Allah Almighty!” he cried +despairingly, “help me through the time of waiting, and I won’t +whine when my punishment comes. What can I do now, before the light +goes?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer. Dick waited till he could regain some sort of control over +himself. His hands were shaking, and he prided himself on their steadiness; he +could feel that his lips were quivering, and the sweat was running down his +face. He was lashed by fear, driven forward by the desire to get to work at +once and accomplish something, and maddened by the refusal of his brain to do +more than repeat the news that he was about to go blind. “It’s a +humiliating exhibition,” he thought, “and I’m glad Torp +isn’t here to see. The doctor said I was to avoid mental worry. +</p> + +<p> +Come here and let me pet you, Binkie.” +</p> + +<p> +The little dog yelped because Dick nearly squeezed the bark out of him. +</p> + +<p> +Then he heard the man speaking in the twilight, and, doglike, understood that +his trouble stood off from him—“Allah is good, Binkie. Not quite so +gentle as we could wish, but we’ll discuss that later. I think I see my +way to it now. All those studies of Bessie’s head were nonsense, and they +nearly brought your master into a scrape. I hold the notion now as clear as +crystal,—“the Melancolia that transcends all wit.” There +shall be Maisie in that head, because I shall never get Maisie; and Bess, of +course, because she knows all about Melancolia, though she doesn’t know +she knows; and there shall be some drawing in it, and it shall all end up with +a laugh. That’s for myself. Shall she giggle or grin? No, she shall laugh +right out of the canvas, and every man and woman that ever had a sorrow of +their own shall—what is it the poem says?— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Understand the speech and feel a stir<br /> +Of fellowship in all disastrous fight. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“In all disastrous fight”? That’s better than painting the +thing merely to pique Maisie. I can do it now because I have it inside me. +Binkie, I’m going to hold you up by your tail. You’re an omen. Come +here.” +</p> + +<p> +Binkie swung head downward for a moment without speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Rather like holding a guinea-pig; but you’re a brave little dog, +and you don’t yelp when you’re hung up. It is an omen.” +</p> + +<p> +Binkie went to his own chair, and as often as he looked saw Dick walking up and +down, rubbing his hands and chuckling. That night Dick wrote a letter to Maisie +full of the tenderest regard for her health, but saying very little about his +own, and dreamed of the Melancolia to be born. Not till morning did he remember +that something might happen to him in the future. +</p> + +<p> +He fell to work, whistling softly, and was swallowed up in the clean, clear joy +of creation, which does not come to man too often, lest he should consider +himself the equal of his God, and so refuse to die at the appointed time. He +forgot Maisie, Torpenhow, and Binkie at his feet, but remembered to stir +Bessie, who needed very little stirring, into a tremendous rage, that he might +watch the smouldering lights in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He threw himself without reservation into his work, and did not think of the +doom that was to overtake him, for he was possessed with his notion, and the +things of this world had no power upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re pleased to-day,” said Bessie. +</p> + +<p> +Dick waved his mahl-stick in mystic circles and went to the sideboard for a +drink. In the evening, when the exaltation of the day had died down, he went to +the sideboard again, and after some visits became convinced that the eye-doctor +was a liar, since he could still see everything very clearly. +</p> + +<p> +He was of opinion that he would even make a home for Maisie, and that whether +she liked it or not she should be his wife. The mood passed next morning, but +the sideboard and all upon it remained for his comfort. +</p> + +<p> +Again he set to work, and his eyes troubled him with spots and dashes and blurs +till he had taken counsel with the sideboard, and the Melancolia both on the +canvas and in his own mind appeared lovelier than ever. There was a delightful +sense of irresponsibility upon him, such as they feel who walking among their +fellow-men know that the death-sentence of disease is upon them, and, seeing +that fear is but waste of the little time left, are riotously happy. The days +passed without event. +</p> + +<p> +Bessie arrived punctually always, and, though her voice seemed to Dick to come +from a distance, her face was always very near. The Melancolia began to flame +on the canvas, in the likeness of a woman who had known all the sorrow in the +world and was laughing at it. It was true that the corners of the studio draped +themselves in gray film and retired into the darkness, that the spots in his +eyes and the pains across his head were very troublesome, and that +Maisie’s letters were hard to read and harder still to answer. He could +not tell her of his trouble, and he could not laugh at her accounts of her own +Melancolia which was always going to be finished. But the furious days of toil +and the nights of wild dreams made amends for all, and the sideboard was his +best friend on earth. +</p> + +<p> +Bessie was singularly dull. She used to shriek with rage when Dick stared at +her between half-closed eyes. Now she sulked, or watched him with disgust, +saying very little. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow had been absent for six weeks. An incoherent note heralded his +return. “News! great news!” he wrote. “The Nilghai knows, and +so does the Keneu. We’re all back on Thursday. Get lunch and clean your +accoutrements.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick showed Bessie the letter, and she abused him for that he had ever sent +Torpenhow away and ruined her life. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Dick, brutally, “you’re better as you are, +instead of making love to some drunken beast in the street.” He felt that +he had rescued Torpenhow from great temptation. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know if that’s any worse than sitting to a drunken +beast in a studio. <i>You</i> haven’t been sober for three weeks. +You’ve been soaking the whole time; and yet you pretend you’re +better than me!” +</p> + +<p> +“What d’you mean?” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Mean! You’ll see when Mr. Torpenhow comes back.” +</p> + +<p> +It was not long to wait. Torpenhow met Bessie on the staircase without a sign +of feeling. He had news that was more to him than many Bessies, and the Keneu +and the Nilghai were trampling behind him, calling for Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Drinking like a fish,” Bessie whispered. “He’s been at +it for nearly a month.” She followed the men stealthily to hear judgment +done. +</p> + +<p> +They came into the studio, rejoicing, to be welcomed over effusively by a +drawn, lined, shrunken, haggard wreck,—unshaven, blue-white about the +nostrils, stooping in the shoulders, and peering under his eyebrows nervously. +The drink had been at work as steadily as Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this you?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“All that’s left of me. Sit down. Binkie’s quite well, and +I’ve been doing some good work.” He reeled where he stood. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve done some of the worst work you’ve ever done in your +life. Man alive, you’re——” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow turned to his companions appealingly, and they left the room to find +lunch elsewhere. Then he spoke; but, since the reproof of a friend is much too +sacred and intimate a thing to be printed, and since Torpenhow used figures and +metaphors which were unseemly, and contempt untranslatable, it will never be +known what was actually said to Dick, who blinked and winked and picked at his +hands. After a time the culprit began to feel the need of a little +self-respect. He was quite sure that he had not in any way departed from +virtue, and there were reasons, too, of which Torpenhow knew nothing. He would +explain. +</p> + +<p> +He rose, tried to straighten his shoulders, and spoke to the face he could +hardly see. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” he said. “But I am right, too. After you +went away I had some trouble with my eyes. So I went to an oculist, and he +turned a gasogene—I mean a gas-engine—into my eye. That was very +long ago. He said, “Scar on the head,—sword-cut and optic +nerve.” Make a note of that. So I am going blind. I have some work to do +before I go blind, and I suppose that I must do it. I cannot see much now, but +I can see best when I am drunk. I did not know I was drunk till I was told, but +I must go on with my work. If you want to see it, there it is.” He +pointed to the all but finished Melancolia and looked for applause. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow said nothing, and Dick began to whimper feebly, for joy at seeing +Torpenhow again, for grief at misdeeds—if indeed they were +misdeeds—that made Torpenhow remote and unsympathetic, and for childish +vanity hurt, since Torpenhow had not given a word of praise to his wonderful +picture. +</p> + +<p> +Bessie looked through the keyhole after a long pause, and saw the two walking +up and down as usual, Torpenhow’s hand on Dick’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +Hereat she said something so improper that it shocked even Binkie, who was +dribbling patiently on the landing with the hope of seeing his master again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The lark will make her hymn to God,<br /> + The partridge call her brood,<br /> +While I forget the heath I trod,<br /> + The fields wherein I stood.<br /> +’Tis dule to know not night from morn,<br /> + But deeper dule to know<br /> +I can but hear the hunter’s horn<br /> + That once I used to blow.<br /> +<br /> +—<i>The Only Son</i>. +</p> + +<p> +It was the third day after Torpenhow’s return, and his heart was heavy. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to tell me that you can’t see to work without whiskey? +It’s generally the other way about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can a drunkard swear on his honour?” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if he has been as good a man as you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I give you my word of honour,” said Dick, speaking hurriedly +through parched lips. “Old man, I can hardly see your face now. +You’ve kept me sober for two days,—if I ever was drunk,—and +I’ve done no work. +</p> + +<p> +Don’t keep me back any more. I don’t know when my eyes may give +out. +</p> + +<p> +The spots and dots and the pains and things are crowding worse than ever. I +swear I can see all right when I’m—when I’m moderately +screwed, as you say. Give me three more sittings from Bessie and all—the +stuff I want, and the picture will be done. I can’t kill myself in three +days. It only means a touch of D. T. at the worst.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I give you three days more will you promise me to stop work +and—the other thing, whether the picture’s finished or not?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t. You don’t know what that picture means to me. But +surely you could get the Nilghai to help you, and knock me down and tie me up. +I shouldn’t fight for the whiskey, but I should for the work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, then. I give you three days; but you’re nearly breaking my +heart.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick returned to his work, toiling as one possessed; and the yellow devil of +whiskey stood by him and chased away the spots in his eyes. The Melancolia was +nearly finished, and was all or nearly all that he had hoped she would be. Dick +jested with Bessie, who reminded him that he was “a drunken beast’; +but the reproof did not move him. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t understand, Bess. We are in sight of land now, and soon +we shall lie back and think about what we’ve done. I’ll give you +three months’ pay when the picture’s finished, and next time I have +any more work in hand—but that doesn’t matter. Won’t three +months’ pay make you hate me less?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it won’t! I hate you, and I’ll go on hating you. Mr. +Torpenhow won’t speak to me any more. He’s always looking at +maps.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessie did not say that she had again laid siege to Torpenhow, or that at the +end of her passionate pleading he had picked her up, given her a kiss, and put +her outside the door with the recommendation not to be a little fool. He spent +most of his time in the company of the Nilghai, and their talk was of war in +the near future, the hiring of transports, and secret preparations among the +dockyards. He did not wish to see Dick till the picture was finished. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s doing first-class work,” he said to the Nilghai, +“and it’s quite out of his regular line. But, for the matter of +that, so’s his infernal soaking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind. Leave him alone. When he has come to his senses again +we’ll carry him off from this place and let him breathe clean air. Poor +Dick! I don’t envy you, Torp, when his eyes fail.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it will be a case of “God help the man who’s chained to +our Davie.” The worst is that we don’t know when it will happen, +and I believe the uncertainty and the waiting have sent Dick to the whiskey +more than anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +“How the Arab who cut his head open would grin if he knew!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s at perfect liberty to grin if he can. He’s dead. +That’s poor consolation now.” +</p> + +<p> +In the afternoon of the third day Torpenhow heard Dick calling for him. +</p> + +<p> +“All finished!” he shouted. “I’ve done it! Come in! +Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t she a darling? I’ve been down to +hell to get her; but isn’t she worth it?” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow looked at the head of a woman who laughed,—a full-lipped, +hollow-eyed woman who laughed from out of the canvas as Dick had intended she +would. +</p> + +<p> +“Who taught you how to do it?” said Torpenhow. “The touch and +notion have nothing to do with your regular work. What a face it is! What eyes, +and what insolence!” Unconsciously he threw back his head and laughed +with her. “She’s seen the game played out,—I don’t +think she had a good time of it,—and now she doesn’t care. +Isn’t that the idea?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you get the mouth and chin from? They don’t belong to +Bess.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re—some one else’s. But isn’t it good? +Isn’t it thundering good? Wasn’t it worth the whiskey? I did it. +Alone I did it, and it’s the best I can do.” He drew his breath +sharply, and whispered, “Just God! what could I not do ten years hence, +if I can do this now!—By the way, what do you think of it, Bess?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl was biting her lips. She loathed Torpenhow because he had taken no +notice of her. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it’s just the horridest, beastliest thing I ever +saw,” she answered, and turned away. +</p> + +<p> +“More than you will be of that way of thinking, young woman.—Dick, +there’s a sort of murderous, viperine suggestion in the poise of the head +that I don’t understand,” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +That’s trick-work,” said Dick, chuckling with delight at being +completely understood. “I couldn’t resist one little bit of sheer +swagger. It’s a French trick, and you wouldn’t understand; but +it’s got at by slewing round the head a trifle, and a tiny, tiny +foreshortening of one side of the face from the angle of the chin to the top of +the left ear. That, and deepening the shadow under the lobe of the ear. It was +flagrant trick-work; but, having the notion fixed, I felt entitled to play with +it,—Oh, you beauty!” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen! She is a beauty. I can feel it.” +</p> + +<p> +“So will every man who has any sorrow of his own,” said Dick, +slapping his thigh. “He shall see his trouble there, and, by the Lord +Harry, just when he’s feeling properly sorry for himself he shall throw +back his head and laugh,—as she is laughing. I’ve put the life of +my heart and the light of my eyes into her, and I don’t care what +comes.... I’m tired,—awfully tired. I think I’ll get to +sleep. Take away the whiskey, it has served its turn, and give Bessie +thirty-six quid, and three over for luck. Cover the picture.” +</p> + +<p> +He dropped asleep in the long chair, hid face white and haggard, almost before +he had finished the sentence. Bessie tried to take Torpenhow’s hand. +“Aren’t you never going to speak to me any more?” she said; +but Torpenhow was looking at Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“What a stock of vanity the man has! I’ll take him in hand +to-morrow and make much of him. He deserves it.—Eh! what was that, +Bess?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. I’ll put things tidy here a little, and then I’ll +go. You couldn’t give the that three months’ pay now, could you? He +said you were to.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his own rooms. Bessie faithfully tidied +up the studio, set the door ajar for flight, emptied half a bottle of +turpentine on a duster, and began to scrub the face of the Melancolia +viciously. The paint did not smudge quickly enough. She took a palette-knife +and scraped, following each stroke with the wet duster. In five minutes the +picture was a formless, scarred muddle of colours. She threw the paint-stained +duster into the studio stove, stuck out her tongue at the sleeper, and +whispered, “Bilked!” as she turned to run down the staircase. She +would never see Torpenhow any more, but she had at least done harm to the man +who had come between her and her desire and who used to make fun of her. +Cashing the check was the very cream of the jest to Bessie. Then the little +privateer sailed across the Thames, to be swallowed up in the gray wilderness +of South-the-Water. +</p> + +<p> +Dick slept till late in the evening, when Torpenhow dragged him off to bed. His +eyes were as bright as his voice was hoarse. “Let’s have another +look at the picture,” he said, insistently as a child. +</p> + +<p> +“You—go—to—bed,” said Torpenhow. “You +aren’t at all well, though you mayn’t know it. You’re as +jumpy as a cat.” +</p> + +<p> +“I reform to-morrow. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +As he repassed through the studio, Torpenhow lifted the cloth above the +picture, and almost betrayed himself by outcries: “Wiped +out!—scraped out and turped out! He’s on the verge of jumps as it +is. That’s Bess,—the little fiend! Only a woman could have done +that!-with the ink not dry on the check, too! Dick will be raving mad +to-morrow. It was all my fault for trying to help gutter-devils. Oh, my poor +Dick, the Lord is hitting you very hard!” +</p> + +<p> +Dick could not sleep that night, partly for pure joy, and partly because the +well-known Catherine-wheels inside his eyes had given place to crackling +volcanoes of many-coloured fire. “Spout away,” he said aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve done my work, and now you can do what you please.” He +lay still, staring at the ceiling, the long-pent-up delirium of drink in his +veins, his brain on fire with racing thoughts that would not stay to be +considered, and his hands crisped and dry. He had just discovered that he was +painting the face of the Melancolia on a revolving dome ribbed with millions of +lights, and that all his wondrous thoughts stood embodied hundreds of feet +below his tiny swinging plank, shouting together in his honour, when something +cracked inside his temples like an overstrained bowstring, the glittering dome +broke inward, and he was alone in the thick night. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go to sleep. The room’s very dark. Let’s light a +lamp and see how the Melancolia looks. There ought to have been a moon.” +</p> + +<p> +It was then that Torpenhow heard his name called by a voice that he did not +know,—in the rattling accents of deadly fear. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s looked at the picture,” was his first thought, as he +hurried into the bedroom and found Dick sitting up and beating the air with his +hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Torp! Torp! where are you? For pity’s sake, come to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick clutched at his shoulder. “Matter! I’ve been lying here for +hours in the dark, and you never heard me. Torp, old man, don’t go away. +I’m all in the dark. In the dark, I tell you!” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow held the candle within a foot of Dick’s eyes, but there was no +light in those eyes. He lit the gas, and Dick heard the flame catch. The grip +of his fingers on Torpenhow’s shoulder made Torpenhow wince. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t leave me. You wouldn’t leave me alone now, would you? +I can’t see. D’you understand? It’s black,—quite +black,—and I feel as if I was falling through it all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Steady does it.” Torpenhow put his arm round Dick and began to +rock him gently to and fro. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s good. Now don’t talk. If I keep very quiet for a +while, this darkness will lift. It seems just on the point of breaking. +H’sh!” Dick knit his brows and stared desperately in front of him. +The night air was chilling Torpenhow’s toes. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you stay like that a minute?” he said. “I’ll get +my dressing-gown and some slippers.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick clutched the bed-head with both hands and waited for the darkness to clear +away. “What a time you’ve been!” he cried, when Torpenhow +returned. “It’s as black as ever. What are you banging about in the +door-way?” +</p> + +<p> +“Long chair,—horse-blanket,—pillow. Going to sleep by you. +Lie down now; you’ll be better in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t!” The voice rose to a wail. “My God! +I’m blind! I’m blind, and the darkness will never go away.” +He made as if to leap from the bed, but Torpenhow’s arms were round him, +and Torpenhow’s chin was on his shoulder, and his breath was squeezed out +of him. He could only gasp, “Blind!” and wriggle feebly. +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, Dickie, steady!” said the deep voice in his ear, and the +grip tightened. “Bite on the bullet, old man, and don’t let them +think you’re afraid,” The grip could draw no closer. Both men were +breathing heavily. +</p> + +<p> +Dick threw his head from side to side and groaned. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go,” he panted. “You’re cracking my ribs. We-we +mustn’t let them think we’re afraid, must we,—all the powers +of darkness and that lot?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lie down. It’s all over now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Dick, obediently. “But would you mind letting me +hold your hand? I feel as if I wanted something to hold on to. One drops +through the dark so.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow thrust out a large and hairy paw from the long chair. Dick clutched +it tightly, and in half an hour had fallen asleep. Torpenhow withdrew his hand, +and, stooping over Dick, kissed him lightly on the forehead, as men do +sometimes kiss a wounded comrade in the hour of death, to ease his departure. +</p> + +<p> +In the gray dawn Torpenhow heard Dick talking to himself. He was adrift on the +shoreless tides of delirium, speaking very quickly—“It’s a +pity,—a great pity; but it’s helped, and it must be eaten, Master +George. Sufficient unto the day is the blindness thereof, and, further, putting +aside all Melancolias and false humours, it is of obvious notoriety—such +as mine was—that the queen can do no wrong. Torp doesn’t know that. +I’ll tell him when we’re a little farther into the desert. +</p> + +<p> +What a bungle those boatmen are making of the steamer-ropes! They’ll have +that four-inch hawser chafed through in a minute. I told you so—there she +goes! White foam on green water, and the steamer slewing round. How good that +looks! I’ll sketch it. No, I can’t. I’m afflicted with +ophthalmia. That was one of the ten plagues of Egypt, and it extends up the +Nile in the shape of cataract. Ha! that’s a joke, Torp. Laugh, you graven +image, and stand clear of the hawser.... It’ll knock you into the water +and make your dress all dirty, Maisie dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Torpenhow. “This happened before. That night on +the river.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll be sure to say it’s my fault if you get muddy, and +you’re quite near enough to the breakwater. Maisie, that’s not +fair. Ah! I knew you’d miss. +</p> + +<p> +Low and to the left, dear. But you’ve no conviction. Don’t be +angry, darling. I’d cut my hand off if it would give you anything more +than obstinacy. My right hand, if it would serve.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now we mustn’t listen. Here’s an island shouting across seas +of misunderstanding with a vengeance. But it’s shouting truth, I +fancy,” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +The babble continued. It all bore upon Maisie. Sometimes Dick lectured at +length on his craft, then he cursed himself for his folly in being enslaved. He +pleaded to Maisie for a kiss—only one kiss—before she went away, +and called to her to come back from Vitry-sur-Marne, if she would; but through +all his ravings he bade heaven and earth witness that the queen could do no +wrong. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow listened attentively, and learned every detail of Dick’s life +that had been hidden from him. For three days Dick raved through the past, and +then a natural sleep. “What a strain he has been running under, poor +chap!” said Torpenhow. “Dick, of all men, handing himself over like +a dog! And I was lecturing him on arrogance! I ought to have known that it was +no use to judge a man. But I did it. What a demon that girl must be! +Dick’s given her his life,—confound him!—and she’s +given him one kiss apparently.” +</p> + +<p> +“Torp,” said Dick, from the bed, “go out for a walk. +You’ve been here too long. I’ll get up. Hi! This is annoying. I +can’t dress myself. Oh, it’s too absurd!” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow helped him into his clothes and led him to the big chair in the +studio. He sat quietly waiting under strained nerves for the darkness to lift. +It did not lift that day, nor the next. Dick adventured on a voyage round the +walls. He hit his shins against the stove, and this suggested to him that it +would be better to crawl on all fours, one hand in front of him. Torpenhow +found him on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m trying to get the geography of my new possessions,” said +he. “D’you remember that nigger you gouged in the square? Pity you +didn’t keep the odd eye. It would have been useful. Any letters for me? +Give me all the ones in fat gray envelopes with a sort of crown thing outside. +They’re of no importance.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow gave him a letter with a black M. on the envelope flap. Dick put it +into his pocket. There was nothing in it that Torpenhow might not have read, +but it belonged to himself and to Maisie, who would never belong to him. +</p> + +<p> +“When she finds that I don’t write, she’ll stop writing. +It’s better so. I couldn’t be any use to her now,” Dick +argued, and the tempter suggested that he should make known his condition. +Every nerve in him revolted. “I have fallen low enough already. I’m +not going to beg for pity. Besides, it would be cruel to her.” He strove +to put Maisie out of his thoughts; but the blind have many opportunities for +thinking, and as the tides of his strength came back to him in the long +employless days of dead darkness, Dick’s soul was troubled to the core. +Another letter, and another, came from Maisie. Then there was silence, and Dick +sat by the window, the pulse of summer in the air, and pictured her being won +by another man, stronger than himself. His imagination, the keener for the dark +background it worked against, spared him no single detail that might send him +raging up and down the studio, to stumble over the stove that seemed to be in +four places at once. Worst of all, tobacco would not taste in the darkness. The +arrogance of the man had disappeared, and in its place were settled despair +that Torpenhow knew, and blind passion that Dick confided to his pillow at +night. The intervals between the paroxysms were filled with intolerable waiting +and the weight of intolerable darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Come out into the Park,” said Torpenhow. “You haven’t +stirred out since the beginning of things.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the use? There’s no movement in the dark; and, +besides,”—he paused irresolutely at the head of the +stairs,—“something will run over me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if I’m with you. Proceed gingerly.” +</p> + +<p> +The roar of the streets filled Dick with nervous terror, and he clung to +Torpenhow’s arm. “Fancy having to feel for a gutter with your +foot!” he said petulantly, as he turned into the Park. “Let’s +curse God and die.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sentries are forbidden to pay unauthorised compliments. By Jove, there +are the Guards!” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s figure straightened. “Let’s get near ’em. +Let’s go in and look. Let’s get on the grass and run. I can smell +the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mind the low railing. That’s all right!” Torpenhow kicked +out a tuft of grass with his heel. “Smell that,” he said. +“Isn’t it good?” Dick sniffed luxuriously. “Now pick up +your feet and run.” They approached as near to the regiment as was +possible. The clank of bayonets being unfixed made Dick’s nostrils +quiver. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s get nearer. They’re in column, aren’t +they?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. How did you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Felt it. Oh, my men!—my beautiful men!” He edged forward as +though he could see. “I could draw those chaps once. Who’ll draw +’em now?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll move off in a minute. Don’t jump when the band +begins.” +</p> + +<p> +“Huh! I’m not a new charger. It’s the silences that hurt. +Nearer, Torp!—nearer! Oh, my God, what wouldn’t I give to see +’em for a minute!—one half-minute!” +</p> + +<p> +He could hear the armed life almost within reach of him, could hear the slings +tighten across the bandsman’s chest as he heaved the big drum from the +ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Sticks crossed above his head,” whispered Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“I know. <i>I</i> know! Who should know if I don’t? +H’sh!” +</p> + +<p> +The drum-sticks fell with a boom, and the men swung forward to the crash of the +band. Dick felt the wind of the massed movement in his face, heard the +maddening tramp of feet and the friction of the pouches on the belts. The big +drum pounded out the tune. It was a music-hall refrain that made a perfect +quickstep— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +He must be a man of decent height,<br /> + He must be a man of weight,<br /> +He must come home on a Saturday night<br /> + In a thoroughly sober state;<br /> +He must know how to love me,<br /> + And he must know how to kiss;<br /> +And if he’s enough to keep us both<br /> + I can’t refuse him bliss. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” said Torpenhow, as he saw Dick’s +head fall when the last of the regiment had departed. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. I feel a little bit out of the running,—that’s all. +Torp, take me back. Why did you bring me out?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +There were three friends that buried the fourth,<br /> + The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes<br /> +And they went south and east, and north,—<br /> + The strong man fights, but the sick man dies.<br /> +<br /> +There were three friends that spoke of the dead,—<br /> + The strong man fights, but the sick man dies.—<br /> +“And would he were with us now,” they said,<br /> + “The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.” <br /> +<br /> +—<i>Ballad</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai was angry with Torpenhow. Dick had been sent to bed,—blind +men are ever under the orders of those who can see,—and since he had +returned from the Park had fluently sworn at Torpenhow because he was alive, +and all the world because it was alive and could see, while he, Dick, was dead +in the death of the blind, who, at the best, are only burdens upon their +associates. Torpenhow had said something about a Mrs. Gummidge, and Dick had +retired in a black fury to handle and re-handle three unopened letters from +Maisie. +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai, fat, burly, and aggressive, was in Torpenhow’s rooms. +</p> + +<p> +Behind him sat the Keneu, the Great War Eagle, and between them lay a large map +embellished with black-and-white-headed pins. +</p> + +<p> +“I was wrong about the Balkans,” said the Nilghai. “But +I’m not wrong about this business. The whole of our work in the Southern +Soudan must be done over again. The public doesn’t care, of course, but +the government does, and they are making their arrangements quietly. You know +that as well as I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember how the people cursed us when our troops withdrew from +Omdurman. It was bound to crop up sooner or later. But I can’t go,” +said Torpenhow. He pointed through the open door; it was a hot night. +“Can you blame me?” +</p> + +<p> +The Keneu purred above his pipe like a large and very happy +cat—“Don’t blame you in the least. It’s uncommonly good +of you, and all the rest of it, but every man—even you, Torp—must +consider his work. I know it sounds brutal, but Dick’s out of the +race,—down,—<i>gastados</i>, expended, finished, done for. He has a +little money of his own. He won’t starve, and you can’t pull out of +your slide for his sake. Think of your own reputation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick’s was five times bigger than mine and yours put +together.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was because he signed his name to everything he did. It’s all +ended now. You must hold yourself in readiness to move out. You can command +your own prices, and you do better work than any three of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t tell me how tempting it is. I’ll stay here to look +after Dick for a while. He’s as cheerful as a bear with a sore head, but +I think he likes to have me near him.” +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai said something uncomplimentary about soft-headed fools who throw +away their careers for other fools. Torpenhow flushed angrily. The constant +strain of attendance on Dick had worn his nerves thin. +</p> + +<p> +“There remains a third fate,” said the Keneu, thoughtfully. +“Consider this, and be not larger fools than necessary. Dick is—or +rather was—an able-bodied man of moderate attractions and a certain +amount of audacity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oho!” said the Nilghai, who remembered an affair at Cairo. +“I begin to see,—Torp, I’m sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow nodded forgiveness: “You were more sorry when he cut you out, +though.—Go on, Keneu.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve often thought, when I’ve seen men die out in the +desert, that if the news could be sent through the world, and the means of +transport were quick enough, there would be one woman at least at each +man’s bedside.” +</p> + +<p> +“There would be some mighty quaint revelations. Let us be grateful things +are as they are,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us rather reverently consider whether Torp’s three-cornered +ministrations are exactly what Dick needs just now.—What do you think +yourself, Torp?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know they aren’t. But what can I do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lay the matter before the board. We are all Dick’s friends here. +You’ve been most in his life.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I picked it up when he was off his head.” +</p> + +<p> +“The greater chance of its being true. I thought we should arrive. Who is +she?” +</p> + +<p> +Then Torpenhow told a tale in plain words, as a special correspondent who knows +how to make a verbal <i>précis</i> should tell it. The men listened without +interruption. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it possible that a man can come back across the years to his +calf-love?” said the Keneu. “Is it possible?” +</p> + +<p> +“I give the facts. He says nothing about it now, but he sits fumbling +three letters from her when he thinks I’m not looking. What am I to +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak to him,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes! Write to her,—I don’t know her full name, +remember,—and ask her to accept him out of pity. I believe you once told +Dick you were sorry for him, Nilghai. You remember what happened, eh? Go into +the bedroom and suggest full confession and an appeal to this Maisie girl, +whoever she is. I honestly believe he’d try to kill you; and the +blindness has made him rather muscular.” +</p> + +<p> +“Torpenhow’s course is perfectly clear,” said the Keneu. +“He will go to Vitry-sur-Marne, which is on the Bezieres-Landes +Railway,—single track from Tourgas. The Prussians shelled it out in +’70 because there was a poplar on the top of a hill eighteen hundred +yards from the church spire There’s a squadron of cavalry quartered +there,—or ought to be. Where this studio Torp spoke about may be I cannot +tell. That is Torp’s business. I have given him his route. He will +dispassionately explain the situation to the girl, and she will come back to +Dick,—the more especially because, to use Dick’s words, +“there is nothing but her damned obstinacy to keep them +apart.”’ +</p> + +<p> +“And they have four hundred and twenty pounds a year between ’em. +Dick never lost his head for figures, even in his delirium. You haven’t +the shadow of an excuse for not going,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow looked very uncomfortable. “But it’s absurd and +impossible. I can’t drag her back by the hair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our business—the business for which we draw our money—is to +do absurd and impossible things,—generally with no reason whatever except +to amuse the public. Here we have a reason. The rest doesn’t matter. I +shall share these rooms with the Nilghai till Torpenhow returns. There will be +a batch of unbridled “specials” coming to town in a little while, +and these will serve as their headquarters. Another reason for sending +Torpenhow away. Thus Providence helps those who help others, +and’—here the Keneu dropped his measured speech—“we +can’t have you tied by the leg to Dick when the trouble begins. +It’s your only chance of getting away; and Dick will be grateful.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will,—worse luck! I can but go and try. I can’t conceive +a woman in her senses refusing Dick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Talk that out with the girl. I have seen you wheedle an angry Mahdieh +woman into giving you dates. This won’t be a tithe as difficult. You had +better not be here to-morrow afternoon, because the Nilghai and I will be in +possession. It is an order. Obey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick,” said Torpenhow, next morning, “can I do anything for +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No! Leave me alone. How often must I remind you that I’m +blind?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing I could go for to fetch for to carry for to bring?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Take those infernal creaking boots of yours away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor chap!” said Torpenhow to himself. “I must have been +sitting on his nerves lately. He wants a lighter step.” Then, aloud, +“Very well. Since you’re so independent, I’m going off for +four or five days. Say good-bye at least. The housekeeper will look after you, +and Keneu has my rooms.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s face fell. “You won’t be longer than a week at the +outside? I know I’m touched in the temper, but I can’t get on +without you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you? You’ll have to do without me in a little time, +and you’ll be glad I’m gone.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick felt his way back to the big chair, and wondered what these things might +mean. He did not wish to be tended by the housekeeper, and yet +Torpenhow’s constant tenderness jarred on him. He did not exactly know +what he wanted. The darkness would not lift, and Maisie’s unopened +letters felt worn and old from much handling. He could never read them for +himself as long as life endured; but Maisie might have sent him some fresh ones +to play with. The Nilghai entered with a gift,—a piece of red +modelling-wax. He fancied that Dick might find interest in using his hands. +Dick poked and patted the stuff for a few minutes, and, “Is it like +anything in the world?” he said drearily. “Take it away. I may get +the touch of the blind in fifty years. Do you know where Torpenhow has +gone?” +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai knew nothing. “We’re staying in his rooms till he comes +back. Can we do anything for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to be left alone, please. Don’t think I’m +ungrateful; but I’m best alone.” +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai chuckled, and Dick resumed his drowsy brooding and sullen rebellion +against fate. He had long since ceased to think about the work he had done in +the old days, and the desire to do more work had departed from him. He was +exceedingly sorry for himself, and the completeness of his tender grief soothed +him. But his soul and his body cried for Maisie—Maisie who would +understand. His mind pointed out that Maisie, having her own work to do, would +not care. His experience had taught him that when money was exhausted women +went away, and that when a man was knocked out of the race the others trampled +on him. “Then at the least,” said Dick, in reply, “she could +use me as I used Binat,—for some sort of a study. I wouldn’t ask +more than to be near her again, even though I knew that another man was making +love to her. Ugh! what a dog I am!” +</p> + +<p> +A voice on the staircase began to sing joyfully— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“When we go—go—go away from here,<br /> + Our creditors will weep and they will wail,<br /> +Our absence much regretting when they find that they’ve been getting<br /> + Out of England by next Tuesday’s Indian mail.” +</p> + +<p> +Following the trampling of feet, slamming of Torpenhow’s door, and the +sound of voices in strenuous debate, some one squeaked, “And see, you +good fellows, I have found a new water-bottle—firs’-class +patent—eh, how you say? Open himself inside out.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick sprang to his feet. He knew the voice well. “That’s +Cassavetti, come back from the Continent. Now I know why Torp went away. +There’s a row somewhere, and—I’m out of it!” +</p> + +<p> +The Nilghai commanded silence in vain. “That’s for my sake,” +Dick said bitterly. “The birds are getting ready to fly, and they +wouldn’t tell me. I can hear Morten-Sutherland and Mackaye. Half the War +Correspondents in London are there;—and I’m out of it.” +</p> + +<p> +He stumbled across the landing and plunged into Torpenhow’s room. He +could feel that it was full of men. “Where’s the trouble?” +said he. “In the Balkans at last? Why didn’t some one tell +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“We thought you wouldn’t be interested,” said the Nilghai, +shamefacedly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s in the Soudan, as usual.” +</p> + +<p> +“You lucky dogs! Let me sit here while you talk. I shan’t be a +skeleton at the feast.—Cassavetti, where are you? Your English is as bad +as ever.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick was led into a chair. He heard the rustle of the maps, and the talk swept +forward, carrying him with it. Everybody spoke at once, discussing press +censorships, railway-routes, transport, water-supply, the capacities of +generals,—these in language that would have horrified a trusting +public,—ranging, asserting, denouncing, and laughing at the top of their +voices. There was the glorious certainty of war in the Soudan at any moment. +The Nilghai said so, and it was well to be in readiness. The Keneu had +telegraphed to Cairo for horses; Cassavetti had stolen a perfectly inaccurate +list of troops that would be ordered forward, and was reading it out amid +profane interruptions, and the Keneu introduced to Dick some man unknown who +would be employed as war artist by the Central Southern Syndicate. +“It’s his first outing,” said the Keneu. “Give him some +tips—about riding camels.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, those camels!” groaned Cassavetti. “I shall learn to +ride him again, and now I am so much all soft! Listen, you good fellows. I know +your military arrangement very well. There will go the Royal Argalshire +Sutherlanders. So it was read to me upon best authority.” +</p> + +<p> +A roar of laughter interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down,” said the Nilghai. “The lists aren’t even +made out in the War Office.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will there be any force at Suakin?” said a voice. +</p> + +<p> +Then the outcries redoubled, and grew mixed, thus: “How many Egyptian +troops will they use?—God help the Fellaheen!—There’s a +railway in Plumstead marshes doing duty as a fives-court.—We shall have +the Suakin-Berber line built at last.—Canadian voyageurs are too careful. +Give me a half-drunk Krooman in a whale-boat.—Who commands the Desert +column?—No, they never blew up the big rock in the Ghineh bend. We shall +have to be hauled up, as usual.—Somebody tell me if there’s an +Indian contingent, or I’ll break everybody’s +head.—Don’t tear the map in two.—It’s a war of +occupation, I tell you, to connect with the African companies in the +South.—There’s Guinea-worm in most of the wells on that +route.” Then the Nilghai, despairing of peace, bellowed like a fog-horn +and beat upon the table with both hands. +</p> + +<p> +“But what becomes of Torpenhow?” said Dick, in the silence that +followed. +</p> + +<p> +“Torp’s in abeyance just now. He’s off love-making somewhere, +I suppose,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“He said he was going to stay at home,” said the Keneu. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he?” said Dick, with an oath. “He won’t. I’m +not much good now, but if you and the Nilghai hold him down I’ll engage +to trample on him till he sees reason. He’ll stay behind, indeed! +He’s the best of you all. There’ll be some tough work by Omdurman. +We shall come there to stay, this time. +</p> + +<p> +But I forgot. I wish I were going with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“So do we all, Dickie,” said the Keneu. +</p> + +<p> +“And I most of all,” said the new artist of the Central Southern +Syndicate. +</p> + +<p> +“Could you tell me——” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll give you one piece of advice,” Dick answered, moving +towards the door. “If you happen to be cut over the head in a scrimmage, +don’t guard. +</p> + +<p> +Tell the man to go on cutting. You’ll find it cheapest in the end. Thanks +for letting me look in.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s grit in Dick,” said the Nilghai, an hour later, when +the room was emptied of all save the Keneu. +</p> + +<p> +“It was the sacred call of the war-trumpet. Did you notice how he +answered to it? Poor fellow! Let’s look at him,” said the Keneu. +</p> + +<p> +The excitement of the talk had died away. Dick was sitting by the studio table, +with his head on his arms, when the men came in. He did not change his +position. +</p> + +<p> +“It hurts,” he moaned. “God forgive me, but it hurts cruelly; +and yet, y’know, the world has a knack of spinning round all by itself. +Shall I see Torp before he goes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes. You’ll see him,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The sun went down an hour ago,<br /> + I wonder if I face towards home;<br /> +If I lost my way in the light of day<br /> + How shall I find it now night is come?<br /> +<br /> +—<i>Old Song</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Maisie, come to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s so hot I can’t sleep. Don’t worry.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie put her elbows on the window-sill and looked at the moonlight on the +straight, poplar-flanked road. Summer had come upon Vitry-sur-Marne and parched +it to the bone. The grass was dry-burnt in the meadows, the clay by the bank of +the river was caked to brick, the roadside flowers were long since dead, and +the roses in the garden hung withered on their stalks. The heat in the little +low bedroom under the eaves was almost intolerable. The very moonlight on the +wall of Kami’s studio across the road seemed to make the night hotter, +and the shadow of the big bell-handle by the closed gate cast a bar of inky +black that caught Maisie’s eye and annoyed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Horrid thing! It should be all white,” she murmured. “And +the gate isn’t in the middle of the wall, either. I never noticed that +before.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie was hard to please at that hour. First, the heat of the past few weeks +had worn her down; secondly, her work, and particularly the study of a female +head intended to represent the Melancolia and not finished in time for the +Salon, was unsatisfactory; thirdly, Kami had said as much two days before; +fourthly,—but so completely fourthly that it was hardly worth thinking +about,—Dick, her property, had not written to her for more than six +weeks. She was angry with the heat, with Kami, and with her work, but she was +exceedingly angry with Dick. +</p> + +<p> +She had written to him three times,—each time proposing a fresh treatment +of her Melancolia. Dick had taken no notice of these communications. She had +resolved to write no more. When she returned to England in the autumn—for +her pride’s sake she could not return earlier—she would speak to +him. She missed the Sunday afternoon conferences more than she cared to admit. +All that Kami said was, “<i>Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez +toujours</i>,” and he had been repeating the wearisome counsel through +the hot summer, exactly like a cicada,—an old gray cicada in a black +alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge felt hat. But Dick had tramped +masterfully up and down her little studio north of the cool green London park, +and had said things ten times worse than <i>continuez</i>, before he snatched +the brush out of her hand and showed her where the error lay. His last letter, +Maisie remembered, contained some trivial advice about not sketching in the sun +or drinking water at wayside farmhouses; and he had said that not once, but +three times,—as if he did not know that Maisie could take care of +herself. +</p> + +<p> +But what was he doing, that he could not trouble to write? A murmur of voices +in the road made her lean from the window. A cavalryman of the little garrison +in the town was talking to Kami’s cook. The moonlight glittered on the +scabbard of his sabre, which he was holding in his hand lest it should clank +inopportunely. The cook’s cap cast deep shadows on her face, which was +close to the conscript’s. He slid his arm round her waist, and there +followed the sound of a kiss. +</p> + +<p> +“Faugh!” said Maisie, stepping back. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” said the red-haired girl, who was tossing +uneasily outside her bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Only a conscript kissing the cook,” said Maisie. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve gone away now.” She leaned out of the window again, +and put a shawl over her nightgown to guard against chills. There was a very +small night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its head as one +who knew unutterable secrets. Was it possible that Dick should turn his +thoughts from her work and his own and descend to the degradation of Suzanne +and the conscript? He could not! The rose nodded its head and one leaf +therewith. It looked like a naughty little devil scratching its ear. +</p> + +<p> +Dick could not, “because,” thought Maisie, “he is +mine,—mine,—mine. He said he was. I’m sure I don’t care +what he does. It will only spoil his work if he does; and it will spoil mine +too.” +</p> + +<p> +The rose continued to nod in the futile way peculiar to flowers. There was no +earthly reason why Dick should not disport himself as he chose, except that he +was called by Providence, which was Maisie, to assist Maisie in her work. And +her work was the preparation of pictures that went sometimes to English +provincial exhibitions, as the notices in the scrap-book proved, and that were +invariably rejected by the Salon when Kami was plagued into allowing her to +send them up. Her work in the future, it seemed, would be the preparation of +pictures on exactly similar lines which would be rejected in exactly the same +way——The red-haired girl threshed distressfully across the sheets. +“It’s too hot to sleep,” she moaned; and the interruption +jarred. +</p> + +<p> +Exactly the same way. Then she would divide her years between the little studio +in England and Kami’s big studio at Vitry-sur-Marne. No, she would go to +another master, who should force her into the success that was her right, if +patient toil and desperate endeavour gave one a right to anything. Dick had +told her that he had worked ten years to understand his craft. She had worked +ten years, and ten years were nothing. Dick had said that ten years were +nothing,—but that was in regard to herself only. He had said—this +very man who could not find time to write—that he would wait ten years +for her, and that she was bound to come back to him sooner or later. He had +said this in the absurd letter about sunstroke and diphtheria; and then he had +stopped writing. He was wandering up and down moonlit streets, kissing cooks. +She would like to lecture him now,—not in her nightgown, of course, but +properly dressed, severely and from a height. Yet if he was kissing other girls +he certainly would not care whether she lectured him or not. He would laugh at +her. Very good. +</p> + +<p> +She would go back to her studio and prepare pictures that went, etc., etc. +</p> + +<p> +The mill-wheel of thought swung round slowly, that no section of it might be +slurred over, and the red-haired girl tossed and turned behind her. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie put her chin in her hands and decided that there could be no doubt +whatever of the villainy of Dick. To justify herself, she began, unwomanly, to +weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he had said he loved her. And he +kissed her,—kissed her on the cheek,—by a yellow sea-poppy that +nodded its head exactly like the maddening dry rose in the garden. Then there +was an interval, and men had told her that they loved her—just when she +was busiest with her work. Then the boy came back, and at their very second +meeting had told her that he loved her. Then he had—— But there was +no end to the things he had done. He had given her his time and his powers. He +had spoken to her of Art, housekeeping, technique, teacups, the abuse of +pickles as a stimulant,—that was rude,—sable hair-brushes,—he +had given her the best in her stock,—she used them daily; he had given +her advice that she profited by, and now and again—a look. Such a look! +The look of a beaten hound waiting for the word to crawl to his +mistress’s feet. In return she had given him nothing whatever, +except—here she brushed her mouth against the open-work sleeve of her +nightgown—the privilege of kissing her once. And on the mouth, too. +Disgraceful! Was that not enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had +he not cancelled the debt by not writing and—probably kissing other +girls? “Maisie, you’ll catch a chill. Do go and lie down,” +said the wearied voice of her companion. “I can’t sleep a wink with +you at the window.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting on the +meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had nothing to do. +The moonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the skylight of the studio +across the road in cold silver; she stared at it intently and her thoughts +began to slide one into the other. The shadow of the big bell-handle in the +wall grew short, lengthened again, and faded out as the moon went down behind +the pasture and a hare came limping home across the road. Then the dawn-wind +washed through the upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle +lowed by the drought-shrunk river. Maisie’s head fell forward on the +window-sill, and the tangle of black hair covered her arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Maisie, wake up. You’ll catch a chill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear; yes, dear.” She staggered to her bed like a wearied +child, and as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, “I +think—I think.... +</p> + +<p> +But he ought to have written.” +</p> + +<p> +Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and turpentine, and +the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist, but a golden teacher if +the pupil were only in sympathy with him. Maisie was not in sympathy that day, +and she waited impatiently for the end of the work. She knew when it was +coming; for Kami would gather his black alpaca coat into a bunch behind him, +and, with faded blue eyes that saw neither pupils nor canvas, look back into +the past to recall the history of one Binat. “You have all done not so +badly,” he would say. “But you shall remember that it is not enough +to have the method, and the art, and the power, nor even that which is touch, +but you shall have also the conviction that nails the work to the wall. Of the +so many I taught,”—here the students would begin to unfix +drawing-pins or get their tubes together,—“the very so many that I +have taught, the best was Binat. All that comes of the study and the work and +the knowledge was to him even when he came. After he left me he should have +done all that could be done with the colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only, +he had not the conviction. So to-day I hear no more of Binat,—the best of +my pupils,—and that is long ago. So to-day, too, you will be glad to hear +no more of me. <i>Continuez, mesdemoiselles</i>, and, above all, with +conviction.” +</p> + +<p> +He went into the garden to smoke and mourn over the lost Binat as the pupils +dispersed to their several cottages or loitered in the studio to make plans for +the cool of the afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, restrained a desire to grimace +before it, and was hurrying across the road to write a letter to Dick, when she +was aware of a large man on a white troop-horse. How Torpenhow had managed in +the course of twenty hours to find his way to the hearts of the cavalry +officers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to discuss with them the certainty of +a glorious revenge for France, to reduce the colonel to tears of pure +affability, and to borrow the best horse in the squadron for the journey to +Kami’s studio, is a mystery that only special correspondents can unravel. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” said he. “It seems an absurd question to +ask, but the fact is that I don’t know her by any other name: Is there +any young lady here that is called Maisie?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am Maisie,” was the answer from the depths of a great sun-hat. +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to introduce myself,” he said, as the horse capered in the +blinding white dust. “My name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my best +friend, and—and—the fact is that he has gone blind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Blind!” said Maisie, stupidly. “He can’t be +blind.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has been stone-blind for nearly two months.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly white. “No! No! Not blind! I +won’t have him blind!” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you care to see for yourself?” said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,—at once?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no! The Paris train doesn’t go through this place till +to-night. There will be ample time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did Mr. Heldar send you to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not. Dick wouldn’t do that sort of thing. He’s +sitting in his studio, turning over some letters that he can’t read +because he’s blind.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head and went +into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa, complaining of a +headache. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick’s blind!” said Maisie, taking her breath quickly as she +steadied herself against a chair-back. “My Dick’s blind!” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” The girl was on the sofa no longer. +</p> + +<p> +“A man has come from England to tell me. He hasn’t written to me +for six weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think! <i>I</i> should go back to London and see him and I should kiss +his eyes and kiss them and kiss them until they got well again! If you +don’t go I shall. Oh, what am I talking about? You wicked little idiot! +Go to him at once. Go!” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow’s neck was blistering, but he preserved a smile of infinite +patience as Maisie’s appeared bareheaded in the sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +“I am coming,” said she, her eyes on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“You will be at Vitry Station, then, at seven this evening.” This +was an order delivered by one who was used to being obeyed. Maisie said +nothing, but she felt grateful that there was no chance of disputing with this +big man who took everything for granted and managed a squealing horse with one +hand. She returned to the red-haired girl, who was weeping bitterly, and +between tears, kisses,—very few of those,—menthol, packing, and an +interview with Kami, the sultry afternoon wore away. +</p> + +<p> +Thought might come afterwards. Her present duty was to go to Dick,—Dick +who owned the wondrous friend and sat in the dark playing with her unopened +letters. +</p> + +<p> +“But what will you do,” she said to her companion. +</p> + +<p> +“I? Oh, I shall stay here and—finish your Melancolia,” she +said, smiling pitifully. “Write to me afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +That night there ran a legend through Vitry-sur-Marne of a mad Englishman, +doubtless suffering from sunstroke, who had drunk all the officers of the +garrison under the table, had borrowed a horse from the lines, and had then and +there eloped, after the English custom, with one of those more mad English +girls who drew pictures down there under the care of that good Monsieur Kami. +</p> + +<p> +“They are very droll,” said Suzanne to the conscript in the +moonlight by the studio wall. “She walked always with those big eyes that +saw nothing, and yet she kisses me on both cheeks as though she were my sister, +and gives me—see—ten francs!” +</p> + +<p> +The conscript levied a contribution on both gifts; for he prided himself on +being a good soldier. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow spoke very little to Maisie during the journey to Calais; but he was +careful to attend to all her wants, to get her a compartment entirely to +herself, and to leave her alone. He was amazed of the ease with which the +matter had been accomplished. +</p> + +<p> +“The safest thing would be to let her think things out. By Dick’s +showing,—when he was off his head,—she must have ordered him about +very thoroughly. Wonder how she likes being under orders.” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie never told. She sat in the empty compartment often with her eyes shut, +that she might realise the sensation of blindness. It was an order that she +should return to London swiftly, and she found herself at last almost beginning +to enjoy the situation. This was better than looking after luggage and a +red-haired friend who never took any interest in her surroundings. But there +appeared to be a feeling in the air that she, Maisie,—of all +people,—was in disgrace. Therefore she justified her conduct to herself +with great success, till Torpenhow came up to her on the steamer and without +preface began to tell the story of Dick’s blindness, suppressing a few +details, but dwelling at length on the miseries of delirium. He stopped before +he reached the end, as though he had lost interest in the subject, and went +forward to smoke. Maisie was furious with him and with herself. +</p> + +<p> +She was hurried on from Dover to London almost before she could ask for +breakfast, and—she was past any feeling of indignation now—was +bidden curtly to wait in a hall at the foot of some lead-covered stairs while +Torpenhow went up to make inquiries. Again the knowledge that she was being +treated like a naughty little girl made her pale cheeks flame. It was all +Dick’s fault for being so stupid as to go blind. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow led her up to a shut door, which he opened very softly. Dick was +sitting by the window, with his chin on his chest. There were three envelopes +in his hand, and he turned them over and over. The big man who gave orders was +no longer by her side, and the studio door snapped behind her. +</p> + +<p> +Dick thrust the letters into his pocket as he heard the sound. “Hullo, +Torp! Is that you? I’ve been so lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice had taken the peculiar flatness of the blind. Maisie pressed herself +up into a corner of the room. Her heart was beating furiously, and she put one +hand on her breast to keep it quiet. Dick was staring directly at her, and she +realised for the first time that he was blind. Shutting her eyes in a +railway-carriage to open them when she pleased was child’s play. This man +was blind though his eyes were wide open. +</p> + +<p> +“Torp, is that you? They said you were coming.” Dick looked puzzled +and a little irritated at the silence. +</p> + +<p> +“No; it’s only me,” was the answer, in a strained little +whisper. Maisie could hardly move her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m!” said Dick, composedly, without moving. “This is +a new phenomenon. Darkness I’m getting used to; but I object to hearing +voices.” +</p> + +<p> +Was he mad, then, as well as blind, that he talked to himself? Maisie’s +heart beat more wildly, and she breathed in gasps. Dick rose and began to feel +his way across the room, touching each table and chair as he passed. Once he +caught his foot on a rug, and swore, dropping on his knees to feel what the +obstruction might be. Maisie remembered him walking in the Park as though all +the earth belonged to him, tramping up and down her studio two months ago, and +flying up the gangway of the Channel steamer. The beating of her heart was +making her sick, and Dick was coming nearer, guided by the sound of her +breathing. She put out a hand mechanically to ward him off or to draw him to +herself, she did not know which. It touched his chest, and he stepped back as +though he had been shot. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Maisie!” said he, with a dry sob. “What are you +doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I came—I came—to see you, please.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s lips closed firmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you sit down, then? You see, I’ve had some bother with +my eyes, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“I know. I know. Why didn’t you tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t write.” +</p> + +<p> +“You might have told Mr. Torpenhow.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has he to do with my affairs?” +</p> + +<p> +“He—he brought me from Vitry-sur-Marne. He thought I ought to see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what has happened? Can I do anything for you? No, I can’t. I +forgot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Dick, I’m so sorry! I’ve come to tell you, +and—— Let me take you back to your chair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t! I’m not a child. You only do that out of pity. I +never meant to tell you anything about it. I’m no good now. I’m +down and done for. Let me alone!” +</p> + +<p> +He groped back to his chair, his chest labouring as he sat down. +</p> + +<p> +Maisie watched him, and the fear went out of her heart, to be followed by a +very bitter shame. He had spoken a truth that had been hidden from the girl +through every step of the impetuous flight to London; for he was, indeed, down +and done for—masterful no longer but rather a little abject; neither an +artist stronger than she, nor a man to be looked up to—only some blind +one that sat in a chair and seemed on the point of crying. She was immensely +and unfeignedly sorry for him—more sorry than she had ever been for any +one in her life, but not sorry enough to deny his words. +</p> + +<p> +So she stood still and felt ashamed and a little hurt, because she had honestly +intended that her journey should end triumphantly; and now she was only filled +with pity most startlingly distinct from love. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Dick, his face steadily turned away. “I never +meant to worry you any more. What’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +He was conscious that Maisie was catching her breath, but was as unprepared as +herself for the torrent of emotion that followed. She had dropped into a chair +and was sobbing with her face hidden in her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t—I can’t!” she cried desperately. +“Indeed, I can’t. It isn’t my fault. +</p> + +<p> +I’m so sorry. Oh, Dickie, I’m so sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s shoulders straightened again, for the words lashed like a whip. +</p> + +<p> +Still the sobbing continued. It is not good to realise that you have failed in +the hour of trial or flinched before the mere possibility of making sacrifices. +</p> + +<p> +“I do despise myself—indeed I do. But I can’t. Oh, Dickie, +you wouldn’t ask me—would you?” wailed Maisie. +</p> + +<p> +She looked up for a minute, and by chance it happened that Dick’s eyes +fell on hers. The unshaven face was very white and set, and the lips were +trying to force themselves into a smile. But it was the worn-out eyes that +Maisie feared. Her Dick had gone blind and left in his place some one that she +could hardly recognise till he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is asking you to do anything, Maisie? I told you how it would be. +</p> + +<p> +What’s the use of worrying? For pity’s sake don’t cry like +that; it isn’t worth it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know how I hate myself. Oh, Dick, help me—help +me!” The passion of tears had grown beyond her control and was beginning +to alarm the man. He stumbled forward and put his arm round her, and her head +fell on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, dear, hush! Don’t cry. You’re quite right, and +you’ve nothing to reproach yourself with—you never had. +You’re only a little upset by the journey, and I don’t suppose +you’ve had any breakfast. What a brute Torp was to bring you over.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted to come. I did indeed,” she protested. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. And now you’ve come and seen, and +I’m—immensely grateful. +</p> + +<p> +When you’re better you shall go away and get something to eat. What sort +of a passage did you have coming over?” +</p> + +<p> +Maisie was crying more subduedly, for the first time in her life glad that she +had something to lean against. Dick patted her on the shoulder tenderly but +clumsily, for he was not quite sure where her shoulder might be. +</p> + +<p> +She drew herself out of his arms at last and waited, trembling and most +unhappy. He had felt his way to the window to put the width of the room between +them, and to quiet a little the tumult in his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you better now?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but—don’t you hate me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hate you? My God! I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t—isn’t there anything I could do for you, then? +I’ll stay here in England to do it, if you like. Perhaps I could come and +see you sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not, dear. It would be kindest not to see me any more, please. I +don’t want to seem rude, but—don’t you think—perhaps +you had almost better go now.” +</p> + +<p> +He was conscious that he could not bear himself as a man if the strain +continued much longer. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t deserve anything else. I’ll go, Dick. Oh, I’m +so miserable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense. You’ve nothing to worry about; I’d tell you if you +had. Wait a moment, dear. I’ve got something to give you first. I meant +it for you ever since this little trouble began. It’s my Melancolia; she +was a beauty when I last saw her. You can keep her for me, and if ever +you’re poor you can sell her. She’s worth a few hundreds at any +state of the market.” He groped among his canvases. “She’s +framed in black. Is this a black frame that I have my hand on? There she is. +What do you think of her?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned a scarred formless muddle of paint towards Maisie, and the eyes +strained as though they would catch her wonder and surprise. One thing and one +thing only could she do for him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +The voice was fuller and more rounded, because the man knew he was speaking of +his best work. Maisie looked at the blur, and a lunatic desire to laugh caught +her by the throat. But for Dick’s sake—whatever this mad blankness +might mean—she must make no sign. Her voice choked with hard-held tears +as she answered, still gazing at the wreck— +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Dick, it <i>is</i> good!” +</p> + +<p> +He heard the little hysterical gulp and took it for tribute. “Won’t +you have it, then? I’ll send it over to your house if you will.” +</p> + +<p> +“I? Oh yes—thank you. Ha! ha!” If she did not fly at once the +laughter that was worse than tears would kill her. She turned and ran, choking +and blinded, down the staircases that were empty of life to take refuge in a +cab and go to her house across the Parks. There she sat down in the dismantled +drawing-room and thought of Dick in his blindness, useless till the end of +life, and of herself in her own eyes. Behind the sorrow, the shame, and the +humiliation, lay fear of the cold wrath of the red-haired girl when Maisie +should return. Maisie had never feared her companion before. Not until she +found herself saying, “Well, he never asked me,” did she realise +her scorn of herself. +</p> + +<p> +And that is the end of Maisie. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +For Dick was reserved more searching torment. He could not realise at first +that Maisie, whom he had ordered to go had left him without a word of farewell. +He was savagely angry against Torpenhow, who had brought upon him this +humiliation and troubled his miserable peace. Then his dark hour came and he +was alone with himself and his desires to get what help he could from the +darkness. The queen could do no wrong, but in following the right, so far as it +served her work, she had wounded her one subject more than his own brain would +let him know. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all I had and I’ve lost it,” he said, as soon as +the misery permitted clear thinking. “And Torp will think that he has +been so infernally clever that I shan’t have the heart to tell him. I +must think this out quietly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo!” said Torpenhow, entering the studio after Dick had enjoyed +two hours of thought. “I’m back. Are you feeling any better?” +</p> + +<p> +“Torp, I don’t know what to say. Come here.” Dick coughed +huskily, wondering, indeed, what he should say, and how to say it temperately. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the need for saying anything? Get up and tramp.” +Torpenhow was perfectly satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +They walked up and down as of custom, Torpenhow’s hand on Dick’s +shoulder, and Dick buried in his own thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“How in the world did you find it all out?” said Dick, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“You shouldn’t go off your head if you want to keep secrets, +Dickie. It was absolutely impertinent on my part; but if you’d seen me +rocketing about on a half-trained French troop-horse under a blazing sun +you’d have laughed. There will be a charivari in my rooms to-night. Seven +other devils——” +</p> + +<p> +“I know—the row in the Southern Soudan. I surprised their councils +the other day, and it made me unhappy. Have you fixed your flint to go? Who +d’you work for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t signed any contracts yet. I wanted to see how your +business would turn out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you have stayed with me, then, if—things had gone +wrong?” He put his question cautiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t ask me too much. I’m only a man.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve tried to be an angel very successfully.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh ye—es!... Well, do you attend the function to-night? We shall +be half screwed before the morning. All the men believe the war’s a +certainty.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I will, old man, if it’s all the same to you. +I’ll stay quiet here.” +</p> + +<p> +“And meditate? I don’t blame you. You observe a good time if ever a +man did.” +</p> + +<p> +That night there was a tumult on the stairs. The correspondents poured in from +theatre, dinner, and music-hall to Torpenhow’s room that they might +discuss their plan of campaign in the event of military operations becoming a +certainty. Torpenhow, the Keneu, and the Nilghai had bidden all the men they +had worked with to the orgy; and Mr. Beeton, the housekeeper, declared that +never before in his checkered experience had he seen quite such a fancy lot of +gentlemen. They waked the chambers with shoutings and song; and the elder men +were quite as bad as the younger. For the chances of war were in front of them, +and all knew what those meant. +</p> + +<p> +Sitting in his own room a little perplexed by the noise across the landing, +Dick suddenly began to laugh to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“When one comes to think of it the situation is intensely comic. +Maisie’s quite right—poor little thing. I didn’t know she +could cry like that before; but now I know what Torp thinks, I’m sure +he’d be quite fool enough to stay at home and try to console me—if +he knew. Besides, it isn’t nice to own that you’ve been thrown over +like a broken chair. I must carry this business through alone—as usual. +If there isn’t a war, and Torp finds out, I shall look foolish, +that’s all. If there is a way I mustn’t interfere with another +man’s chances. Business is business, and I want to be alone—I want +to be alone. What a row they’re making!” +</p> + +<p> +Somebody hammered at the studio door. +</p> + +<p> +“Come out and frolic, Dickie,” said the Nilghai. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to, but I can’t. I’m not feeling +frolicsome.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, I’ll tell the boys and they’ll drag you like a +badger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please not, old man. On my word, I’d sooner be left alone just +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Can we send anything in to you? Fizz, for instance. +</p> + +<p> +Cassavetti is beginning to sing songs of the Sunny South already.” +</p> + +<p> +For one minute Dick considered the proposition seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thanks, I’ve a headache already.” +</p> + +<p> +“Virtuous child. That’s the effect of emotion on the young. All my +congratulations, Dick. I also was concerned in the conspiracy for your +welfare.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go to the devil—oh, send Binkie in here.” +</p> + +<p> +The little dog entered on elastic feet, riotous from having been made much of +all the evening. He had helped to sing the choruses; but scarcely inside the +studio he realised that this was no place for tail-wagging, and settled himself +on Dick’s lap till it was bedtime. Then he went to bed with Dick, who +counted every hour as it struck, and rose in the morning with a painfully clear +head to receive Torpenhow’s more formal congratulations and a particular +account of the last night’s revels. +</p> + +<p> +“You aren’t looking very happy for a newly accepted man,” +said Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind that—it’s my own affair, and I’m all right. +Do you really go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. With the old Central Southern as usual. They wired, and I accepted +on better terms than before.” +</p> + +<p> +“When do you start?” +</p> + +<p> +“The day after to-morrow—for Brindisi.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God.” Dick spoke from the bottom of his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s not a pretty way of saying you’re glad to get +rid of me. But men in your condition are allowed to be selfish.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean that. Will you get a hundred pounds cashed for me +before you leave?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a slender amount for housekeeping, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s only for—marriage expenses.” +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow brought him the money, counted it out in fives and tens, and +carefully put it away in the writing table. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I suppose I shall have to listen to his ravings about his girl until +I go. Heaven send us patience with a man in love!” he said to himself. +</p> + +<p> +But never a word did Dick say of Maisie or marriage. He hung in the doorway of +Torpenhow’s room when the latter was packing and asked innumerable +questions about the coming campaign, till Torpenhow began to feel annoyed. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a secretive animal, Dickie, and you consume your own smoke, +don’t you?” he said on the last evening. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I suppose so. By the way, how long do you think this war will +last?” +</p> + +<p> +“Days, weeks, or months. One can never tell. It may go on for +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I were going.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens! You’re the most unaccountable creature! Hasn’t +it occurred to you that you’re going to be married—thanks to +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, yes. I’m going to be married—so I am. Going to be +married. +</p> + +<p> +I’m awfully grateful to you. Haven’t I told you that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You might be going to be hanged by the look of you,” said +Torpenhow. +</p> + +<p> +And the next day Torpenhow bade him good-bye and left him to the loneliness he +had so much desired. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him,<br /> + Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save,<br /> +Yet at the last, with his masters around him,<br /> + He of the Faith spoke as master to slave;<br /> +Yet at the last, tho’ the Kafirs had maimed him,<br /> + Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver,—<br /> +Yet at the last, tho’ the darkness had claimed him,<br /> + He called upon Allah and died a believer.<br /> +<br /> +—<i>Kizzilbashi</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg your pardon, Mr. Heldar, but—but isn’t nothin’ +going to happen?” said Mr. Beeton. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” Dick had just waked to another morning of blank despair and +his temper was of the shortest. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tain’t my regular business, o’ course, sir; and what +I say is, “Mind your own business and let other people mind +theirs;” but just before Mr. Torpenhow went away he give me to +understand, like, that you might be moving into a house of your own, so to +speak—a sort of house with rooms upstairs and downstairs where +you’d be better attended to, though I try to act just by all our tenants. +Don’t I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! That must have been a mad-house. I shan’t trouble you to take +me there yet. Get me my breakfast, please, and leave me alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, sir, but you know I hope +that as far as a man can I tries to do the proper thing by all the gentlemen in +chambers—and more particular those whose lot is hard—such as you, +for instance, Mr. Heldar. You likes soft-roe bloater, don’t you? Soft-roe +bloaters is scarcer than hard-roe, but what I says is, “Never mind a +little extra trouble so long as you give satisfaction to the +tenants.”’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Beeton withdrew and left Dick to himself. Torpenhow had been long away; +there was no more rioting in the chambers, and Dick had settled down to his new +life, which he was weak enough to consider nothing better than death. +</p> + +<p> +It is hard to live alone in the dark, confusing the day and night; dropping to +sleep through sheer weariness at mid-day, and rising restless in the chill of +the dawn. At first Dick, on his awakenings, would grope along the corridors of +the chambers till he heard some one snore. Then he would know that the day had +not yet come, and return wearily to his bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +Later he learned not to stir till there was a noise and movement in the house +and Mr. Beeton advised him to get up. Once dressed—and dressing, now that +Torpenhow was away, was a lengthy business, because collars, ties, and the like +hid themselves in far corners of the room, and search meant head-beating +against chairs and trunks—once dressed, there was nothing whatever to do +except to sit still and brood till the three daily meals came. Centuries +separated breakfast from lunch and lunch from dinner, and though a man prayed +for hundreds of years that his mind might be taken from him, God would never +hear. Rather the mind was quickened and the revolving thoughts ground against +each other as millstones grind when there is no corn between; and yet the brain +would not wear out and give him rest. It continued to think, at length, with +imagery and all manner of reminiscences. It recalled Maisie and past success, +reckless travels by land and sea, the glory of doing work and feeling that it +was good, and suggested all that might have happened had the eyes only been +faithful to their duty. When thinking ceased through sheer weariness, there +poured into Dick’s soul tide on tide of overwhelming, purposeless +fear—dread of starvation always, terror lest the unseen ceiling should +crush down upon him, fear of fire in the chambers and a louse’s death in +red flame, and agonies of fiercer horror that had nothing to do with any fear +of death. Then Dick bowed his head, and clutching the arms of his chair fought +with his sweating self till the tinkle of plates told him that something to eat +was being set before him. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Beeton would bring the meal when he had time to spare, and Dick learned to +hang upon his speech, which dealt with badly fitted gas-plugs, waste-pipes out +of repair, little tricks for driving picture-nails into walls, and the sins of +the charwoman or the housemaids. In the lack of better things the small gossip +of a servant’’ hall becomes immensely interesting, and the screwing +of a washer on a tap an event to be talked over for days. +</p> + +<p> +Once or twice a week, too, Mr. Beeton would take Dick out with him when he went +marketing in the morning to haggle with tradesmen over fish, lamp-wicks, +mustard, tapioca, and so forth, while Dick rested his weight first on one foot +and then on the other and played aimlessly with the tins and string-ball on the +counter. Then they would perhaps meet one of Mr. Beeton’s friends, and +Dick, standing aside a little, would hold his peace till Mr. Beeton was willing +to go on again. +</p> + +<p> +The life did not increase his self-respect. He abandoned shaving as a dangerous +exercise, and being shaved in a barber’s shop meant exposure of his +infirmity. He could not see that his clothes were properly brushed, and since +he had never taken any care of his personal appearance he became every known +variety of sloven. A blind man cannot deal with cleanliness till he has been +some months used to the darkness. If he demand attendance and grow angry at the +want of it, he must assert himself and stand upright. Then the meanest menial +can see that he is blind and, therefore, of no consequence. A wise man will +keep his eyes on the floor and sit still. For amusement he may pick coal lump +by lump out of the scuttle with the tongs and pile it in a little heap in the +fender, keeping count of the lumps, which must all be put back again, one by +one and very carefully. He may set himself sums if he cares to work them out; +he may talk to himself or to the cat if she chooses to visit him; and if his +trade has been that of an artist, he may sketch in the air with his forefinger; +but that is too much like drawing a pig with the eyes shut. He may go to his +bookshelves and count his books, ranging them in order of their size; or to his +wardrobe and count his shirts, laying them in piles of two or three on the bed, +as they suffer from frayed cuffs or lost buttons. +</p> + +<p> +Even this entertainment wearies after a time; and all the times are very, very +long. +</p> + +<p> +Dick was allowed to sort a tool-chest where Mr. Beeton kept hammers, taps and +nuts, lengths of gas-pipes, oil-bottles, and string. +</p> + +<p> +“If I don’t have everything just where I know where to look for it, +why, then, I can’t find anything when I do want it. You’ve no idea, +sir, the amount of little things that these chambers uses up,” said Mr. +Beeton. Fumbling at the handle of the door as he went out: “It’s +hard on you, sir, I <i>do</i> think it’s hard on you. Ain’t you +going to do anything, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll pay my rent and messing. Isn’t that enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wasn’t doubting for a moment that you couldn’t pay your +way, sir; but I ’ave often said to my wife, ‘It’s ’ard +on ’im because it isn’t as if he was an old man, nor yet a +middle-aged one, but quite a young gentleman. <i>That’s</i> where it +comes so ’ard.’” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so,” said Dick, absently. This particular nerve through +long battering had ceased to feel—much. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking,” continued Mr. Beeton, still making as if to go, +“that you might like to hear my boy Alf read you the papers sometimes of +an evening. He do read beautiful, seeing he’s only nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be very grateful,” said Dick. “Only let me make it +worth his while.” +</p> + +<p> +“We wasn’t thinking of <i>that</i>, sir, but of course it’s +in your own ’ands; but only to ’ear Alf sing ‘A Boy’s +best Friend is ’is Mother!’ Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll hear him sing that too. Let him come this evening with the +newspapers.” +</p> + +<p> +Alf was not a nice child, being puffed up with many school-board certificates +for good conduct, and inordinately proud of his singing. Mr. Beeton remained, +beaming, while the child wailed his way through a song of some eight eight-line +verses in the usual whine of a young Cockney, and, after compliments, left him +to read Dick the foreign telegrams. Ten minutes later Alf returned to his +parents rather pale and scared. +</p> + +<p> +“’E said ’e couldn’t stand it no more,” he +explained. +</p> + +<p> +“He never said you read badly, Alf?” Mrs. Beeton spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“No. ’E said I read beautiful. Said ’e never ’eard any +one read like that, but ’e said ’e couldn’t abide the stuff +in the papers.” +</p> + +<p> +“P’raps he’s lost some money in the Stocks. Were you +readin’ him about Stocks, Alf?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; it was all about fightin’ out there where the soldiers is +gone—a great long piece with all the lines close together and very hard +words in it. ’E give me ’arf a crown because I read so well. And +’e says the next time there’s anything ’e wants read +’e’ll send for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s good hearing, but I do think for all the +half-crown—put it into the kicking-donkey money-box, Alf, and let me see +you do it—he might have kept you longer. Why, he couldn’t have +begun to understand how beautiful you read.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s best left to hisself—gentlemen always are when +they’re downhearted,” said Mr. Beeton. +</p> + +<p> +Alf’s rigorously limited powers of comprehending Torpenhow’s +special correspondence had waked the devil of unrest in Dick. He could hear, +through the boy’s nasal chant, the camels grunting in the squares behind +the soldiers outside Suakin; could hear the men swearing and chaffing across +the cooking pots, and could smell the acrid wood-smoke as it drifted over camp +before the wind of the desert. +</p> + +<p> +That night he prayed to God that his mind might be taken from him, offering for +proof that he was worthy of this favour the fact that he had not shot himself +long ago. That prayer was not answered, and indeed Dick knew in his heart of +hearts that only a lingering sense of humour and no special virtue had kept him +alive. Suicide, he had persuaded himself, would be a ludicrous insult to the +gravity of the situation as well as a weak-kneed confession of fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Just for the fun of the thing,” he said to the cat, who had taken +Binkie’s place in his establishment, “I should like to know how +long this is going to last. I can live for a year on the hundred pounds Torp +cashed for me. I must have two or three thousand at least in the +Bank—twenty or thirty years more provided for, that is to say. Then I +fall back on my hundred and twenty a year, which will be more by that time. +Let’s consider. +</p> + +<p> +Twenty-five—thirty-five—a man’s in his prime then, they +say—forty-five—a middle-aged man just entering +politics—fifty-five—“died at the comparatively early age of +fifty-five,” according to the newspapers. Bah! How these Christians funk +death! Sixty-five—we’re only getting on in years. Seventy-five is +just possible, though. Great hell, cat O! fifty years more of solitary +confinement in the dark! You’ll die, and Beeton will die, and Torp will +die, and Mai—everybody else will die, but I shall be alive and kicking +with nothing to do. I’m very sorry for myself. I should like some one +else to be sorry for me. Evidently I’m not going mad before I die, but +the pain’s just as bad as ever. Some day when you’re vivisected, +cat O! they’ll tie you down on a little table and cut you open—but +don’t be afraid; they’ll take precious good care that you +don’t die. You’ll live, and you’ll be very sorry then that +you weren’t sorry for me. Perhaps Torp will come back or... I wish I +could go to Torp and the Nilghai, even though I were in their way.” +</p> + +<p> +Pussy left the room before the speech was ended, and Alf, as he entered, found +Dick addressing the empty hearth-rug. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a letter for you, sir,” he said. “Perhaps +you’d like me to read it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lend it to me for a minute and I’ll tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +The outstretched hand shook just a little and the voice was not over-steady. It +was within the limits of human possibility that—that was no letter from +Maisie. He knew the heft of three closed envelopes only too well. It was a +foolish hope that the girl should write to him, for he did not realise that +there is a wrong which admits of no reparation though the evildoer may with +tears and the heart’s best love strive to mend all. It is best to forget +that wrong whether it be caused or endured, since it is as remediless as bad +work once put forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Read it, then,” said Dick, and Alf began intoning according to the +rules of the Board School— +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>I could have given you love, I could have given you loyalty, +such as you never dreamed of. Do you suppose I cared what you were? But you +chose to whistle everything down the wind for nothing. My only excuse for you +is that you are so young.</i>’ +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all,” he said, returning the paper to be dropped into +the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“What was in the letter?” asked Mrs. Beeton, when Alf returned. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. I think it was a circular or a tract about not +whistlin’ at everything when you’re young.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must have stepped on something when I was alive and walking about and +it has bounced up and hit me. God help it, whatever it is—unless it was +all a joke. But I don’t know any one who’d take the trouble to play +a joke on me.... Love and loyalty for nothing. It sounds tempting enough. +</p> + +<p> +I wonder whether I have lost anything really?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick considered for a long time but could not remember when or how he had put +himself in the way of winning these trifles at a woman’s hands. +</p> + +<p> +Still, the letter as touching on matters that he preferred not to think about +stung him into a fit of frenzy that lasted for a day and night. When his heart +was so full of despair that it would hold no more, body and soul together +seemed to be dropping without check through the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Then came fear of darkness and desperate attempts to reach the light again. But +there was no light to be reached. When that agony had left him sweating and +breathless, the downward flight would recommence till the gathering torture of +it spurred him into another fight as hopeless as the first. Followed some few +minutes of sleep in which he dreamed that he saw. Then the procession of events +would repeat itself till he was utterly worn out and the brain took up its +everlasting consideration of Maisie and might-have-beens. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of everything Mr. Beeton came to his room and volunteered to take +him out. “Not marketing this time, but we’ll go into the Parks if +you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be damned if I do,” quoth Dick. “Keep to the streets and +walk up and down. I like to hear the people round me.” +</p> + +<p> +This was not altogether true. The blind in the first stages of their infirmity +dislike those who can move with a free stride and unlifted arms—but Dick +had no earthly desire to go to the Parks. Once and only once since Maisie had +shut her door he had gone there under Alf’s charge. Alf forgot him and +fished for minnows in the Serpentine with some companions. After half an +hour’s waiting Dick, almost weeping with rage and wrath, caught a +passer-by, who introduced him to a friendly policeman, who led him to a +four-wheeler opposite the Albert Hall. He never told Mr. Beeton of Alf’s +forgetfulness, but... this was not the manner in which he was used to walk the +Parks aforetime. +</p> + +<p> +“What streets would you like to walk down, then?” said Mr. Beeton, +sympathetically. His own ideas of a riotous holiday meant picnicking on the +grass of Green Park with his family, and half a dozen paper bags full of food. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep to the river,” said Dick, and they kept to the river, and the +rush of it was in his ears till they came to Blackfriars Bridge and struck +thence on to the Waterloo Road, Mr. Beeton explaining the beauties of the +scenery as he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“And walking on the other side of the pavement,” said he, +“unless I’m much mistaken, is the young woman that used to come to +your rooms to be drawed. I never forgets a face and I never remembers a name, +except paying tenants, o’ course!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop her,” said Dick. “It’s Bessie Broke. Tell her +I’d like to speak to her again. Quick, man!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Beeton crossed the road under the noses of the omnibuses and arrested +Bessie then on her way northward. She recognised him as the man in authority +who used to glare at her when she passed up Dick’s staircase, and her +first impulse was to run. +</p> + +<p> +“Wasn’t you Mr. Heldar’s model?” said Mr. Beeton, +planting himself in front of her. “You was. He’s on the other side +of the road and he’d like to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” said Bessie, faintly. She remembered—indeed had never +for long forgotten—an affair connected with a newly finished picture. +</p> + +<p> +“Because he has asked me to do so, and because he’s most particular +blind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Drunk?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. ’Orspital blind. He can’t see. That’s him over +there.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick was leaning against the parapet of the bridge as Mr. Beeton pointed him +out—a stub-bearded, bowed creature wearing a dirty magenta-coloured +neckcloth outside an unbrushed coat. There was nothing to fear from such an +one. Even if he chased her, Bessie thought, he could not follow far. She +crossed over, and Dick’s face lighted up. It was long since a woman of +any kind had taken the trouble to speak to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you’re well, Mr. Heldar?” said Bessie, a little +puzzled. Mr. Beeton stood by with the air of an ambassador and breathed +responsibly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very well indeed, and, by Jove! I’m glad to +see—hear you, I mean, Bess. You never thought it worth while to turn up +and see us again after you got your money. I don’t know why you should. +Are you going anywhere in particular just now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was going for a walk,” said Bessie. +</p> + +<p> +“Not the old business?” Dick spoke under his breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Lor, no! I paid my premium’—Bessie was very proud of that +word—“for a barmaid, sleeping in, and I’m at the bar now +quite respectable. Indeed I am.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Beeton had no special reason to believe in the loftiness of human nature. +Therefore he dissolved himself like a mist and returned to his gas-plugs +without a word of apology. Bessie watched the flight with a certain uneasiness; +but so long as Dick appeared to be ignorant of the harm that had been done to +him... +</p> + +<p> +“It’s hard work pulling the beer-handles,” she went on, +“and they’ve got one of them penny-in-the-slot cash-machines, so if +you get wrong by a penny at the end of the day—but then I don’t +believe the machinery is right. Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve only seen it work. Mr. Beeton.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s gone. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I must ask you to help me home, then. I’ll make +it worth your while. You see.” The sightless eyes turned towards her and +Bessie saw. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t taking you out of your way?” he said hesitatingly. +“I can ask a policeman if it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. I come on at seven and I’m off at four. That’s +easy hours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!—but I’m on all the time. I wish I had some work to +do too. +</p> + +<p> +Let’s go home, Bess.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned and cannoned into a man on the sidewalk, recoiling with an oath. +Bessie took his arm and said nothing—as she had said nothing when he had +ordered her to turn her face a little more to the light. They walked for some +time in silence, the girl steering him deftly through the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +“And where’s—where’s Mr. Torpenhow?” she inquired +at last. +</p> + +<p> +“He has gone away to the desert.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick pointed to the right. “East—out of the mouth of the +river,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Then west, then south, and then east again, all along the under-side of +Europe. Then south again, God knows how far.” The explanation did not +enlighten Bessie in the least, but she held her tongue and looked to +Dick’s path till they came to the chambers. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll have tea and muffins,” he said joyously. “I +can’t tell you, Bessie, how glad I am to find you again. What made you go +away so suddenly?” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t think you’d want me any more,” she said, +emboldened by his ignorance. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t, as a matter of fact—but afterwards—At any +rate I’m glad you’ve come. You know the stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +So Bessie led him home to his own place—there was no one to +hinder—and shut the door of the studio. +</p> + +<p> +“What a mess!” was her first word. “All these things +haven’t been looked after for months and months.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, only weeks, Bess. You can’t expect them to care.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what you expect them to do. They ought to know what +you’ve paid them for. The dust’s just awful. It’s all over +the easel.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t use it much now.” +</p> + +<p> +“All over the pictures and the floor, and all over your coat. I’d +like to speak to them housemaids.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ring for tea, then.” Dick felt his way to the one chair he used by +custom. +</p> + +<p> +Bessie saw the action and, as far as in her lay, was touched. But there +remained always a keen sense of new-found superiority, and it was in her voice +when she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you been like this?” she said wrathfully, as though +the blindness were some fault of the housemaids. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“As you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“The day after you went away with the check, almost as soon as my picture +was finished; I hardly saw her alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then they’ve been cheating you ever since, that’s all. I +know their nice little ways.” +</p> + +<p> +A woman may love one man and despise another, but on general feminine +principles she will do her best to save the man she despises from being +defrauded. Her loved one can look to himself, but the other man, being +obviously an idiot, needs protection. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Mr. Beeton cheats much,” said Dick. Bessie was +flouncing up and down the room, and he was conscious of a keen sense of +enjoyment as he heard the swish of her skirts and the light step between. +</p> + +<p> +“Tea <i>and</i> muffins,” she said shortly, when the ring at the +bell was answered; “two teaspoonfuls and one over for the pot. I +don’t want the old teapot that was here when I used to come. It +don’t draw. Get another.” +</p> + +<p> +The housemaid went away scandalised, and Dick chuckled. Then he began to cough +as Bessie banged up and down the studio disturbing the dust. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you trying to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Put things straight. This is like unfurnished lodgings. How could you +let it go so?” +</p> + +<p> +“How could I help it? Dust away.” +</p> + +<p> +She dusted furiously, and in the midst of all the pother entered Mrs. Beeton. +Her husband on his return had explained the situation, winding up with the +peculiarly felicitous proverb, “Do unto others as you would be done +by.” She had descended to put into her place the person who demanded +muffins and an uncracked teapot as though she had a right to both. +</p> + +<p> +“Muffins ready yet?” said Bess, still dusting. She was no longer a +drab of the streets but a young lady who, thanks to Dick’s check, had +paid her premium and was entitled to pull beer-handles with the best. Being +neatly dressed in black she did not hesitate to face Mrs. Beeton, and there +passed between the two women certain regards that Dick would have appreciated. +The situation adjusted itself by eye. Bessie had won, and Mrs. Beeton returned +to cook muffins and make scathing remarks about models, hussies, trollops, and +the like, to her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing to be got of interfering with him, Liza,” he +said. “Alf, you go along into the street to play. When he isn’t +crossed he’s as kindly as kind, but when he’s crossed he’s +the devil and all. We took too many little things out of his rooms since he was +blind to be that particular about what he does. They ain’t no objects to +a blind man, of course, but if it was to come into court we’d get the +sack. Yes, I did introduce him to that girl because I’m a feelin’ +man myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Much too feelin’!” Mrs. Beeton slapped the muffins into the +dish, and thought of comely housemaids long since dismissed on suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t ashamed of it, and it isn’t for us to judge him hard +so long as he pays quiet and regular as he do. I know how to manage young +gentlemen, you know how to cook for them, and what I says is, let each stick to +his own business and then there won’t be any trouble. Take them muffins +down, Liza, and be sure you have no words with that young woman. His lot is +cruel hard, and if he’s crossed he do swear worse than any one I’ve +ever served.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a little better,” said Bessie, sitting down to the +tea. “You needn’t wait, thank you, Mrs. Beeton.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had no intention of doing such, I do assure you.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessie made no answer whatever. This, she knew, was the way in which real +ladies routed their foes, and when one is a barmaid at a first-class +public-house one may become a real lady at ten minutes’ notice. +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes fell on Dick opposite her and she was both shocked and displeased. +There were droppings of food all down the front of his coat; the mouth under +the ragged ill-grown beard drooped sullenly; the forehead was lined and +contracted; and on the lean temples the hair was a dusty indeterminate colour +that might or might not have been called gray. The utter misery and +self-abandonment of the man appealed to her, and at the bottom of her heart lay +the wicked feeling that he was humbled and brought low who had once humbled +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it <i>is</i> good to hear you moving about,” said Dick, +rubbing his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us all about your bar successes, Bessie, and the way you live +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind that. I’m quite respectable, as you’d see by +looking at me. <i>You</i> don’t seem to live too well. What made you go +blind that sudden? Why isn’t there any one to look after you?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick was too thankful for the sound of her voice to resent the tone of it. +</p> + +<p> +“I was cut across the head a long time ago, and that ruined my eyes. I +don’t suppose anybody thinks it worth while to look after me any more. +</p> + +<p> +Why should they?—and Mr. Beeton really does everything I want.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know any gentlemen and ladies, then, while you +was—well?” +</p> + +<p> +“A few, but I don’t care to have them looking at me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that’s why you’ve growed a beard. Take it off, it +don’t become you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious, child, do you imagine that I think of what becomes of me +these days?” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought. Get that taken off before I come here again. I suppose I can +come, can’t I?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d be only too grateful if you did. I don’t think I treated +you very well in the old days. I used to make you angry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very angry, you did.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry for it, then. Come and see me when you can and as often +as you can. God knows, there isn’t a soul in the world to take that +trouble except you and Mr. Beeton.” +</p> + +<p> +“A lot of trouble <i>he’s</i> taking and <i>she</i> too.” +This with a toss of the head. “They’ve let you do anyhow and they +haven’t done anything for you. I’ve only to look and see that much. +I’ll come, and I’ll be glad to come, but you must go and be shaved, +and you must get some other clothes—those ones aren’t fit to be +seen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have heaps somewhere,” he said helplessly. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you have. Tell Mr. Beeton to give you a new suit and I’ll +brush it and keep it clean. You may be as blind as a barn-door, Mr. Heldar, but +it doesn’t excuse you looking like a sweep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I look like a sweep, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m sorry for you. I’m that sorry for you!” she +cried impulsively, and took Dick’s hands. Mechanically, he lowered his +head as if to kiss—she was the only woman who had taken pity on him, and +he was not too proud for a little pity now. She stood up to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing o’ that kind till you look more like a gentleman. +It’s quite easy when you get shaved, and some clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +He could hear her drawing on her gloves and rose to say good-bye. She passed +behind him, kissed him audaciously on the back of the neck, and ran away as +swiftly as on the day when she had destroyed the Melancolia. +</p> + +<p> +“To think of me kissing Mr. Heldar,” she said to herself, +“after all he’s done to me and all! Well, I’m sorry for him, +and if he was shaved he wouldn’t be so bad to look at, but... Oh them +Beetons, how shameful they’ve treated him! I know Beeton’s wearing +his shirt on his back to-day just as well as if I’d aired it. To-morrow, +I’ll see... I wonder if he has much of his own. It might be worth more +than the bar—I wouldn’t have to do any work—and just as +respectable as if no one knew.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick was not grateful to Bessie for her parting gift. He was acutely conscious +of it in the nape of his neck throughout the night, but it seemed, among very +many other things, to enforce the wisdom of getting shaved. +</p> + +<p> +He was shaved accordingly in the morning, and felt the better for it. A fresh +suit of clothes, white linen, and the knowledge that some one in the world said +that she took an interest in his personal appearance made him carry himself +almost upright; for the brain was relieved for a while from thinking of Maisie, +who, under other circumstances, might have given that kiss and a million +others. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us consider,” said he, after lunch. “The girl +can’t care, and it’s a toss-up whether she comes again or not, but +if money can buy her to look after me she shall be bought. Nobody else in the +world would take the trouble, and I can make it worth her while. She’s a +child of the gutter holding brevet rank as a barmaid; so she shall have +everything she wants if she’ll only come and talk and look after +me.” He rubbed his newly shorn chin and began to perplex himself with the +thought of her not coming. “I suppose I did look rather a sweep,” +he went on. “I had no reason to look otherwise. I knew things dropped on +my clothes, but it didn’t matter. It would be cruel if she didn’t +come. She must. Maisie came once, and that was enough for her. She was quite +right. She had something to work for. This creature has only beer-handles to +pull, unless she has deluded some young man into keeping company with her. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy being cheated for the sake of a counter-jumper! We’re falling +pretty low.” +</p> + +<p> +Something cried aloud within him:—This will hurt more than anything that +has gone before. It will recall and remind and suggest and tantalise, and in +the end drive you mad. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, I know it!” Dick cried, clenching his hands +despairingly; “but, good heavens! is a poor blind beggar never to get +anything out of his life except three meals a day and a greasy waistcoat? I +wish she’d come.” +</p> + +<p> +Early in the afternoon time she came, because there was no young man in her +life just then, and she thought of material advantages which would allow her to +be idle for the rest of her days. +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t have known you,” she said approvingly. +“You look as you used to look—a gentleman that was proud of +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think I deserve another kiss, then?” said Dick, +flushing a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe—but you won’t get it yet. Sit down and let’s see +what I can do for you. I’m certain sure Mr. Beeton cheats you, now that +you can’t go through the housekeeping books every month. Isn’t that +true?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better come and housekeep for me then, Bessie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t do it in these chambers—you know that as well as I +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, but we might go somewhere else, if you thought it worth your +while.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d try to look after you, anyhow; but I shouldn’t care to +have to work for both of us.” This was tentative. +</p> + +<p> +Dick laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember where I used to keep my bank-book?” said he. +“Torp took it to be balanced just before he went away. Look and +see.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was generally under the tobacco-jar. Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Four thousand two hundred and ten pounds nine shillings and a penny! +Oh my!” +</p> + +<p> +“You can have the penny. That’s not bad for one year’s work. +Is that and a hundred and twenty pounds a year good enough?” +</p> + +<p> +The idleness and the pretty clothes were almost within her reach now, but she +must, by being housewifely, show that she deserved them. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but you’d have to move, and if we took an inventory, I think +we’d find that Mr. Beeton has been prigging little things out of the +rooms here and there. They don’t look as full as they used.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, we’ll let him have them. The only thing I’m +particularly anxious to take away is that picture I used you for—when you +used to swear at me. We’ll pull out of this place, Bess, and get away as +far as ever we can.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes,” she said uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know where I can go to get away from myself, but +I’ll try, and you shall have all the pretty frocks that you care for. +You’ll like that. +</p> + +<p> +Give me that kiss now, Bess. Ye gods! it’s good to put one’s arm +round a woman’s waist again.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came the fulfilment of the prophecy within the brain. If his arm were thus +round Maisie’s waist and a kiss had just been given and taken between +them,—why then... He pressed the girl more closely to himself because the +pain whipped him. She was wondering how to explain a little accident to the +Melancolia. At any rate, if this man really desired the solace of her +company—and certainly he would relapse into his original slough if she +withdrew it—he would not be more than just a little vexed. +</p> + +<p> +It would be delightful at least to see what would happen, and by her teachings +it was good for a man to stand in certain awe of his companion. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed nervously, and slipped out of his reach. +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t worrit about that picture if I was you,” she +began, in the hope of turning his attention. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s at the back of all my canvases somewhere. Find it, Bess; you +know it as well as I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know—but—” +</p> + +<p> +“But what? You’ve wit enough to manage the sale of it to a dealer. +</p> + +<p> +Women haggle much better than men. It might be a matter of eight or nine +hundred pounds to—to us. I simply didn’t like to think about it for +a long time. It was mixed up with my life so.—But we’ll cover up +our tracks and get rid of everything, eh? Make a fresh start from the +beginning, Bess.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she began to repent very much indeed, because she knew the value of money. +Still, it was probable that the blind man was overestimating the value of his +work. Gentlemen, she knew, were absurdly particular about their things. She +giggled as a nervous housemaid giggles when she tries to explain the breakage +of a pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very sorry, but you remember I was—I was angry with you +before Mr. Torpenhow went away?” +</p> + +<p> +“You were very angry, child; and on my word I think you had some right to +be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I—but aren’t you sure Mr. Torpenhow didn’t tell +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me what? Good gracious, what are you making such a fuss about when +you might just as well be giving me another kiss?” +</p> + +<p> +He was beginning to learn, not for the first time in his experience, that +kissing is a cumulative poison. The more you get of it, the more you want. +</p> + +<p> +Bessie gave the kiss promptly, whispering, as she did so, “I was so angry +I rubbed out that picture with the turpentine. You aren’t angry, are +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“What? Say that again.” The man’s hand had closed on her +wrist. +</p> + +<p> +“I rubbed it out with turps and the knife,” faltered Bessie. +“I thought you’d only have to do it over again. You did do it over +again, didn’t you? Oh, let go of my wrist; you’re hurting +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t there anything left of the thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“N’nothing that looks like anything. I’m sorry—I +didn’t know you’d take on about it; I only meant to do it in fun. +You aren’t going to hit me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hit you! No! Let’s think.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but stood staring at the carpet. +Then he shook his head as a young steer shakes it when the lash of the +stock-whip cross his nose warns him back to the path on to the shambles that he +would escape. For weeks he had forced himself not to think of the Melancolia, +because she was a part of his dead life. With Bessie’s return and certain +new prospects that had developed themselves, the Melancolia—lovelier in +his imagination than she had ever been on canvas—reappeared. By her aid +he might have procured more money wherewith to amuse Bess and to forget Maisie, +as well as another taste of an almost forgotten success. Now, thanks to a +vicious little housemaid’s folly, there was nothing to look for—not +even the hope that he might some day take an abiding interest in the housemaid. +Worst of all, he had been made to appear ridiculous in Maisie’s eyes. A +woman will forgive the man who has ruined her life’s work so long as he +gives her love; a man may forgive those who ruin the love of his life, but he +will never forgive the destruction of his work. +</p> + +<p> +“Tck—tck—tck,” said Dick between his teeth, and then +laughed softly. “It’s an omen, Bessie, and—a good many things +considered, it serves me right for doing what I have done. By Jove! that +accounts for Maisie’s running away. She must have thought me perfectly +mad—small blame to her! The whole picture ruined, isn’t it so? What +made you do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I was that angry. I’m not angry now—I’m awful +sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder.—It doesn’t matter, anyhow. I’m to blame for +making the mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“What mistake?” +</p> + +<p> +“Something you wouldn’t understand, dear. Great heavens! to think +that a little piece of dirt like you could throw me out of stride!” Dick +was talking to himself as Bessie tried to shake off his grip on her wrist. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t a piece of dirt, and you shouldn’t call me so! I did +it “cause I hated you, and I’m only sorry now “cause +you’re—’cause you’re——” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly—because I’m blind. There’s nothing like tact +in little things.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessie began to sob. She did not like being shackled against her will; she was +afraid of the blind face and the look upon it, and was sorry too that her great +revenge had only made Dick laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t cry,” he said, and took her into his arms. “You +only did what you thought right.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I ain’t a little piece of dirt, and if you say that +I’ll never come to you again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know what you’ve done to me. I’m not +angry—indeed, I’m not. +</p> + +<p> +Be quiet for a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessie remained in his arms shrinking. Dick’s first thought was connected +with Maisie, and it hurt him as white-hot iron hurts an open sore. +</p> + +<p> +Not for nothing is a man permitted to ally himself to the wrong woman. +</p> + +<p> +The first pang—the first sense of things lost is but the prelude to the +play, for the very just Providence who delights in causing pain has decreed +that the agony shall return, and that in the midst of keenest pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +They know this pain equally who have forsaken or been forsaken by the love of +their life, and in their new wives’ arms are compelled to realise it. +</p> + +<p> +It is better to remain alone and suffer only the misery of being alone, so long +as it is possible to find distraction in daily work. When that resource goes +the man is to be pitied and left alone. +</p> + +<p> +These things and some others Dick considered while he was holding Bessie to his +heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Though you mayn’t know it,” he said, raising his head, +“the Lord is a just and a terrible God, Bess; with a very strong sense of +humour. It serves me right—how it serves me right! Torp could understand +it if he were here; he must have suffered something at your hands, child, but +only for a minute or so. I saved him. Set that to my credit, some one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go,” said Bess, her face darkening. “Let me +go.” +</p> + +<p> +“All in good time. Did you ever attend Sunday school?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never. Let me go, I tell you; you’re making fun of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I’m not. I’m making fun of myself.... Thus. +“He saved others, himself he cannot save.” It isn’t exactly a +school-board text.” He released her wrist, but since he was between her +and the door, she could not escape. “What an enormous amount of mischief +one little woman can do!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry; I’m awful sorry about the picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not. I’m grateful to you for spoiling it.... What were +we talking about before you mentioned the thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“About getting away—and money. Me and you going away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. We will get away—that is to say, I will.” +</p> + +<p> +“And me?” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall have fifty whole pounds for spoiling a picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you won’t——?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid not, dear. Think of fifty pounds for pretty things all +to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You said you couldn’t do anything without me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was true a little while ago. I’m better now, thank you. Get +me my hat.” +</p> + +<p> +“S’pose I don’t?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beeton will, and you’ll lose fifty pounds. That’s all. Get +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessie cursed under her breath. She had pitied the man sincerely, had kissed +him with almost equal sincerity, for he was not unhandsome; it pleased her to +be in a way and for a time his protector, and above all there were four +thousand pounds to be handled by some one. Now through a slip of the tongue and +a little feminine desire to give a little, not too much, pain she had lost the +money, the blessed idleness and the pretty things, the companionship, and the +chance of looking outwardly as respectable as a real lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Now fill me a pipe. Tobacco doesn’t taste, but it doesn’t +matter, and I’ll think things out. What’s the day of the week, +Bess?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tuesday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then Thursday’s mail-day. What a fool—what a blind fool I +have been! Twenty-two pounds covers my passage home again. Allow ten for +additional expenses. We must put up at Madam Binat’s for old time’s +sake. Thirty-two pounds altogether. Add a hundred for the cost of the last +trip—Gad, won’t Torp stare to see me!—a hundred and +thirty-two leaves seventy-eight for <i>baksheesh</i>—I shall need +it—and to play with. What are you crying for, Bess? It wasn’t your +fault, child; it was mine altogether. Oh, you funny little opossum, mop your +eyes and take me out! I want the pass-book and the check-book. Stop a minute. +Four thousand pounds at four per cent—that’s safe +interest—means a hundred and sixty pounds a year; one hundred and twenty +pounds a year—also safe—is two eighty, and two hundred and eighty +pounds added to three hundred a year means gilded luxury for a single woman. +Bess, we’ll go to the bank.” +</p> + +<p> +Richer by two hundred and ten pounds stored in his money-belt, Dick caused +Bessie, now thoroughly bewildered, to hurry from the bank to the P. and O. +offices, where he explained things tersely. +</p> + +<p> +“Port Said, single first; cabin as close to the baggage-hatch as +possible. +</p> + +<p> +What ship’s going?” +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>Colgong</i>,” said the clerk. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a wet little hooker. Is it Tilbury and a tender, or Galleons +and the docks?” +</p> + +<p> +“Galleons. Twelve-forty, Thursday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks. Change, please. I can’t see very well—will you count +it into my hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“If they all took their passages like that instead of talking about their +trunks, life would be worth something,” said the clerk to his neighbour, +who was trying to explain to a harassed mother of many that condensed milk is +just as good for babes at sea as daily dairy. Being nineteen and unmarried, he +spoke with conviction. +</p> + +<p> +“We are now,” quoth Dick, as they returned to the studio, patting +the place where his money-belt covered ticket and money, “beyond the +reach of man, or devil, or woman—which is much more important. I’ve +had three little affairs to carry through before Thursday, but I needn’t +ask you to help, Bess. Come here on Thursday morning at nine. We’ll +breakfast, and you shall take me down to Galleons Station.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Going away, of course. What should I stay for?” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t look after yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can do anything. I didn’t realise it before, but I can. +I’ve done a great deal already. Resolution shall be treated to one kiss +if Bessie doesn’t object.” Strangely enough, Bessie objected and +Dick laughed. “I suppose you’re right. Well, come at nine the day +after to-morrow and you’ll get your money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t bilk, and you won’t know whether I do or not unless +you come. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, but it’s long and long to wait! Good-bye, Bessie,—send Beeton +here as you go out.” +</p> + +<p> +The housekeeper came. +</p> + +<p> +“What are all the fittings of my rooms worth?” said Dick, +imperiously. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tisn’t for me to say, sir. Some things is very pretty and +some is wore out dreadful.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m insured for two hundred and seventy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Insurance policies is no criterion, though I don’t +say——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, damn your longwindedness! You’ve made your pickings out of me +and the other tenants. Why, you talked of retiring and buying a public-house +the other day. Give a straight answer to a straight question.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fifty,” said Mr. Beeton, without a moment’s hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“Double it; or I’ll break up half my sticks and burn the +rest.” +</p> + +<p> +He felt his way to a bookstand that supported a pile of sketch-books, and +wrenched out one of the mahogany pillars. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s sinful, sir,” said the housekeeper, alarmed. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s my own. One hundred or——” +</p> + +<p> +“One hundred it is. It’ll cost me three and six to get that there +pilaster mended.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so. What an out and out swindler you must have been to spring +that price at once!” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I’ve done nothing to dissatisfy any of the tenants, least +of all you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind that. Get me the money to-morrow, and see that all my clothes +are packed in the little brown bullock-trunk. I’m going.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the quarter’s notice?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll pay forfeit. Look after the packing and leave me +alone.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Beeton discussed this new departure with his wife, who decided that Bessie +was at the bottom of it all. Her husband took a more charitable view. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very sudden—but then he was always sudden in his ways. +Listen to him now!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sound of chanting from Dick’s room. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“We’ll never come back any more, boys,<br /> +We’ll never come back no more;<br /> +We’ll go to the deuce on any excuse,<br /> +And never come back no more!<br /> +Oh say we’re afloat or ashore, boys,<br /> +Oh say we’re afloat or ashore;<br /> +But we’ll never come back any more, boys,<br /> +We’ll never come back no more!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Beeton! Mr. Beeton! Where the deuce is my pistol?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quick, he’s going to shoot himself—’avin’ gone +mad!” said Mrs. Beeton. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Beeton addressed Dick soothingly, but it was some time before the latter, +threshing up and down his bedroom, could realise the intention of the promises +to “find everything to-morrow, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you copper-nosed old fool—you impotent Academician!” he +shouted at last. “Do you suppose I want to shoot myself? Take the pistol +in your silly shaking hand then. If <i>you</i> touch it, it will go off, +because it’s loaded. It’s among my campaign-kit somewhere—in +the parcel at the bottom of the trunk.” +</p> + +<p> +Long ago Dick had carefully possessed himself of a forty-pound weight +field-equipment constructed by the knowledge of his own experience. It was this +put-away treasure that he was trying to find and rehandle. Mr. Beeton whipped +the revolver out of its place on the top of the package, and Dick drove his +hand among the <i>khaki</i> coat and breeches, the blue cloth leg-bands, and +the heavy flannel shirts doubled over a pair of swan-neck spurs. Under these +and the water-bottle lay a sketch-book and a pigskin case of stationery. +</p> + +<p> +“These we don’t want; you can have them, Mr. Beeton. Everything +else I’ll keep. Pack ’em on the top right-hand side of my trunk. +When you’ve done that come into the studio with your wife. I want you +both. Wait a minute; get me a pen and a sheet of notepaper.” +</p> + +<p> +It is not an easy thing to write when you cannot see, and Dick had particular +reasons for wishing that his work should be clear. So he began, following his +right hand with his left: ““The badness of this writing is because +I am blind and cannot see my pen.” H’mph!—even a lawyer +can’t mistake that. It must be signed, I suppose, but it needn’t be +witnessed. Now an inch lower—why did I never learn to use a +type-writer?—“This is the last will and testament of me, Richard +Heldar. I am in sound bodily and mental health, and there is no previous will +to revoke.”—That’s all right. Damn the pen! Whereabouts on +the paper was I?—“I leave everything that I possess in the world, +including four thousand pounds, and two thousand seven hundred and twenty eight +pounds held for me”—oh, I can’t get this straight.” He +tore off half the sheet and began again with the caution about the handwriting. +Then: “I leave all the money I possess in the world to’—here +followed Maisie’s name, and the names of the two banks that held the +money. +</p> + +<p> +“It mayn’t be quite regular, but no one has a shadow of a right to +dispute it, and I’ve given Maisie’s address. Come in, Mr. Beeton. +This is my signature; I want you and your wife to witness it. Thanks. To-morrow +you must take me to the landlord and I’ll pay forfeit for leaving without +notice, and I’ll lodge this paper with him in case anything happens while +I’m away. Now we’re going to light up the studio stove. Stay with +me, and give me my papers as I want ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +No one knows until he has tried how fine a blaze a year’s accumulation of +bills, letters, and dockets can make. Dick stuffed into the stove every +document in the studio—saving only three unopened letters; destroyed +sketch-books, rough note-books, new and half-finished canvases alike. +</p> + +<p> +“What a lot of rubbish a tenant gets about him if he stays long enough in +one place, to be sure,” said Mr. Beeton, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“He does. Is there anything more left?” Dick felt round the walls. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a thing, and the stove’s nigh red-hot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent, and you’ve lost about a thousand pounds’ worth of +sketches. +</p> + +<p> +Ho! ho! Quite a thousand pounds’ worth, if I can remember what I used to +be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” politely. Mr. Beeton was quite sure that Dick had gone +mad, otherwise he would have never parted with his excellent furniture for a +song. The canvas things took up storage room and were much better out of the +way. +</p> + +<p> +There remained only to leave the little will in safe hands: that could not be +accomplished to to-morrow. Dick groped about the floor picking up the last +pieces of paper, assured himself again and again that there remained no written +word or sign of his past life in drawer or desk, and sat down before the stove +till the fire died out and the contracting iron cracked in the silence of the +night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +With a heart of furious fancies,<br /> + Whereof I am commander;<br /> +With a burning spear and a horse of air,<br /> + To the wilderness I wander.<br /> +With a knight of ghosts and shadows<br /> + I summoned am to tourney—<br /> +Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end,<br /> + Methinks it is no journey.<br /> +<br /> +—<i>Tom a’ Bedlam’s Song</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Bess; I promised you fifty. Here’s a hundred—all +that I got for my furniture from Beeton. That will keep you in pretty frocks +for some time. You’ve been a good little girl, all things considered, but +you’ve given me and Torpenhow a fair amount of trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give Mr. Torpenhow my love if you see him, won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I will, dear. Now take me up the gang-plank and into the +cabin. Once aboard the lugger and the maid is—and I am free, I +mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’ll look after you on this ship?” +</p> + +<p> +“The head-steward, if there’s any use in money. The doctor when we +come to Port Said, if I know anything of P. and O. doctors. After that, the +Lord will provide, as He used to do.” +</p> + +<p> +Bess found Dick his cabin in the wild turmoil of a ship full of leavetakers and +weeping relatives. Then he kissed her, and laid himself down in his bunk until +the decks should be clear. He who had taken so long to move about his own +darkened rooms well understood the geography of a ship, and the necessity of +seeing to his own comforts was as wine to him. +</p> + +<p> +Before the screw began to thrash the ship along the Docks he had been +introduced to the head-steward, had royally tipped him, secured a good place at +table, opened out his baggage, and settled himself down with joy in the cabin. +It was scarcely necessary to feel his way as he moved about, for he knew +everything so well. Then God was very kind: a deep sleep of weariness came upon +him just as he would have thought of Maisie, and he slept till the steamer had +cleared the mouth of the Thames and was lifting to the pulse of the Channel. +</p> + +<p> +The rattle of the engines, the reek of oil and paint, and a very familiar sound +in the next cabin roused him to his new inheritance. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s good to be alive again!” He yawned, stretched +himself vigorously, and went on deck to be told that they were almost abreast +of the lights of Brighton. This is no more open water than Trafalgar Square is +a common; the free levels begin at Ushant; but none the less Dick could feel +the healing of the sea at work upon him already. A boisterous little +cross-swell swung the steamer disrespectfully by the nose; and one wave +breaking far aft spattered the quarterdeck and the pile of new deck-chairs. He +heard the foam fall with the clash of broken glass, was stung in the face by a +cupful, and sniffing luxuriously, felt his way to the smoking-room by the +wheel. There a strong breeze found him, blew his cap off and left him +bareheaded in the doorway, and the smoking-room steward, understanding that he +was a voyager of experience, said that the weather would be stiff in the chops +off the Channel and more than half a gale in the Bay. These things fell as they +were foretold, and Dick enjoyed himself to the utmost. It is allowable and even +necessary at sea to lay firm hold upon tables, stanchions, and ropes in moving +from place to place. On land the man who feels with his hands is patently +blind. At sea even a blind man who is not sea-sick can jest with the doctor +over the weakness of his fellows. Dick told the doctor many tales—and +these are coin of more value than silver if properly handled—smoked with +him till unholy hours of the night, and so won his short-lived regard that he +promised Dick a few hours of his time when they came to Port Said. +</p> + +<p> +And the sea roared or was still as the winds blew, and the engines sang their +song day and night, and the sun grew stronger day by day, and Tom the Lascar +barber shaved Dick of a morning under the opened hatch-grating where the cool +winds blew, and the awnings were spread and the passengers made merry, and at +last they came to Port Said. +</p> + +<p> +“Take me,” said Dick, to the doctor, “to Madame +Binat’s—if you know where that is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whew!” said the doctor, “I do. There’s not much to +choose between ’em; but I suppose you’re aware that that’s +one of the worst houses in the place. They’ll rob you to begin with, and +knife you later.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not they. Take me there, and I can look after myself.” +</p> + +<p> +So he was brought to Madame Binat’s and filled his nostrils with the +well-remembered smell of the East, that runs without a change from the Canal +head to Hong-Kong, and his mouth with the villainous Lingua Franca of the +Levant. The heat smote him between the shoulder-blades with the buffet of an +old friend, his feet slipped on the sand, and his coat-sleeve was warm as +new-baked bread when he lifted it to his nose. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Binat smiled with the smile that knows no astonishment when Dick entered +the drinking-shop which was one source of her gains. But for a little accident +of complete darkness he could hardly realise that he had ever quitted the old +life that hummed in his ears. Somebody opened a bottle of peculiarly strong +Schiedam. The smell reminded Dick of Monsieur Binat, who, by the way, had +spoken of art and degradation. +</p> + +<p> +Binat was dead; Madame said as much when the doctor departed, scandalised, so +far as a ship’s doctor can be, at the warmth of Dick’s reception. +Dick was delighted at it. “They remember me here after a year. They have +forgotten me across the water by this time. Madame, I want a long talk with you +when you’re at liberty. It is good to be back again.” +</p> + +<p> +In the evening she set an iron-topped café-table out on the sands, and Dick and +she sat by it, while the house behind them filled with riot, merriment, oaths, +and threats. The stars came out and the lights of the shipping in the harbour +twinkled by the head of the Canal. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. The war is good for trade, my friend; but what dost thou do here? +We have not forgotten thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was over there in England and I went blind.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there was the glory first. We heard of it here, even here—I +and Binat; and thou hast used the head of Yellow “Tina—she is still +alive—so often and so well that “Tina laughed when the papers +arrived by the mail-boats. It was always something that we here could recognise +in the paintings. And then there was always the glory and the money for +thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not poor—I shall pay you well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to me. Thou hast paid for everything.” Under her breath, +“Mon Dieu, to be blind and so young! What horror!” +</p> + +<p> +Dick could not see her face with the pity on it, or his own with the +discoloured hair at the temples. He did not feel the need of pity; he was too +anxious to get to the front once more, and explained his desire. +</p> + +<p> +“And where? The Canal is full of the English ships. Sometimes they fire +as they used to do when the war was here—ten years ago. Beyond Cairo +there is fighting, but how canst thou go there without a correspondent’s +passport? And in the desert there is always fighting, but that is impossible +also,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go to Suakin.” He knew, thanks to Alf’s readings, +that Torpenhow was at work with the column that was protecting the construction +of the Suakin-Berber line. P. and O. steamers do not touch at that port, and, +besides, Madame Binat knew everybody whose help or advice was worth anything. +They were not respectable folk, but they could cause things to be accomplished, +which is much more important when there is work toward. +</p> + +<p> +“But at Suakin they are always fighting. That desert breeds men +always—and always more men. And they are so bold! Why to Suakin?” +</p> + +<p> +“My friend is there. +</p> + +<p> +“Thy friend! Chtt! Thy friend is death, then.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Binat dropped a fat arm on the table-top, filled Dick’s glass +anew, and looked at him closely under the stars. There was no need that he +should bow his head in assent and say—“No. He is a man, +but—if it should arrive... blamest thou?” +</p> + +<p> +“I blame?” she laughed shrilly. “Who am I that I should blame +any one—except those who try to cheat me over their consommations. But it +is very terrible.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must go to Suakin. Think for me. A great deal has changed within the +year, and the men I knew are not here. The Egyptian lighthouse steamer goes +down the Canal to Suakin—and the post-boats—But even +then——” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not think any longer. <i>I</i> know, and it is for me to think. Thou +shalt go—thou shalt go and see thy friend. Be wise. Sit here until the +house is a little quiet—I must attend to my guests—and afterwards +go to bed. Thou shalt go, in truth, thou shalt go.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as may be.” She was talking as though he were a child. +</p> + +<p> +He sat at the table listening to the voices in the harbour and the streets, and +wondering how soon the end would come, till Madame Binat carried him off to bed +and ordered him to sleep. The house shouted and sang and danced and revelled, +Madame Binat moving through it with one eye on the liquor payments and the +girls and the other on Dick’s interests. To this latter end she smiled +upon scowling and furtive Turkish officers of fellaheen regiments, was gracious +to Cypriote commissariat underlings, and more than kind to camel agents of no +nationality whatever. +</p> + +<p> +In the early morning, being then appropriately dressed in a flaming red silk +ball-dress, with a front of tarnished gold embroidery and a necklace of +plate-glass diamonds, she made chocolate and carried it in to Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“It is only I, and I am of discreet age, eh? Drink and eat the roll too. +Thus in France mothers bring their sons, when those behave wisely, the morning +chocolate.” She sat down on the side of the bed +whispering:—“It is all arranged. Thou wilt go by the lighthouse +boat. That is a bribe of ten pounds English. The captain is never paid by the +Government. The boat comes to Suakin in four days. There will go with thee +George, a Greek muleteer. Another bribe of ten pounds. I will pay; they must +not know of thy money. George will go with thee as far as he goes with his +mules. Then he comes back to me, for his well-beloved is here, and if I do not +receive a telegram from Suakin saying that thou art well, the girl answers for +George.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you.” He reached out sleepily for the cup. “You are +much too kind, Madame.” +</p> + +<p> +“If there were anything that I might do I would say, stay here and be +wise; but I do not think that would be best for thee.” She looked at her +liquor-stained dress with a sad smile. “Nay, thou shalt go, in truth, +thou shalt go. It is best so. My boy, it is best so.” +</p> + +<p> +She stooped and kissed Dick between the eyes. “That is for +good-morning,” she said, going away. “When thou art dressed we will +speak to George and make everything ready. But first we must open the little +trunk. Give me the keys.” +</p> + +<p> +“The amount of kissing lately has been simply scandalous. I shall expect +Torp to kiss me next. He is more likely to swear at me for getting in his way, +though. Well, it won’t last long.—Ohe, Madame, help me to my +toilette of the guillotine! There will be no chance of dressing properly out +yonder.” +</p> + +<p> +He was rummaging among his new campaign-kit, and rowelling his hands with the +spurs. There are two ways of wearing well-oiled ankle-jacks, spotless blue +bands, <i>khaki</i> coat and breeches, and a perfectly pipeclayed helmet. The +right way is the way of the untired man, master of himself, setting out upon an +expedition, well pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“Everything must be very correct,” Dick explained. “It will +become dirty afterwards, but now it is good to feel well dressed. Is everything +as it should be?” +</p> + +<p> +He patted the revolver neatly hidden under the fulness of the blouse on the +right hip and fingered his collar. +</p> + +<p> +“I can do no more,” Madame said, between laughing and crying. +“Look at thyself—but I forgot.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very content.” He stroked the creaseless spirals of his +leggings. +</p> + +<p> +“Now let us go and see the captain and George and the lighthouse boat. +</p> + +<p> +Be quick, Madame.” +</p> + +<p> +“But thou canst not be seen by the harbour walking with me in the +daylight. Figure to yourself if some English ladies——” +</p> + +<p> +“There are no English ladies; and if there are, I have forgotten them. +</p> + +<p> +Take me there.” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of this burning impatience it was nearly evening ere the lighthouse +boat began to move. Madame had said a great deal both to George and the captain +touching the arrangements that were to be made for Dick’s benefit. Very +few men who had the honour of her acquaintance cared to disregard +Madame’s advice. That sort of contempt might end in being knifed by a +stranger in a gambling hell upon surprisingly short provocation. +</p> + +<p> +For six days—two of them were wasted in the crowded Canal—the +little steamer worked her way to Suakin, where she was to pick up the +superintendent of the lighthouse; and Dick made it his business to propitiate +George, who was distracted with fears for the safety of his light-of-love and +half inclined to make Dick responsible for his own discomfort. When they +arrived George took him under his wing, and together they entered the red-hot +seaport, encumbered with the material and wastage of the Suakin-Berger line, +from locomotives in disconsolate fragments to mounds of chairs and +pot-sleepers. +</p> + +<p> +“If you keep with me,” said George, “nobody will ask for +passports or what you do. They are all very busy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but I should like to hear some of the Englishmen talk. They might +remember me. I was known here a long time ago—when I was some one +indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“A long time ago is a very long time ago here. The graveyards are full. +</p> + +<p> +Now listen. This new railway runs out so far as Tanai-el-Hassan—that is +seven miles. Then there is a camp. They say that beyond Tanai-el-Hassan the +English troops go forward, and everything that they require will be brought to +them by this line.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Base camp. I see. That’s a better business than fighting +Fuzzies in the open.” +</p> + +<p> +“For this reason even the mules go up in the iron-train.” +</p> + +<p> +“Iron what?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is all covered with iron, because it is still being shot at.” +</p> + +<p> +“An armoured train. Better and better! Go on, faithful George.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I go up with my mules to-night. Only those who particularly require +to go to the camp go out with the train. They begin to shoot not far from the +city.” +</p> + +<p> +“The dears—they always used to!” Dick snuffed the smell of +parched dust, heated iron, and flaking paint with delight. Certainly the old +life was welcoming him back most generously. +</p> + +<p> +“When I have got my mules together I go up to-night, but you must first +send a telegram of Port Said, declaring that I have done you no harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame has you well in hand. Would you stick a knife into me if you had +the chance?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no chance,” said the Greek. “<i>She</i> is there with +that woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. It’s a bad thing to be divided between love of woman and +the chance of loot. I sympathise with you, George.” +</p> + +<p> +They went to the telegraph-office unquestioned, for all the world was +desperately busy and had scarcely time to turn its head, and Suakin was the +last place under sky that would be chosen for holiday-ground. On their return +the voice of an English subaltern asked Dick what he was doing. The blue +goggles were over his eyes and he walked with his hand on George’s elbow +as he replied—“Egyptian Government—mules. My orders are to +give them over to the A. C. G. at Tanai-el-Hassan. Any occasion to show my +papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly not. I beg your pardon. I’d no right to ask, but not +seeing your face before I——” +</p> + +<p> +“I go out in the train to-night, I suppose,” said Dick, boldly. +“There will be no difficulty in loading up the mules, will there?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can see the horse-platforms from here. You must have them loaded up +early.” The young man went away wondering what sort of broken-down waif +this might be who talked like a gentleman and consorted with Greek muleteers. +Dick felt unhappy. To outface an English officer is no small thing, but the +bluff loses relish when one plays it from the utter dark, and stumbles up and +down rough ways, thinking and eternally thinking of what might have been if +things had fallen out otherwise, and all had been as it was not. +</p> + +<p> +George shared his meal with Dick and went off to the mule-lines. His charge sat +alone in a shed with his face in his hands. Before his tight-shut eyes danced +the face of Maisie, laughing, with parted lips. There was a great bustle and +clamour about him. He grew afraid and almost called for George. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, have you got your mules ready?” It was the voice of the +subaltern over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“My man’s looking after them. The—the fact is I’ve a +touch of ophthalmia and can’t see very well. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove! that’s bad. You ought to lie up in hospital for a while. +I’ve had a turn of it myself. It’s as bad as being blind.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I find it. When does this armoured train go?” +</p> + +<p> +“At six o’clock. It takes an hour to cover the seven miles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are the Fuzzies on the rampage—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“About three nights a week. Fact is I’m in acting command of the +night-train. It generally runs back empty to Tanai for the night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Big camp at Tanai, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty big. It has to feed our desert-column somehow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that far off?” +</p> + +<p> +“Between thirty and forty miles—in an infernal thirsty +country.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is the country quiet between Tanai and our men?” +</p> + +<p> +“More or less. I shouldn’t care to cross it alone, or with a +subaltern’s command for the matter of that, but the scouts get through it +in some extraordinary fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +“They always did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been here before, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was through most of the trouble when it first broke out.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the service and cashiered,” was the subaltern’s first +thought, so he refrained from putting any questions. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s your man coming up with the mules. It seems rather +queer——” +</p> + +<p> +“That I should be mule-leading?” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean to say so, but it is. Forgive me—it’s +beastly impertinence I know, but you speak like a man who has been at a public +school. There’s no mistaking the tone.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a public school man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so. I say, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but +you’re a little down on your luck, aren’t you? I saw you sitting +with your head in your hands, and that’s why I spoke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks. I am about as thoroughly and completely broke as a man need +be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose—I mean I’m a public school man myself. +Couldn’t I perhaps—take it as a loan y’know +and——” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re much too good, but on my honour I’ve as much money as +I want. +</p> + +<p> +... I tell you what you could do for me, though, and put me under an +everlasting obligation. Let me come into the bogie truck of the train. +</p> + +<p> +There is a fore-truck, isn’t there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. How d’you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been in an armoured train before. Only let me see—hear +some of the fun I mean, and I’ll be grateful. I go at my own risk as a +non-combatant.” +</p> + +<p> +The young man thought for a minute. “All right,” he said. +“We’re supposed to be an empty train, and there’s no one to +blow me up at the other end.” +</p> + +<p> +George and a horde of yelling amateur assistants had loaded up the mules, and +the narrow-gauge armoured train, plated with three-eighths inch boiler-plate +till it looked like one long coffin, stood ready to start. +</p> + +<p> +Two bogie trucks running before the locomotive were completely covered in with +plating, except that the leading one was pierced in front for the muzzle of a +machine-gun, and the second at either side for lateral fire. +</p> + +<p> +The trucks together made one long iron-vaulted chamber in which a score of +artillerymen were rioting. +</p> + +<p> +“Whitechapel—last train! Ah, I see yer kissin’ in the first +class there!” somebody shouted, just as Dick was clambering into the +forward truck. +</p> + +<p> +“Lordy! ’Ere’s a real live passenger for the Kew, Tanai, +Acton, and Ealin’ train. <i>Echo</i>, sir. Speshul edition! <i>Star</i>, +sir.”—“Shall I get you a foot-warmer?” said another. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks. I’ll pay my footing,” said Dick, and relations of +the most amiable were established ere silence came with the arrival of the +subaltern, and the train jolted out over the rough track. +</p> + +<p> +“This is an immense improvement on shooting the unimpressionable Fuzzy in +the open,” said Dick, from his place in the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but he’s still unimpressed. There he goes!” said the +subaltern, as a bullet struck the outside of the truck. “We always have +at least one demonstration against the night-train. Generally they attack the +rear-truck, where my junior commands. He gets all the fun of the fair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to-night though! Listen!” said Dick. A flight of heavy-handed +bullets was succeeded by yelling and shouts. The children of the desert valued +their nightly amusement, and the train was an excellent mark. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it worth giving them half a hopper full?” the subaltern asked +of the engine, which was driven by a Lieutenant of Sappers. +</p> + +<p> +“I should think so! This is my section of the line. They’ll be +playing old Harry with my permanent way if we don’t stop +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right O!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Hrrmph!</i>” said the machine gun through all its five noses as +the subaltern drew the lever home. The empty cartridges clashed on the floor +and the smoke blew back through the truck. There was indiscriminate firing at +the rear of the train, and return fire from the darkness without and unlimited +howling. Dick stretched himself on the floor, wild with delight at the sounds +and the smells. +</p> + +<p> +“God is very good—I never thought I’d hear this again. Give +’em hell, men. Oh, give ’em hell!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +The train stopped for some obstruction on the line ahead and a party went out +to reconnoitre, but came back, cursing, for spades. The children of the desert +had piled sand and gravel on the rails, and twenty minutes were lost in +clearing it away. Then the slow progress recommenced, to be varied with more +shots, more shoutings, the steady clack and kick of the machine guns, and a +final difficulty with a half-lifted rail ere the train came under the +protection of the roaring camp at Tanai-el-Hassan. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, you see why it takes an hour and a half to fetch her +through,” said the subaltern, unshipping the cartridge-hopper above his +pet gun. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a lark, though. I only wish it had lasted twice as long. How +superb it must have looked from outside!” said Dick, sighing regretfully. +</p> + +<p> +“It palls after the first few nights. By the way, when you’ve +settled about your mules, come and see what we can find to eat in my tent. +I’m Bennil of the Gunners—in the artillery lines—and mind you +don’t fall over my tent-ropes in the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +But it was all dark to Dick. He could only smell the camels, the hay-bales, the +cooking, the smoky fires, and the tanned canvas of the tents as he stood, where +he had dropped from the train, shouting for George. There was a sound of +light-hearted kicking on the iron skin of the rear trucks, with squealing and +grunting. George was unloading the mules. +</p> + +<p> +The engine was blowing off steam nearly in Dick’s ear; a cold wind of the +desert danced between his legs; he was hungry, and felt tired and +dirty—so dirty that he tried to brush his coat with his hands. That was a +hopeless job; he thrust his hands into his pockets and began to count over the +many times that he had waited in strange or remote places for trains or camels, +mules or horses, to carry him to his business. In those days he could +see—few men more clearly—and the spectacle of an armed camp at +dinner under the stars was an ever fresh pleasure to the eye. There was colour, +light, and motion, without which no man has much pleasure in living. This night +there remained for him only one more journey through the darkness that never +lifts to tell a man how far he has travelled. Then he would grip +Torpenhow’s hand again—Torpenhow, who was alive and strong, and +lived in the midst of the action that had once made the reputation of a man +called Dick Heldar: not in the least to be confused with the blind, bewildered +vagabond who seemed to answer to the same name. Yes, he would find Torpenhow, +and come as near to the old life as might be. Afterwards he would forget +everything: Bessie, who had wrecked the Melancolia and so nearly wrecked his +life; Beeton, who lived in a strange unreal city full of tin-tacks and +gas-plugs and matters that no men needed; that irrational being who had offered +him love and loyalty for nothing, but had not signed her name; and most of all +Maisie, who, from her own point of view, was undeniably right in all she did, +but oh, at this distance, so tantalisingly fair. +</p> + +<p> +George’s hand on his arm pulled him back to the situation. +</p> + +<p> +“And what now?” said George. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes of course. What now? Take me to the camel-men. Take me to where +the scouts sit when they come in from the desert. They sit by their camels, and +the camels eat grain out of a black blanket held up at the corners, and the men +eat by their side just like camels. Take me there!” +</p> + +<p> +The camp was rough and rutty, and Dick stumbled many times over the stumps of +scrub. The scouts were sitting by their beasts, as Dick knew they would. The +light of the dung-fires flickered on their bearded faces, and the camels +bubbled and mumbled beside them at rest. It was no part of Dick’s policy +to go into the desert with a convoy of supplies. That would lead to impertinent +questions, and since a blind non-combatant is not needed at the front, he would +probably be forced to return to Suakin. +</p> + +<p> +He must go up alone, and go immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for one last bluff—the biggest of all,” he said. +“Peace be with you, brethren!” The watchful George steered him to +the circle of the nearest fire. The heads of the camel-sheiks bowed gravely, +and the camels, scenting a European, looked sideways curiously like brooding +hens, half ready to get to their feet. +</p> + +<p> +“A beast and a driver to go to the fighting line to-night,” said +Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“A Mulaid?” said a voice, scornfully naming the best baggage-breed +that he knew. +</p> + +<p> +“A Bisharin,” returned Dick, with perfect gravity. “A +Bisharin without saddle-galls. Therefore no charge of thine, shock-head.” +</p> + +<p> +Two or three minutes passed. Then—“We be knee-haltered for the +night. There is no going out from the camp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for money?” +</p> + +<p> +“H’m! Ah! English money?” +</p> + +<p> +Another depressing interval of silence. +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty-five pounds English paid into the hand of the driver at my +journey’s end, and as much more into the hand of the camel-sheik here, to +be paid when the driver returns.” +</p> + +<p> +This was royal payment, and the sheik, who knew that he would get his +commission on this deposit, stirred in Dick’s behalf. +</p> + +<p> +“For scarcely one night’s journey—fifty pounds. Land and +wells and good trees and wives to make a man content for the rest of his days. +Who speaks?” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“I,” said a voice. “I will go—but there is no going +from the camp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fool! I know that a camel can break his knee-halter, and the sentries do +not fire if one goes in chase. Twenty-five pounds and another twenty-five +pounds. But the beast must be a good Bisharin; I will take no +baggage-camel.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the bargaining began, and at the end of half an hour the first deposit was +paid over to the sheik, who talked in low tones to the driver. +</p> + +<p> +Dick heard the latter say: “A little way out only. Any baggage-beast will +serve. Am I a fool to waste my cattle for a blind man?” +</p> + +<p> +“And though I cannot see’—Dick lifted his voice a +little—“yet I carry that which has six eyes, and the driver will +sit before me. If we do not reach the English troops in the dawn he will be +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where, in God’s name, are the troops?” +</p> + +<p> +“Unless thou knowest let another man ride. Dost thou know? Remember it +will be life or death to thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” said the driver, sullenly. “Stand back from my +beast. I am going to slip him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so swiftly. George, hold the camel’s head a moment. I want to +feel his cheek.” The hands wandered over the hide till they found the +branded half-circle that is the mark of the Biharin, the light-built +riding-camel. +</p> + +<p> +“That is well. Cut this one loose. Remember no blessing of God comes on +those who try to cheat the blind.” +</p> + +<p> +The men chuckled by the fires at the camel-driver’s discomfiture. He had +intended to substitute a slow, saddle-galled baggage-colt. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand back!” one shouted, lashing the Biharin under the belly with +a quirt. Dick obeyed as soon as he felt the nose-string tighten in his +hand,—and a cry went up, “Illaha! Aho! He is loose.” +</p> + +<p> +With a roar and a grunt the Biharin rose to his feet and plunged forward toward +the desert, his driver following with shouts and lamentation. +</p> + +<p> +George caught Dick’s arm and hurried him stumbling and tripping past a +disgusted sentry who was used to stampeding camels. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the row now?” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Every stitch of my kit on that blasted dromedary,” Dick answered, +after the manner of a common soldier. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, and take care your throat’s not cut outside—you and +your dromedary’s.” +</p> + +<p> +The outcries ceased when the camel had disappeared behind a hillock, and his +driver had called him back and made him kneel down. +</p> + +<p> +“Mount first,” said Dick. Then climbing into the second seat and +gently screwing the pistol muzzle into the small of his companion’s back, +“Go on in God’s name, and swiftly. Good-bye, George. Remember me to +Madame, and have a good time with your girl. Get forward, child of the +Pit!” +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later he was shut up in a great silence, hardly broken by the +creaking of the saddle and the soft pad of the tireless feet. Dick adjusted +himself comfortably to the rock and pitch of the pace, girthed his belt +tighter, and felt the darkness slide past. For an hour he was conscious only of +the sense of rapid progress. +</p> + +<p> +“A good camel,” he said at last. +</p> + +<p> +“He was never underfed. He is my own and clean bred,” the driver +replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +His head dropped on his chest and he tried to think, but the tenor of his +thoughts was broken because he was very sleepy. In the half doze it seemed that +he was learning a punishment hymn at Mrs. Jennett’s. He had committed +some crime as bad as Sabbath-breaking, and she had locked him up in his +bedroom. But he could never repeat more than the first two lines of the +hymn— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +When Israel of the Lord beloved<br /> +Out of the land of bondage came. +</p> + +<p> +He said them over and over thousands of times. The driver turned in the saddle +to see if there were any chance of capturing the revolver and ending the ride. +Dick roused, struck him over the head with the butt, and stormed himself wide +awake. Somebody hidden in a clump of camel-thorn shouted as the camel toiled up +rising ground. A shot was fired, and the silence shut down again, bringing the +desire to sleep. Dick could think no longer. He was too tired and stiff and +cramped to do more than nod uneasily from time to time, waking with a start and +punching the driver with the pistol. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there a moon?” he asked drowsily. +</p> + +<p> +“She is near her setting.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish that I could see her. Halt the camel. At least let me hear the +desert talk.” +</p> + +<p> +The man obeyed. Out of the utter stillness came one breath of wind. It rattled +the dead leaves of a shrub some distance away and ceased. A handful of dry +earth detached itself from the edge of a rail trench and crumbled softly to the +bottom. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on. The night is very cold.” +</p> + +<p> +Those who have watched till the morning know how the last hour before the light +lengthens itself into many eternities. It seemed to Dick that he had never +since the beginning of original darkness done anything at all save jolt through +the air. Once in a thousand years he would finger the nailheads on the +saddle-front and count them all carefully. Centuries later he would shift his +revolver from his right hand to his left and allow the eased arm to drop down +at his side. From the safe distance of London he was watching himself thus +employed,—watching critically. Yet whenever he put out his hand to the +canvas that he might paint the tawny yellow desert under the glare of the +sinking moon, the black shadow of a camel and the two bowed figures atop, that +hand held a revolver and the arm was numbed from wrist to collar-bone. +Moreover, he was in the dark, and could see no canvas of any kind whatever. +</p> + +<p> +The driver grunted, and Dick was conscious of a change in the air. +</p> + +<p> +“I smell the dawn,” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“It is here, and yonder are the troops. Have I done well?” +</p> + +<p> +The camel stretched out its neck and roared as there came down wind the pungent +reek of camels in the square. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on. We must get there swiftly. Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are moving in their camp. There is so much dust that I cannot see +what they do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I in better case? Go forward.” +</p> + +<p> +They could hear the hum of voices ahead, the howling and the bubbling of the +beasts and the hoarse cries of the soldiers girthing up for the day. +</p> + +<p> +Two or three shots were fired. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that at us? Surely they can see that I am English,” Dick spoke +angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, it is from the desert,” the driver answered, cowering in his +saddle. +</p> + +<p> +“Go forward, my child! Well it is that the dawn did not uncover us an +hour ago.” +</p> + +<p> +The camel headed straight for the column and the shots behind multiplied. The +children of the desert had arranged that most uncomfortable of surprises, a +dawn attack for the English troops, and were getting their distance by +snap-shots at the only moving object without the square. +</p> + +<p> +“What luck! What stupendous and imperial luck!” said Dick. +“It’s “just before the battle, mother.” Oh, God has +been most good to me! +</p> + +<p> +Only’—the agony of the thought made him screw up his eyes for an +instant—“Maisie...” +</p> + +<p> +“Allahu! We are in,” said the man, as he drove into the rearguard +and the camel knelt. +</p> + +<p> +“Who the deuce are you? Despatches or what? What’s the strength of +the enemy behind that ridge? How did you get through?” asked a dozen +voices. For all answer Dick took a long breath, unbuckled his belt, and shouted +from the saddle at the top of a wearied and dusty voice, “Torpenhow! Ohe, +Torp! Coo-ee, Tor-pen-how.” +</p> + +<p> +A bearded man raking in the ashes of a fire for a light to his pipe moved very +swiftly towards that cry, as the rearguard, facing about, began to fire at the +puffs of smoke from the hillocks around. Gradually the scattered white +cloudlets drew out into the long lines of banked white that hung heavily in the +stillness of the dawn before they turned over wave-like and glided into the +valleys. The soldiers in the square were coughing and swearing as their own +smoke obstructed their view, and they edged forward to get beyond it. A wounded +camel leaped to its feet and roared aloud, the cry ending in a bubbling grunt. +Some one had cut its throat to prevent confusion. Then came the thick sob of a +man receiving his death-wound from a bullet; then a yell of agony and redoubled +firing. +</p> + +<p> +There was no time to ask any questions. +</p> + +<p> +“Get down, man! Get down behind the camel!” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Put me, I pray, in the forefront of the battle.” Dick turned +his face to Torpenhow and raised his hand to set his helmet straight, but, +miscalculating the distance, knocked it off. Torpenhow saw that his hair was +gray on the temples, and that his face was the face of an old man. +</p> + +<p> +“Come down, you damned fool! Dickie, come off!” +</p> + +<p> +And Dick came obediently, but as a tree falls, pitching sideways from the +Bisharin’s saddle at Torpenhow’s feet. His luck had held to the +last, even to the crowning mercy of a kindly bullet through his head. +</p> + +<p> +Torpenhow knelt under the lee of the camel, with Dick’s body in his arms. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIGHT THAT FAILED ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 2876-h.htm or 2876-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/7/2876/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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