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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f1cc234 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #56226 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56226) diff --git a/old/56226-8.txt b/old/56226-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9723ecc..0000000 --- a/old/56226-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7016 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Conrad in Quest of His Youth, by Leonard Merrick - -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 -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Conrad in Quest of His Youth - An Extravagance of Temperament - -Author: Leonard Merrick - -Release Date: December 23, 2017 [EBook #56226] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - - - - - CONRAD - - IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH - - - AN EXTRAVAGANCE OF TEMPERAMENT - - - BY - - LEONARD MERRICK - - - - MITCHELL KENNERLEY - NEW YORK AND LONDON - MCMXI - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1911 - BY MITCHELL KENNERLY - - - - - CONRAD - IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH - - - -CHAPTER I - - "How we laughed as we laboured together! - How well I remember, to-day, - Our 'outings' in midsummer weather, - Our winter delights at the play! - We were not over-nice in our dinners; - Our 'rooms' were up rickety stairs; - But if hope be the wealth of beginners, - By Jove, we were all millionaires! - Our incomes were very uncertain, - Our prospects were equally vague; - Yet the persons I pity who know not the city, - The beautiful city of Prague!" - - -If you can imagine the lonely shade of the man who wrote that verse -returning to Literary London--where there is no longer a young man who -could write it, and merely a few greybeards are left still to -understand what it means--I say, if you can imagine this, you may -appreciate the condition of Conrad when he went back to the Quartier -Latin. - -Conrad was no less sad, his disappointment was no less bitter, the -society that he had sought so eagerly was no less alien to him. But -while he commanded bocks for all, and mourned the change that left him -desolate, the melancholy of his mood was a subtler thing--for he -realised that the profoundest change was in himself. - -Something should be said of the longings that had brought him back to -the Quarter--longings in one hour tender, and in the next -tempestuous--something hinted of the regretful years during which his -limbs reposed in an official chair while his mind flew out of the -official window to places across the sea where he had been young, and -sanguine, and infinitely glad. To a score of places it flew, but to -none perhaps so often as Paris, where he had studied art in the days -when he meant to move the world. - -Of course the trouble with the man was that he wanted to be nineteen -again, and didn't recognise it. We do not immediately recognise that -our youth is going from us; it recedes stealthily, like our hair. For -a long time he had missed the zest, the sparkle, the buoyancy from -life, but for the flatness that distressed him he blamed the Colony -instead of his age. He confused the emotions of his youth with the -scenes where he had felt them, and yearned to make sentimental -journeys, fancying that to revisit the scenes would be to recover the -emotions. - -Because the office rewarded his mental flights ungenerously he was -restrained by one of those little realities which vulgar novelists -observe and which are so out of place in novels--"sordid" -considerations, like ways and means. Give us lots of Blood, and the -dummy over the dashing highwayman's shoulder! If you call him a -"cavalier" it's Breezy Romance. - -And then his Aunt Tryphena died, and left him everything. - -At once he was lord of himself. Liberated by "everything," he sailed -for Home, and savouring the knowledge that he was free to rove where he -listed, lingered in London. Some months afterwards--when the crocuses -were perking behind the Park rails, and Piccadilly was abloom with the -first millinery of spring--he travelled to Dover, en route for the Past. - -And lilac was everywhere--Paris was all lilac and sunshine. He drove -to an hotel on the left bank. To behold it again! The grotesque clock -under the glass shade, and the clothes pegs that were too large to hang -clothes on, the scarlet édredon that he would throw on the floor before -he got into bed, the sight of these things was sweet to him as the -welcome of a woman is sweet after a passage made on a slow steamer to -reach her side. - -He said to the femme de chambre--she was elderly and she was plain; -pretty chambermaids are all employed in farcical comedies; but she was -a femme de chambre, and he felt communicative. He said, "La dernière -fois que j'étais Paris, j'étais un gamin." She smiled and gave a -shrug: "Monsieur n'est qu'un enfant aujourd'hui." What English servant -would have earned that tip? ... Oh, yes! English servants are all too -truthful. - -When he had scattered his things about the room, he strode out to seek -the little restaurant where the dinners had been so good, and the -company had been so witty years before. Well, it had vanished. -Perhaps he wasn't surprised, but he loitered wistfully in the street -from which the faded sign had gone, and at the flashy establishment -where he dined instead, the plats lacked flavour. - -By-and-by he sauntered along the Boul' Mich'. While he walked he -perceived that he had ceased to look about him, and was again looking -back. The sigh of names that had been long forgotten was in the -plaintive night, and the air was thick with echoes. He moved along the -lamp-lit boulevard seeing ghosts, and to right and left the heedless -faces of the fleshly crowd were strange to him. All strange to him. -This was the first impediment in his road. - -"Gay Paree" is gayest in the doggerel of the English music-halls; its -gaiety is declining fast, but its beauty is fadeless. No city goes to -bed more worldly, and wakes up looking more innocent. At six o'clock -next day, when they began to beat carpets, and Conrad flung the windows -wide, some of the happiness of the wakened capital's simplicity was -breathed into his heart. And his fervour, and his purse, overcame the -first impediment. Within a week of his arrival he had already been -called "Mon cher." - -He was called "Mon cher," and other things. He puffed his "caporal" at -the Café Vachette, and found that he had lost his relish for French -tobacco; he sat among the cards and the dominoes at the Café -d'Harcourt--bought carnations and écrevisses from the pedlars' baskets -for Angèle and Suzanne; and Angèle and Suzanne proved witless compared -with what their mothers had been, and he noted--not without some slight -pride, for we are all patriotic abroad--that though the art of tying a -veil has been granted to French women, the pretty features have been -granted to the English. - -It was now that the disappointment fell, now that he cried:-- - - "'Oh for one hour of youthful joy! - Give back my twentieth spring!'" - -The ardour of the students left him chilly, the rodomontades of his -compatriots sounded merely stupid. They were all going to sacrifice -themselves for an ideal, all going to England to paint persistently the -class of work that England did not want. "No concessions" was their -battle cry. Youth can never believe that it will live to make -concessions. Your adept finds nowhere so scathing a critic as your -novice. - -O beautiful time when he, too, had imagined he was born with a mission! -Bright morning when he had vapoured with the vainest! This afternoon -the Rapsodie Anglaise was played to duller ears. The freaks seemed -joyless, and he said the aspirations were "out of drawing." He was not -sure that it was of immense importance whether one painted well, or -ill--whether one painted at all. There were more useful things to be -done in the world. He did not wish to do them, but he suggested that -they were there. Then the audience hurled passages from the preface to -"Mademoiselle de Maupin" at him--without acknowledgment--pelting him -with the paragraphs full of shoes and potatoes until he was dizzy, and -perhaps a little shaken. After all, when one has failed to pluck the -grapes it is easy to proclaim that potatoes are more nourishing. On -the whole he was scarcely a success in the Quarter--a success of -curiosity at most--and he won no converts to his theory (advanced in -the Soleil D'Or) that the greatest services to modern art were rendered -by the writers of ladies' fashion articles. - -"They are the Teachers who make the widest school," he urged. "Under -their influence the fairest work of Nature takes an added loveliness. -To them we owe the enticements of the tea-gown, the soul-compelling -whisper of the silk petticoat. What other apostle of Beauty can hope -to shed beauty in every home? Into how many homes do you suppose your -ballades will go?" He was chatting to a poet. But the poet became -diffuse. - - -Conrad returned to his hotel not wholly dissatisfied with the -impression he had made upon the poet. In la Rue du Haut-Pavé he had -one or two vigorous thoughts concerning the vanity of versification -which he wished had occurred to him in the cabaret, and when he had lit -the lamp he began to write. You can know very little about him if you -are surprised to be told that what he wrote was verse. It was of -course a monody to his Boyhood. - - -As his age has not been stated, and he had begun to deplore it so much, -it may be as well at this point to say that he was thirty-seven. A -less venerable figure than you have pictured him, perhaps, despite the -chambermaid. There were, however, hours when he felt a hundred. - -He felt a hundred towards the close of his stay in Paris. He had -resolved to go back to London, but it had few associations for him, and -he packed his portmanteaux drearily. On the evening before he crossed, -his thoughts flashed to a little English watering-place where he had -spent a summer when he was still proud of wearing trousers. He -recalled the moment of his invitation, the thrill of its -unexpectedness. A nursery, and four children: three of them his -cousins, departing for the seaside next day, in fancy already on the -sands. And one of the trio had exclaimed--was it Ted who began -it?--one of the trio had exclaimed: "Wouldn't it be jolly if Con could -come too?" He was "Con." He was Con hanging over the banisters -breathless five minutes later, for Nina, and 'Gina, and Ted had -descended to the drawing-room tumultuously to prefer a petition to "Ma." - -"Ma says there wouldn't be beds enough," they announced with long -faces, mounting the stairs; and then he stammered that he had "expected -there'd be something like that," and they danced round him in a ring, -crying: "We made it up. You're to come with us if you may--you're to -go home and ask." - -The nursery was very clear to him. He saw the gleeful group on the -threshold again, and the bright pattern of the wall-paper. He could -see the open window with the radiant sky across the roofs. - -So they had all gone to the seaside together--he, and Nina, and 'Gina, -and Ted, in charge of the governess; and the house had turned out to be -a school called "Mowbray Lodge," but the boys were away. Jack, the -dog, had been lost on the journey--and killed the schoolmaster's -chickens when he was restored. The rows there used to be with the -master! Mr. Boultbee, that was his name. There was a yellow field -blazing with dandelions, Conrad remembered, and behind the shadow of -the fir trees, apples swayed. He remembered the garden of Rose Villa -next door, and the afternoon when Mary Page kissed her hand over the -fence. Mary Page! On a sudden how close it was--all except her -features--her hat trimmed with blue, and her dangling plaits, and the -vibration of the time. Ted and he were enslaved by her -equally--without bitterness--and used to show each other the -love-letters she wrote to them both after they went home. And oh! how -they longed to be back, and oh, the plans they made, which never -fructified, for husbanding their pocket-money and taking her by -surprise one brilliant morning! - -"Qu'est-ce que vous m'offrez, monsieur? Payez-moi un bock, hein?" - -"No," said Conrad, starting, "run along and play, there's a good -child!" These memories had come to him at the Bal Bullier, and the -band was banging, and the petticoats were whirling, and a young lady -was asking to be refreshed. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -She pouted a protest at him, and whisked into the dance. He observed -that she had graces, and heaved a sigh for the time when it would have -been piquant to brush the pout away. To-night it would be tasteless. -"Kissing a cocotte is like eating tinned salmon," said Conrad to -himself regretfully, and went to the vestiaire for his overcoat. - -The interruption had jarred him, but it was not until the Closerie des -Lilas was a hundred yards behind that he knew he had left the hall for -the purpose of resuming his reverie in comfort. When he reached the -Boulevard Saint-Michel his interest in the projects of five-and-twenty -years ago was again so keen that he grieved to think they had been -fruitless. Improving on history, he permitted the boys who were boys -no more to amass the sovereign that they coveted, and, giving his fancy -rein, lived through the glorious day which had never dawned. He tried -very hard to be fair to Ted after Mary had welcomed them, though to -prevent the conversation becoming a dualogue irked him a good deal. In -moments he discovered that he was talking to her rather well for his -age, and then he corrected himself with loving artistry. But he could -seldom find it in his heart to correct Mary, and she said the prettiest -things in the world. He came back to the present, swimming with -tenderness for the little maiden of his retrospect. It shocked him to -reflect that she must be about thirty-eight if she lived still, and -might even have a marriageable daughter. The pathos of the -marriageable daughter indeed overwhelmed him, and, taking a seat at the -Taverne du Panthéon, he pictured himself waking to realise that he was -only twelve years old and that all events subsequent to the epoch had -been a dream. - -The October air was bleak when he crossed on the morrow, and the deck -rolled to meet the splashes of the waves. The idea of revisiting the -watering-place--and the idea had germinated--attracted him less -forcibly as his chair played see-saw with the taffrail, but he -remembered that he had often been advised by advertisements "not to -risk infection from foreigners, when he could winter in sunny Sweetbay, -the fairest spot in England." The fact that it had a reputation as a -winter resort encouraged him somewhat, and by the time he saw the lamps -of Charing Cross he felt adventurous again. He also admired a girl on -the platform. "There's nothing like an Englishwoman for beauty," he -said; and the girl exclaimed: "Oh, I've left my little fur in my grip, -right there!" - -He fulfilled his programme the next morning. The drowsy station of -Sweetbay seemed to him larger than of yore as he glanced about him, but -he did not stop to gather information in the matter. His bag was in -the fly, and he was rattled to an hotel where the manager appeared -surprised to see him. Although his sensations on the boat had left him -with no insistent longing for a room with a sea-view, he accepted one -without complaint, and learning that luncheon was being served, -descended to where three despondent-looking visitors were scattered -among an acre of tables. Evidently people continued to go abroad in -spite of the advice. However, he had not come to Sweetbay for society. - -It was a neat and decorous little town awaiting him when he sallied -forth from the hotel. Everything was very clean, very tidy. The -pink-paved sidewalks, bordered by trees, glistened like coral; the snug -villas, enclosed by euonymus hedges trimmed to precision, had a fresh -and wholesome air, an air that made him think of honey soap and good -rice puddings. He backed before the walls of the Parish Church. A -play-bill of the Rosery Theatre, near by, seemed an anachronism, and -even as he recalled Sweetbay it had been content with Assembly Rooms. -On a hoarding he saw a poster of the Pier Pavilion--the pavilion was an -innovation too. In the High Street photographs of some popular actors -had invaded a shop window, and he was struck by the extraordinary -resemblance they bore to one another--all wearing on the brow the frown -of intellectuality, and carefully disordered hair. The Town Hall was a -landmark. He murmured Matthew Arnold's line: "Expressive merely of the -impotence of the architect to express anything," but the unparalleled -ugliness of the building warmed him with recollections. He branched to -the left, as he used to branch to the left when he carried Mary's -bathing shoes, and surrendering himself to sentiment unreservedly now -swung joyously for Eden. - -And from this point landmarks flocked thick and fast. The way began to -climb the hill, the hill began to show the boughs, the boughs began to -veil the road, the road began to woo the lane, the lane began to near -the house, and--like the old woman's pig--Conrad got over the stile. - -And "Mowbray Lodge" was still painted on the gate! It was all so -wonderfully the same for a moment in the shade behind the fir trees--so -wonderfully--that he felt tearful. The scene had stood so still that -there seemed something unreal in his returning here a man. Again he -saw the slender columns of the long veranda, and the summer-house on -which the weather-cock still perched. He looked, and looked wide-eyed, -at a faded door--not green, not blue--and knew suddenly that behind -that door there should be currant bushes and a tangle of nasturtium, -and hens prinking on the path. His soul embraced the scene. And -yet--and yet it was not the features which had lived in his mind that -moved him most. The magic lay in the pervasive hush, and in a gust of -the fir trees' smell, which he had forgotten until it swept him -breathless across the years. - -Yes, there seemed something unreal in his standing here a man. His -spirit was listening--and he knew that it was listening--for calls from -children who had grown to middle-age now; his gaze was waiting--even he -knew that it was waiting--for the rush of childish figures which the -scene should yield. - -Presently he sought the space where they had played. But the Field of -the Cloth of Gold was transformed. Where the dandelions had spread -their splendour for Mary he saw a market-garden, and the sun that had -made a halo for Mary glittered on glass. There was a quantity of -glass, there were consequential rows of it, all raising money for -somebody, all reminding the pilgrim that meadows move with the times. -"Well, I suppose it's progress," said Conrad, shaking his head. But he -missed the dandelions. He was a Conservative by instinct, though he -was a Liberal by reason. - -When he loitered back to the view of Mowbray Lodge, a lady of the age -which it is gallant to call "uncertain" had come out on the veranda. -She had a little shawl over her shoulders, and in her hand she held a -pair of scissors with which she was clipping a palm. The placid gaze -she lifted to him was not discouraging, and advancing towards her with -a bow he said:-- - -"Pray forgive me for troubling you, but may I ask if Mr. Boultbee lives -here now?" - -"N--no," answered the lady pensively, "no gentleman lives here. 'Mr. -Boultbee'? I'm afraid I don't know the name. Are you sure he is still -living in the town?" - -"I am sure of nothing," replied Conrad. "It is so long since my last -visit that I am even doubtful if he is living at all." - -She seemed to reflect again and said: "Perhaps they might be able to -tell you at the post-office." - -"It really isn't important," he declared, "though I'm obliged by your -suggestion. To confess the truth, I am more drawn to the garden than -to Mr. Boultbee. Years ago I spent a summer here, and being in the -neighbourhood again I couldn't resist the temptation to come and dream -over the top rail of your gate." - -"Oh--er--would you care to look round the place?" she murmured with a -tentative wave of the scissors. - -"I should be charmed," said Conrad, "if I am not intruding." - -"Of course you don't see it to advantage now. Last month--" She moved -across the lawn beside him, telling the falsehoods with which everybody -who has a garden always dejects a visitor. He affected that thirst for -knowledge with which everybody who is shown a garden always rewards a -host. - -"It's a long time since you were here, I think you said?" she remarked, -pleased by his eagerness. - -"It is," said Conrad, in his most Byronic manner, "just a quarter of a -century." The lady looked startled, and he continued with a sigh, -"Yes, I was then in that exquisitely happy period of life when we just -begin to know that we are happy; you may imagine what memories are -stirring in me:-- - - "'I can recall, nay, they are present still, - Parts of myself, the perfume of my mind, - Days that seem farther off than Homer's now - Ere yet the child had loudened to the boy' ... - -That poem--Lowell's 'The Cathedral'--flashed into my mind as I came -upon your parish church awhile ago, and - - "'gazed abashed, - Child of an age that lectures, not creates,' - -at its old honours. I quoted the best part of a stanza to myself in -the street. I'm afraid that is a habit of mine." - -"It must be very nice," said the lady apprehensively; "yes, indeed." - -It appeared that she was no more acquainted with Lowell than with Mr. -Boultbee, so gliding to a subject which lay quite near his heart this -afternoon he introduced a third name. - -"When I was here last a Dr. Page occupied the villa across the fence," -he went on. "He had a daughter. To be prolix, he had several -daughters, but to me his family consisted of Miss Mary. We were -engaged. I won't ask you if they are there still--something warns me -that they are not--but can you, by any chance, give me news of them?" - -"I am sorry I cannot," she returned, fluttering. "There has been no -Dr. Page in Sweetbay--I am almost certain there has been no Dr. Page in -Sweetbay since I settled here. I am positive there is none now--quite -positive. There's Dr. Hunt, there's Dr. Tatham--" She recounted -laboriously the names of all the medical men practising about the town, -while he wondered what she was doing it for. - -"I thank you heartily," he said, when she reached the end of the list. - -The next moment it became evident that she, in her turn, had a question -to put, for her glance was interrogating him already, and at last she -faltered:-- - -"Pardon my asking you, but did I understand you to say that you -were--h'm--engaged to the daughter of Dr. Page twenty-five years ago? -Surely when you said you were a child then, it was no figure of speech?" - -"No," answered Conrad; "but to be frank with you, it was nothing less -than the thought of her that lured me back to-day. Let me admit that I -wasn't quite ingenuous when I spoke of--of 'being' in the -neighbourhood; I came deliberately, in fulfilment of a cherished plan. -To me your garden is a tomb--if I may say so without depressing you--it -is the tomb of the Used-to-be. We were both children, but there are -some things that one never forgets:-- - - "'I'm not a chicken; I have seen - Full many a chill September, - And though I was a youngster then, - That girl I well remember.' - -Holmes wrote 'gale,' not 'girl,' otherwise he might have been speaking -for me." - -"Such constancy is very beautiful," breathed the lady; "I thought--" -She paused, slightly pink. - -"But it was unfair," he assured her; "men can be quite as constant as -women--especially to the women they never won." - -"Er--perhaps you would like to see the house?" she inquired; "and you -will allow me to offer you some tea before you go?" - -"I accept both offers gratefully," said Conrad. - -He followed her into the hall, and she conducted him, with little -prefatory murmurs, to such of the apartments as a maiden lady might -modestly display. Repapered and rearranged they looked quite strange -to him, but the knowledge that he was in Mowbray Lodge averted boredom. - -"You find them altered," she said, as they went back to the -drawing-room. - -"Improved," said he. - -"And the town," she added; "no doubt you find the town improved too?" - -"Altered," said Conrad, thinking of the market garden. "Well, it is -certainly bigger." - -"The rapid development of Sweetbay can astonish none who bear in mind -its remarkable combination of climatic advantages, but the sylvan -fairness of the town is not diminished, and it continues to present an -unrivalled example of the 'rus in urbe,'" responded the lady with -surprising fluency. "Do you take sugar and milk?" - -"Ah--thank you," he said. - -"Are you making a long stay among us, or----?" - -"A very brief one. Indeed, I thought of returning to-morrow." - -"Oh!" There was a tinge of disappointment in her "Oh." "I wondered if -you meant to stop. If you had meant to pass the winter here-- But I -daresay you would have preferred an hotel anyhow?" - -"I don't understand," he said, sipping. "What is it you were going to -be good enough to suggest?" - -"It occurred to me that, as the house has so many associations for you, -you might have liked to take it for a short term. I am trying to let -it furnished during the next few months, and I could leave the -servants. My cook has been with me now----" - -"You would let this house to me?" exclaimed Conrad, thrilling, and saw -such splendid visions that for quite a minute he forgot to attend to -her. - -"If the rent is too high--?" She was regarding him nervously. - -"Not at all," he cried, "not at all. I was simply lost in the -effulgent prospect that you've opened to me." - -"Really?" - -"It was an inspiration. How kind of you to mention it." - -She deprecated gratitude. "There would be no children, of course?" she -said, her gaze dwelling among her china. - -"Four," he answered promptly. "That is, the youngest must be about -thirty-five now. I beg your pardon, but _I_ have had an inspiration, -too, I'm dazzled by the idea of peopling the house with the men and -women who were children here five-and-twenty years ago; I dare swear my -relatives have never set foot in Sweetbay since. We'll be comrades all -over again-- You know how Time loosens these childish ties--in the -very place, in the very rooms, where we were such comrades then. Why, -it's the most delightful plan that was ever hatched!" He hesitated. -"I wonder if they'll come? How about the trains? One of my cousins -would have to go up rather often, I expect." - -"The railway company has combined with Mother Nature and a spirited -Corporation to render Sweetbay attractive to the jaded Londoner. The -service is fast and frequent, and well-appointed 'flys' may be -chartered at most reasonable fares," replied his hostess without an -instant's pause. - -"How convenient!" said Conrad. "What more can he want?" - -"If you think your friends may need persuasion, I should be pleased to -present you with a copy of a little work of mine to send them. It -describes all the attractions of the neighbourhood--and it's quite -unlike the usual guide-book. It is thorough, but chatty. My aim has -been to inform the visitor in a sprightly way." - -"An authoress?" he said warmly. - -"Of one book only," she murmured, her face suffused by an unbecoming -blush. - -"But of many readers, I'll be bound! If obstacles arise then, it shall -be your pen that conquers them. You overwhelm me with kindnesses. I -really think, though, the address will be magnet enough for the friends -I want. 'Mowbray Lodge, Sweetbay'--how they'll stare! 'Bring your -spades and pails,' I shall write; 'come, and let us all be boys and -girls again.' The girls have little girls and boys of their own now. -No, don't be afraid of their smashing that soul-stirring Chelsea, my -dear madam--I won't have them. That's the essence of the contract, the -new generation must be left behind. There must be we four, and nobody -else--the four who will find their childhood waiting for them here, -just the four who can feel the enchantment of Mowbray Lodge. So it is -settled?" - -"As far as--" She smoothed her gown. - -"Oh, naturally there must be references, and inventories, and all sorts -of tiresome details--and with your permission we will get them over as -soon as possible. I shall have the pleasure of writing to you -to-morrow. To whom----" - -"Miss Phipps," she intimated. - -"And mine is 'Warrener.' Stay, I have a card. But, by the way, when -did you propose to let me come in, Miss Phipps?" - -"Would next month suit you?" she asked. "Perhaps you would prefer it -to be early in the month?" - -"I wouldn't disorder your arrangements for the world, yet I own that -'early' has a musical ring. It would be agreeable to arrive before the -colder weather." - -"There are places in England where winter's cold blasts seem never to -penetrate, and where birds and flowers go on singing and blooming in -defiance of the calendar," she rejoined. - -"Really?" said Conrad. "Still----" - -"And among such places," concluded the lady firmly, "Sweetbay is -pre-eminent.... But you will let me give you another cup of tea?" - - - - -CHAPTER III - -He could not persuade himself that the invitations evoked enthusiasm, -indeed two of them were declined at the beginning. Only Nina accepted -at once. She wrote: "How on earth did you find Sweetbay again--is it -still on the map? Yes, I will come--and with 'no encumbrances'--but I -won't promise to be rural so long as all that. If I were you, I would -arrange with the Stores for constant supplies. Can you depend on the -cook?" - -Regina was obviously indignant at the exclusion of her husband. She -replied that her cousin's remembrance of their childhood was "quite -touching." This was underlined. "But though I fully understand that -Toto's presence would spoil your romantic plan, I cannot pretend to -forget that I am now a wife, Conrad." Conrad was perturbed. He drove -to Regent's Park and showed the letter to Nina, and she said that her -sister couldn't forget she was a wife, because she had married a remote -relation of Lord Polpero's. - -"They have stayed at the 'Abbey,' my dear; at least she tells me they -have as often as she condescends to dine with us--Regent's Park is 'so -far away' from their poky little place in Mayfair! She can just call -it 'Mayfair' without getting a remonstrance from the postal -authorities. An 'Abbey' has been too much for her. Of course Polpero -is a pauper, and the Abbey's a wreck, but I believe she slept with the -family-tree over her bed. It's about the only tree of Polpero's that -the woodman has spared, but 'Gina feels Norman." - -Conrad was still perturbed. He hastened to appease Regina, and -moderating his desires, implored "Toto" to spare her to him just for a -week or two. "Toto" said promptly that to spend a couple of months at -Sweetbay was exactly what she needed for her cough. So she was won, -and there remained only Ted to conquer. - -As a young professional man with nothing to do, Ted had naturally been -slow to answer the letter. Young professional men make a point of -delaying a long time before they answer letters--it shows how busy they -are. After they have plenty of work on hand they answer more quickly. -When he wrote, he declared that the notion of renewing their boyish -memories in such tranquil quarters appealed to him more forcibly than -he could say, but he was "so terribly hard pressed that he feared he -would get no change until he ran over to Monte Carlo at the end of the -term." He was at the Bar, waiting for briefs. - -Conrad called at his chambers, and bore him off to dinner. Ted was -fortunately independent of his profession, and his immutable purpose -was to convince people that it was wearing him to death. In the -restaurant he bent over his melon a brow corrugated by the cares of -imaginary suits; he frowned at his soup through a monacle as if he were -perpending an "Opinion." But it was a dinner of supreme excellence, -and then they adjourned to the club. If it had not been Ted's club -too, and socially undistinguished, Conrad might have aspired to greater -favours now. Invite a man to a club for which he is ineligible -himself, and he will remember you with kindliness no less often than he -drawls, "A fellow was telling me in Brooks's the other day--" Before -they parted, Ted had consented quite cheerfully--for the later Ted--and -all was well. - -So the evening came when Conrad sat in Mowbray Lodge looking forward to -the morrow and the arrival of the train due at twelve fifteen. And he -looked forward with more eagerness because the evening--strange to -say--was rather melancholy, and the knowledge that he was going to bed -in the room where he had slept as a boy induced a mood totally -different from the mood he had expected of it. He did not feel a boy -as he sat in the silent house, by a bad light, listening to the rain -patter on the shrubs. On the contrary he felt increasingly old and -increasingly mournful while the long evening wore away. The dreary -lamps depressed him, and the sad tick of the clock, and the ceaseless -dripping of the rain sent him to the whisky-bottle. - -After breakfast next day he bought lamps--several of them--with duplex -burners. The roads were a little sloppy, but the sky was blue. He was -gratified to reflect that his cousins were doubtless blinking in a -black fog; the permanent pleasure of wintering in the country is the -thought of how unhappy our friends must be in town. In the forlornest -watering-places of the south coast you may notice, on a fine November -morning, people folding newspapers briskly, and looking heavenward with -a twinkle in their eyes. They are all returning thanks for the -sufferings of their friends in London. - -The train due at twelve fifteen wound into view at twelve thirty-five. - -They were there! Nina, alert, a smile on her thin, shrewd face; -Regina, with an air of having travelled under protest; Ted, bowed -beneath the weight of the Law Courts. - -"So you've come!" - -"At last! What a loathsome line!" - -"Who's looking after the luggage? Is there a cab to be had?" - -"Well, of course. Do you suppose it's a village?" - -"How hot it is! You must be smothered in those furs, dear?" This to -Nina from 'Gina. 'Gina was always expensively clothed, and badly -dressed, but she couldn't vie with the Regent's Park sables. "You must -be half dead," she insisted compassionately; "it's as warm as the -Riviera." - -"We boast of it in our advertisements," said Conrad, "but it isn't. -How did you leave Toto and the family?" - -He heard that it was a fine day in town too, and secretly resented the -fact. The party drove away, another "fly" rumbling with the baggage in -their wake. - -"The lane!" he exclaimed as he sprang out. "And it's the same as ever." - -"I don't remember it a bit," said all three, gazing about them vaguely. - -"The garden!" he displayed it in triumph. - -"I fancied it was quite big," said Nina. "Funny how wee children's -eyes exaggerate, isn't it?" But she had not really been so wee as all -that. - -"The hall, where Boultbee was always ragging us because we didn't wipe -our shoes!" He had thrown the door open before the maid could run -upstairs. - -"Who was Boultbee?" asked Regina. "What a memory you have!" - -They lunched; and they were blithe at luncheon; they discussed a -divorce case in smart circles. Regina said hurriedly that there was -"another side to the story." She knew no more about it than she had -read in the papers, but she now moved on the confines of smart circles, -and there are people who can never accustom themselves to advancement, -pecuniary or social. - -"Her husband is such a scamp," she explained, "such a scamp. I don't -defend her, but there's so much that never came out in court. Dear -Lady Marminger, her mother, was always against the match; she always -felt it would be fatal. I recollect when we were staying at the Abbey -once--" She was the most obnoxious variety of snob: the middle-class -woman who has married into the fringe of society. If she had written -novels, everybody in them who wasn't a duchess would have been a duke. - -"One of the cleverest things ever said in the divorce court," Ted began -judicially, "was when Hollburn was cross-examining----" - -"Oh, the scamp theory is worn out," struck in Nina. "When a woman has -married a scamp, her family feel provided with an excuse for everything -odious she does all the rest of her life." - -"Was when Hollburn was cross-examining--" He was not to be put off. - -They were Nina, and 'Gina, and Ted, and Conrad welcomed them with both -hands, but he caught himself thinking that for any influence the -surroundings had upon the conversation he might as well have invited -them to Princes'. - -He took Ted to see the summer-house when luncheon was over--the -summer-house in which they used to have their conferences when they -were such chums--and Ted was a disappointment. The summer-house had -withstood the years, but the chum had gone. He was affecting interest, -and it hurt--it hurt horribly, because he was Ted and they were where -they were. He was led to Rose Villa, where Mary Page had lived. The -sound of its name had made their hearts ache once, and the same name -was on the same gate-post, visible to the same eyes. He passed it by, -telling casual falsehoods about the extent of the practice that he -hadn't made, and when the post was pointed out, he murmured: "Oh, is -it? By Jove!"--maintained a perfunctory pause for ten seconds, and -broke it with, "Well, as I was saying----" - -Afterwards they all sauntered to the esplanade, and Conrad owned to -himself that it was no animated scene. But the sun shone bright, and -when there is beautiful weather in Sweetbay it almost compensates for -the absence of everything else there. - -"Like spring," he observed; "isn't it? Probably there's a fog in town -by now, or it's beginning to snow. We're all well out of it." - -"Y-e-s," replied Nina. "You don't find it a little depressing seeing -so many people in bath-chairs, do you?" - -"'So many people?'" Regina was derisive. "I've only seen seven human -beings since we arrived." - -"Still the seven were all in bath-chairs," said Nina. - -"One expects to meet people in bath-chairs at the seaside," Conrad -pleaded. - -"But not sick people," she said, "here they are conscientious. It's a -pretty little band-stand; what time does the band play?" - -"It'll begin in June, I think," he answered. - -"June?" cried Regina. - -"It's not the season," he pointed out. "Of course it's quiet just now." - -"I don't wish to cavil," said Ted, with a forbearing smile, "but when -you tell us it is not the season, I am struck by a slight discrepancy -in your statements. A few minutes ago you told us it was a winter -place." - -"Well, so it is, but it's first of all an English place. You mustn't -ask for bands to discourse in band-stands all the year round, my dear -fellow--such things don't happen.... A 'town band' enlivens the -streets once a week, I believe; I'm not an authority yet--I only came -down yesterday morning, and I've been setting my house in order. -There's a theatre," he added hopefully; "we might drop in to-night, if -you like. I can't say what is going on there, but we'll ascertain." - -They spied a framed play-bill in a confectioner's window on the way -back, and stopped to examine it. Though the piece was familiar to -them, and the names of the company were strange, they crowded before -the play-bill cheerfully until they discovered that it bore an ancient -date. The theatre, they learnt, was now closed, excepting for an -orchestral concert every Thursday evening. This was Saturday. - -"We'll have a jolly evening at home," said Conrad. - -"There isn't a billiard table, I suppose?" inquired Regina; "I'm an -awful swell with the cue. I make them play every night at the Abbey -when we're there. Polpero chaffs me about it immensely; he's one of -the old school--sweet, but of the old school. It's such fun--I chaff -him back. Toto _roars_." - -The inventory had not included a billiard table, but he remembered -after dinner that he had seen a Pier "Pavilion" advertised, and his -guests seemed encouraged when he mentioned it. Regina said it was fun -to be "bohemian" sometimes. - -The place looked less animated still when they sped forth to be -"bohemian." Its aspect was no longer sedate, it was bereaved. The -vacant High Street mourned behind its shutters. At the Quadrant a -forsaken policeman kept a doleful eye on space. - -"Everybody must be on the pier," said Conrad. "As soon as we turn the -corner we shall see the lights." - -Their feet sprung echoes in the stricken town as they pressed forward; -and through the gloom that veiled a moaning sea, the pier became -distinguishable. But no light was on it save the light of a misty -moon, no gas-jet glimmered among the globes on either side. The -pay-box was black and tenantless; the gates were locked. Against them -leant a lonely board, announcing a "Refined Entertainment" for the -twenty-second evening of the previous month. The desolation of the -scene was tragic. - -Their return was made in silence, and the first thing happened that -recalled the days of their childhood here: they all went to bed early. - -Nina wanted to know if she could be given another room the next -morning. She remarked that the slowest railways always made the most -fuss, and that a train had been rehearsing outside her window half the -night. "It rattled and snorted, and clashed and clanked till three -o'clock." She acknowledged Conrad's regrets and assurances with a -plaintive sigh, and shook her head feebly at her coffee cup. - -It was raining. That it can rain in Sweetbay for a fortnight on end -with no longer intervals than the entr'actes at a fashionable theatre -is not distinctive; the idiocrasy of Sweetbay is that it recommences -raining twenty times a day as if the deluge had bee, hoarded for a -year--it rains as if the heavens had fallen out. Nina and 'Gina, who -had ventured into the lane "between the showers," were drenched before -they could gain shelter, and they were taciturn when they had changed -their clothes. - -The rain was still pelting when Ted went up to town on Monday, and a -vicious wind lashed "sunny Sweetbay" when he came back. On Tuesday the -ardour of the flood abated, but "the fairest spot in England" was -sodden under a persevering drizzle, and a letter by the evening post -made Regina nervous about the health of her baby. "Toto seemed a good -deal worried," she said, "and she thought under the circumstances she -ought to be at home." She departed on Wednesday in a cataract. - -"Do you think she's good-looking?" asked Nina. - -"She is not good-looking," said Conrad reflectively, "but she's so -convinced that she is that she almost persuades you in moments." - -"That's it," Nina assented; "she attitudinises as if she were a beauty. -When they're shown photographs of her with her face bent, men are quite -eager to know her. Of course the baby's bosh." - -"I'll confess that I'm not anxious about the baby myself, I'm afraid -she found it rather slow here. I got _Punch_ for her at the station, -and a servant went round before breakfast to order a foot-warmer--it's -necessary to give notice when you'll want a foot-warmer--but it was -weak reparation. You were all very good to come." - -"If there were anything to read in the house, I wouldn't mind so much," -she said, "I mean I wouldn't mind the weather. If it ever leaves off, -we might go and try to find 'a select library in connection with -Mudie's.'" - -"There are heaps of books in the house--I can lend you all the poets." - -"I would rather have something to read," she said, "thanks. Do you -think if we found one, it would be open oftener than once a week?" - -"You mustn't misjudge the town by the theatre," he expostulated; "that -the theatre only opens once a week is due to a combination of -circumstances that I don't know anything about, but I am sanguine of -the shops opening every day." - -"How long are you saddled with the place for?" Her tone was -sympathetic. - -"I'm not sorry I took it," he answered. "Of course everything is more -or less a disappointment except the unattainable. When Columbus -reached the new world at last, the aborigines said, 'Well, what do you -think of Amurrica?' He said, 'I thought it would be bigger.' A bird -in the hand is not worth two in the bush; on the contrary, a lark in -the sky is worth two in the pudding. If you ever scratched those -pretty hands of yours getting a glow-worm out of a hedge, you know -that, when you have brought it home, you wondered why you had given -yourself so much inconvenience to acquire the little impostor. -Possession strains--it depresseth her that gives, and him that takes. -While it was in the hedge, the glow-worm shone no less divine than the -poet's star." - -"Where was that?" she said. - -"In a fable. Did you think I meant a star of the music-halls? They -weren't the fashion in poetry yet. He was a glorious poet enchanted by -a star of the heavens. He stretched his arms to it, he sang to it -nightly. And for his sake the star 'stooped earthward, and became a -woman.' And then the day came when the woman asked her lover which was -best--'The Star's beam, or the Woman's breast':-- - - "'I miss from heaven,' the man replied, - 'A light that drew my spirit to it.' - And to the man the woman sigh'd, - 'I miss from earth a poet.'" - - -"M-m, that's rather sensible," admitted Nina, "I like that--I suppose -it can't be really great poetry. What get on my nerves so in the -poetry of the Really Great are those irritating words that I knew were -coming, like 'porphyry' and 'empyrean,' and 'bower' and 'nymph;' and -then there are the titles--they always sound so dull because I never -know what they mean. Well, go on talking to me." - -About eleven o'clock the downpour ceased, and presently a timid sunbeam -played upon a puddle. They went out to look for a library at noon. -There was no need for umbrellas. - -The librarian was a listless young woman of "superior manners." When -not occupied among the literature, she assisted in the fancy -department. While Nina was lingering at the shelves, three other -readers went to the counter, and the first lady said:-- - -"Good morning. I want a ... book. Something--er--rather exciting." - -The young woman threw an omniscient glance at the collection, and -plucked. The lady read the title aloud:-- - -"Is this rather exciting?" - -"Oh yes, madam, that is very exciting." - -"Oh." She ruffled the pages irresolutely. "It's not very long," she -murmured; "haven't you anything longer?" - -The young woman plucked. - -"Is this rather exciting?" asked the lady. - -The librarian assured her that it was no less exciting than the other -novel. - -"Oh," said the lady... "'The Face in the Drawer.' Oh ... I'll take -this one then. You know the address, don't you? Good morning." - -The requirement of the second lady was: "Something pretty ... not too -short ... to last me through the week." Conrad almost expected to hear -the librarian reply that they had "A very durable line at three-three," -but she plucked again. - -"Shall I like it?" inquired the lady trustfully. - -The young woman, listless, but confident, told her that she was -"Certain to like that." - -"You're sure?" said the lady. "Oh, very well then--I'll have it. Good -day." - -The third subscriber was still more free from the vice of favouritism. -She simply stated that she wanted "A nice book to read." The librarian -handed a book to her, and she accepted it as unquestioningly as if it -had been stamps in a post-office. In not one of the three cases had -any author's name been mentioned. There are popular writers, there is -a public besieging the libraries for their work, but the literary -choice of the Nation is bulk for its twopence and the tale admired by -the young woman at the desk. - -"I hope you haven't been bored?" said Nina at last, holding out -half-a-dozen volumes to be carried for her. - -"Not in the faintest degree," cried Conrad. - -But he was exceedingly bored on the morrow when Ted returned to dinner -with elaborate excuses for bringing his visit to a sudden close. Yes, -the host was bored then; he knew so well while he responded: "What a -nuisance!" and "Of course it can't be helped," that Ted was not in the -least needed in town, only dull in Sweetbay. They were all to have -gone together to the "Orchestral Concert," and when the barrister -alleged that he felt "too worn out," Conrad was not pressing. Nina -went with him alone, and they walked some way before they spoke. She -understood that he was hurt; dimly she understood that he had shown a -stronger affection on his side than they had shown on theirs. - -"So the experiment is a failure, Con?" she said. - -He sighed. "I'm afraid there's no other word for it. It was rather -idiotic of me--I might have known you'd all be hipped." - -"Oh, I don't think it's that," she declared; "as a professional man Ted -isn't free." She was ever ready to disparage Regina, but she had a -soft spot in her shrewdness for Ted. "Of course," she added after a -moment, "his going means that I shall have to go too; I can't stay with -you by myself, ridiculous as these things are." - -"No, I thought of that," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry _you're_ -going, Nina. It's no use trying to persuade him, I suppose? If you -told him you didn't want to go----" - -Every woman is to be touched by oral sentiment, excepting the sentiment -of her lover whom she does not love. That irritates her to brutality. -Nina wavered:-- - -"I might," she owned. "Perhaps he could arrange." - -"It would be very nice of you," he said; "and really when you get used -to Sweetbay, you'll find it has a--a certain charm. Hallo! What's the -matter here? Are we too soon?" - -They were opposite the theatre, but the building was dark. His heart -sank; he felt that the stars in their courses were fighting against him. - -"It isn't open," said Nina superfluously. - -"We must have come too soon," he urged. "Let's cross over, and see -what time it begins." - -For a minute or two they peered at the glum frontage, puzzled, and then -they descried--affixed by its flap to a large door--a small envelope. -It was an official announcement. On the envelope was written, "No -concert this evening." - -They turned away, and moved in reverie towards the sea, which shimmered -within sight. - -On the long lamp-blurred stretch of asphalt no one moved. A mile of -downcast lodging-houses, veiled in gloom, kept hopeless watch over a -blank Parade; in their dim fan-lights the legend of "Apartments" looked -the emblem of despair. To the right the black pier slumbered silently; -to the left a lugubrious hotel, unpeopled and unlit, imparted to the -view the last symbol of disaster. On a sudden, spasmodically--in the -wide-spread desolation--the town band burst into the overture to -"Zampa." It was the jocularity of hysteria at a funeral. Nina gave a -gulp, and clutched his arm. - -"Conrad," she quavered, "let me go home to-morrow, or I shall cry!" - -He did not plead with her; he recognised that there was some justice in -her plaint. He promised that she should go by an early train, and his -kindness cheered her. - -She came down to breakfast with her hat on. - -She, too, had _Punch_ and a foot-warmer, and again he doubted if they -were adequate to exculpate him. - -"Try to bear no malice," he begged on the platform. - -"You'll dine with us as soon as you come back, won't you?" she laughed. - -"Good-bye, old chap," exclaimed Ted. He had risen quite vivacious. -"Mind you look me up when you're in town; let me know well ahead, and -I'll manage a spare evening." - -"I expect I've left a lot of things behind," said Nina brightly, -bending to the window; "you might tell the servants to send them on." - -"Yes, I'll tell them. Are you sure you don't want any more papers?" - -"We're a long time starting, aren't we?" said Ted. - -"You're just off," Conrad answered. - -It was less than a week since he had loitered on the other side, -impatient for their arrival. He forced a smile, and stood bareheaded, -and turned from the station with a sigh. - - "'Oh near ones, dear ones! you in whose right hands - Our own rests calm; whose faithful hearts all day - Wide open wait till back from distant lands - Thought, the tired traveller, wends his homeward way! - Helpmates and hearthmates, gladdeners of gone years'---- - -_Where are you?_" said Conrad. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -He felt very lonely. Something of the Christmas spirit descended on -him--the true, the unacknowledged Christmas spirit, in which, after we -have directed the last stack of cards, and hurried out aglow with the -last parcel, we sit before the bare mantel-piece, discovering that most -of our acquaintances have become too advanced to observe the season. -We are quite sure it is "advancement," though it looks a little like -stinginess. He wondered, as he entered the lane, whether the other -child he was remembering would have proved a disappointment too; -wondered if the ache in his heart would be intelligible to her, or if -he would appear to her absurd. It interested him to wonder. -Conjecturing the disposition of the strange woman whose whereabouts he -did not know, he endued her with many attributes that he admired, and -she moved before his mental vision gradually as a fair and slightly -pathetic figure, prepared to be his confidante. He fancied she was -unhappy with her husband. At least the sadness of life had touched her -enough to tinge her sentiment with cynicism, and she had flashes of wit -on rainy days. - -It surprised him that he had made no attempt to trace her; his -curiosity was awake. Many things were more unlikely than that she was -living in the town. As he passed Rose Villa he was in two minds about -ringing the bell and trying to gather information from the present -occupants. He would probably have obeyed the impulse, but while he -hesitated the householder came out--a middle-aged little man, with a -sanguine complexion, and gaiters. - -Conrad accosted him. "Excuse me," he began. - -The gentleman saluted with his crop. "'Morning," he said. - -"I was looking at your bell with the idea of troubling you with an -inquiry about a 'missing friend.' May I ask if you happen to know the -address of your predecessor here--Dr. Page?" - -"Who?" said the little man briskly. - -"Dr. Page." - -"No. Don't know the name. Took the place of people -called--er--Greames.... Agents might tell you--Chipper and Stokes in -the High Street. Page? Doctor? N-no." He shook his head. "Sorry." - -"I thank you." - -"Not at all. Neighbours, I think, sir? For long?" - -"No; it's a very temporary pleasure of mine," said Conrad. - -"Congratulate you," said the little man. "If your friend was a doctor, -probably knew better than to stop. Much misled myself. Recommended -here for my health. Most in-_ju_-rious! Damp, sir, Sweetbay is damp. -They call it a 'humid atmosphere'; 'humid atmosphere' be damned, sir! -Take your clothes off the peg in the morning and wring 'em out. That's -not a humid atmosphere--it's a death-trap." - -"You astonish me," said Conrad. "I understood the climate was so -salubrious that the inhabitants would all live to be a hundred if they -didn't die of the dulness young." He lifted his hat. "I am obliged." - -"Pleasure," said the neighbour. "Er--hope we shall--er, er----" - -"I hope so too," smiled Conrad. "Er--no doubt." - -"'Morning," said the gentleman, saluting with his crop. - -It was discomfiting to find the occupant of Mary's former home so -completely ignorant of Mary. Such ignorance, there, on the very -threshold, in view of the sun shutters that had framed her face, seemed -rather callous of him. As Conrad watched him swagger up the lane, he -resented the usurper's privilege to stretch his gaitered legs on the -hearth to whose history he was so utterly indifferent. - -Somehow the drawing-room looked emptier still to Conrad for the -colloquy, when he went indoors. In the violent disassociation of the -next house from Mary Page, this one seemed suddenly foreign to him; -suddenly he felt that he had committed a fatuous and a mournful act in -taking it. Sweetbay had meant to him four persons, and of these, three -had fled, and the fourth was lost. Why should he stay here? He -thought vaguely of a little dinner at "Odd-and-even's," and a stall at -the Alhambra. He nearly stretched his arm for the time-table--and all -the while the melancholy that oppressed him urged him to remain and -find Mary. His mind demanded her more insistently than before. It was -no longer a whim: it was a strenuous desire. "After all, it would be a -crazy thing, to go to London for pleasure!" he mused. "I'll hear what -the agents have to say." - -He strolled to their office after luncheon, and a small boy told him -that Mr. Stokes was in. For once Conrad chafed at the local languor. -The torpid tradesmen, unconcerned whether he bought or not, had amused -him, but the heavy young man who gazed at him with vacant eyes was -irritating. - -"Dr. Page?" echoed the young man dully; "Rose Villa? There was a Dr. -Page in Esselfield, wasn't there?" - -"I don't know," said Conrad. "Perhaps you can tell me. Where is -Esselfield?" - -"That's along the Esselfield Road," said Mr. Stokes with deliberation. -"What do you want to know for?" - -"I'm trying to learn the address of a friend who has moved," Conrad -explained, labouredly polite. - -"Oh y-e-s." He paused so long that it seemed doubtful if he would -speak again. "There was a Dr. Page in Esselfield; I can't say if he's -there still." - -"The gentleman I mean was--well, he must be an elderly man," said -Conrad. He could not remember in the least how Dr. Page had looked; he -wished he knew his Christian name. "An elderly man. He had a family. -They used to be at Rose Villa, next door to Mowbray Lodge. I'm talking -of years ago--a good many years ago.... Perhaps your partner might be -able to assist me?" - -"Major Bompas lives at Rose Villa now," said Mr. Stokes. His tone was -a little firmer, the tone of one who says a helpful thing. - -"And he took it of people called 'Greames'; I know all that. Dr. Page -had the house before the Greames." - -"Oh," murmured Mr. Stokes, "did he? Y-e-s.... No, I couldn't say, I'm -sure. Mr. Greames lived there before Major Bompas. Mr. Greames was -there a long while back." - -"Dr. Page lived there in--let me think, where are we now? It must have -been in eighteen seventy-seven." - -"Oh Gawd!" said the young man faintly. For the first time an -expression humanised his countenance, an expression of dismay tempered -with entertainment. It made Conrad feel prehistoric. "Eighteen -sev-enty-sev-en? I'm sure I couldn't tell you who lived there then." -A snigger escaped him. "There was a Dr. Page at Esselfield," he -repeated; "he may have been at Rose Villa first." - -"Is there any place in the town," asked Conrad, with frank disgust, -"where it's possible to see an old directory?" - -"I shouldn't think," averred the heavy young man, "that a directory was -published in Sweetbay in 'sev-enty-sev-en." There was nearly a twinkle -in his eyes. - -"Thank you," said Conrad. "Good afternoon." - -He went forth to seek the Esselfield Road incensed as well as -disappointed now. 'Seventy-seven? Who was this blank-faced dolt to -jeer at 'seventy-seven? Sweetbay had been an infinitely more -attractive place in 'seventy-seven than it was to-day. The High Street -bored him as he walked. Once it had been stimulating, replete with -interest, and now it was unworthy his attention. He looked at it as a -young girl looks at a married man. There was a fresh-coloured woman -dandling her baby behind the glass door of a baker's shop as he passed, -and he recognised with a frown that she had not been born in -'seventy-seven. It was a small matter, but it depressed him more. - -The sepulchral window of a monumental mason caught his glance. -Overhead was the inscription, "Established 1852." He wavered in his -course and entered. The interior was like a premature graveyard, -ranged with marble tombstones waiting for allotment, and brittle -wreaths lamenting the dissolution of "Beloved" relatives who were still -alive. There seemed to him something appropriate in pursuing his -investigations among the tombstones. But though the business had been -established in 1852, the mason himself proved to be very recent. When -he realised that his interlocutor was not there to give an order, the -sympathetic droop of his bearing evaporated, and he straightened into a -careless soul to whom the mention of 'seventy-seven was almost as -disconcerting as it had been to Mr. Stokes. - -The Esselfield Road was thick with mud after the heavy rains. His long -tramp--for he had learnt that it was necessary to walk--had no -enlivening effect on Conrad's mood, nor was the village cheering when -he reached it. A few houses were scattered beside a common; some geese -waddled around a pond. Beyond an inn, a labourer in his cups shouted a -refrain of the London music-halls. - -Conrad went into the "bar-parlour" and asked for beer. In the -sensitiveness to his years which was being so rapidly developed in him -he observed with satisfaction that the untidy proprietress was -middle-aged. "Yes, there had been a Dr. Page,". she told him. "Not -what you might call a regular doctor--he didn't do nothing. She -believed he had moved into Sweetbay, so as to be near the sea." - -"I understood that he moved here from Sweetbay. An elderly man. He -had a family," said Conrad with fatigue. - -"There was two young gals," she agreed. "_They_ was always about." - -"'About'?" he murmured. - -"Picking, and skating, and that. I used to say they was never at 'ome." - -"Oho?" said Conrad. And added to himself, "The younger children grown -up. Girls of spirit!"--"When did they leave?" he continued. - -"Oh, it must be a long time," she answered. She turned to a man who -had the air of being her husband. "'Ow long is it since that Dr. Page -was 'ere, pa?" - -"Dr. Page," drawled the man wonderingly. "Oh, it's a long time ago." - -"Yes," she repeated, "it's a long time ago." - -"But, roughly, how long?" persisted Conrad. - -"W-e-ll, it must be--eight years or more," she said, visibly resenting -an occasion to be definite. - -In his soul he groaned; if eight years seemed so remote, what would -they think of twenty-five? Again he was bowed beneath the sense of -senility. "You don't happen to know where he settled in Sweetbay?" he -proceeded. - -She shook her head, she had no idea at all; neither of the pair had any -idea, so he finished his ale, and paid for some cigars, which there was -of course no need to smoke. - -The lamps were winking through the dusk when he drew in sight of -Sweetbay. At a stationer's he bought a directory of the current year, -and studied it at the counter. It contained a "Captain Page," and -"John Page, milkman." He found also "Miss Page, ladies' outfitter," -and "Mrs. Page, laundress," but there was no "Page" of promise among -the leaves. He availed himself of the opportunity to inquire again -concerning the likelihood of his discovering an ancient copy of the -work, but at his reference to 'seventy-seven the stationer, too, fell -agape. It recurred to Conrad that in connection with Mr. Boultbee the -post-office had been suggested. Physically he was tired by now, but -mentally he was unflagging, and he bent his steps to the general -post-office forthwith. The clerk who sold the stamps to him "couldn't -say"; she retired, however, to repeat his question to the postmistress, -and it was at this point that the outlook brightened. The postmistress -was a young and gracious woman in a pink blouse, and she came forward -with a confident smile to inform him that Dr. Page was no longer a -resident of Sweetbay, but had removed to Redhill. "Redhill?" He had -not suspected that anyone ever got out there. - -"An elderly man. He had a family," he reiterated with exhaustion. -"Two young girls." - -"Oh, yes," she nodded, "that's the same. Very pretty, tall young -ladies? _They_ were always in and out." - -"Really?" said Conrad. Mary's sisters began to beckon to him. "Can -you help me to communicate with Dr. Page?" - -"We have the address he left with us--the one we used to forward -letters to; I don't know if he's there still." She confessed the -limitation of her knowledge with regret. "It's some years since he -went from Sweetbay." - -"Perhaps you would be so merciful as to give me the one you have? I am -an old friend of Dr. Page's family--very old--and till Providence -directed my steps to you I despaired of finding them again." He -outlined the difficulties he had encountered, but he had grown -diffident of mentioning 'seventy-seven. - -The postmistress laughed quite mirthfully at his recital, which, -encouraged by her appreciation, he falsified sufficiently to make -amusing. After bidding the clerk turn to a book, she announced to him -that the address was "Home Rest, Peregrine Place," and the assurances -of his gratitude seemed amply to repay her. - -Conrad went to bed with much more exhilaration than he had looked for. -The day, after all, had seen something accomplished. Within his head, -when he punched the pillow, the project of running Dr. Page to earth on -the morrow promised agreeable developments. At the onset the interview -would be a trifle embarrassing he foresaw, inasmuch as the gentleman on -whom he intruded would certainly have no recollection of his name; but -the ice would break under a few suave references to "My first visit to -the neighbourhood since I was a boy," and "My little playmates of long -ago"--he would put her in the plural, his inquiries could be -concentrated gradually. If Mary herself were living in Redhill he -might remain there. He would intimate that he thought of doing so--it -would forefend the suspicion of impetuosity. - -The sun was shining when he woke. The birds chirruped among the fir -trees, and there were echoes of old-time music in his heart while he -brushed his hair--until he fought to draw up a sailor's knot under one -of those "double collars" that have led to so much domestic unhappiness -at the breakfast-table. - -He travelled by the South-Eastern and Chatham, but he reached Redhill, -and smelt the tannery as he searched for an exit from the station. The -salient features of Redhill are the smell of leather, the shrieks of -trains, and the all-night barking of mongrels. He was directed to -Station Road, and told to "bear to the left." The townlet seemed to -him to blend the most unpleasant characteristics of Clapham Junction -and Hanley in the Potteries. He started briskly. The way was long, -and several times he paused to seek further information. Occasionally -a carriage passed, the occupants with protesting noses. By degrees all -the villas and the pavement dropped behind him; the smell of the -tannery was fainter, and the path on either side was bordered by a -hedge. From the altitude of a butcher's cart a boy in blue encouraged -him with the assurance that Peregrine Place was "straight on." -Presently the way wound, and a terrace of small semi-detached houses -with little front gardens gladdened his view. As he drew close he saw -"Home Rest" painted on the gate-post at the corner. Outside, in the -sequestered road, a venerable tenant, with a velvet skull-cap and -silvery hair, was pottering around a camera. At Conrad's approach he -lifted his head, and regarded him with gentle curiosity. The sight of -the blue eyes and placid face seemed suddenly familiar to Conrad; he -felt far-off memories stirring in him as his gaze met the old man's -features, and, doffing his hat, he murmured, with the deference that -sat so well upon him:-- - -"Dr. Page, I think?" - -"Heh?" said the old gentleman, inclining the other ear. - -"You don't know me," said Conrad wistfully, but in a louder tone. "We -haven't met since I was a boy, Dr. Page--that's many years ago." - -The old gentleman indicated Home Rest impatiently. - -"Next door," he snapped, "Dr. Page lives next door!" - -Conrad retreated with hasty apologies, feeling considerably foolish. -He would have preferred to stroll awhile before repeating his exordium, -and only the consciousness of being watched by the old gentleman who -had misled him constrained him to unlatch the gate. - -A neat servant answered that Dr. Page was not at home. He was relieved. - -"I'll call again," he said. "When do you expect him to come in?" - -"Oh, he's away, sir, he won't be back for two or three days. Would you -like to see Mrs. Page, sir?" - -He had no remembrance of a Mrs. Page, but there was the objection to -travelling fruitlessly, and the thought that a woman would be -susceptible to the prettiness of his visit. He hesitated--he answered -that he would. The girl conducted him to a small, cheerless -drawing-room, and returned to say that Mrs. Page would be down in a few -minutes. There were antimacassars everywhere, and the cold white -mantelpiece exhibited the perpetual porcelain courtship which has never -advanced; the amorous male still smirked inanely, and the simpering -maiden seemed still to hope. Conrad was much attracted by a large -album that reposed on an occasional table. He sat tempted to unclasp -it, and had just risen and made a tentative step in its direction when -he heard the doorknob move. - -The lady who came in seemed to deprecate her entrance; she was -evidently timid, and she blinked. He thought at first that she -suffered from some affection of the eyes, but when she spoke, he opined -that the blinking was due entirely to nervousness. - -"Mr. Warrener?" she said in a whisper. - -"Mrs. Page," he began, "I must crave your pardon for intruding on you -in this fashion. It's very audacious of me because, even when I tell -you who I am, I daren't suppose that you will recollect me." - -Her eyelids fluttered more, and she said:-- - -"Wo--won't you sit down?" She wore mittens, and plucked at them. - -"Thank you." Instinctively he lowered his voice, as if he were -speaking to an invalid. "My excuse is rather unusual--I hope it won't -appear to you preposterous. When I was a boy, your children and I used -to be bosom friends, and I found myself in Sweetbay the other day for -the first time since. I needn't tell you that I went to look at the -house, and the desire to--to find them all again was very strong.... I -was fortunate enough to learn that you had moved to Redhill, so I -decided to risk your ridicule, and throw myself on your forbearance." - -"Oh, not at all," she faltered. "I--I'm sure I--" Her nervousness -seemed increased, rather than diminished, by his address. There was an -awkward pause. - -"I trust Dr. Page and--and my former comrades are all well?" - -"Oh, thank you, yes they are all quite well." - -He wished that Mary's were not the only name among them he could -recall; "All well!" he said, forcing a hearty note, "All well! It's -strange to me to think of them as grown-up. Time--er--brings many -changes, madam?" - -"Indeed," she concurred timorously; "as you say!" But she volunteered -no news, and he began to feel that they were getting on slowly; his -harassed gaze wandered to the china courtship. - -"May I ask if they are still with you?" he ventured. - -"My eldest daughter is married," she replied. "The others are ... I -hope very soon. I--er don't quite understand when it was you knew -them? While we were in Sweetbay, I think you said?" - -"Yes," he answered musingly, "when the daughter who is married was a -little girl, Mrs. Page. To think that she's a woman and a wife! Why, -Miss Mary and I were like brother and sister then--how wonderful it -would be to meet her now!" - -"My daughter's name is Ursula," she demurred. She blinked fast. There -was another pause. - -"'Ur--Ursula?'" stammered Conrad, with the precursory sinking of an -awful fear. "Miss Mary _not_ the eldest? ... But surely at Rose Villa -she was the eldest at home--during that summer, at least?" - -"I think there must be some mistake," she quavered; "I have no daughter -'Mary.' I think there must be some mistake." - -"Good heavens!" gasped Conrad. He was covered with confusion. "My -dear madam, what can I say to you? I--I have been most shamefully -deceived. I knew the family of a Dr. Page in Sweetbay in -'seventy-seven. I was assured--I was officially misinformed--that they -had removed to Redhill. This house was mentioned to me as their -residence. I am abased, I can't sufficiently express my regret. -Possibly--I'll say 'probably'--my informant was led astray by the -sameness of the surname and the profession, but nothing can excuse an -error that has caused you so much annoyance. Nothing!" he repeated -implacably. "I can only offer you my profoundest, my most contrite -apologies." - -The lady was now blinking so rapidly that it was dazzling to watch her. - -"My husband never practised in Sweetbay," the said. "My husband's name -is 'Napoleon Page.' We had never seen Sweetbay in 'seventy-seven. Our -house was not called 'Rose Villa.' Oh dear no! I'm afraid there must -be some mistake." - -"Obviously," cried Conrad; "it overwhelms me. I shall severely -reprimand the person who--who is responsible. Permit me to thank you -for the patience, the infinite courtesy with which you have listened to -my--my totally irrelevant reminiscences. I-- Pray don't trouble to -ring, madam!" - -His cheeks were hot when he gained the step. He walked towards the -station swiftly, eager to leave "Home Rest" and Redhill far behind. -Long after the train, for which he was obliged to wait, had started, -the incident continued to distress him. He smarted anew in the -compartment. He was even denied the unction of feeling he had made a -satisfactory exit, and the certainty that the lady would describe his -later demeanour as "flurried" annoyed him more than he could say in the -presence of his fellow-passengers. To fall into the mistake was -natural, he argued, but he wished ardently that he had extricated -himself from it with more grace, with more of the leisurely elegance he -could display if the situation were to occur again. - -Well, he had done with his search for Mary! He said he abandoned it in -disgust, and was still firm on the point when he reached Mowbray Lodge. -He began to reconsider packing his portmanteaux. For two days he made -no further inquiry of anyone, and lingered, as it were, under protest. -Yet in England at least he might spend December amid worse surroundings -than Sweetbay presented now; he owned that. From the chief -thoroughfares the last speck of mud had long since been removed; the -pink sidewalks shone as spotless as when he trod them in October. The -air was tender, there was an azure sky, a sunlit sea curled innocently -upon the beach. Yes, of a truth, he might fare worse. If it were not -for the dulness, he could scarcely fare better. On the third -afternoon, as he sauntered through the High Street, it occurred to him -that it could do no harm to announce his failure to the mirthful -postmistress. He did not pledge himself to resume his efforts, but---- -It certainly was very dull, and if he were more explicit she might be -able to give him another hint. - -She recognised him at once, and advanced, sparkling as before. - -"Did you find your friends, sir?" she asked as he saluted her. - -"I did not," said Conrad, "but I intruded on an inoffensive household -who were perfect strangers to me. The Dr. Page whose address you very -kindly furnished was not my Dr. Page at all." - -"Oh dear! how very awkward," she said. "I am so sorry." - -"It was awkward, wasn't it?" he concurred. "Of course I threw all the -blame on you, so they forgave me, but I'm now quite helpless. My -friends seem to have vanished as utterly as if Sweetbay had closed over -their heads, and to complete the difficulty this family of spurious -Pages arose since. I foresee that as often as I make another attempt I -shall be directed to Redhill. I didn't like to tell you before, -because it makes me sound so old, but the people I mean are the Pages -who lived here in 'seventy-seven. I beg of you not to jump. Everybody -jumps--that's why I have grown so nervous of mentioning the date." - -Her eyes were full of amusement; she leant her elbows on the counter. - -"I wasn't in the office then," she said reflectively. - -"Naturally," he returned. "You must have been in your cradle. _I_ was -only a little boy. They were companions of my cherub stage; believe -me, I was rosily young." - -"There's a gentleman in the town who might be able to tell you -something," she suggested: "Mr. Irquetson, the vicar of All Saints. He -has been here thirty years, or more." - -"Really?" exclaimed Conrad, and added, "It's a shame to be beaten, -isn't it?" - -"Oh, it is," she agreed; "and he's a very nice gentleman; he'll be glad -to help you if he can." - -"Well, I think I'll go to see him; if he has been here thirty years, he -can hardly fail to remember the Dr. Page I'm talking about." He -glanced at the clock. "Do you think he's likely to be in now?" - -"I should think the morning would be the best time, sir," she answered; -"but you might try--it isn't far. If you'll wait a second, I'll write -the address down for you." - -"You are too good," said Conrad impressively. His pulses quickened at -the chance. Instantly the thought of quitting Sweetbay was forgotten. -Again he thanked her, and again she bowed graciously over her pink -blouse as he withdrew. When he turned at the doors, she was bowing -still. - -They swung to behind him, and he wished he had reported himself to her -three days ago. What amiability! He had never seen anything to -compare with it in a post-office. As he strode towards the vicar's, he -was possessed by amazement. The experience had an air of the ideal, as -everybody will admit. Probably the mirthful postmistress was the only -member of her calling ever known to exhibit a pleasant countenance to -the public, excepting-- But the Exception merits a paragraph to -herself, and as she has nothing to do with the story, you are -recommended to skip to the next chapter. - -Excepting a little lady who once brightened the ancient post-office of -Southampton Row. The "post-office," have I said? Rather should I say -she brightened the district with that sunny smile of hers, and the -daily flower freshening her neat little frock. To watch her, it seemed -she found long hours "in the cage" the very poetry of bread-winning. -Dull matrons from Russell Square, and tired clerks from Guilford Street -alike felt the encouragement of her cheerfulness, and went on their way -refreshed. One may well believe she was the unwitting cause of many -kindly actions in West Central London, for a crowd was ever at the -counter, and the sourest soul of all on whom she smiled must for a -space have viewed the world with friendlier eyes. Often I used to -wonder, as I bought a postcard, and waited for the farthing change, -whether it was interest in her duties, or the message of the daily -flower that kept that light of happiness in the girlish face. When she -vanished, Southampton Row was grey. They repainted and replanned it; -and built spruce hotels, and pink "mansions," but nothing could make -good the loss. It was whispered she had left to be married. All -Bloomsbury must hope that he is kind to her! - - - - -CHAPTER V - -And after that little tribute, which has been owing for more years than -it exhilarates me to count--and which has been paid with no expense to -anyone who followed my advice--let us overtake Conrad on the doorstep, -where he had just learnt that the vicar was at home. - -The Rev. Athol Irquetson was a sombre-eyed priest with a beautiful -voice. In his zeal, he had studied how to use it--under an eminent -actor; in his discretion, he suppressed the fact--for he knew his -Sweetbay. He had also a fine faculty for gesture, which his -parishioners found "impressive"--and which they would have found -"theatrical" had they guessed that for years it had been cultivated -daily before a looking-glass. Why invalidate an instrument? To -admiring friends he said his gestures "came to him." They did, by this -time. He waved Conrad's apologies aside, and motioning towards a seat, -sank slowly into a study-chair himself. Conrad ardently appreciated -the pose of his hand there, as--a pensive profile supported by his -finger-tips--the vicar asked, in a voice to make converts: "And what -can I do for you?" - -Yes, he remembered Dr. Page. Dr. Page was dead. But soon it was the -vicar's turn to be appreciative, for the intruder's glance kept -straying to the Canaletto prints that graced the walls, and it was a -rare thing for Mr. Irquetson to have a visitor to whom they spoke. -Those glances warmed his heart, and a digression melted his reserve. - -"There are not many," he said; "but I think my small room is the richer -on that account." - -"Surely," said Conrad. "If a picture is worth owning, it is worth a -spacious setting. A mere millionaire may buy a gallery, but it takes a -man of taste to hang a sketch. I have always thought that a picture -calls for two artists--one to create it, and the other to prepare his -wall for its reception." - -"But how little the second art is understood. Of course the eye should -be enabled to rest on a picture reposefully. The custom of massing -pictures in conflicting multitudes is barbarous. It's like the -compression of flowers into bundles that hide half their loveliness. -The Western mind is slowly learning from the Japanese that a flower -ought to be displayed so that we may appreciate its form. I have hope -that when they have taught us how a flower should be put in water, they -may proceed to teach us how a picture should be hung." - -Quite ten minutes passed in such amenities. - -"Yes, Dr. Page died long ago," said the deep voice again; but the -subject was resumed in a manner almost intimate; "his wife was living -in--Malvern, I think. There was--it was common knowledge at the -time--some domestic unhappiness late in life; or perhaps it would be -more correct to say that it culminated late in life, for, like so many -mighty issues, I believe it originated in a seeming trifle. He was a -man acutely sensitive to noise, and his wife was decidedly a noisy -woman. I remember his remarking once that if she but touched a cup it -had a collision with all the china on the table, and that a newspaper -in her hands became an instrument of torture. No doubt he could have -controlled his irritability, but by all accounts his temper grew -unbearable. However, the news of his death must have been a blow to -the lady, for he died suddenly soon after they had separated. Death is -a wondrous peacemaker. The gravest offence looks smaller in our eyes -when it is too late to condone it." - -"Yes," assented Conrad; - - "'And I think, in the lives of most women and men, - There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, - If only the dead could find out when - To come back, and be forgiven.'" - - -"That is a beautiful thought," said the vicar, "or, speaking more -strictly, I should say it is an ordinary thought beautified. From one -of Owen Meredith's early poems, isn't it? But do you remember those -lines of Coventry Patmore's to the dead? - - "'It is not true that Love will do no wrong. - Poor Child! - And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, - How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, - And of those words your full avengers make? - Poor Child, poor Child! - And now, unless it be - That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, - O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! - Poor Child!'" - - -"Oh," exclaimed Conrad, "exquisite! I used to read Coventry Patmore -all day. Do you know 'Departure'?--'With _huddled_, unintelligible -phrase!' ... Ah! surely his hope was not vain--the Posterity he -respected will respect him. But--but," he bubbled, "I am so glad I -came! My dear sir, you enchant me; your recognition of Owen Meredith -alone would make the interview memorable." - -"Ah!" returned Mr. Irquetson, with a whimsical smile, "there was once a -time when I read much poetry--and wrote much verse; and I have a good -memory. I remember"--his trained gaze took in the name, which he had -forgotten, on the card--"I remember, Mr. Warrener, when I used to pray -to be a poet." - -"Do you think prayers are ever answered?" inquired Conrad. "In my life -I have sent up many prayers, and always with the attempt to persuade -myself that some former prayer had been fulfilled. But I knew--I knew -in my heart none ever had been. Things that I have wanted have come to -me, but--I say it with all reverence--at the wrong time, as the means -to buy unlimited toffee comes to a man when he has outgrown his taste -for sweets." - -Mr. Irquetson's fine hand wandered across his brow. - -"Once," he began conversationally, "I was passing with a friend through -Grosvenor Street. It was when in the spring the tenant's fancy lightly -turns to coats of paint, and we came to a ladder leaning against a -house that was being redecorated. In stepping to the outer side of the -ladder, my friend lifted his hat to it; you may know the superstition? -He was a 'Varsity man, a man of considerable attainments. I said, 'Is -it possible that you believe in that nonsense?' He said, 'N--no, I -don't exactly believe in it, but I never throw away a chance.'" On a -sudden his inflexion changed, his utterance was solemn, stirring, -devout: "'I think, sir, that most people _pray_ on my friend's -principle--they don't believe in it, but they never throw away a -chance.'" - -He had said it before; the whole thing was too assured, too finished, -for an impromptu, but the effect of that modulation was superb. All -the artist in Conrad responded to it. - -"And when they are sincere?" he questioned, after a pause; "for they -are sometimes. Your walls remind me how passionately I prayed to be a -painter. And your own prayers, I take it, came from the soul when you -craved to be a poet." - -"But should I have been more useful as a poet? It wouldn't have -contented me to write--let us say--'The Better Land,' and more minds -are to be influenced by simple sermons than by great poetry. You -think, perhaps, that as a painter you would have been happier. But -perhaps you wouldn't. We are often like little children petitioning -their parents for the dangerous. I will not suggest that a merciful -God chastises us to demonstrate our error, but many an observant man -must have noticed the truth that what we have desired most strenuously -often proves an affliction to us, while the only sunshine in our lives -is shed by the thing which we prayed might never come to pass." - -"Yes," said Conrad, thoughtfully, "I have seen more than one example of -that. But if we are mere blunderers beseeching in the dark--if we are -like children importuning their parents without discernment, as you -say--isn't the act of prayer futile? Isn't it even presumptuous?" - -Mr. Irquetson raised his head, his eyes looked upward; "No--pray!" he -said, and the melody of his tone gave glory to a commonplace. "Pray," -he repeated, and Conrad wanted to kneel to him then, there, on the -study floor. "One day perhaps you will afford me an opportunity to -make my thoughts on prayer quite clear to you. Pray--but with fervour, -and with sense. With humility! Sir, I cannot reconcile my faith in an -omniscient Creator with the idea that it is necessary to advise Him we -need rain in Rutland ... But I'm withholding the little information -that I am able to give you. I was about to say that Mrs. Page, so far -as I know, lives still in Malvern--or perhaps it was Matlock; and the -eldest girl----" - -"Mary?" interposed Conrad. - -"Quite so, 'Mary.' Mary married some time before her father's death, -and is settled in London, I think. My wife would know her whereabouts -better than I, she is friendly with a resident who has some fitful -correspondence with Mrs. Bailey." - -"'Mrs. Bailey' is the eldest girl's married name?" - -"Well, it used to be," replied the clergyman, with another of his -smiles. "But I was wrong--I should have said 'Mrs. Barchester-Bailey.' -She acquired the 'Barchester' after the ceremony; I cannot supply its -exegesis. The result of six months in the capital, I suppose, though -it is not everybody who can make such a great name in London in six -months." - -"Much may be done in six months; his parents gave Keats to the world in -seven," said Conrad. "I am infinitely grateful to you for your -kindness." He rose. "If Mrs. Irquetson should mention Mrs. -Barchester-Bailey's address to you, and you would have the additional -goodness to let me know it----" - -"I will drop you a line to-night--or to-morrow at the latest," declared -the vicar; and he pencilled the direction on the card. - -"Good-bye," said Conrad. "I shall always be your debtor for more than -the address, sir." - -"Good-bye," said the vicar, extending his hand; and 'good-bye' as he -pronounced it was a benediction. - -Conrad had been so much impressed--so uplifted by the cleric's -manner--that, instead of swinging homeward in high feather at the end -of his difficulties, he proceeded slowly, in serious meditation. It -was not until the following afternoon when he learnt that Mrs. -Barchester-Bailey's residence was Beau Séjour, Hyperion Terrace, Upper -Tooting, that interest in his project was again keen. Then there was a -little throb in his pulses; a little tremor stole from the note; he had -annihilated the obstacles of five-and twenty years--it excited him to -realise that he stood so close to her who had been Mary Page. - -The "Barchester," however, disturbed him somewhat. A woman who -reverenced apocryphal hyphens promised less companionship than he had -pictured ... Perhaps the snobbishness was her husband's. Tooting? He -had a dim recollection of driving through it once, on his way -somewhere. Was it to the Derby? - -Well, he supposed the correct course would be to write to her and hint -at his return to town. He wondered whether the signature would waken -memories in her if she perpended it. Unless it did, the letter was -likely to prove a failure--he could not indite a very stimulating -epistle to a married woman of whom he knew nothing. Yet to call on her -without writing--? No, he must stand, or fall, by the signature. That -would say everything, if it said anything at all ... How stupid, in the -circumstances, "Dear Madam" sounded! - -And what a stumbling-block it looked! - - -"Dear Madam"--he wrote--"Though I cannot hope you will be able to -recall my name, I think you may remember Mowbray Lodge. I have -regretted very much, during my visit, that Mrs. Page is not my -neighbour. It would have given me so much pleasure to call on her, and -to meet the family who were such very good comrades of mine in the year -when this house was a school, kept by Mr. Boultbee, and a posse of -children came down for the summer holidays. Perhaps the names of my -cousins, Nina and 'Gina, may be more familiar to you than my own. At -least those old-time friends of yours have shared my disappointment. -It is only since they left that I have had the good fortune to hear -your address mentioned. Will you pardon a stranger writing to express -this vehement interest on the part of people whom you have probably -forgotten? If I debated the matter for long, my courage would desert -me, and I should leave my cousins to make their own inquiries next -week, when I go back to town. On the other hand, if you and your -sisters remember us, pray believe that none sends kinder regards to you -all than-- - - "Yours truly, - "CONRAD WARRENER." - - -"Come, I don't think anybody can take exception to that," mused Conrad. -And he sent it to the post, with a line of thanks to Mr. Irquetson. - -On the next evening but one he began to doubt if she meant to reply. -It seemed to him the sort of thing a woman would acknowledge -immediately if she didn't mean to ignore it altogether. Yet why should -she ignore it? Silence would be rather uncivil, wouldn't it--a -humiliation needlessly inflicted? If she had reasons for wishing to -decline his acquaintance, it was quite possible to prevent his -advancing, and to frame an urbane answer at the same time. Had he said -too much about Nina and 'Gina, appeared too much in the light of an -amanuensis? Surely she had the wit to understand? - -Four or five days passed before he tore open an envelope stamped with -the initials "M.B.B." The enclosure began "Dear Sir," and his brows -contracted. - - -"Dear Sir"--he read--"I was very surprised to receive your letter. -What a long time ago, is it not? It is very nice of you all to -remember us after so long. I left Sweetbay at the time of my marriage, -and have been living in Tooting some years now. My mother has removed -to Matlock. If you or your cousins are ever in the neighbourhood I -shall hope to have a chat over old times. Please give them my -remembrances, With kind regards--Yours truly, - - "MARY BARCHESTER-BAILEY." - - -There were only three wrong ways of beginning a response--three blatant -solecisms--and she had chosen one of them when she wrote "Dear Sir." -Conrad was disappointed. The "fair and slightly pathetic" figure of -his dreams grew fainter; his ideal confidante didn't make these -mistakes. He put the missive in his pocket, and drew dejectedly at his -pipe. - -"Of course I shall go," ran his thoughts, "but I've made rather an ass -of myself, taking such trouble to find her!" - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -The man to whom he gave his ticket at the station of Balham and Upper -Tooting told him that he could walk to Hyperion Terrace in about ten -minutes. He perceived that he would reach the house too early if he -proceeded there at once, so he strolled awhile in the opposite -direction. The pavements were dry, and he was thankful, for he had -seen no cab when he came down the station stairs, and he would have -been chagrined to present himself in muddy boots. - -When he estimated that he would arrive at Beau Séjour none too soon to -be welcome, he retraced his steps, and now anticipation warmed his -blood once more. After all, she was the woman who had been Mary -Page--it was a piece of his boyhood that awaited him. Indeed he was -repentant that he had cavilled at minor defects. By dint of inquiries -he found the way to Hyperion Terrace. It was new, and red, and all -that a man who could call a street "Hyperion Terrace" would naturally -create. - -A very small servant, wearing a very pretentious cap, showed him at -once to the drawing-room, where "The Soul's Awakening" met his -distressed view, on a pink and gold wall-paper. He heard flying -footsteps overhead, sounds of discomposure; there are houses at which a -visitor always arrives too early. His nerves were tremulous while he -sat alone. But Mary's home would have pleased him better if it had -been no more than a single room, with a decent etching over a bed -masquerading as a sideboard, and half-a-dozen shilling classics on a -shelf. - -"Mr. Warrener? How d' ye do?" - -She advanced towards him with a wide smile, a large and masculine woman -wearing a vivid silk blouse, and an air of having dressed herself in a -hurry. She wore also--with a droll effort at deception--a string of -"pearls" which, if it had been real, would have been worth more than -the street. For an instant his heart seemed to drop into his stomach; -and in the next an overwhelming compassion for her swept him. He could -have shed tears for her, as he took her hand, and remembered that she -had once been a dainty child. - -"Mrs. Barchester-Bailey--so good of you to let me call." - -"Oh, I'm sure it was very kind of you to come!" she said. "Won't you -sit down? ... How very odd that you should have been living in Mowbray -Lodge, isn't it? Quite a coincidence." - -"Yes," he said, "yes. I wanted a place there, and Mowbray Lodge -happened to be to let for a few months. It was the first time I had -been to Sweetbay since that summer.... Your old house looks just the -same--the outside at least; I've not been in it." - -"Really?" she said. "Yes--does it?" - -"Yes.... And the lane looks just the same too, until you get to the -field; and then--then there isn't one. But perhaps that had vanished -before you left?" - -"No, there was no change when I was down there last, but that's a long -while ago! Horrid old place! I'm very glad there's nothing to take me -there any more." - -"Didn't you like it?" he asked, pained. - -"Oh, it was so slow! I wonder how I put up with it as long as I did. -Didn't you find it slow? I must have gaiety. People tell me I'm a -regular gadabout, but--" She laughed--"one's only young once, Mr. -Warrener; I believe in having a good time while I can. I say I shall -have plenty of time to be on the shelf by-and-by." - -She was very, very plain. It was while he was thinking how plain she -was, how ruthless the years had been to her, that the sudden pity for -himself engulfed him--the pathetic consciousness that she must be -reflecting how hard the years had been on _him_. - -"It can't be difficult for you to have a good time," he returned, -labouredly light. - -"Well, I don't think it is," she declared; she tossed her large head, -and rolled colourless eyes at him archly. "People tell me I've quite -woke Tooting up since I've been here, and I must say I've done my best. -I must _lead_. I mean to say if I'd been a man I should have liked to -be a great politician, or a great general, you know." - -"You could be nothing more potent than Mrs. Barchester-Bailey." - -"Oh now that's very sweet of you!" she said. "But I mean to say I must -_lead_. I started the Tooting 'Thursdays.' You mustn't think I'm just -a frivolous little woman who cares for nothing but pleasure--I'm--I'm -very interested in literature too. At the 'Thursdays' we have literary -discussions. Next week the subject is Miss Verbena's novels. Now -which do you think is Miss Verbena's greatest novel?" - -He could only assume that she never saw a comic paper. "I--I'm afraid -I haven't read any of them," he owned. - -"Oh! Oh, you surprise me. Oh, but you must: they're enormously -clever. Ettie Verbena is quite my favourite novelist, excepting -perhaps that _dear_ man who writes those immensely clever books that -never offend in any way. So pure they are, such a true religious -spirit in them! You know, Mr. Warrener, I'm a curious mixture. People -tell me that I seem to enjoy myself just as much talking to a very -clever man as when I'm romping through a barn-dance. And it's true you -know; that is me. But I suppose you're more interested in stocks and -shares, and things like that, than in books?" - -"Well, I--I shouldn't describe myself as widely-read," answered Conrad; -"still books do interest me." - -"Oh well, then, you must come on one of my At-Home days next time," she -said graciously; "one of the ladies you'll meet writes for 'Winsome -Words,' and you'll meet several people you'll like." - -"I should be charmed," he said. - -The servant bustled in, and carried a bamboo table to the hearth. As -she threw the teacloth over it, a cold wind blew through his hair. - -"Do your cousins live in London?" inquired Mrs. Barchester-Bailey, with -the tail of a worried eye on the maid's blunders. - -"Yes," he said, "yes, they do. But I haven't seen them since I came -back. I'm not sure whether they're in town." - -"Are they married?" - -"Yes," he said again. "Oh yes, they're married--both of them." - -"Where are they?" she asked; "anywhere this way?" - -"No; unfortunately they're a long way off. That's the drawback to -town, isn't it? Everybody lives at such a distance from everybody -else." - -"Oh, I don't know," she said; "one can get about so quickly nowadays. -What part are they in?" - -"Nina lives in Regent's Park," he replied, "where the mists are." - -"Oh, really? Regent's Park?" She seemed impressed. "I was wondering -whether she would care to join our Thursday debates--we want to get as -many members as we can. Two of the ladies come over from Wandsworth, -but from Regent's Park it would be a drag certainly. Shall I put in -sugar and milk?" - -"Please." He took the cup, and sat down again--and knew that he had -entered on that grade of society where there are no more men and women, -and they all become "ladies" and "gentlemen." - -"And the other one--'Gina?" she continued. - -He felt very uncomfortable; he wouldn't say "Mayfair." - -"'Gina lives further west," he murmured. "No, I won't have any cake, -thank you." - -"Then your cousins are quite high up?" she exclaimed. - -"'High up?'" - -"They're quite swells?" - -"Oh!" he shrugged his shoulders. "No, I don't think I should call them -that. Too swell for me, rather, but then I'm half a Colonial, and the -other half a bohemian. I haven't been Home long--it's all strange to -me; until I came out here to-day I had no idea London could be so -picturesque. How glorious your Common must be in the summer!" - -"So healthy!" she said promptly; "the air is so fine. We moved here -from the West-end for the children's sake." - -"You have children?" - -"Oh!" she rolled her eyes again. "Four, Mr. Warrener. My eldest boy -is getting quite big--people tell me they wouldn't believe he was mine -at all, but it makes me feel quite old sometimes, to look at him. I -think it's cruel of children to grow up, don't you?" - -He stifled a sad assent. "Sometimes they grow up still more charming," -he said. - -"Oh, now, that's very sweet of you! Now really that's very pretty. -But I mean to say I think it's cruel to us when they shoot up so fast. -You're not married yourself yet, eh?" - -"No, I hate asking favours." - -"What a modest way of putting it! But you should. A good wife would -be the making of you, and give you something to think about. Don't you -know that?" - -"I'm sure of it. A man can have no greater blessing than a good -wife--excepting none," he concluded mentally. "Shall I be allowed to -see them before I go?" - -"The children? Would you like to? Dudley is out, but the others are -just going to have tea in the next room. My husband isn't back from -the city yet, of course. Oh, the city! What a hold it does get on you -men. As if it really mattered whether you made an extra thousand -pounds one month or not!" A trayful of crockery rattled, and the -footsteps of the little servant thudded through the passage. - -"You're quite right," said Conrad. "What does it matter, when one -comes to think of it?" - -"Not but what Herbert's the best of boys," she added. "If it weren't -that----" She hesitated, she endeavoured to look confused. "The fact -is, he's--he's jealous, he's a very jealous man. Not that he has any -reason to be--not exactly. Of course I'm awfully fond of him; he's a -dear old silly! But I mean to say I can't help it when men want to -talk to me--now can I? If I get half-a-dozen men round me, even though -we're only talking about the simplest thing, he doesn't like it. Of -course it makes it awfully awkward for me socially." - -"It must," responded Conrad; "yes, I can understand that." - -"I tell him he should have married a different woman." She giggled. - -"Ah, but how unreasonable of you!" he said. "Then--if they won't mind -being disturbed--I am really to see your children?" - -"Oh, they won't mind at all, but I'm afraid you'll find them very -untidy--they've just been having high jinks." - -She led him to them presently, and slammed the door behind her. It -shook his thoughts to the clergyman's description of Mrs. Page. -Heredity again, perhaps. Two girls of about twelve or fourteen years -of age and a boy in a pinafore were sitting at a table. At their -mother and the visitor's entrance, they all took their hands off the -cloth and stared. - -"And so this is the family?" cried Conrad, trying to sound -enthusiastic. "How do you do? And will you say 'how do you do' to me, -my little man?" - -Three limp hands flopped to him in turn, and he stood contemplating the -group, while the lady cooed silly questions to them, and elicited dull, -constrained replies. They were not attractive children; they were -indeed singularly uninteresting children--even for other people's, -whose virtues seldom strike us vividly. To Conrad, who failed to allow -sufficiently for their shyness, they appeared stupidity personified. -"Yes," and "No," they answered; and their eyes were round, and their -mouths ajar. Like all children, from the lower to the middle classes -inclusive, they proclaimed instantaneously the social stratum of their -parents. With a monosyllable a child will do this. It is by no means -impossible for a man to exchange remarks with a girl from a show-room, -and at the end of five minutes to be still uncertain to what class she -belongs. But when the intrusive little cub in the sailor suit romps up -to her, he betrays the listless beauty's entourage with the first -slovenly words he drops. - -"Have your cousins any children, Mr. Warrener?" - -"Yes," he said, "oh yes, they have three or four each." He was -speculating what individuality lay concealed behind the vacant fronts. -Their mother had been no older than the eldest when he was sick with -romance for her--oh, positively "romance," although its expression had -been ludicrous in that period. Was it possible that these meaningless -little girls also had precocity and sweethearts? Appalling -thought--had Mary been so unpleasant? Had he idealised a dirty mouth? - -"I should like to see them. I wish Nina and--er--'Gina would come over -one morning to lunch." Her tone was painfully eager. "Or I might look -them up. Do you know their 'days'?" - -"No," he murmured, "I can't say I do. I----" - -"Perhaps they'll come with you next time?" - -"I hope you'll see them sooner; it's more than likely I go back to -Paris in a day or two--I only left a few weeks ago. I may remain there -through the year." - -"Oh, really?" she exclaimed. "Then you have no business in London? -Mary," she broke off impatiently, "what is it? What is Ferdie -fidgeting about for--what does he want?" - -"Jam, ma," said the plainer of the girls in a whisper. - -"What do you say? Do speak up, dear." - -"Jam, ma," repeated her daughter; "he wants jam on the first piece." - -"Well, give him it then. Only this once, now, darling. You shouldn't -tease him so, Mary--remember he's a very little boy." - -Mary _minor_ leant towards him, and Conrad thought she muttered "Little -pig!" - -"Then you have nothing to do in London?" resumed the lady, as he -followed her from the room. - -"Quite all that I hoped to do in London I have done this afternoon," he -smiled. "As a matter of fact, I don't suppose I shall call on anybody -else before I leave." But he saw clearly that she wanted to know the -women who were "high up," and he was self-reproachful. Distressed, he -wished that he had made no reference to them in his letter. - -"Sha'n't you even go to see your cousins?" she persisted. "But you say -you're not sure if they're in town? If they are, any day would suit -me. If they would drop me a line----" - -"No," he said, "I'm not sure; I haven't heard from either of them since -they left Sweetbay." He was at the point of mentioning Nina's address; -he reminded himself that he had a duty to Nina too. - -Yet a moment later he succumbed. The remembrance of what he had -written, even civility itself, prevented his parrying so keen an aim as -Mrs. Barchester-Bailey's. He mentioned the address, and he said how -pretty the plain children were, and regretted that her husband was not -in. He sat smiling at boredom for five minutes longer, and when he -escaped at last he had the reward of knowing that she thought he -admired her very much. He had owed her that. - -As he felt the air in his lungs he thanked heaven. Well, he would -explain the occurrence to Nina, who would consider him an idiot, and -tell her to expect a speedy visit. The rest lay with the visitor -herself--with her powers to please. For his own part, never, never did -he want to see her again. He walked fast, her image still pursuing -him. What an exhausting woman! - -He dined at his club and wondered if it would be bad taste for so new a -member to make a complaint to the committee. Afterwards he drifted -into a music-hall, where quailing brutes who had been created to -scamper on four legs were distorted to maintain a smirking brute who -was unworthy to walk on two. The animals' sufferings diverted the -audience vastly, and the applause sickened Conrad more than the club -dinner. - -And though his disappointment at Tooting may sound a very trivial -matter, it continued to depress him. He was sad, not because one woman -was different from what he had hoped to find her, but because the -difference in the one woman typified so much that seemed pathetic to -him in life. And to sneer at him as a sentimentalist absorbed by -opal-tinted sorrows blown of indolence, would not be conclusive. It -is, of course, natural that those of us who have to struggle should set -up the Man of Leisure as a figure to be pelted with precepts--indeed, -we pelt so hard at the silver spoon in his mouth that between the shies -we might well reflect that Ethics is often an _alias_ of Envy--but with -Conrad the leisure was quite recent and the sentiment had ached for -years. In his case wealth had not formed a temperament, wealth had -simply freed it. - -Let us accept him as he was. My business is to present, not to defend. -Were tales tellable only when the "hero" fulfilled both definitions of -the word, reviewers would have less to do. If I could draw, a -frontispiece should enlist your sympathies for him: "Conrad and the -Coquette;" for that is Youth--a laughing jilt showing us her heels, and -tempting over her dimpled shoulder as she flies. - -This is where you begin to think me insufferably dull. I see your fair -brow clouding, I can see your beautiful lips shaping to say, "Oh, -bother!" Be patient with me; we have arrived at a brief interval in -which nothing particular happened. It is true that soon afterwards -Conrad went to Monte Carlo, but details would not interest you in the -least. Be gracious to me; yield to the book another finger-tip--I feel -it slipping. Say, "Poor drivel as it is, a man has written it in the -hope of pleasing me." For he has indeed. On many a fine morning I -have plodded when I would rather have sunned myself where the band -played; on many an evening I have wound my feet round the legs of the -table and budged not, when the next room and a new novel--paid for and -unopened--wooed me as with a siren song. And all to win a smile from -You. - -I have thought of you so often, and wanted to know you; you don't -realise how I have longed to meet you--to listen to you, to have you -lift the veil that hides your mind from me. Sometimes in a crowd I -have fancied I caught a glimpse of you; I can't explain--the poise of -the head, a look in the eyes, there was something that hinted it was -You. And in a whirlwind of an instant it almost seemed that you would -recognise me; but you said no word--you passed, a secret from me still. -To yourself where you are sitting you are just a charming woman, with -"a local habitation and a name;" but to me you are not Miss or Madam, -not M. or N., you are a Power, and I have sought you by a name you have -not heard--you are my Public. - -And O my Lady, I am speaking to you! I feel your presence in my -senses, though you are far away, and I can't hear your answer. I do -wrong to speak like this; I may be arraigned for speaking; I have -broken laws for the honour of addressing you--among all the men who -have worshipped you, has one done more?--and I will never offend again. -But in this breathless minute while I dare, I would say: "Remember that -overleaf, and in every line unto the end I shall be picturing _you_, -working for you, trembling lest _you_ frown." Unto the End. Forgive -me. I have sinned, but I exult--it is as if I had touched your hand -across the page. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -Conrad drifted from the Riviera with the rest, and lingered through -June in Paris; not on the left bank this time--in the Paris of the -Boulevards and the Bois, where he was a world away from the quarter -where he had run to clasp the illusions of his youth, and stayed to -mourn them. Although he was finding life pleasant, there were moments -when he looked at the bridges, and felt wistful; but he never crossed -one--he knew now that he could not walk over the Pont Neuf into the -Past. - -Nor was it with any definite purpose that he returned to London. -Amusement, agreeable society had lulled that desire to revisit old -scenes. And his experiments had been such failures: the endeavour to -recapture his fervour as an art-student; the ludicrous attempt to -revive in cynical adults the buoyant comradery of childhood; the -interest in the little girl whom time had turned into the least -interesting of women--it was with a mental blush that he recalled these -follies. If he thought no less tenderly of his youth, he thought of it -less often; if he was still liable to a sense of bereavement, he was -now idling as conventionally as any other man of his class. - -He arrived in London while the sun shone, and told the cabman to drive -to the Carlton, where some Americans whom he liked in Monte Carlo had -talked of staying. After he had made himself presentable, he descended -to the palm court, and ordered tea, since tea was in evidence, and -glanced round the groups that sipped and chatted. His Americans were -not there--perhaps they had been faithful to the American hotel. -By-and-by he inquired about them, and learnt that they were unknown. -He was hipped, for they had been companionable, and one of the women -was very pretty. He felt rather "out of it" among the dawdling groups. - -During dinner he asked himself to what theatre he should go. He -remembered reading recently that a farcical comedy had scored a great -success, and decided to go to see that. One of his oddities was a -reluctance to inconvenience people by passing in front of them in a -theatre after the curtain had risen, so he didn't dally at the table. -The piece began at a quarter past eight. He had a cup of coffee, and a -red Grand Marnier, and slid into a hansom. There would be just time to -smoke a cigarette comfortably during the drive. - -Hansoms darted everywhere in the pale evening--a man and a friend, a -man and a girl, a man going to meet a girl. From Pall Mall the line of -liveries rolled up endlessly, the broughams and landaus flashing -glimpses of coiffures, and jewelled ears, and flowers. Where a block -occurred in the traffic, a young man, who had paused on the curb, in a -dress-suit that looked rather tight for him, bowed delightedly to the -occupants of a victoria, and they beamed in response. The encounter -was gratifying on both sides, for the young man had not often occasion -to put on a dress-suit, and his acquaintances had not long acquired a -carriage. Conrad, who missed the humour of the incident, was again -sensible of loneliness in an atmosphere where everybody seemed to know -someone but himself. But as he passed a barrow at the corner of a side -street he appreciated the humour of a costermonger shouting, "Liedy, I -can sell you some o' the finest cherries that was ever brought into -this country!" - -When he entered the house the overture was being played, and as he -squeezed towards his chair a faint hope rose of discerning his Monte -Carlo companions among the audience. He sat down, between a lady with -a moustache and a youth who was trying to cultivate one, and scanned -the profiles that were visible, but there was none he recognised. - -The attendants were still busy; in his velvet fauteuil he watched the -arrivals almost as eagerly as the Poor had watched them on the -pavement. What white backs the women had when they slipped them out of -their cloaks! he wondered if it was safe for them to lean against the -seats. With what geometrical perfection the hair margined the napes of -their slender necks! how did they do it? - -The rising excitement of the overture warned him that it was about to -bang to an end. His programme had fallen to the floor. He stooped for -it with the idea of looking at the cast before the lights were lowered. - -At this moment the lady in the stall next to him took out her -handkerchief. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -As she did so the curtain went up, and showed a divided scene. On the -right, the stage represented the office of a matrimonial agent; on the -left, the office of an agent who obtained "reliable evidence for -divorce." But Conrad was not attending. The two careers were followed -by the same person under different names--his introductions in the -first capacity led to business in the second. He explained this soon -after he bustled on, and the audience laughed. But Conrad did not -hear. The lady still held her handkerchief, a scrap of lawn and lace -that was scented with chypre--and he had been heaved to Rouen and was -seventeen years old there, by the side of The Woman We Never Forget. - -For in the life of every man, whether he will own it or not, there is -at least one unmentioned woman whom he never permanently forgets while -he keeps his faculties. She may not be the best, or the prettiest, or -even the nicest woman he has loved--not her virtues, but his madness, -graved so deep--and he will take the impression out sometimes when he -has lost his figure and his hair, and when a boy who is storing -experiences on his own account calls him "the governor." No, her -qualities have as little to do with the matter as the date on her birth -certificate. A woman isn't her age, or herself; she is what she makes -us feel--like art, and nature, like a musical phrase, or a line of -words, like everything of suggestion and mystery. The woman her -husband hates and her lover adores, is an equally vivid personality to -both men. That to herself she is vividly a third character makes no -difference to the view of either of them. - -To say that on the few occasions Conrad had smelt chypre during the -last twenty years it had never failed to "remind" him of Mrs. -Adaile--to say this would be to imply that he yielded himself leisurely -to reverie, and it would sound truer than the truth. But the fact is -that there was nothing voluntary at all in what occurred. It was a -physical swirl that the smell always caused him, and it left him -vibrant for a few seconds with the very craving, the very sickness of -the time when he had worshipped her. He often thought of her, even -strummed a song she used to sing, but in such moments as these he was -less conscious of thinking than of feeling. Normally he looked back at -her, with the reflections of a man; when he smelt chypre he was near -her again, with the tremors of a boy. - -Life is less consistent than fiction, even than tolerably bad fiction. -"What perfume do you use?" wrote Maupassant to a correspondent whom he -had not seen, but who had made him curious. Her answer--if it hadn't -been "none"--would have meant a thousand times more to him than it -would mean to the man in the crowd, but it might very easily have -misled him too. In fiction, Conrad was dimly aware, Mrs. Adaile and -chypre would never have been associated; it wasn't faint enough, fresh -enough, it wasn't matutinal enough for Mrs. Adaile; to one who had not -seen her it could never be evocative. Yet--perhaps it had been a -passing fancy, even an experiment--in some days that were immortal to -him chypre had been her scent. - -The piece became funny by-and-by, and he began to listen to it, but -though the sensations wakened by the lady's handkerchief subsided, the -memories did no more than doze. Between the acts, and when he left the -theatre, they beset him with full force. As he strolled to the club, -he surrendered to them. He had recalled Mrs. Adaile so often, so often -re-enacted scenes with her, and mocked himself that he had not played -them differently, that the episode seemed to him by no means so remote -as it was; it seemed much closer than many episodes that had happened -since. It was with a shock in the reading-room that he counted the -years. Was it possible? Good heavens! how time flew. It indicates -the fervour of his mood to say that when he made this reflection it had -to him a sense of novelty. - -Then she must be--Again "Good heavens!" That girl!--for she had been -but a girl, although she was married and he had felt himself a child -beside her. He remembered the afternoon when she came to the hotel and -he told his people that "the most beautiful woman he had ever seen" had -just arrived. Well, she figured still as one of the most beautiful -women he had ever seen. But was that twenty years ago? - -What a babe he had been! And he used to believe himself sapient for -his age.... Well, perhaps in some things! How stupid he must have -seemed to her for a boy of seventeen! Yet she used to confide in him -on the terrace. He could not have seemed so stupid to her after all? -... Innocent. - -That night on the terrace--always the terrace, it appeared!--when she -let him hold her hand, and bent her face to him, saying, "A mosquito -has bitten me on the cheek--look." As if it were yesterday he could -remember how his heart pounded, and the fatuous words he muttered in -his tight throat. He wished forcefully now that he had had the -courage! What atom of difference would it make to-day? Yet he did -wish that he had had the courage. O imbecile! ... But how exquisite it -all was; if it could only come over again! - -There were no more than two men besides himself in the room; one of -them was reading, and the other slept. The silence was absolute until -a page sped in to bawl the name of a member who wasn't there, and sped -forth to bawl for him somewhere else. The man who had slept said -"damn" very softly, and turned to sleep on the other side. - -Conrad lay back in the deep chair, and let fancy reign. There were -many gaps, but there were moments that made the calendar unreal. He -remembered intimately things that she had said to him--oddly enough, -more of the things that he had said to her. He stared at his -whisky-and-potash, and mentally relived the story. And this is the -story he relived:-- - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -The boy came to the French windows paint-smeared and tired. He had -been to Bonsecours, where the monument of Jeanne D'Arc is now, and -tried to make a study of the landscape from the Cemetery. On the -boat--they had no dream of electric trams then--the immensity of his -failure had filled him with alarm. A tall, slight woman was standing -in the salon, with her back to him. She wore a pale coloured -travelling coat, and a hat with a wing in it. As his step sounded on -the terrace she turned, and he forgot the landscape. He passed -awkwardly, and was troubled afterwards by the thought that he should -have bowed. - -He said to his mother: "The most beautiful woman you've ever seen is -downstairs; I wonder if she means to stay." - -"She _is_ staying," answered his mother. "She's Grice Adaile's -wife--the man who made that speech in the House the other day. Well, -is Bonsecours worth going to?" - -"Rather!" he said. He was still thinking of the woman's delicate, -wistful face. - -He thought of it while he dressed for dinner. He had thought of -nothing latterly but that he would be studying art in Paris soon, had -wished for nothing but to escape before his parents could withdraw -their consent. All at once he would have regretted to learn that he -was leaving suddenly. - -At table she was opposite him; she sat next to Miss McGuire. He -perceived that they were friends and was dismayed, for Miss McGuire -considered he had been impertinent to her and no longer spoke to him. -He recognised blankly that the beautiful woman would be told he was a -cub. - -If he had done wrong his punishment had overtaken him: Mrs. Adaile -vouchsafed no word to him for days. Her disapproval humbled him so -much that he used to leave the salon when she was laughing with his -mother and the rest. He hoped she would observe he was humiliated, and -be stirred with pity; it seemed to him he must awaken her respect by -the course he was adopting. Incongruously there was an element of -unacknowledged joy in his distress; it was not without its exultation, -to think that Mrs. Adaile was being heartless to him--to feel that she -was making him suffer. - -But it was with thanksgiving he heard that Miss McGuire had said she -wished he would apologise; she had forbidden him to address her. He -followed her from the dining-room, and begged her pardon in the hall. -She replied: "You're a nice boy really; I'm so glad you've said you're -sorry." He wanted to tell her that he appreciated her kindness, but he -could only falter, and grip her hand. It discomfited him to know that -he was blushing. - -In the afternoon he was sitting on the terrace, with a sketching-block -on his knees, and Mrs. Adaile came out through the windows. She -sauntered to and fro. He couldn't lift his eyelids when she -approached, but each time he listened, tense with the frou-frou of her -skirt. All his consciousness was strung to the question whether she -would stop. - -"May I look?" she said. - -The sensation was in his chest--he felt as if his chest had gone. She -stood there, amused by his symptoms, for two or three minutes, and -moved away. He was incredibly excited, boundlessly happy until he -began to think of the better answers he might have made. Visions of -the evening and the morrow dazzled him; when he went inside it was not -the same hotel to him, they were not the same rooms. It does not take -a woman six days to create a world for any man. - -By the end of the week he talked to her often and freely. At the end -of a fortnight: - -"I used to be afraid you'd never say anything at all to me," he owned. - -"I thought you weren't very nice," she said. - -"Miss McGuire told you things about me?" - -"She told me as soon as you apologised to her, too. I was pleased you -did that, even if you weren't in the wrong." - -"Wouldn't you ever have taken any notice of me if I hadn't?" - -"I did notice you," she smiled. - -"Did you? But 'ever spoken to me,' I mean?" - -"I don't know. We shouldn't have been such good friends as we are. -I've never liked any boy as I like you, Con." - -He ached to tell her how infinitely grateful he felt, but he could not -find a word. They walked up and down together. Perhaps she -understood. On a sudden he thought how cruel it was that the end would -come when he went to Paris, or when she went to England. In that -moment instinct taught the lad as remorselessly as experience teaches -man. He _knew_ their friendship was the merest incident to her, and -the hurtfulness of the knowledge squeezed his throat. - -"If we meet again one day, you'll give me a stiff little bow and pass -by," he blurted. - -"Con!" she murmured. "Why, I've become chummier here with you in a -little while than I am with people I've known at home for years." - -Still instinct was heavy in the boy. - -He always spent the morning out of doors with his brushes; soon he -found himself restless during the morning, impatient to return to the -hotel. And he did not know he was in love with her. It did not occur -to him as possible he could be in love with her. He had absolutely no -suspicion. - -It was still more extraordinary because he had so often thought he was -in love, and gloried in being so; when we are very young, half the -pleasure of being miserable about a girl consists of exciting comment, -and pretending to be offended by it. Yet no idea of falling in love -with Mrs. Adaile had crossed his mind. Perhaps it was because she was -married. Perhaps it was because he was for the first time really in -love. - -Through most of the stages the boy went without an inkling of his -complaint. One day his father said to him, "You've caught it very -badly, Con," and laughed a warning. The boy was startled. He went -away bewildered, and asked himself if it was true. When Mrs. Adaile -sat with him on the terrace that night he was self-conscious and husky. -For once her presence was scarcely welcome. It rather frightened him, -though he would have died sooner than admit the shameful word to -himself. - -Afterwards he did not know how it came to pass, but she used to confide -to him that her husband wasn't very kind to her. He was in London, and -she sighed when she referred to going home. Her sighs were very -plaintive, and her self-pity was sincere, but it was nothing to the -pity that overwhelmed the boy. - -"People don't guess how unhappy I am," she said to him one evening. - -"I wish I were a woman," he muttered; "I can never tell you how sorry I -am for you, and if I were a woman I could put my arms round you, and -you'd know." - -It was a beautiful thing to say, but he said it badly, because he felt -it too much to make it effective. No woman should deride a boy's love. -It is ludicrous, but it is ludicrous only because it is so genuine. He -has not learnt yet to trick the truth out. He does not know yet that -before one could make converts to the very truths of God they had to be -presented with art. - -"Have you any idea when you'll go?" she inquired. He was to travel -with a friend, who was visiting in England. - -"I may get a letter any day," he answered. - -"Are you in a hurry?" - -"No." - -"I thought you were?" - -He was dumb. - -"I've been quite loyal to you--I haven't said a word of what I think to -your people when they've talked of you." - -"I knew you wouldn't. It only needs a word to make them back out." - -"I wouldn't let you go if _I_ were your mother. Supposing I did spoil -it all for you? How you'd hate me!" - -"No, I shouldn't," he said. - -"Why? Have you changed your mind, then--don't you want to go after -all?" - -"I shouldn't hate you, because I couldn't hate you whatever you did," -he explained, haltingly. "Yes, of course I want to go, but--but I -don't want to go yet." - -They sat down, and there was a pause. In the pause, his consciousness -of her presence grew queerly acute, almost painful. - -"What's the scent you've got on?" he asked, unsteadily. - -"Chypre," she said; "do you like it?" - -She played with a ring she wore, and showed it to him. He touched the -ring--and in a tumult of the spirit was holding her hand. They sat -silent again. He knew that he ought to say something, that she was -waiting for him to say something, that his long silence was -ridiculous--and he could think of nothing to say. He was at once -tremulous with joy and faint with fear--the fear that she would -withdraw her hand before his effort had wrenched out words. - -She withdrew it. He gazed before him blankly. When he was a man, and -recalled that evening, he wondered whether the atmosphere had seemed so -much a part of his emotions at the time as it did in looking back. He -wondered whether, in his heartthrobs and his sickness, he had been -acutely conscious of the black shrubs in the moonlight, of all the soft -sounds and odours that stole up on the air. He thought not. Yet long -after her features, which he tried to vitalise, were hazy to him, he -could still see clearly the position that the two chairs had occupied, -could have sketched the terrace almost with the accuracy of a plan, and -felt the night air of Rouen in his throat. - -Presently she said: - -"The head-waiter thinks some people who came from Italy must have -brought the mosquitoes in their luggage." - -"Oh?" said the boy. - -"I believe this is a mosquito bite on my cheek," she added. "Look!" - -She turned her cheek, and leant forward. He leant forward too. Her -face had never been so close to him, his fingers craved its -softness--he only realised that, with courage, he might touch it with a -finger. And the courage was not there. - -"My hand is cold," he said, hoarsely. And afterwards, too, he used to -wonder whether he had been excusing his cowardice to himself, or to her. - -And yet it was with no abashment that he tramped his bedroom later. It -was with an exaltation that panted for vast solitudes. The whirl of -the unexpected was in his being. The marvel of her hand, the marvel -that she had let him hold her hand, uplifted him beyond belief. And -through all the turbulence of his pulses and his mind there was not a -carnal thought, not an instant's base imagining. He adored her without -desire, without reflection, without asking what he adored. - -When he was alone with her once more during some minutes he tried, -trembling, to examine the ring again. - -"No," she said gently; "it's wrong." - -And in the next few days nothing happened, one day was like another. - -Then the date of his departure was settled. He looked for her as soon -as he read the news, sought her dismayed because he was to go, and -twice unhappy because on his last evening she would be out. She was -shopping, and he met her at the corner of la Rue Thiers, where the -horlogerie is. - -"I'm going," he said; "and my chum can't stay here!" - -"Is it fixed?" Her eyes were startled. He had never known her eyes -were quite so blue. - -"Yes, he's travelling at night, and won't break the journey. I'm to be -at the station." - -At six in the morning he was to be at the station--the next morning but -one. The train reaches Rouen at an earlier hour now, but the service -was a tidal one twenty years ago. When she had scanned the letter -neither of them spoke for--it seemed a long time to him. They had -crossed the road into the Solférino Garden, and he stood beside her -with his hands thrust in his jacket pockets, staring at the little lake. - -"So we shall soon be saying 'good-bye,'" she said at last. - -He nodded miserably. "To-morrow evening about nine o'clock," he said. - -"Why so early?" - -"Have you forgotten you're going to a dance with Miss McGuire to-morrow -night? _I_ didn't forget; I thought of it directly I saw the date. -What time shall you begin to dress?" - -"You don't know me very well, Con, after all," she murmured. - -His heart leapt; he pretended not to understand what she meant. - -"Don't I?" he asked; "why not?" - -"How could you think I'd go out on your last night here?" she answered. - -"You won't go? ... Oh, Mrs. Adaile!" - -And as they moved away under the horse-chestnut blossom, it was less -dreadful to him that he was going to leave her. - -Why did she do it? It could not have been to test her power over him; -it could not have been to wound him wantonly. Who shall say why she -did it! A woman is often unable to define her motive to herself. Two -men came into the hotel after dinner--acquaintances both--and she -became engrossed by them, and sent up little peals of laughter, and -seemed to like their admiration, which was presumptuously barefaced. -He sat tongue-tied in a corner, unwittingly providing equal -entertainment for other women in the room. Though she knew he was -suffering, she threw no glance to him. And that evening the boy -entered on another stage--the stage of jealousy. - -The fires of jealousy are always horrible, and there is none they -ravage more fiercely than the lad whose torture the world finds comic. -There is none, because no man, nor woman, nor young girl in such a -pass, is so totally defenceless as a lad; to none other than a lad, -when his love is outraged, does nature forbid even the resource of -simulated dignity. His torments are intensified by the knowledge of -his ineptitude. Always present is the thought that he ought to adopt -an attitude which he is too raw to discover, and he is prostrated in -perceiving that beside his glib rival he looks ridiculous and a lout. - -After a clock had struck many times, "She makes herself too cheap," -Mrs. Van Buren said _sotto voce_, and Madame de Lavardens assented by a -grimace. The boy overheard, and got up, and wandered away. A new -misery tightened his throat, and burned behind his eyeballs. She had -been disdained! his world rocked. He was degraded, vicariously--for -her sake, degraded that his Ideal should afford these people the -opportunity to disparage her. Resentment beat in him; he longed to -vindicate, to lay down his life for her--and knew himself a cipher, and -that the tempest in his soul would be thought absurd. Disdained! It -was paramount, bitterest. The humiliation of neglect dwindled; all his -pain, all his consciousness was the hurricane of humiliation that he -felt for _her_. - -"If you weren't so young I should think you were trying to insult me, -Conrad. Please don't speak to me any more," she said next morning, -when he had made tactless, seventeen-year-old reproaches to her. - -Her voice and gaze were cold, as if he were a stranger. She rose and -left him. The grace of the slender figure had no mercy in it as he -watched. The sun was streaming, and the birds chirped loud, and he -thought his heart was broken as he watched. He sat looking the way -that she had gone for long after the terrace was bare. And heavy hours -passed emptily, and he was still bereft. And it was his last day here. - -Half of it was lost when wretchedness waylaid her at a door. "I'm -sorry," he gulped. She bent her head, and moved by him without -speaking. In the group about the tea-table she was no gentler. The -glare of sunshine mellowed. His father claimed him, and talked with -unusual earnestness of ambition and of life; his mother wrapt his arm -about her waist, and was pathetic and confident by turn. In the -chatter of the salon he heard that Mrs. Adaile was going to the dance. -From herself he had still no word or look. The flush in the sky faded. -A relentless star peered forth. And it was his last day here. - -She went. Until the final minutes he could not feel that she would go, -could not believe it until he saw her in the triumphant cruelty of her -ball gown with the lilies at her dazzling breast--saw her giddily with -the long gloves and the fan in her hands. - -The room was full of animation, of movement. The boy sat mute, his -gaze fastened on her face. The fiacre grated to the curb. Miss -McGuire asked her if she was ready. "Yes, I'm ready." Colonel Van -Buren put the cape about her shoulders. She turned carelessly, her -hand outstretched: "Well, I'll say 'good-bye,' Con; you've all my good -wishes." "Good-bye, Mrs. Adaile," he faltered. His eyes implored her, -but her touch was fleeting. The fiacre rattled--she had gone. - -And upon the hotel fell a profound and deathly silence. He heard -nothing. Damp he was, and blind. - -He had seen her for the last time. He kept saying it. It seemed -unreal--an impossible thing--though the harrowing of it was so actual. -His mind wouldn't seize it, even while the weight of it was grinding -his youth. - -For the last time! Outside, he bit hard upon his nether lip, to check -its silly quivering. A myriad stars glittered over Rouen now; a breeze -was blowing across the river. There was a roll of wheels approaching. -Foolish as he knew the hope to be, he waited strained till they rolled -past. At the piano Miss Digby-Smith was playing Ascher's "Alice." His -mother joined him, and sat there with him--and scarcely spoke. She -took his hand. He thought she didn't guess. - -"It's late, Con," she said at last. "Hadn't you better go to bed?" - -"I'm not tired," said the boy. - -"You'll come to my room as soon as you're dressed in the morning?" - -"You won't be able to go to sleep again." - -"I want you to. Your father's going to the station with you, do you -know?" - -"Yes, he told me ... What time"--the indifference of his tone!--"what -time do you think Miss McGuire and--er--Mrs. Adaile will be back?" - -"Not for hours yet," she said; "I daresay it will be three or four -o'clock." She looked away from him. He thought she didn't guess! - -Presently the lights were turned out. People said "good-night," and -bade him "good-bye." But for very shame he would have sat alone in the -salon till it was time for him to start--sat there just to see the -woman pass through the hall. - -In his bed he listened--he lay in the darkness listening, holding his -breath. He wanted to hear her come home; to hear her would be -something. The wind was rising, and alternately it tricked and -terrorised him; he trembled lest a gust should drown the faint stir of -her return. It was a long, long while that he had listened. Sleep -pressed upon his eyelids, but he would not yield. Once it was -mastering him, and he twitched to wide wakefulness in the guilty fear -that he had missed her. - -The blustering wind, and the clock of St. Ouen made the only sounds. - -He saw the door opening with the dim notion that he was being called -too soon. For a mere vague moment, which seemed dishonour to him in -the next, he beheld without realising her. He raised himself slowly on -his elbows, and it thrilled through him that she was moving to his side. - -"I've come to say 'good-bye' to you, Con." - -"Mrs. Adaile!" The name was all that he could whisper. "Oh, Mrs. -Adaile!" - -"I've been horrid to you. Haven't I?" - -"No, no," he said strenuously, "it was I; I want to beg your pardon. -Forgive me! Oh, you do forgive me, don't you? It's been awful." - -Her hands were swift and live; he held them fast. The ghostliness of -daybreak was in the room. In the pallor she sat at the edge of the -bed, the ball gown wan, and the faded lilies drooping at her breast. -Being so young, he was shy that his hair was on end and the collar of -his nightshirt crumpled. - -"I'm sorry," she said; "I've been sorry all the night." - -Her penitence started his tears, and blinking wouldn't keep them back. -He wanted to smear them away, but he didn't want to let go her hands. -He turned his head. He was ashamed--but less ashamed than he would -have expected--that she should see him blub. - -"Don't!" she said, and he had never heard that note before. "You'll -make me hate myself." - -"I love you," he exclaimed, "I love you." - -"Sh! You mustn't say that, Con," she murmured. - -"I love you, I love you," cried the boy. - -"I know," she said, "I know you do." - -And, wonderfully, there was nothing wonderful to his mind that he had -owned it to her. At the instant there was nothing but perfect peace. - -"You've made me so happy," he breathed. - -Afterwards that sounded to her a little funny, but as she heard him say -it she thought it only strange and beautiful. Something tenderer than -liking, something graver came into her gaze as she looked down at him. - -"I've not been a nice woman to you, Con," she said. "One day you'll -think so." - -"I shall never think so," he vowed, "never. I deserved you should -punish me." - -But that wasn't what she had meant. "You will think so." She nodded. -"Only you won't mind then, because you'll laugh at it all." - -"You're cruel," he choked. "Because I'm not a man you think I can't -love you really. No man could love you better than I do. If I could -only tell you what I feel! I'd die for you, I'd do anything for you. -Oh, Mrs. Adaile, I shall never see you any more--for God's sake let me -kiss you once!" - -Quick as her compassion was, the misgiving of a boy was quicker--in the -dizzy second that he saw her bending to him he wondered how he ought to -hold her. Then her bosom fell upon his breathlessness, and he went to -Heaven against her lips. - -"I must go," she said, freeing herself. - -"Oh, don't," he begged, "not yet." - -"I must; I oughtn't to have come up." - -"What shall I do?" he groaned. "Oh, it's awful to be leaving you!" - -"I wish I hadn't made you fond of me," she sighed. - -"You didn't; you couldn't help it. But what shall I do? My life's no -good to me; I shall be thinking of you, and longing for you when you've -forgotten all about me." - -She smoothed the ruffled hair. - -"Think of me sometimes when you've got over it," she said; "think of me -when you're going to do anything that isn't worthy of you now." - -"I shall be true to you as long as I live," said the boy, -understanding. "Mrs. Adaile----" - -It was odd to her ear that he called her that a moment after she had -been in his arms. "What?" she asked. - -"When you go down to breakfast, _I_ shall be in Paris." - -"Yes," she said. - -"Shall you read the papers by the window this morning?" - -"Do you want me to?" - -"Yes--I should be able to know where you were." - -"I will then." - -"I shall be imagining you all the time.... What shall you do this -evening?" - -"Reproach myself," she said. - -"No, you mustn't; what for? Will you think of me?" - -"Yes. After dinner I'll go on the terrace, Con, and I'll sit there -alone, wondering what you're doing, and thinking of--just now. -And--well, perhaps I'll say a little prayer for you. I _must_ go now. -Say 'good-bye' to me." - -"I can't," he gasped, "I can't." - -"Con, I must." - -"Give me something," he stammered; "give me something you've got on." - -She broke off a handful of the flowers they had crushed, and, stooping, -took his strained face between her palms, and kissed him twice--once on -the lips, and, by impulse, on the brow. Then she opened the door -cautiously. She smiled back at him, and stole away into the passage. -And in the loneliness she left behind her, the boy lay kissing her -lilies, and sobbing with his great despair. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -Across twenty years a man made an obeisance to a woman for risking what -she had risked that she might comfort a boy's pain. Conrad got up from -the club chair and crossed over to the bookcase. He pulled out the -Post Office Directory--and it sprawled open on the top shelf. Would he -find the name under "A?" ... "Grice Ewart Adaile, M.P., 62 Norfolk -Street, Park Lane." And she? Was she alive? could she be there, so -close to him as that? - -He mourned to think how different she must be to-day. The woman had -changed, and the boy had changed, and though he didn't know it, the -town had changed the most. The ubiquitous rush and whir of electric -trams, the ceaseless clangour of their bells beating through the brain, -had turned peace into a pandemonium. Rouen had acquired all the noise -of New York without any of its gaiety. Telegraph wires and telephone -wires spanned the tops of the churches, and a mesh-work of iron ropes -obscured the sky. - -He strolled to Norfolk Street the next afternoon. There was a half -hope in his mind of finding a carriage at the door waiting to take the -lady for her drive. If Mrs. Adaile came out--Oh, if Mrs. Adaile came -out he would be well repaid; it would be exciting to recognise her, -although she wouldn't recognise him! - -But she did not come out. The door was shut fast, and no familiar face -happened to gaze pensively over the window boxes. He was disappointed. -In the evening he went to another theatre. The hero of the comedy was -supposed to be a man of his own age, and talked about himself as if he -were a centenarian. He said he was thirty-seven and had "lived his -life," and he called the heroine "Child." His hair was silvered at the -temples, and he depressed Conrad exceedingly. - -The situation of Norfolk Street was so convenient, however, that Conrad -took to passing through it rather often. And though he was old enough -to know better, he certainly looked young enough to be the hero's son. -One day he found the windows of No. 62 blank behind shutters. So the -family had left town! He sauntered on, and hesitated, and went back. -Here was an opportunity to ascertain what he wanted to know. He rang -the bell, and asked a solemn functionary when Mrs. Adaile was expected -home. - -"I can't say, sir," said the man; "Mrs. Adaile is on the Continent." - -"Oh," said Conrad, with a heart-prank. She did live! He -vacillated--and obeyed a second impulse; "Can you give me Mrs. Adaile's -address?" - -The solemn person noted the pearl in the stranger's tie, the silk -lining of the coat he unbuttoned, and the direction in which his hand -was travelling. Mrs. Adaile was in Ostend. "Thenk you, sir." He -named the hotel, and Conrad proceeded to Piccadilly enamoured of -temptation. How tired he was of London! In any case he would go away; -why shouldn't he go to Ostend? He had never been there--and he might -sit next to her at dinner. It would be an absurdity of course, but---- - -The hero of thirty-seven with hair silvered at the temples, admonished -him from every hoarding and he took a hansom to avoid his sedate -contemporary's reproof. Entering the club, he walked through an avenue -of decorators' ladders; the smoking-room was full of paint and pails. -What could be more absurd than to remain in town? - -He winced as it occurred to him that Adaile might have been married -twice. Supposing the "Mrs. Adaile" in Ostend proved to be a stranger, -an unfamiliar person profaning a hallowed name? How complete a fool he -would feel when he arrived! But he would not dwell on that -contingency. "Far fetched," he said. Even a fate that showered -disappointments as freely as if they were confetti must draw the line -somewhere. - -He was among the tourists, and the luggage-thieves at Charing Cross by -ten o'clock next morning. When he reached Ostend it was a fine -afternoon, and the town was baking. By comparison London had been -pleasant, so a multitude of Londoners had flocked to Ostend. With -trepidation he beheld the hotel that sheltered her--what if he were -unable to obtain a room in it? But no--so far, so good. Fate was, -perhaps, napping in the heat--a room was to be had. He washed his face -in No. 17 victoriously, and overlooked the scarlet geraniums, and the -Faience fountain, glistening in a grass plot, and the red-striped -sun-umbrellas that sprouted through the little tables. Nobody was -visible among the basket chairs. A starling's twittering in a lilac -bush, was the only voice. The number of his room chimed with his -mood--a happy coincidence. To the manager's mind, at least, he was -"seventeen" again. Again he stood in an hotel bedroom preparing to -join her downstairs! Had she changed _very_ much? - -Presently he wandered into the salon, and lounged round the -reading-room. Everywhere it was unpromisingly quiet. A hint of siesta -pervaded the hotel. Should he go out? He sauntered through the hall, -but the dazzle of the Plage blistering in the glare made his eyes ache. -He went back to the shade, and ruffled newspapers, and smoked -cigarettes. A child came into the scorching courtyard that was called -a "garden," and hopped round on one leg, and said to another child, -"Can you do that?" The starling twittered imperturbably. Who said -Ostend was gay? - -Benighted male! the women weren't asleep, they were all changing their -frocks again. When he woke he had missed one of the sights of the -day--the "creations" that vie with another between five o'clock and -seven. A gong was booming. Only the first gong. Good! There was -time for him to dress before the room began to fill. He sought the -head-waiter, and inquired if a place facing the door could be arranged. -The headwaiter had house property, and two sons at college, but he was -the urbanest of head-waiters. A novice tips the servants when he -leaves an hotel, and, if he is a generous novice, pays for attention -which he hasn't received; a traveller of experience tips them when he -arrives, and gets the liver wing and a seat by the window. - -The second gong was still reverberating when No. 17 descended to -dinner. The urbanest of head-waiters hovered on the threshold. For -scrutinising the company Conrad had scarcely time to glance at the -menu. The doorway was as dazzling as the Plage had been: a -cinematograph of toilettes, a succession of audacities--only clusters -of diamonds seemed to keep some of the bodices up. Man formed a -shifting background to an exhibition of jewels, a pageant of skirts and -breasts. Still more gowns. The humming room was the apotheosis of -Clothes--until the women sat down, and then it was the apotheosis of -Bosom. - -She came in late. She wore white satin, embroidered in silver, and a -"collar" of emeralds. He recognised her at once. There was no -hesitation in his mind--he had expected to hesitate--he knew her the -instant she appeared. She had altered certainly--even pathetically; -the girl of twenty years ago was lost; but in the flash of the moment -the difference in her face startled him less than the difference in her -figure. A shade too stout. Yes, a shade too stout for his taste! -And--and _had_ her hair been copper colour in Rouen? - -But a pretty woman, nobody could deny it. She didn't look a day more -than thirty-five--might pass for thirty now the rose glow of the lamps -was on her! ... Well--almost! - -Her table was well in view. She was with another woman--perhaps -younger, a brunette, vivacious--and an elderly man with projecting -teeth, and eyes like a fish. Adaile? How grotesque he must have -looked making love! He had a nose as long as the one in Blake's -portrait of the man who built the Pyramids. And he used to be unkind -to her!--one could read that he was a cold-blooded, unappreciative -stick.... Now he was talking to her. On second thoughts, perhaps he -wasn't her husband--he displayed the projecting teeth to her in so many -smiles. The other woman's husband then! Quite a good chap in his way, -no doubt. He was doing them very well in the matter of wine. - -Would there be a chance to speak to her to-night? Abominably hard -lines if he had to wait till to-morrow, but he wanted to find her -alone--in the garden, for preference, in the moonlight.... -No--no--thirty-five; but no more, not an hour. How beautiful she _used -to be_! She didn't know she was sitting in the room with a man she had -kissed. Rather an amusing reflection that! ... Scores of men in the -room, though; perhaps she did. How sick he would have felt to think so -once! Where was the splendid jealousy he ought to feel this evening? - - "'Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses - On the old banks of the Nile!'" - - -He made his coffee last till the party got up, and then followed them -to the salon. The salon did not keep them--they drifted to the hall. -They disappeared. The hall was a bevy of women who had been upstairs -to put on hats, and were desiring to be taken to the Kursaal. "Poppa" -was in constant demand. Conrad observed that all the family men seemed -inclined to loll where they were, and that all the unaccompanied men -made sprightly departures. In the concert-room he found her again, but -he didn't find his opportunity. To be sure, he had hardly expected one -there. Still he felt rather hipped the last thing at night as he sat -among a crowd, and the popping of champagne corks, in a buffet where -the casks were utilised as seats, and the ladies' toilettes were as -gorgeous--and as modest--as the ladies' toilettes in the hotel. - -In the morning he met her coming back from the sands with an enormous -sunshade, in the "early bath" costume; and he met her later wearing a -picture hat in the "after bath" costume: also he saw her in the costume -she put on when _déjeuner_ was over--and still she was unapproachable. -If she proved too elusive, he'd be tempted to swim after her next day -and try his luck in the water. But could he be sentimental with his -hair dripping? And even in Ostend it wouldn't be--Oh, in the wrong key -altogether! - -She was scribbling on a picture postcard at one of the little writing -tables, and there was nobody else there. - -"May I remind Mrs. Adaile that I have had the happiness of being -presented to her?" - -She turned her head, and there was approval in the lady's gaze. There -was, however, not a scintilla of recognition in it. - -"My name is Warrener," he said. - -"Oh yes," she murmured; "I'm so short-sighted----how d'ye do?" But he -saw that she was twenty years away from knowing who he was. - -"This is tremendously nice of you," he exclaimed; "I was afraid you -wouldn't remember me." - -"How absurd!" she said perfunctorily. "Why shouldn't I? We met -at----?" - -"But so long ago. I _was_ afraid, really. I've been warning myself -that you couldn't be expected to remember--and yet I knew I should be -so pained if you forgot." - -She made a little amiable movement of her hands. He understood it to -signify that his doubts had done injustice to them both. Inwardly he -laughed. - -"Is your husband in Ostend, Mrs. Adaile?" - -"No," she said, "no, he's in the Tyrol--Innsbruck. I'm here with my -sister and my brother-in-law. You know them, don't you?" - -"No, I've never had the pleasure. They weren't with you there." - -"Ah, no," she said, "no, they weren't.... Ostend is very dull this -year, don't you think?" - -"I've found it very exciting; I saw you yesterday at dinner, and I've -been trying to meet your eyes ever since." - -"Really?" said the lady. She allowed him to meet them, and looked -away, her expression vacillating between a pucker and a smile. - -"My courage wasn't equal to risking a snub from you publicly, and you -were never alone. You balked me last night, you escaped me this -morning, and you drove me to desperation this afternoon. I ought to -have known you wouldn't forget, but I always had misgivings, hadn't I?" - -"Had you?" she said. The pucker was getting the upper hand. She -played with the postcard. - -"Confess!" said Conrad. - -"I remember you perfectly," she insisted with transparent hypocrisy, -"but just for the moment I'm fogged where it was we met." - -"Will it help me if I mention Normandy?" - -"Normandy?" she echoed vaguely. - -"Rouen--the Hôtel Britannique--a boy who was called 'Con.'" - -"Con?" she cried. And the smile had things all its own way with her; -for an instant the spirit of his youth flashed so close that he nearly -captured it. "You are 'Con?'" - -"Still," he affirmed earnestly. "And you are still--Mrs. Adaile." - -"You are Con," she repeated, wondering, "that boy! And did you -remember me directly you saw me last night?" - -"No--I've remembered you all the time." - -"Ah," she laughed reproval, "what a long while ago that makes it -seem!--the boy never told me pretty falsehoods." - -"The boy never told you half the truth; he was a very backward boy." - -"If we are to be friends you mustn't run him down, Mr. Warrener," she -said; "I was very fond of Con.... 'Rouen!' Have you ever been there -since?" - -"No; I was abroad for years--out of Europe, I mean." - -"You were going to be an artist?" - -"I hoped to be." - -"Aren't you?" - -"No; I haven't the artist's temperament--I'm too constant." - -She regarded the postcard on the table again, and he did justice to her -eyelashes. - -"Ostend is going down dreadfully, isn't it?" she remarked. "All the -ridiculous people who have just got titles have brought them here. -We're leaving on Thursday." - -He sighed. - -"Don't be foolish," she said, not too flippantly. - -"Ah," said Conrad now, "what a long while ago that makes it seem!--the -boy was not told he was foolish." - -"No one could be so unkind to him--and he wasn't." - -"You'll make me jealous of that boy before you've done. Don't you -believe you could?" - -"I don't know what you mean," she declared. - -"You used to take _him_ seriously." - -"Oh yes, we were capital friends." - -"Did he deserve your friendship more than I?" - -"You're absurd," she smiled. Her eyes were as blue as they had been in -the Solférino Garden. He looked into them, wishing he could feel the -despair that had been his that radiant morning. - -"Is a wretched boy you only knew for a few weeks to be privileged above -a man who has thought of you for years?" Within an ace he had said -"for twenty years," but the blunder was nipped in time. - -"You mean 'hours,'" she said. "We dined last night at eight -o'clock--it's just four now." - -"You don't believe me--you think I'm making the most of a happy -accident? What if I gave you a conclusive, an overwhelming proof?" - -"A proof of what?" - -"Of what? That I am constancy itself! Supposing I told you that my -only reason for coming here was to see you again. What would you say -to that?" - -"I hope I should answer quite politely," she murmured. - -"Ah, you didn't doubt me once!" he exclaimed with grave reproach. - -"You didn't tell such tarra-diddles once," she urged. - -"I came here simply and solely to see you. Look at me. Will you give -me your hand?--I want to repeat it solemnly." She glanced at the door, -and yielded him her hand. It was very soft and agreeable to hold; he -continued with no undue haste: "Now, holding your hand, and with my -eyes meeting yours, I say that I came here to see you--for no one, and -nothing else--that I had no idea of coming to the place till I knew you -were here. That isn't all!" he detained her hand gently. "For an age -I have been trying to see you. I knew none of your friends--it was -awfully difficult for me. Could I call upon you and begin 'Once upon a -time?' Should I write to you? You might read my note in the wrong -mood. Oh, I tell you I racked my brains! That isn't all!"--her hand -had been retreating again. "The day before yesterday as I passed your -house--No. 62; you have window boxes, the flowers are calceolarias and -marguerites this season--the day before yesterday as I passed, I saw -the shutters were closed. I rang the bell. I deceived your servant, I -led him to imagine you--you would be glad to welcome me. I wormed your -address from him and threw myself onto the boat rejoicing. That isn't -all----" - -She drew the hand free, nevertheless, and realising that it wasn't -coming back to him yet, he concluded, "But it is enough to show you -that you've been cruel." - -At this moment they were interrupted, and she said, "Oh, let me--Mr. -Warrener, my sister, Lady Bletchworth." - -"How d' ye do," said Lady Bletchworth. "Ostend is very dull this year, -don't you think?" - -"I've just said that," Mrs. Adaile told her. - -"It doesn't matter," said Lady Bletchworth. "It's a very good opening -remark, and I make it to everybody." - -"Won't you put me up to the correct answer?" asked Conrad; "I've only -just come, and I should like to catch the tone." - -"Most of them say, 'Oh, my _dear_!'" she replied; "but our latest -novelty is, '_South_end! What?'" - -"Mr. Warrener's people and I used to be very chummy ages ago," said -Mrs. Adaile. "I am afraid to inquire, Mr. Warrener?" - -"No," he said, "I--I am alone." - -"He was quite nice in those days," she added to her sister. - -"What has spoilt you, Mr. Warrener?" - -"I find my world so sceptical, Lady Bletchworth." - -"Not here," she said; "they can even believe Ostend is smart. Can you -do a sum? If 'it takes three generations to make a gentleman,' how -many shops does it take to make a knight?" - -"One: England," said Conrad. - -"I don't believe he's spoilt after all, Joan," said Lady Bletchworth. -"There's hope for him yet." - -"It's much too early to say _that_," murmured Mrs. Adaile. But the -glance she cast at him was not discouraging. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -The rest of the afternoon promised nothing, so Conrad bought "Le -Marquis de Priola" to kill time. It passed away so peacefully that he -was surprised when he found it was dead. - -After dinner he saw the two women on a lounge, and they moved their -skirts for him, and commented on the visitors. There was the Earl of -Armoury, wearing a stud as big as a brooch, and a Malmaison the size of -a saucer. He made grimaces like Arthur Roberts, and when he sang "Pip, -pip! the Lodger and the Twins," Society found him as funny as Harry -Randall. As everybody knows, the Duke of Merstham married Flossie -Coburg from the music halls; the heir had inherited his mother's gift. -"The best of it," said Lady Bletchworth, "is that his mother herself -has become too prim for words since she has been respectable. She asks -bishops to dinner, and does her hair in plain bands. Heredity is her -cross! Oh," she went on, "you'll meet all the world and his -wife--Ostend-sibly. A man brought his wife to the hotel last week, and -when he went upstairs to bed she wasn't there. After he had searched -high and low for her he went to the bureau, and asked the clerk if he -could tell him where she was. The clerk hadn't an idea, but said that -a married lady came to him a little while ago in a fix--she didn't know -the number of her room, and she had forgotten the name of her husband. -Please don't smile, I was terribly shocked myself." - -Conrad didn't say that the story was not original, and had been told -about town six months before. - -Then Lord Bletchworth drifted to them, and was tedious. Lord -Bletchworth twaddled ponderously. He considered there was a lot of -disgraceful bosh being printed about the Service, and the Country at -large, in the papers just now. My dear sir, an Englishman who had the -interests of England at heart would hold his tongue while she slid down -hill, and silently watch her bump to the bottom. That wasn't how he -put it, but it was the gist of what he said. He added that the battle -of Waterloo had been won on the playing fields of Eton, and he seemed -as satisfied with Waterloo as if it were situated in the Transvaal. - -However, he had his uses--he walked with his wife when they went to the -Kursaal, and left Conrad with Mrs. Adaile. - -"How quiet you've become," she said. - -"I am asking myself what to say to you." - -"Do you find me so hard to talk to?" - -"I find you so hard to convince." - -"Why try to convince me?" - -"Why did I come to Ostend?" - -"Oh, that was a pretty tale," she said. "It wasn't true, really, was -it?" - -"You know it was true. I've looked forward to meeting you again for -years. I can't tell you how fond I was of you. You're the only woman -I've ever cared for." - -"You were a child." - -"And now I'm a man--doesn't that show, doesn't it prove? Is it nothing -to think of a woman so long as I've thought of you? What other man -could say to you what _I_ can say?" - -"But you _mustn't_ say it," she smiled--it cannot be written that she -"forbade." - -"Is your life so full," he asked, "that you have no room for my love?" - -"Mr. Warrener, but really----" - -"You hurt me," he said. "What have I done since we parted, to become -'Mr. Warrener' to you?" - -"Are we going to sit on the terrace," said Lord Bletchworth, looking -back, "or are we going inside? Mr. Warrener, you play, perhaps?" - -"No," said Conrad, "I haven't played here. I don't care much about it -anyhow." - -"Let's sit down outside," said Lady Bletchworth. "It's so hot in -there." - -On the terrace it was very agreeable. The orchestra did not sound too -insistent, and they found chairs where they could watch the people -promenade without being inconvenienced by them. Extremes meet, and -Ostend is their meeting-place. Only a light railing divides the -fashionable world, and the half world from the world that works. On -one side plod a humble flock of wearied trippers, who have had tea "As -nice as mother makes it," in a sweltering shop at the back of the town. -Among the shell pin-cushions, the franc souvenirs, they have had tea. -All the evening they pass and repass with flagging feet, wishing they -had chosen Margate. On the other side, women who were born in the same -class trail Paquin's gowns. On the necks of some there are flowers -that have cost as much as a tripper's holiday; a diamond in an ear is -worth more than the price of a tripper's home. And Maggie from -Dalston, with three tired children clinging to her ten-and-sixpenny -skirt, gazes across that slender rail, and thinks. And her thoughts -might be unpleasant to hear. - -A really extraordinary thing was that no one but Conrad seemed aware -that the railing bisected two worlds and a half. As for Conrad his -reflections engrossed him so much that he quite forgot to attend to -Mrs. Adaile. Only when he chanced to notice she was looking pensive in -the starlight did it occur to him that he was ignoring a situation by -which he ought to be thrilled. - -For here they were. The stars were twinkling, the waves were -murmuring, the lady was waiting. It was true her sister and -Bletchworth were in the way, but even allowing for their presence this -should mean emotion. Where was it? On the terrace while he made small -talk, and on the Plage when they strolled back, and as he smoked his -last cigar that night in the garden, the question in Conrad's mind was -insistently "Where is the emotion?" - -Because she was still an attractive woman, and he perceived it. He was -even making love to her--to _her_, to Mrs. Adaile!--and she was not -adamant. What had happened to him? Where were his transports, the -spiritual whirlwinds, where was everything that he had travelled to -recover? - -She had a whim to do fancy work in the salon next day during the hour -when the women changed their déjeuner dresses for the -five-o'clock-to-seven costumes. He had met her as she was passing his -door--their rooms were in the same passage--and they had gone -downstairs together. - -"You've told me nothing of your life since we used to know each other," -he said, playing with a thimble. - -"What would you like me to tell you?" - -"You used to tell me a good deal--if I am privileged to remember it." - -"I'm afraid I did. How I must have bored you! It was rather a shame. -But I was in my egotistical stage, and you listened with such big -eyes--Con." - -"Thank you," said Conrad. "But I wasn't bored. And you weren't an -egotist--you were the sweetest woman I've ever met. I was awfully -sorry for you--so sorry! Only a cub's sympathy, but you've had none -truer from anyone." - -"You were a nice boy--I've thought about you sometimes. Are the -scissors there? Do look." - -"If a woman knows when she is really loved, you should have thought -about me very often," he answered, giving them to her. "Are you -happier than you were?" - -"Let us say I don't worry so much about being unhappy. I suppose it -amounts to the same thing." She sighed--and smiled. "Would you do -this leaf green, or yellow?" - -"I shouldn't do it at all," he said. "Put it down and talk to me. I -remember once when you were telling me your troubles, you cried. It -was one afternoon on the terrace; you had on a pale blue frock, and a -big floppy hat. I'd have given my life to kiss you at that moment." - -"You mustn't say these things to me," she faltered. She said it more -gravely than on the Plage; she was not smiling now, and she lowered her -eyes--he knew that he might seize her hands. - -"I've waited for you so long," he exclaimed. "Joan, be kind to me!" - -But his heart did not thud in her silence. He held her hands fast; the -doyley she was making had fallen to the couch. - -At last she murmured, still looking down, "How can you care for me? -We've only just met." - -"I've cared for you ever since. If you knew how I worshipped you--if -you knew what I suffered when you were vexed with me! That night you -sat talking to those men, and the next morning when you were -offended--I remember what I felt as if it were a month ago. I remember -what you said as you turned away, and how I sat watching, praying that -you'd come back. And then I waited at the door, and begged your -pardon, and you wouldn't forgive me. I've relived it all so often. I -did love you, darling, I did, I did! ... It sounds idiotic: there was a -song of yours, 'To-day, to-day our dream is over--To-day the waking -cold and grey'; I learnt to strum the refrain there to--to make me feel -nearer to you when I had gone. Since I've been a man I've strummed -that refrain a hundred times, and longed for you--I was strumming it -years after you had forgotten you ever sang it. I've thought about you -sometimes till my boyhood has been alive in me, trembling. If Faust's -chance could have come to me in any year since we parted, I'd have said -'Let me be seventeen again in Rouen.'" - -"The past is always beautiful. I made you very wretched, though." - -"But you liked me a little. Heaven knows why I--I was a fool. Still -you did." - -"Perhaps it was because you were a 'fool' that I was foolish. That's -all over." She drew her hands from his clasp. - -"It isn't over," he said. "You sha'n't say it's over. The present may -be as beautiful as the past." - -She shook her head; "Can we work miracles? Can I make myself a girl -again, or you a boy?" - -"Yes, if you've not forgotten what you felt for me. If the memories -are not all mine, you can even do that. You see I'm a fool still; I--I -half hoped that you'd remember.... Joan, 'you were not once so wise!'" - -"Ah!" she said. "If I were younger now--or if you had been older -then--who knows?" - -"Could you sing that song still?" he asked. "Listen." He opened the -piano, and played a few bars. "Can you?" - -"Oh!" She forced a laugh. "It was too long ago. And what a song -besides!" - -"Try," he pleaded. "Try it!" - -"I can't remember the words," she murmured - -"The words?-- - - 'You tell me, Love, that I'll forget you-- - I own it, in our last "good-bye,"' - -I'd be so grateful. Please!" - -"How does it go on?" - -"It goes on-- - - 'Our dream has been too sweet to let you - Remember that I spoke a lie.'" - - -"Oh yes," she said, coming forward. She hummed. "Let me see!-- - - 'I know the years will crowd above you, - I know despair must fade away; - But here and now I know I love you, - I love you--and we part--to-day.' - -Is that it?" - -"That's it; and then there's what I was playing-- - - 'To-day, to-day our dream is over, - To-day the waking, cold and grey.'" - - -She nodded; "Yes, yes-- - - 'What care I Time will--' - -something, what is it?-- - - 'The throes that rend my heart to-day?' - -Well, I'll try, but I'm sure I sha'n't be able to. I haven't heard it -for years." - -Then she sat down, and began it; and he shut his eyes and tried to -think he was seventeen and she was twenty. - -The music stopped short. "I knew it would be a failure! It's gone. -It was too long ago," she repeated. - -"It was yesterday!" he cried, and caught her in his arms as she got up. - -For a second she held him back from her, regarding him curiously. -Regret, tenderness, irony were mingled in the gaze she bent on him. -Like him she mourned for what had perished; like him she sought to -delude herself that it bloomed anew.... "It's absurd," she said, and -drooped to him with a kiss. - -As they moved apart, both were disappointed. The man thought, "I have -spoilt my memory of her kiss to me in Rouen." - -"I adore you," he said mechanically. - -The woman's smile was enigmatic as she left him. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -"Are you heartless?" he continued; "have you no pity for me?" - -It was the next evening. They were sitting among the basket chairs and -the dinner dresses in the garden, and there was no one inconveniently -near. Lady Bletchworth had gone inside a few minutes before. A warm -breeze bore strains of Chopin to them from the _Kursaal_; the little -fountain plashed languidly, and a full moon had been assisting Conrad -to deceive himself. - -"I am not heartless," returned Mrs. Adaile, "I am sensible. And--there -are a thousand reasons." - -"For one thing?" - -"For one thing.... I don't want romance--I want comedy. I want to -laugh with you, my dear Con, not to be serious." - -This was difficult to answer, for he could not offer to laugh at his -grand passion. He sighed. - -"Besides," she went on, "I couldn't make you happy. It isn't in my -power--you don't really care for me. You are in love with a memory, -not with me. I'm no longer the woman you fell in love with. I've -changed. Really I didn't know how much I had changed till you came -here, I must like you very much to want to talk to you--because you -make me feel elderly, you do indeed." - -"You're unjust," he exclaimed--and he was genuinely distressed. "Not -care for you? You don't believe it, you can't believe that. I swear -to you----" - -"No, don't," she said. "I can imagine all you would say. Haven't I -listened to you? Haven't I even ... tried to make illusions for -myself? You talk of what you felt for me, not of what you feel. You -don't know it, but you rave to me about what I was, not about what I -am. You remember the hat and the frock I had on twenty years ago--can -you tell me what I wore last night?" - -"Is such constancy nothing?" he cried hastily. - -"It would be irresistible," she said, "if you could find the girl that -you've been constant to. But she doesn't live, Con--she's gone. _I_ -am such a different person from the girl you've looked for that--that -I've even felt a tiny bit jealous sometimes of your rhapsodies to me -about her. Well? I'm being quite frank with you, you see. It's -pathetic, I think. There have been moments when I've listened to you -and felt a little pained because you seemed to forget all about me.... -I am hurting you?" - -"You hurt me," said Conrad, "because for the first time I realise you -_are_ different from the girl I've looked for. Till now I've felt that -I was with her again." - -"That's nice of you, but it isn't true. Oh, I like you for saying it, -of course.... If you had felt it really----" - -"Go on." - -"No, what for? I should only make you unhappier." - -"You want comedy?" he demurred; "you have said the saddest things a -woman ever said to me!" - -She raised a white shoulder--with a laugh; "I never get what I want!" - -"It should have taught you to feel for me, but you are not 'wondrous -kind.'" - -"Oh, I am more to be pitied than you are! What have I got in my life? -Friends? Yes--to play bridge with. My husband? He delivers speeches -on local option, and climbs mountains. Both make me deadly tired. I -used to go in for music--'God save the King' is the only tune he knows -when he hears it, and he only knows that because the men take their -hats off. I was interested in my house at the beginning--after you've -quarrelled in your house every day for years it doesn't absorb you to -make the mantelpiece look pretty. I wanted a child--well, my sister -has seven! ... Voilà my autobiography up to date." - -"There is to-morrow," said Conrad, moved. - -"To-morrow you must give me the comedy," she smiled; "and the morning -after, I go to the Highlands--and big men will shoot little birds, and -think it's 'sport.' Did you ever see a sparrow die? I watched one -once. It was human. Like a child! ... Come on, come on, let's go out!" - -And behold another woman! She had been wise, and dejected him; now she -was unwise, to make amends. Behold a myriad women in one. Before half -an hour had passed she had told him her philosophy was a puff ball, -that she had prated reason only to be reasoned with. And she told him -so without a word about it--said so by the modulation of her voice -while they talked trifles. - -And Conrad? Conrad had been scrambling to the point of friendship, and -he slipped back to folly. Conrad strove to forget that discomfiting -phrase, "You are in love with a memory, not with me." It made the -folly so difficult. - -He could not succeed in forgetting it. It was in his mind next day, -coldly a fact. Yes, he was making love to Mrs. Adaile because she was -Mrs. Adaile, not because she was a charming woman. He knew that if -they hadn't met before he came to Ostend, he might have admired her, -tried to know her, grown to like her, but that he would never have said -to her what he had said. Nor wished to say it. - -Yet there was the regnant truth that it was she. She had the -fascination of sharing with him his dearest, his sweetest remembrances; -the radiance of the past still tinged her--in her keeping lay the -wonder of his youth. - -So they ate Neapolitan ices in the morning, and she brought down the -doyley in the afternoon, and they listened to Chopin again in the -evening. - -It was the last evening. The Bletchworths and she were leaving early -on the morrow, and he was unlikely to be alone with her again before -she went. - -"I wish you weren't going," he said. "How horribly I shall miss you! -I sha'n't stop here. Why aren't you going to Homburg, instead of to -people in Scotland? Then we might have met again." - -"Are you going to Homburg to be 'cured'?" - -"I think I shall go there. Or to Antwerp. Yes, I shall go to Antwerp -first. I was there when I was a boy. I was happy in Antwerp." - -"How funny you are," she said involuntarily. - -"I've never found anyone much entertained by me. How?" - -"You'll go to Antwerp, of all places in the world, because you liked it -when you were a boy! Antwerp will disappoint you--too." - -"You could always stab deep with a monosyllable," he said, "but you -used to have more mercy." - -"I'm sorry I have deteriorated," said the lady rather stiffly. - -She leant back in her chair, and a minute passed in silence. She gave -her attention to the orchestra, tapping time with the tip of a shoe. - -"Does it amuse you to say cruel things to me?" asked Conrad. "If it -does, by all means say what you like." - -"I don't understand you." She drooped disdainful eyelids. - -"What you said was unworthy of you. You know it was." - -"I really forget what I did say. Please talk about something else. -What is it they are playing?" - -They were playing _Cavalleria_ now, so he scorned to reply to this -otherwise than by a look. - -"I asked you a question," she said in tones of ice. - -"I beg your pardon," he answered hastily. "They are playing -_Cavalleria Rusticana_. An opera. Written by a young Italian. His -name is Mascagni." - -"You are rude!" she exclaimed. - -"I am human, Joan. You hurt me!" - -Then her sister and Bletchworth reappeared. "Perhaps you know a good -hotel?" Conrad was saying. - -"An hotel where?" inquired Lady Bletchworth. - -"Mr. Warrener is going to Homburg; I tell him everybody says it's -deadly dull there this year," murmured Mrs. Adaile. - -It was deadly dull in Ostend, too, during the next hour. Both women -were rather quiet, and Bletchworth was exceptionally wearisome. But -for the fact that it was the farewell evening Conrad would have seen -friends among the company and gone to greet them. - -However, at last the orchestra finished, and they all got up. A -leisurely crowd was flocking to the exit, and--perhaps it was the -crowd, perhaps it was Lady Bletchworth--Conrad and Mrs. Adaile were -separated from the others for satisfactory seconds. - -"Won't you forgive me?" he whispered. - -Even a crowd has merits--her hand rested on his arm an instant. - -"It must be fate," he said; "I always offend you just when we're going -to part. Do you remember?" - -She nodded. "I remember." Her glance was very pretty in the moonshine. - -"This won't be our last talk together?" he begged. "What are you going -to do when we go in?" - -"I suppose we shall sit in the garden." - -"But--everybody?" - -"I expect so.... Don't let's keep behind! Walk with Lily." She -addressed her brother-in-law, and Conrad sauntered beside Lady -Bletchworth. - -The windows of the Villa this, and the Villa that, were thrown wide -behind the mass of blooms. In the crimson dusk of lamp-shades there -was the glint of a white gown, the glow of a cigarette point among -cushions, a bubble of laughter. Every minute a dim interior flashed to -brightness--someone returned and switched on the light, a woman took -off her hat before the mirror. Through one window came the jingle of -money on a card table; through another shouts--Paulette Fleury was -singing to friends one of the songs that she had not sung at the Empire -in London. To the left, the track of moonlight on the sea kept pace -with Conrad. - -It was more agreeable in the garden than on the terrace at the onset. -Already it had an air of intimacy, the artificial enclosure, with its -tesselated paving, and its affectation of rusticity; already he was on -good terms with it. Curiously enough, such hotel gardens, misnamed as -they are, have a knack of making a visitor feel at home, of endearing -themselves to him, more quickly than acres of lawns and elms. - -Lady Bletchworth wanted a brandy-and-soda, and Conrad had one, too; -Mrs. Adaile and Bletchworth drank champagne. Presently they referred -to the shooting-box, to the people they expected to see there. Almost -for the first time Conrad was blankly sensible of inhabiting a -different sphere; he hoped they wouldn't ask him if he knew any of the -people they were mentioning. He got very near to his youth in that -moment; there was a revival of his boyhood's dumb constraint.... How -odd it was! they were all sitting together like this, and after -to-night he was never likely to meet her. Front doors between them. -'Gina, of course, might be useful; but how stupid of him not to have -got into the right set in town when he came back from the Colony! He -supposed it wouldn't have been difficult, with the money. Londoners -boasted that everything the world yielded was to be bought in London, -and it was true--even to dignities and reputations. - -"Well, I am forced to admit that I don't know what women go to the -moors for," said Bletchworth. "You don't take the sport seriously, and -therefore you are out of place. What do you say, Mr. Warrener?" - -"Well, I can hardly say anything," owned Conrad; "I _don't_ go to the -moors." - -"But if you did, you wouldn't prefer a grouse to a woman, I'm sure?" -asked Lady Bletchworth. - -"A man does not go to the moors to talk to women," insisted her -husband. "That is my point. Women always want to flirt just as the -birds are rising. Women are very desirable at a dance, but when it -comes to birds, or it comes to cricket, when it comes to anything -important, I say, reluctantly, they can't be serious. That is my -point--you don't take the thing seriously. Now, at the Eton and -Harrow, were you earnest about it; had you got the matter at heart? -No, no; all you wanted to do was to walk about, and to have lunch." - -"A lot of boys playing ball!" she said. "And then they take up all the -lawn besides. So selfish of them!" - -"Ah!" said Bletchworth warningly, "that is the tone that is going to do -the harm, that is the tone we have to guard against. What has made us -what we are? What has given England the place she holds? I protest, I -protest absolutely against irresponsible--er--comment. The foreign -ideas that are creeping into papers that have always had -my--er--approval will sap the country's manhood if we don't make a -stand. Joan--I am sure Joan agrees with me?" - -She was leaning back absently, trifling with a porte-bonheur on her -wrist; the blue fire of the diamonds was ablaze. It caught Conrad's -glance; from her wrist his gaze travelled to her eyes. They told him, -"I'm so bored." - -"Yes, indeed," she assented, "you're quite right." It would have been -evident to anyone but Bletchworth that she had not heard what he said. - -There were fewer people in the garden by this time. In the knowledge -that the evening was nearly over, a wave of sentiment stirred Conrad. -Even her message of comprehension did nothing to subdue his annoyance. -What likelihood remained of a tête-à-tête? The evening from first to -last had been wasted in stupidities. - -Presently another group went inside, presently there was no one left -but themselves. Finally Lady Bletchworth yawned. He wished fervently -that she had yawned an hour ago. - -"I think it's time we all went to bed," she said. "You've laid down -the law quite enough, Charlie. Shall we see you in the morning, Mr. -Warrener?" - -"Oh yes," he said, "of course. What time is the boat?" - -"I don't know--ten something, isn't it? Well, I'll say 'good night.' -I wish we were staying on, really I do--I shall have a racking headache -to-morrow evening. Are you ready, Joan?" - -"Quite," said Mrs. Adaile; "_I_ have a headache now." - -He was hopeless until she let him see her slip the porte-bonheur into -her chair before she rose. - -"Good night, Mr. Warrener." - -"Good night, Mrs. Adaile," he said. - -When he was alone he sat down again, and waited for her return; her -manoeuvre might fail, someone return with her--the bracelet must be -lying where she had "dropped" it. - -More than five minutes crept by before a step sounded. He turned -eagerly, and with dismay beheld Lord Armoury approaching. The intruder -gaped at the view, and stood hesitating, with his hands in his pockets. -It was an instant of the keenest suspense. Would he withdraw? No, he -lounged forward. He threw himself into the very chair, and stretched -his legs across another. - -Conrad muttered an anathema on him. - -"Eh?" said Lord Armoury. - -"I didn't speak," said Conrad frigidly. - -The young man took out a cigarette, and opened his match-box. It was -empty. - -"Got a light?" he inquired. - -"I'm sorry I haven't," said Conrad, momentarily encouraged. - -"Rotten show!" said the Earl; "where's a waiter?" He contemplated his -cigarette with a semi-intoxicated frown, and transferred his feet to -the table. It was apparent that he meant to stop although he could not -smoke. With his change of position he was liable to come in contact -with the bracelet, and Conrad watched him nervously, but he did not -seem to be discommoded by it. - -"Seen Paulette?" he asked. - -"No." The "no" of a man who is not to be drawn into conversation. - -"Pauly's a bit of _all_ right," affirmed the Earl, undeterred. "I -don't pretend to be up to all the patter, but--wot _ho_!" - -Speechlessly Conrad hoped the lady wouldn't come back yet. - -"Three hundred a week she refused for a return engagement at the -Empire--told me so herself to-night. That's Pauly! Got the hump. -What's three hundred to Pauly? I told 'em how she'd catch on before -she went over. Don't I know?" He winked profoundly. "Look here, -you'll see an artist in October at the Syndicate halls, that's--wot -_ho_! She's going to knock 'em. Between ourselves she's got some new -'business,' that--well, it's great! Never been tried. I saw her when -she was doing the last turn at the South London. I said to George, -'Cocky, that's a winner!' Robey couldn't see it. _I_ saw it; I can -put my finger on the talent every time. She's going to make Marie sit -up, my boy--she's another Marie Lloyd. Don't I _know_? I've got the -judgment. I can spot 'em with one peeper! ... Isn't there a waiter in -this damned hotel? I could do with a tiddley. Where's a bell?" - -"It's no use ringing," said Conrad, "nobody ever comes. It wants -someone to go in and stir them up." - -But now Mrs. Adaile reappeared. - -"Oh!" she murmured. And then, "I've dropped a bracelet somewhere; I -came down to look for it. Good evening, Lord Armoury." - -"A bracelet?" echoed Conrad with concern. - -"Good evening, Mrs. Adaile--a bracelet? Crumbs!" said Armoury. - -"Yes, isn't it a nuisance! I don't know how I could have lost it--I -suppose the clasp was loose. I had it on out here." - -"Let me help you," said Conrad. In an undertone he added, "Don't find -it yet. Let's look further off. Oh my dearest, it was so sweet of -you! I'm in such a rage, I'm so wretched." - -"Where were you sitting, Mrs. Adaile?" asked Armoury, peering about. - -"Over here, over there, I don't know," she said hurriedly.... "Is it -still in the chair?" she whispered. - -"Yes," whispered Conrad. "Are you sorry you're going from me?" - -"A little." - -"To leave you like this," he sighed, "it's awful. Joan----" - -"Well?" - -"Let me come to your room to say 'good-bye.'" - -She started. - -"Hallo! Have you got it?" exclaimed Armoury. - -"No," she said, "I--I thought I had." - -"Joan?" - -"I daren't," she faltered. "My maid----" - -"Come and say 'good-bye' to _me_, then. Do!" - -"Find it!" she said agitatedly--"he'll guess." - -"What's that?" cried Conrad. "Here it is--why, in one of our chairs! -May I--?" He fastened the bracelet on her wrist. "Make me happy. -Come to me," he begged. "Will you? Number seventeen." - -Her fingers touched his hand. - -"I'm so immensely grateful to you both," she said serenely. - -"Lucky for her we were here!" the intruder remarked when she had gone. -"One of the servants might have pinched it by the morning." - -"Yes, I suppose it was as well we were here," said Conrad amiably. "If -it hadn't been for you, I should have turned in before this." He -dropped back into his seat, resigning himself to tedium a little longer. - -He lolled there discreetly, making civil responses--and gradually he -realised that Flossie Coburg's son was not wholly to be blamed for the -tedium; he recognised that there was a dulness of his own spirit. -While he countenanced the garrulity of a fool, his thoughts were with -scenes of twenty years before, and sadly the man strove to revive in -his heart the idolatry and illusions of the boy. Oh, for the -enchantment of the summer when he had called her "Mrs. Adaile!" ... If -he could only keep remembering it was the same woman! But never had -she seemed so different to him as in these minutes--never had he -desired so little as now when she had promised all. - -The ground floor of the hotel was partially dark when he crossed it; a -purposeless waiter hovered in obscurity. Upstairs, along the passage, -the tan and black rows of boots, shapely on boot-trees, indicated that -most of the visitors had retired. A drowsy lady's-maid put forth an -expectant face, and withdrew it wearily. Conrad felt about the wall -for the electric button, which seemed always in a different spot, and -found it. Then he closed his door as completely as was possible -without turning the knob. - -As he put down his watch he saw that it was late, but he knew that it -was not yet late enough, and his movements were leisurely. He wanted a -cigarette--the more because he had deprived himself of one outside by -saying that he had no match, but he was reluctant to give the odour of -tobacco to the room. A superfluous grace, perhaps, now that most women -smoked? Still he was reluctant. He threw down his cigarette-case, -too, and the rest of the things that had been in his pockets.... - -He looked at himself ruminatingly in the mirror, and brushed his -moustache. - -One of the lights hung above the pillow--it was convenient to read by. -Presently it occurred to him that nearly two acts of "Le Marquis de -Priola" remained to divert him. He put forth his arm for it, and, -stretching, reached it. He turned the leaves.... _Une dame viendra de -deux à trois_. Ah yes, this was as far as he had read. - -The effort to give his attention to the play grew gradually less. -Mournfulness faded, and in the next scene his interest was alert. Once -he laughed. His thoughts were no longer with the boy who had lain -wakeful through a night just to hear her footstep in the hall. - -The wind was rising, and intermittently it tricked and irritated him. -The blustering wind, and the chiming of a clock made the only sounds. - -Again the clock rang out. This time he counted the strokes with -annoyance. He yawned. His interest was wandering from the play now. -It began to seem to him that Priola talked too much. What was keeping -her--had she repented her promise? He tossed the book aside, and lay -watching the door. - -After he had watched it for nearly half-an-hour it was gently opened, -and swiftly closed, and Mrs. Adaile stood on the threshold. She paused -there diffidently, with downcast eyes. She wore a long clinging robe -of crêpe de chine, veiled partly by a stole of Venetian point. The -sleeves of the deep toned lace, dividing at the shoulders, drooped from -her like wings. One daring touch of colour, the flame of nasturtium, -at her breast threw into dazzling relief the gleaming whiteness of her -skin, the burnished gold of her hair. She paused, awaiting doubtless -the words of welcome, of encouragement, that would vanquish her -timidity. But Conrad slept. A respiration too loud to be thought -rapture, and too faint to be called a snore, smote the lady's hearing. -Startled, she looked up; forked lightning flashed at him from her -indignant eyes. But, tranquil, Conrad slept. - -What an offence! Wasn't it enough to enrage the sweetest of women? -Put yourself--I mean it was unpardonable! - -For a second she seemed about to escape even more surreptitiously than -she had entered; and then a smile, half sad, half whimsical, twitched -her lips. A sense of humour--how much it spares us, how far it goes in -life! A little pathetic that often a sense of humour wins affection, -and the noble qualities get nothing but a dull respect. She looked at -a pencil-case on the table, and stood tempted, her fingers at her -mouth. Dared she do it! She would not have roused him for a -coronet--and the creak of a board, even the scratching of the lead, -might be fatal. She wavered. She moved towards the pencil slowly, -stealthily, inch by inch. - -The table was gained. There was nothing to write on. A paper-covered -volume lay to her hand; with infinite precaution she tore the -title-page. Tremulously she scribbled, holding her breath. Where to -leave the message, where to put it so that it couldn't be overlooked? -Again she hesitated. Conrad slept sound, a glance assured her of it. -Again she ventured. An instant her gaze dwelt upon him, still with -that smile half mirthful and half melancholy on her face. She nodded, -wide-eyed--and on the tips of her toes crept out unheard, unseen. - -When Conrad woke, a servant was admitting the sunshine through the -window; his coffee steamed by his side. As he sat up--and almost -before memory thudded in him--his view met the front page of "Le -Marquis de Priola" pinned to the bed-curtain. He rolled towards it -haggardly. On it was written:-- - -"_Dreamer_! Good-bye. There is no way back to Rouen." - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -"I must say I was very happy on the stage," sighed the Countess of -Darlington, lifting the teapot. - -The Earl of Armoury's mother threw up her eyes. A shapeless, waddling -woman, the duchess, with a sanctimonious voice. There were elderly -gentlemen who, remembering Flossie's agility with a tambourine at the -old Pavilion, felt reformation to be a sad affair when they looked at -her. - -"Not 'happy,'" she said piously, "dazzled--only dazzled, dear Lady -Darlington. Ladies like you and I can't be happy on the stage. It -goes against the grain with you and I." - -Lady Darlington pouted. She was provokingly pretty when she pouted. -She had pouted at Darlington on the day he met her. - -"But I _was_ happy," she declared. - -"You weren't satisfied in your heart; I'm sure you always felt there -was better work to be done?" - -"Oh yes, but I hoped to get leading parts in time." - -"I mean purer work," explained the duchess, wincing, "social, helpful -work." - -Lady Darlington laughed. She was prettier still when she laughed. She -had laughed at Darlington on the day he proposed. - -"No, really not," she said frankly, "I never thought about it for a -moment. Do you know, Duchess, I've always wanted to ask you--didn't -you ache to go back to it after you married?" - -"Oh never," exclaimed the duchess; "I was grateful to Providence for -letting me get away from it all. Circumstances made me go into the -business, but I was never a pro--I mean to say a 'professional'--by -nature. My father, the captain, died when I was quite a child, and I -had my dear mother to support." - -"M'yes," murmured Lady Darlington, looking at the ceiling. "You were -before my time, but of course I've heard.... Perhaps if I had been in -the music-halls _I_ should have been glad to get away from it all," she -added; "I was in the theatres, you know." - -"The 'smalls,' I think--I mean to say the 'minor provincial towns?'" -said the duchess a shade tartly; "one of Jenkinson's Number II. -companies, wasn't it?" - -"Lots of people considered it was better than the Number I.," returned -Lady Darlington with pride, "and the _Rotherham Advertiser_ said a -voice of such diapason as mine wasn't often heard in musical comedy." - -"Such what as yours?" - -"Diapason. Won't you have some muffin?" - -"They always serve me out so," said the duchess, "but I _will_ have -just a mossel." She regarded her hostess anxiously; "I hope you aren't -going to be mad?" she said. - -"I am mad," admitted Rosalind--her name was Rosalind--"mad with the -longing for auld lang syne. If I weren't crazy I shouldn't own it, -because you can't enter into my feelings a bit, but you're the only -woman I meet who ought to be able to understand them. Long? Sometimes -for a treat I tell the servants I'm not at home to anyone, and I shut -myself up and long the tears into my eyes!" - -"You cry for the stage? Oh, but, my dear Lady Darlington, you mustn't -give way, you must be firm with yourself. Think, just think, what an -example you'd be setting if you took to it again! In our position we -have the Country to consider. The middle classes say 'What's good -enough for the Aristocracy must be good enough for us.' We have to -consider our influence on those in a humbler sphere." - -"I'm not going to take to it again," said Rosalind. "How can I? -Besides, I don't want so much to act--I've no ambition except to be -jolly--it's the life I ache for. I'm dull, dull, dull! I want to be -among the people I remember. My heart turns back to Dixie. I wouldn't -say 'thank you' to be with actors and actresses in London, in the -West-End; they're only imitations of the Lords and Ladies that bore me. -I want to be on the road with a Number II. crowd--yes, and a Number -III. crowd for preference. I want to arrive in a hole-and-corner town -on a Sunday night, and have supper in lodgings, and see stout in a jug -again, and call the landlady 'Ma.' Oh, how soul-stirring it would be -to call a landlady 'Ma!'" - -"Lodgings? Look at your drawing-room, with Louis Cans furniture!" said -the duchess admonishingly. "You can't be serious?" - -"Serious? I'm pathetic! Of course I should find I had been spoilt for -it--the pleasure wouldn't last; the stout would taste sour soon, and I -should find the landlady impudent, and the lodgings dirty; I daresay I -should wish myself back in St. James' Square before I had been away a -month. But I don't want to give up St. James' Square--I only want a -week-end sometimes as a tonic. That's all I want, just week-ends. If -I could be Rosalind Heath again from Saturday to Monday sometimes, I'd -be Lady Darlington all the rest of the year cheerfully enough." - -This was the moment when her Idea was born. As the idea had -consequences, it is noteworthy that this was the moment. If she could -be Rosalind Heath again from Saturday to Monday! She had never debated -the possibility; but why not--why not even for a week? She couldn't -call herself "Rosalind Heath" again, because everybody in Theatre Land -knew that Rosalind Heath had married the Earl of Darlington, but who -among a lowly band of players would know her face? She had not been a -star. All she needed for the freak was a confidante. What had become -of Tattie Lascelles? - -Lady Darlington blushed with self-reproach. That she should have to -question what had become of Tattie! She sat, after the duchess had -departed, remembering days when she and Tattie had been bosom friends. -They had shared hopes and lodgings; they had told each other their -peccadilloes, and even their salaries. And now she didn't know where -Tattie was? Could St. James' Square have made her heartless? How had -their correspondence died? ... Ah yes, in Tattie's last letter ages ago -she had asked for the sum of five pounds "just for a fortnight." But -how monstrous of Tattie to feel constrained because she hadn't sent it -back! Who had expected it? - -On the seventeenth day of December, when Darlington, looking a -ridiculous object, had boomed away in a new car, of which he was -inordinately proud, Rosalind stole guiltily into a news-agent's. She -would not meet her lord again for a month. Her beautiful eyes -sparkled, and her cheeks were flushed. She tendered two pennies to a -vulgar man, smoking a clay pipe behind the counter, and asked for the -_Stage_. To the happily constituted there can seem nothing calculated -to kindle the emotions in the act of buying a twopenny paper in a -squalid shop, but Rosalind had a temperament, and temperaments play -queer tricks. (See Conrad's.) The tender grace of a day that was dead -hallowed the damp copy of a journal in which she had formerly -advertised that she was "Resting;" the touch of vanished hands sent -little thrills to her heart as her gaze embraced familiar names. - -She went back to the drawing-room fire, and read them diligently. Dusk -and a footman crept in before she discovered Miss Tattie Lascelles, but -that artist's announcement leapt to her with the electric light. Miss -Tattie Lascelles informed the kingdom that she was specially engaged to -create the part of "Delicia Potts" in the maritime musical farce -entitled _Little Miss Kiss-And-Tell_, on Blithepoint Pier. The date -chosen for this perfectly unimportant production was Monday, December -22nd. Then Rosalind, who was to go to the Marrables in Leicestershire -for Christmas, wrote Lady Marrable a note of grieved excuse, and -scribbled a letter to Tattie, which began, "Take two bedrooms in -Blithepoint, and don't breathe a word to a soul till you see me." - -And though the happily constituted may be sceptical again, she felt -more joyous than she had done for five illustrious years. - -Blithepoint is about thirty-three miles by rail from Sweetbay. It is a -grey, bleak place, with the plainest female population in England. On -three hundred days of the year the wind is due east, but on the other -sixty-five it is southeast, and then the residents go about saying what -"lovely weather they're having." Blithepoint is much larger than -Sweetbay, and more fashionable. It is also nearly as dull. Nobody is -aware how much can be spent on being deadly dull until he has stayed in -a Blithepoint hotel. Rosalind was a shade uneasy in the thought that -someone among the visitors might recognise her; she knew that at -Christmas eccentric Londoners occasionally went down there, and wished -afterwards they had been economical and gone to Egypt. But she didn't -falter. - -She ran away on Sunday the 21st. She had put on her simplest costume, -and her portmanteau told no tales. To make-believe to the fullest -extent, she travelled in a third-class compartment. Already she was -greatly excited. As the train crawled out of Victoria she could have -clapped her hands. - -When she arrived it was eight o'clock, and a bitter evening. The -scramble for luggage kept her shivering on the platform for ten -minutes, and then a fly bumped her through the shuttered town. It was -the hour of local dissipation; on one side of the favourite -thoroughfare the blades of Blithepoint paraded jauntily, crying "Pip, -pip" to stolid-faced young women on the other, who took no notice of -them. Lady Darlington, reckless for sensations, envied these -"roysterers" who could feel devilish gay so innocently. - -The cab shaved a corner, and rattled into a neighbourhood of obscure -apartment-houses. Her mutinous heart warmed with sentiment, and she -forgot how cold her pretty feet were. The cab stopped. She saw the -blind of the ground-floor window dragged aside; an impetuous figure -appeared, and vanished. The street-door was pulled wide, and a girl -with a cloud of hair, and a string of barbaric beads dangling to the -waist, flew down the steps and hugged her. - -"You trump! You've really come!" - -"You duck! How jolly to see you!" - -"'Ere, two bob, missie," said the flyman, "when you've done canoodling." - -They ran into the parlour, and laughed at each other in the gaslight. - -"Take your things off," said Tattie: "let me help you. I hope you'll -like the diggings. I wrote to the swellest address I could hear of, -when I got your letter." - -"But you shouldn't have. What for?" - -"Well, for you." - -"I wanted everything just as it used to be. That was it." - -"How funny! But I don't suppose these will strike you as very swagger -after what you've got at home." - -"They don't." - -"Won't they be good enough?" - -"They're heavenly. Oh, Tattie, how good it is to be back! Did anybody -bring in my trunk? 'In the Shade of the Palm,' and a Vocal Folio on -the piano! And professional photographs on the shelf! Oh, let me see -the photographs! 'To Mrs. Cheney from Miss Bijou Chamberlain--wishing -you a Merry Christmas.' Who is she?" - -"She was here last week--a Variety artist. She seems to have been -comfortable, as she gave the landlady her photograph. Are you ready -for supper?" - -"Stout?" - -"Of course." - -"In a jug?" - -"Well, I thought after what you had come from I had better order -Guinness." - -For a moment Rosalind looked downcast. "Ah well, never mind," she -said; "we'll have it in a jug to-morrow." - -They drew their chairs to the ham-and-beef, and the landlady brought in -the Guinness. - -"Good evening, Ma," said Rosalind, with youth in her bosom. - -"Good evening, my dear," said Mrs. Cheney. "You'll be glad of your -supper, I daresay, after your journey?" She put comestibles on the -table in three paper bags. "I was meaning to tell you, Miss Lascelles, -that if you'd like a bit of something hot in the evening when you come -back from the show, you can have it. I'm not one to fuss about hotting -something up. Sundays we let the fire out, but in the week you can -have it and welcome." - -"Good business!" said Miss Lascelles. "In some places you 'get it hot' -if you ask for it." - -"By rights some places shouldn't take professionals," returned Mrs. -Cheney. "I've 'eard many tales. Miss Chamberlain--her on the -mantelpiece--was telling me that where she was in Brighton they -wouldn't allow her to have her uncle in to see her. Such a quiet, -ladylike gal, too!" - -"Can such things be?" cried Rosalind. "Is a poor girl to be cut off -from her own flesh and blood because she's in diggings?" - -"Ah, I don't wonder at your asking!" said Mrs. Cheney. "Not, mind -you," she added, "but what letting lodgings over a number of years -makes one a bit suspicious of uncles. I've known a gentleman brought -to these very rooms after the show on three different Monday evenings -as the uncle of three different young ladies. And dreadful taken aback -he was when he see me each time!" - -"I'm afraid those were flighty girls," said Rosalind severely. - -"Untruthful they was," said Mrs. Cheney, "and so I told 'em. I say -nothing about visitors, I'm not that evil-minded. So long as the lady -pays a bit extra for the gas, and the gentleman don't slam the door -when he goes, I like to think well of everyone. But I 'ate lies." - -She drew the cork, and retired; and Rosalind said, "Well, what about -the show, Tat? What sort of part have you got?" - -"The part's rather good," said Miss Lascelles. - -"Hurrah! What screw?" - -"Rotten--thirty-five shillings. I had to take what I could get; I've -been 'out' a long time. They're paying awful salaries in this crowd; -the chorus only get about fifteen bob, I believe--they're half of them -novices." - -"I say! Whose crowd is it?" - -"It's a Syndicate; nobody ever heard of it before. And the Tenor has -such a cold he could hardly speak at the dress-rehearsal last -night--goodness knows how he's going to sing to-morrow." - -"Who is your principal woman?" - -"She has backed out; they've put somebody else into the part at the -last minute. And the scenery has still to come down--it's a bit of a -muddle all round. I wish I could have got into a better thing, but I -was so hard up--you ought to have seen where I was lodging! I tried to -get 'shopped' last month as an Extra. That speaks!" - -"An Extra? No? Tat! why didn't you write to me?" exclaimed Rosalind -reproachfully. - -"Oh, I don't know. I heard the 'great' Miss Hayward wanted thirty -Extra-ladies to go on in the ball scene. It was twenty-five bob a -week--she wanted picked women--it would just have done me. Lil Rayburn -lent me her little squirrel coat and a black velvet hat. I tell you I -looked a treat when I went down! There were three hundred and forty -girls waiting; we were sent across the stage thirty at the time. The -great Hayward sat in the stalls, with her pince-nez up. 'You!' she -said, pointing; 'the one in the squirrel coat!' So I went to her. 'I -think you'll do,' she drawled; 'you know what the money is?' -'Twenty-five, Miss Hayward,' I said, 'isn't it?' 'No, a guinea,' she -said, 'it doesn't matter to _you_.' 'Thank you,' I said, 'I've got to -keep myself out of _my_ salary--_I_ haven't got a man, and a flat!' -Potter, the agent, was in an awful stew--'Oh, you shouldn't have spoken -to Miss Hayward like that!' 'To _hell_!' I said." - -"Cat!" cried Rosalind. "Because you were well-dressed?" - -"Yes; and if I had gone shabby, she wouldn't have noticed me at all.... -You know I've been in the Variety business since you saw me?" - -"The music-halls! You haven't?" - -"Straight! I was one of the Four Sisters Tarantelle. Jolly good -money--I got five pounds a week when we worked two shows a night; I -never got less than three ten. I can't get it on the stage." - -"Why did you give them up? But the tips are very heavy, aren't they?" - -"They weren't heavy for _me_, I didn't tip anybody except the dresser. -Chloe made the engagements, so Chloe could pay the tips. Trust this -child! What does make you sick in that business is the comedians, with -the red noses and the umbrellas--they're always after you. There was a -little brute in one show--his wife was in the bill, too; she did -sentimental ballads. Well! how he could let her travel _I_ don't know. -It _was_ her last week, but she wasn't fit to be working so long, we -almost expected any night---- And there he was after me all the time! -'I shall write to you, Tattie--I see you go to Balham, and Walham Green -next week!' 'Who gave you leave to call me "Tattie?"' I said; 'you low -cur, I wish I was a man, to give you a good hiding!' I did pity his -wife. She never spoke to me--she used to pass me in the wings with her -head turned away; I suppose she thought I was as bad as _he_ was. I -said to her one evening when she was ill, 'Can I get you anything, -Miss----' I forget what her name was. 'No, I thank you, Miss -Tarantelle,' she said--like that; wouldn't look at me! I _was_ so -sorry for her. Poor little woman, what a life!" - -Rosalind shuddered. After a pause, she said:-- - -"You're well out of it, dear." - -"Except for the money. I expect I'll go back to it as soon as I can. -I had a contract for a year--they wanted the option of renewing for -another year." - -"_They_ were to have the option?" - -"Yes--all on their side; I didn't think it was good enough to sign -that. So I said I'd like to, but I was going to be married at the end -of the summer." - -"You weren't really?" - -"Not much! No marriage for me--not in the Profession anyhow!--but lots -of them think a contract doesn't bind you any more if you marry. Lil -Rayburn put me up to that dodge. She lent me her song when the -Tarantelles wanted me--it was a great concession: her big success! -Whenever she doesn't want to sign an option and is afraid to refuse -point-blank, she looks bashful and says she's going to be married at -the end of the summer. She has been going to be married 'at the end of -the summer' for the last nine years!" They turned to the fire, and lit -cigarettes--Rosalind's; she had remembered to put a hundred in her -trunk. - - "'What is the use of loving a girl - If the girl don't love _you_?'" - -hummed Tattie. The song was just published. "They _are_ fine -cigarettes! - - 'What is the use of loving a girl - When you know she don't want yer _to_?' - -Of course, you have the best of everything now. It does seem curious." - -"My having the best of everything?" - -"No, your wanting the worst. - - 'What if she's fair beyond all compare, - And what if her eyes are blue----' - -Fancy living in your style, and coming to rooms like these for fun!" - -"Oh, Tattie," said Rosalind, "that's just what I did come for! I -haven't any fun at home." - -"But I thought in Society they had no end of a good time?" - -"So they do, in a way, but it's the wrong way for me--I never rehearsed -for it, I'm not easy in the part; I wasn't meant for high-class comedy. -And I miss you--I've no pal now." - -"_I_'ve missed _you_, I can tell you! Oh, the tour after you left, -wasn't that damn dull! The girl I lived with was so 'off'--common. -Well, you can tell _I'm_ a perfect lady--I just said 'damn'--but I -usedn't to, did I? Remember? Good-hearted girl, but she was so horrid -at table. And under that silk blouse--all anyhow! Not that I like to -see a girl with too smart underlinen, I always think it looks fishy; -but hers was--well, if she had been run over one day when we were out, -I'd have been ashamed to own her!" - -"Let's go and look up some of the Company, shall we?" said Rosalind. -"What name had I better have?" - -"What's the matter with 'Heath?' There are plenty of 'Miss Heaths' -about." - -"Yes, but you're sure to let the 'Rosalind' slip, and that will give me -away. Introduce me as 'Miss Daintree.' Do you know where any of the -women are staying?" - -"We'll find them on the pier. We always make for the pier on Sunday -evenings when there's a concert; it's something to do. I suppose I'm -to say you're in the Profession?" - -"I'm an actress out of an engagement," assented Rosalind, throwing her -cigarette in the fender. "Make haste, or we shall be too late!" - -The boards of _Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell_ were big outside the pier. -At the turnstile Miss Lascelles nodded towards them, saying, "In the -Company." The man answered, "All right, Miss; come in through the -gate, then." At the pay-box of the theatre she showed her card, -saying, "Can you oblige me with a couple of seats?" The business -manager answered, "With pleasure, my dear." - -The gas-stoves glowed redly, and the theatre was much better warmed -than the majority of theatres in London. They sat down in the third -row of the stalls, and listened to a dispirited soprano who was -supposed to be singing "The Holy City." She was not really singing -"The Holy City;" from beginning to end she articulated not a word save -"Jerusalem." She simply kept her mouth ajar and wailed the air; but -she was successful. - -There were only about twenty people in the crimson velvet seats, and -most of these were _Kiss-and-Tell_ people. The others were very young -men, in caps, who bore the sacred music on Sunday evening for the sake -of an advance view of the girls who were to perform on Monday. The -very young men watched the arrivals with much interest, and if the -ladies in the stalls were unattractive, it was said in a Blithepoint -club on Sunday night that the piece on the pier to-morrow was no good. - -When the dispirited soprano had finished, the actresses applauded her -warmly, in the hope of cheering her up; and the sixpenny balcony -rattled its umbrellas, in the hope of getting a song more than it had -paid for. Then one of the actresses murmured to Miss Lascelles, "How -badly she holds herself, doesn't she?" and Miss Lascelles presented -"Miss Daintree." - -Rosalind soon discovered that nobody was sanguine of _Little Miss -Kiss-and-Tell_ being well received, and--having forgotten something of -the world she was revisiting--it surprised her to note the -light-heartedness of the professionals, who tottered on the brink of -disaster. They were all pitiably poor, they were likely to fall out of -employment at the worst time of year; but they said gaily, "Oh well, -let's hope for the best! It may be all right at night. It's no use -looking on the black side of things." And most of them were totally -dependent on their salaries, though that was not the belief of the very -young men who endured "The Holy City." - -Only Miss Jinman, a large, elderly lady who spoke in a bass voice, was -pessimistic. Years ago she had sung in parts of dignity, and hectored -first-rate touring companies; to-day she was engaged for an amorous old -woman in Turkish trousers, whom the low comedian was to pelt with -insults as often as she came on the stage. - -"I don't think the piece will last a month," she said to Rosalind, in -her lugubrious bass. "It isn't amusing at all. Vulgar, very vulgar! -I may be too critical; I'm used to such high-class things, as you -know--my notices as 'Buttercup' were immense--but I call it a 'rotter.' -I see a frost, a killing frost, my dear! I keep my opinion to -myself"--she was disseminating it with gusto--"I don't want to give the -others the hump, but I see us all out of a shop till the spring comes." - -"Oh, you're always croaking, Miss Jinman," snapped a black-eyed girl -with golden hair. "Give us a chance, do!" - -"A chance?" returned Miss Jinman heavily. "Chit, you have no chance. -It's only kindness to tell you so." - -"Thanks for being so kind!" said the girl. She had not been long on -the stage. Her married sister kept "Dining Rooms" in Holloway, and -less than a year ago the "artiste" had served as waitress there and -been ordered to "'Urry up with that there Yorkshire-pudden." - -"You will never do any better than you're doing," affirmed Miss Jinman. -"And I could say as much to others present if I hadn't too much -consideration for their feelings. To more than one!" she added -significantly. "Look at _me_, with all my experience! And _I_ am -clever, and _I_ can sing; my notices as 'Buttercup' were immense. And -where am I now? On a pier with amateurs--amateurs and novices. I -don't know what the Profession is coming to--it's a very different -thing to what it was when _I_ was in my prime!" - -"I expect most things have woke up a bit since then," said the -golden-haired brunette; "the bringing in of railways must have made -such a difference." - -"Small-part people were taught to respect the principals," said Miss -Jinman sternly. "Minxes kept their places." - -"It's a pity you couldn't keep yours," said the dark one with the -golden locks. But harmony was restored during the next selection by -the band. - -There was a little sleet blowing when the audience straggled homeward. -The lights of the Belle Vue Hotel were not put out yet, and carelessly, -Miss Jinman observed that the people inside must be warmer than _she_ -was. Rosalind took the hint. It is only in the lowest ranks of the -theatrical profession that the ladies refresh themselves in bars; a -second-rate provincial actress would wither the person who invited her; -but Miss Jinman and Miss Lascelles had adapted their manners to their -company, and it was a very humble Company indeed. So they went into -the Lounge, and sat down. - -Another professional lady came in, and inquired generously, "Are you -drinking, girls?" - -Miss Lascelles said, "Yes, we've got port wine." - -"Serve you right," said the other lady, with a pretty wit. - -Though she was on the high road to Prague, Lady Darlington was relieved -to see that the clock pointed to five minutes to ten. When the Lounge -closed, the party shook hands with her heartily, and hoped they would -meet her again in the morning. Distressingly ill-bred of them to drink -port in a smoky bar--not at all the sort of thing I can ask you to -condone. But some of the sirens who had lolled in velvet fauteuils -were financing on coppers until the first week's treasury was paid, and -tea and bread-and-butter was all they had had to support their internal -economies during the day. How amused the very young men in the stalls -would be at my simplicity in believing it! - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -Since the last chapter went away to be typewritten I, myself, have been -in the theatre on Blithepoint Pier. A pantomime was being performed. -The seat I was in yielded me a view of more than I had paid to look at; -I could see the Prompt entrance, which is the place where they signal -for the sunset and the moonbeams and where the players come to peep at -the doings on the stage. Last night a young woman came there. She -wore a brief, blue skirt, and a silver crown, and for the nonce an -unlovely wrap hung over her whitened back and bosom, since you may get -rheumatism in the Prompt entrance, as well as moonbeams. Before the -footlights two comic men were bawling a duet; I knew they were comic -because they had made their faces so repulsive; and the spirit moving -her, the woman broke into lazy dance steps to the refrain. In the -glare, and the distance she was pretty. As I watched, I felt -instinctively for the hand of Rosalind; I knew the craving that was in -her blood, and turned to meet her gaze. If she had been there, I think -she would have liked me. I said, "Those who saw that would understand -Rosalind; the tawdry figure dancing in the draught says everything!" -That was why I brought the picture at home, to show it to you ... but -somehow, all at once, I doubt whether you will understand any better -than you did. - -However I beg you to believe that on the morrow Rosalind accompanied -Tattie Lascelles to a rehearsal with infinite zest. She had no right -to accompany her, but a discussion was in progress when they arrived, -and she passed unchallenged. Mr. Omee, the local manager, who stood in -the pit, was talking to Mr. Quisby, the travelling manager, who stood -on the stage. It appeared that owing to the pressure of Christmas -traffic, the railway company had failed to dispatch the scenery. - -"Well, but who has been to the station? What do they say?" - -"I tell you the fools at this end don't know anything about it." - -"What the bleak Helvellyn's the good of bringing the piece without any -scenery?" - -"Isn't there any scenery in your theatre?" - -"I've told you what cloth you can have, my boy. That's the best we can -do." - -"It's no use offering us Hyde Park Corner when we want a blooming -mosque! ... Well, let's have a look at it!" - -Mr. Omee shouted for "Bates." - -There was a lull, and then from unseen heights a voice announced that -Bates had just "stepped outside." - -Mr. Omee ramped in the pit. - -The shouts for "Bates" were resumed--the rafters rang with the name of -"Bates"--and after some minutes a discomfited working man slouched onto -the stage, to be received with a volley of abuse. He was understood to -retort that he was unable to be in two places at once, and parties who -expected it might find someone else to do the work, that was the -straight tip. Those nearest to him also learnt that he had a poor -opinion of the job at its blessed best. - -"Let's have that Hyde Park cloth," commanded Mr. Omee. "Come on, look -alive, man--hurry up!" - -"What _I_ want to know," grunted the low comedian, "is 'ow I'm to get -that wheeze of mine into that song. That's what's bothering me." - -"What song?" inquired Miss Lascelles. - -"What song! Why, 'All the Winners.' I was going to say the -Blithepoint football team was 'all the winners' in the match on -Saturday, and now I'm told that Sweetbay beat 'em. My luck again! -That queers my wheeze." - -"Why not say," suggested Rosalind, "that the _next time_ Sweetbay is -rash enough to play them, Blithepoint will be all the winners?" - -"Wot ho!" said the low comedian, brightening. He added promptly, "Of -course that's what I was thinking of doing! But I must see if I can -get all that cackle into the tune. Where's the conductor of the -blooming band?" - -Presently the cloth was displayed. It was no faithful representation -of Hyde Park Corner, but it was still less like a mosque, and the -players stood about, and sneered, and muttered contemptuous criticisms. -Miss Jinman said that in all her experience she had never known such -disgraceful mismanagement before. She was to figure in her Turkish -trousers in this scene, and she pointed morosely to the omnibuses -painted outside the hospital. - -"Clear the stage, please!" cried Mr. Quisby. "We'll just run through -Miss Vavasour's scenes. Come on, Miss Vavasour--we don't want to be -here all day!" He told her this indignantly, as if the delay in -lowering the cloth were directly attributable to her. She was the girl -who had been suddenly promoted to the leading part. - -The manager of the theatre lounged from the pit into the stalls, where -Rosalind sat now too. He chewed his cigar, and there was gloom on his -face. This should have been a week of large receipts, but the outlook -was unpromising. - -Miss Vavasour was rendered additionally nervous by the fact that she -had not had time to learn the lines. She advanced constrainedly, and -said in a timid voice-- - -"'We are alone at last! Oh rapture!'" - -"Speak up, my dear!" said Mr. Quisby. "Say it as if you meant it. -'Rapture!' Do a bit of a caper there, be _fetching_!" - -"'We are alone at last!'" repeated Miss Vavasour, with a mechanical -jump. "'Oh rapture!'" - -"Oh rats!" said the manager of the theatre. He turned to -Rosalind--"Can she sing?" he asked. - -"She sings even better than she acts," said Rosalind innocently. - -"Good Lord!" groaned the manager. "Well, what are they waiting for -now?" - -It was the cue for an embrace, and Miss Vavasour was hanging forward to -be clasped in the Tenor's arms, but the Tenor had a request to make-- - -"Mr. Quisby," he said, disregarding her, "I think it would be better if -somebody read my part. I don't know how I shall get through to-night -as it is--my cold is so severe." - -"Oh, my sufferings!" muttered the manager of the theatre. "Now the -Tenor's got a cold. This is going to be a great draw, this show is!" - -"Don't you think you could just 'walk through' the 'business,' my boy?" -Mr. Quisby asked. "The girl's a bit uneasy in the love scenes--she'll -be all over the shop to-night if she don't know what you're going to -do." - -"I am really very ill," insisted the Tenor feebly; "I'm not fit to -rehearse, I ought to be in bed." - -"Oh, all right then," answered Mr. Quisby. He beckoned to the -prompter. "Here, read the lines--give Miss Vavasour her cues. Do get -on, Miss Vavasour, we shall be in the theatre till Doomsday if you -don't wake up! 'We are alone at last'--go back, please." - -"'We are alone at last. Oh rapture!'" faltered Miss Vavasour for the -third time, with the mechanical jump. - -"That's marked 'Kiss,'" said the prompter. He was a slovenly man with -a dirty face. - -"I know it is," snapped Miss Vavasour. "Do let's get to the next line!" - -"I was 'elping yer," said the prompter, aggrieved. "If yer don't want -no 'elp, sye so!" He read, "'My Prize! My Pearlikins!'" - -"'Sometimes,'" continued Miss Vavasour, simulating maiden modesty. "'I -wonder if it's all a dream. _Why_ do you love me? You might have -married Delicia, who has millions--_I_ am a very poor girl.'" - -"You're a very poor actress too," said Mr. Omee under his breath. - -"'Why do I love yer, sweetheart?'" mumbled the prompter. "'Your -question reminds me of what the apple-blossom said to the moon.'" - -"Band cue!" shouted Mr. Quisby. "Have you got that, there in the -orchestra?--'The Apple-blossom and the Moon,' song! Go on, -Mr.--er--Song over. Get on with the lines." - -"Excuse me!" exclaimed the Tenor, reappearing. "That's a cue for the -limelight. I don't think it has been marked; I didn't get it at the -dress rehearsal." - -"Oh yes, it is marked," declared the prompter; "_I_ marked it." He -referred resentfully to the typescript. "'Moonlight'! There it is, in -its proper plice." - -"Its proper place is _on me_," said the Tenor. - -"Well, we'll see it's all right to-night," said Mr. Quisby, with -impatience. "If you're so ill, you had better get home and rest your -voice, hadn't you?" - -"I should be only too glad to be at home," rejoined the Tenor stiffly. -"I just called attention to the matter for the sake of the scene.... -Interests of the Show at heart!" - -"Where do I speak from now, Mr. Quisby?" murmured Miss Vavasour. - -"You're on the balcony, my dear--up left. 'And now ta-ta, my Romeo'! -Get on with it, get on!" - -"One moment, Miss Vavasour!" put in the Tenor, coming back. "You -mustn't speak too soon, there; I expect an encore! Take your cue from -me." - -She nodded helplessly. "'And now ta-ta, my Romeo.'" - -"''T is not the nightingale, let's have a lark!'" read the prompter. -"'Come out to supper!---- - -'For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my 'ead----'" - -"Come to cues!" said Mr. Quisby, stamping. - - "'When 'e bestrides the liezy-piecing clouds, - And siles upon the bosom of the air,'" - -gabbled the prompter. - -"'Bosom of the air'!" bellowed Mr. Quisby. "Pick up your cues, Miss -Vavasour, for Gawd's sake!" - -"I beg your pardon, I didn't hear it, Mr. Quisby," she stammered. - -"Well, then, listen, my girl! What do you suppose we're here for? -'Bosom of the air'--caper down centre. Lightly--_lightly_! Great -Scot! not like that. You come down like a sack o' coals." - -"The girl has no experience," remarked Miss Jinman in a deep undertone -to all about her. - -"Go back," shouted Mr. Quisby. "'Bosom of the air,' now again! What -have you to say as you run down?" - -"I forget," she whimpered. - -"What's the line, Mr.--er--you?" - -"I--I'm just looking to see," said the prompter. - -"Looking to see?" yelled Mr. Quisby, furiously, throwing up his arms. -"Upon my life and soul it's maddening! What's your business, what are -you engaged as, what is it you're supposed to be? _Are_ you the -prompter, or are you not? Good -- ------ is it asking too much of a -man with the book in his hand to follow the lines? I've got the whole -weight of the production on me, I've done the work of twenty men, I'm -wearing myself out--and nobody takes the trouble to study a part, or to -read the 'scrip! Ladies and gentlemen, the ensanguined rehearsal is -dismissed, while the prompter looks for the line!" - -"'Supper? Oh, it will be a merry evening!' read the prompter, sulkily. - -"Very well then! Now, Miss Vavasour! let's have it." - -"I think it's v-v-very hard on me," said Miss Vavasour, beginning to -cry; "I've only had the p-part three days." - -"Come, come, do your best! You've nothing to cry about, I've been very -patient with you. 'Supper? Oh, it _will_ be a merry evening!' Trip -down _pretty_; speak as you come." - -"_Very_ hard on me," she sobbed; "I think it's m-m-most unfeeling!" - -"Bring me a chair!" called Mr. Quisby to no one in particular. "Look -here, my girl, I'm going to see you do it if we have to stop on the -stage till the doors open. Understand? If I keep you here till the -curtain rises, I'll see you do it! 'Bosom of the air!' Now take it up -sharp." - -"A bit of _all_ right, keeping the Company 'ere to see a novice taught -her business, I _don't_ think," grumbled the low comedian. - -Miss Vavasour, still sobbing, drooped to where the balcony was to be -imagined. She sniffed violently, and, with an effort at sprightly -grace, scuttled down the stage again. - -"'Supper? Oh, it _will_ be a merry evening!' she quavered. - -"It'll be a merry evening to-morrow--about sixpence in the house!" -growled the manager of the theatre. He caught Rosalind's eye. "Are -the rest of you as good as this, my dear?" he said bitterly. - -"Oh yes," said cheerful Rosalind, "I think you'll like us all!" - -Presently Miss Lascelles wanted to see where she was to dress, and with -a heartful of memories Rosalind explored with her. The pencilled lists -of names on most of the doors were lengthy, but Miss Lascelles was to -share a room with no one but Miss Vavasour this week, so she was -jubilant, and had been in no hurry to annex a gas-burner. As a rule -the ladies scamper on Monday morning to secure the best places. - -The room was very comfortably furnished. - -"Oh my!" said Miss Lascelles, enraptured. - -"Oh dear!" said Lady Darlington, disappointed. "Why, there's a full -length mirror! Where's the single washstand for five people? Where's -the one chair, broken? Why, you've got two rugs! This is a blow, -Tattie!" - -Miss Lascelles was doing coon steps before the mirror. "Is the -rehearsal hateful enough for you?" - -"It's a dream of delight," said Rosalind. - -But even she was rather tired of it when it finished at five o'clock. - -It was nearly half-past five when they reached their lodging, and they -were glad to hear from Mrs. Cheney that "the kittle was on the bile." -At a quarter to seven Miss Lascelles had to hurry to the theatre again. - -Rosalind went later. The wind had risen, and on the pier she had to -fight against it. The lamps streaked a heaving sea. The little wooden -theatre was fairly full, and a few Christmas trippers in the balcony -were comporting themselves with less decorum than prevails in -Blithepoint as a rule. Knowing what she knew of affairs behind the -curtain, Rosalind heard the whistles with misgiving. She feared that -if the whistlers found the entertainment meagre, they were likely to -create entertainment for themselves. - -However, they listened to the opening chorus with polite attention. It -was surprising how attractive many of the chorus ladies had become. -They represented the seamen of the Battleship _Deadly Oyster_, and wore -sailors' jackets and trousers made of silk--or a material that passed -for it. Some of the seamen also wore paste necklaces. They sang that -there was "No life so jolly as Jack's," and when one watched their -saucy gambols, and remembered that they were actually paid to be there, -it looked as if there could be no life so jolly as a chorus girl's. - -As it happened, the first to provoke dissatisfaction was the Tenor. He -had been refused permission to beg indulgence for his cold, but -resolving that the Audience should understand that they were not -hearing him to advantage, he kept laying his hand on his chest, with an -air of suffering. It made him a depressing figure; and when he -exclaimed, "'Beware, my temper's hot!'" a humourist in the balcony -cried, "How's your poultice?" - -A man in the pit said "Hush!" but several persons giggled, and the -humourist was stimulated to further witticisms. Other humourists began -to envy him his successes; as the piece proceeded, the interruptions -were frequent. Once the low comedian attempted a repartee, but it came -too late in the evening to turn the scale; the malcontents had grown -spiteful, and as a rejoinder he was hissed. His companions stared at -one another haggardly. "Behind," they stood quaking, dreading the cues -that would recall them to the stage. - -At every exit they came off gasping, "The brutes! the pigs! Oh, what a -_wicked_ house it is!" - -The "house" would have been astonished at the emotion displayed, at the -"extraordinary sensitiveness of such people." To the Stalls there were -"Just a few noisy young fellows upstairs who made jokes." Indeed it -seemed a long time between the jokes to the Stalls; they wore an air of -superior detachment, but they were secretly amused. Only Rosalind -understood. Rosalind felt faint. - -Miss Lascelles had been accepted by the Balcony while they were still -good humoured, and she was among those who escaped contumely; but Miss -Jinman's record availed her little. Derisive cheers greeted her every -entrance, and a lifetime on the boards could not save her from the -sickness of the senses which attacks a player who is being "guyed." As -for Miss Vavasour, she trembled as if she had ague when a youth -mimicked her high notes in her solo, and on her bloodless face, while -she sang, the make-up stood out in patches, like paint on the cheeks of -a corpse. At the conclusion of the song she clung hysterically to -Tattie Lascelles in the wings. - -When the end was reached, the Audience rose murmuring that it was a -"silly piece," and "not worth going to"--they "shouldn't think it would -be a success!" No one but Rosalind suspected the despair that was -hidden by the curtain. - -She made her way to the stage-door. Tedious as the performance had -been, a number of young men had preceded her, and were assembling to -address the chorus ladies when they came out. (Thirty were waiting -there that night when the Chorus came out at last.) An old woman--a -dresser--was hurrying in with two glasses containing whisky from the -refreshment room. One of the young men asked her jauntily if she would -take a message for him to "the sixth girl on the right." She said she -was in a hurry, and pushed the door open. As the door-keeper wasn't -there, to be obstructive, Rosalind followed her inside. - -Many of the players were in the flaring passage. They had not begun to -doff their costumes yet; they were lingering in groups, a tinselled, -nerveless crowd with harassed eyes. Miss Vavasour sat crying on a -clothes hamper; Miss Jinman was waiting weakly for her whisky. As it -appeared, her gaze fell on the huddled girl; "Here, have half of this, -child!" she said gently. The brunette with golden hair exclaimed, "No, -no, take yours, Miss Jinman; Queenie can have half of mine!" Everybody -kept casting anxious glances in the direction of the stage, where -voices could be heard disputing. - -"Poor old Tat!" murmured Rosalind. - -Now Miss Lascelles, as we know, had had less than the majority to -unhinge her, but so infectious was the atmosphere, so easily swayed are -some of these "extraordinarily sensitive" people of the theatre, that -as Rosalind's arm was slipped round her waist, she immediately burst -into tears, and sobbed as if her heart would break. - -"Cheer up," said Rosalind. "It'll go all right after a few more -rehearsals." - -"I shall be b-better directly," gulped Miss Lascelles. "D-don't mind -me. I'm a fool, but I can't help it; I'm broke up!" - -"We're all of us broke up," groaned Miss Jinman. "Did you ever see -such a house as it was? In all my experience I never saw anything like -it! What were they saying as they came out? Do you think we shall go -on, my dear?" - -"_I_ sha'n't be kept, anyhow," wailed Miss Vavasour. "Mr. Quisby's -been bullying me as if it was all my fault. I shall be out of a shop -again! And I did hope I was settled till the spring--I don't know what -I shall do, I'm sure!" - -"Where is he?" inquired Rosalind. - -"That's him, quarrelling with Mr. Omee there," said Miss Lascelles. -"Mr. Omee says he won't let the piece go on to-morrow night." - -"Not go on?" - -"They say he says so," put in the demi-blonde. "That's all gas--he'd -have to shut the theatre; he won't do that." - -"If you ask _me_," said the low comedian, taking part in the conference -gloomily, "it puts the kybosh on the tour. We may as well pack up our -props, and git. There's no good health for _Miss Kiss-and-Tell_ after -to-night's show." - -"Git?" demanded Miss Jinman, "Git where? I shall have my rights; I've -got a contract." - -"Take it to your Uncle's!" said the low comedian. "See what he'll lend -you on it. If you ask me, the Syndicate's a wrong 'un. If we strike -it lucky, we'll get our fares; and if we don't strike it lucky, we can -travel on our luggage. I see it sticking out a foot!" - -A shudder ran through the players. They gathered about him dumbly. - -"We can all claim a fortnight's salary in lieu of notice," asserted -Miss Jinman, rallying. "That's the Law. It's the Rule of the -Profession." - -The company perked up a little. They turned their eyes to Miss Jinman. - -"So I've been led to believe," said the low comedian. "And in such -circs the pros always get it, I _don't_ think! Claim? Oh, we can -claim! We'll all get fat claiming, won't we? You're better off to -claim from the Post Office than from a Syndicate--at all events you do -know where St. Martin's le Grand _is_." - -The company collapsed. - -"The long and the short of it," he continued, "is that we're out with a -stumour of a piece. _Why_ didn't it go? Is there anything wrong with -_us_? No! a jolly clever crowd, if you ask _me_. The piece has got no -stamina--" "stamina" was not the word he used--"that's what's the -matter; and that 'Iyde Park Corner cloth settled us. I'll lay anyone -'ere ten to one that the tour dries up, and the Syndicate does a guy. -'Oo's Quisby?" - -"Quisby?" they gasped. "'Who's Quisby?'" - -"Quisby!" repeated the low comedian emphatically; "I say, 'Oo's Quisby? -I'll lay anybody 'ere ten to one that Quisby calls us to-morrow to say -he ain't responsible. Now? I wish all Syndicates were in 'ell." - -The dispute between the powers had ended, and suddenly the prompter's -voice rang through the passage. He bawled, "Everybody on the stige, -please! Principals and Chorus are wanted on the stige!" - -The eyes met for a moment, and then the players trooped away, with -sinking hearts. The cold, bare stage was in shadow, for the floats and -battens had been extinguished, and the only light was shed by a single -burner of the T-piece. By the T-piece Mr. Quisby stood, his back to -the dark emptiness of the auditorium. The prompter was still heard -calling in the distance;-- - -"Everybody on the stige, please! Principals and Chorus on the stige!" - -Shivering, they flocked there, some in their plumes and spangles, -others already in their shabby street clothes; many were in a state of -transition--the faces daubed with grease, the undergarments and naked -necks revealed by hasty ulsters. Nobody spoke. When the last comer -had scrambled to the crowd, all looked at Mr. Quisby. The suspense -that held them mute was pitiable. - -Outside, the thirty young men had collected to accost the merry chorus -girls. - -"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Quisby, "there will be no performance -to-morrow." He forced a hearty air. "I'm going to talk to you like a -pal. Things look a bit rocky, but we must hope for the best. I won't -disguise from you that there may be no tour. Now you all know as much -as _I_ do--there _may_ be no tour. Whether there is, or not, I've no -doubt we shall all get what's due to us. I hope we shall, I'm -sure--God knows _I_ can't afford to lose what they owe me!" He made a -slight pause, to let this sink. "As soon as I hear from London what -the Management intends to do, we'll put our heads together again. You -worked nobly to-night, nobly--one and all! Some of you ought to be in -London, getting your thirty, and forty, quid a week! If the thing's a -frost, it won't be the fault of the artists, and I mean to let the -Management know it!" - -"What Management?" cried the low comedian. "'Ave _you_ left off being -manager all of a sudden?" - -"Ladies and gentlemen, as you're all aware, the Management is a -Syndicate," Mr. Quisby proceeded with difficulty. "If this was _my_ -crowd, I should talk very different. Do you know what I should say if -this was my crowd? I should say, 'Between you and I, I'm a bit -doubtful of the piece--that's straight!--but I've got a first-class -company of artists, and by George I mean to keep 'em!' I should say, -'If I can't pull this piece together, then I'll cast the whole blessed -crowd for another!' That's what I should say if _I_ was manager. But -I'm not. No, I'm one of you. We're all in the same boat. I'm engaged -at a salary, like yourselves. Still"--he smeared the perspiration -round his lying lips--"still it's always darkest before dawn. There's -a silver lining to every cloud, and we may find as good fish in the sea -as ever came out of it. Mr. Omee won't have the piece, and--er--you're -all to clear your props out of the theatre first thing in the morning; -but there are plenty of other theatres in the kingdom! We must stick -together. Where there's a will, there's a way! We must stick -together, like Englishmen in the hour of trouble all the world over, -and--er, er--be loyal to the show! Ladies and gentlemen--Boys and -girls!--Mr. Omee is waiting to see me in his office. That's all." - -"Well, he couldn't have spoken any fairer," many of the poor, wretched -women said to one another as they lagged through the forsaken streets. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -Indeed it was Mr. Omee whom the Company censured--Mr. Omee who had been -inhuman enough to banish a worthless performance from his theatre. -"Never," said Miss Jinman, "in all her experience had she known artists -to be so grossly insulted." Mr. Quisby's position might be ambiguous, -Mr. Quisby might be shirking his responsibilities; not to put too fine -a point upon it, Mr. Quisby might be a rogue. But he had paid them -compliments--and Mr. Omee had shut his doors against them. Mr. Omee -was the innocent person whom they execrated and reviled. - -In the quarter where the "professional apartments" of Blithepoint are -most numerous, the landladies looked anxious in the morning. On every -doorstep in Corporation Road, and half way down Alfreton Terrace, the -news was known by nine o'clock. The lodgers were obliged to fence with -searching questions at breakfast, and many of the houris heating -curling-tongs in the parlour-fire were told that it would "save trouble -if they got in their dinner themselves." - -Towards midday the Company straggled off the pier with baskets and -parcels, and the baggageman was busy collecting the clothes-hampers. -The boards of _Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell_ had gone from the turnstiles, -and later, bill-stickers came along and splashed up advertisements of a -stopgap. The rejected comedians stood on the Parade and eyed the work -morosely. They had hoped the theatre would have to be closed. Miss -Jinman said, "It was very strange, to say the least; she didn't -understand how the bills had been printed since last night! It looked -to _her_ as if Mr. Omee had been _playing them false from the start_!" - -Then striking proof of Mr. Omee's perfidy was forthcoming, his brutal -nature was revealed to the full--he offered to make the stranded -performers by whom he had lost money, a present of their fares if they -liked to return to their homes. "Ah," said the Chorus, "_that_ shows -what a dirty trick he served us!" "He has exposed his hand _there_," -said Miss Jinman; "_wants to get us out of the town_!" - -And Mr. Quisby, who meant to pay them nothing, but was endeavouring to -make use of them in Slocombe-on-the-Swamp the following week before he -decamped, told them there was a reviving prospect of a three months' -tour. - -So not more than a third of the Company profited by Mr. Omee's -generosity, and the others warned them that they were being very unwise. - -And by this time the tidings of the disaster had spread from -Corporation Road and Alfreton Terrace as far as the Grand Hotel, where -it provided languid amusement, and the plight of the players was known -to all the visitors on the Front. Including Conrad. - -But it was not until Friday, December 26th, that one of those incidents -which may occur to anybody associated him with the matter. - -It had been misty since morning, and towards the close of day the fog -deepened. When he left a house where he had been lunching with a man, -he took the wrong turning. So far as he was able to see at all, he saw -that he had blundered into a neighbourhood which was strange to him. A -humble neighbourhood, apparently, with nothing of a watering-place -about it. This being Boxing-day, the little shops to which he came -were shuttered, and owing to the weather, few people were abroad. He -wandered amid dim desertion. Then as he paused, hesitating, two girls -emerged suddenly from the fog, and stopped before him. - -"Oh!" exclaimed one of them, "could you tell us where Gandy's the -greengrocer's is?" - -"I am so sorry," said Conrad, "I can't. Can you direct me to the -Parade?" - -She answered absurdly that he was "coming away from it," though he was -standing still. "It's over there," she said; "you go down there, and -take the first on the left, and keep straight on. You can't miss it." - -"I _have_ missed it," demurred Conrad. "Thank you for rescuing me. I -wish I could direct you to Gandy's the greengrocer's in return." - -The other girl had not spoken yet, but now she said-- - -"Oh, never mind, thanks, we shall find it; they say it's quite near. -But it's too dark to make out the names." - -It was also too dark to make out her features, but her voice was -delicious, and if the fog didn't flatter her, she was dowered with the -eyes that he most ardently admired. He was all at once sensible of a -keen interest in the whereabouts of the greengrocer's. - -"That seems to be a shop at the corner; I'll go over and see what it -is!" he said promptly. But it was a general dealer's, and he came back -not displeased. - -"Bother! We _must_ find it!" cried the first girl. - -"May I come and help you?" he asked. - -"Oh, you can come if you like," she said; and added as a pure -concession to formality, "It's awf'ly kind of you." - -So they all proceeded through the fog. - -"It's such a nuisance everything being shut to-day," the first girl -went on. "That's why we want Gandy's--they say Gandy's live there, and -might oblige us. We can ring 'em up." - -"Fruit?" he inquired. - -"No," she said; "flowers--violets. We want some for the concert -to-night. Are you going?" - -"Certainly I am," said Conrad. "What concert? I haven't heard about -it?" - -"Oh well, it was only settled this morning. We're giving a concert at -the Victoria Hall--_The Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell_ Company. It's to -help us all. Mr. Quisby--our manager--only let me know just now. I'm -going to sing a 'flower-song,' and I want some 'button-holes' to throw -among the Audience; I can't do the song without." - -"Throw one to me," said Conrad. - -"I will," she promised. "We ought to get some people in, as it's bank -holiday, don't you think so? And if the show 'goes,' we can have the -hall again to-morrow. The tickets are only sixpence and a shilling. -Did you see us on the pier?" - -"No," he said, "I wasn't here then--I was just too late. How many -tickets can you let me have?" - -"Oh, you'll get them at the door! we haven't got any. You'll really -come, won't you?" - -"I'll come if I miss my dinner to get there," he vowed. "Where _is_ -Victoria Hall?" - -"It's--I don't know the name of the street. It's near the station. -Anybody'll tell you. We begin at eight o'clock." - -This was all very well, but the Girl of the Voice had not spoken again, -and he wished she would say something. - -"Shall I hear you sing, too?" he asked, looking across at her. He -looked across at her just as they approached a lamp-post, and his most -sanguine hopes were realised. He found her adorable. - -"No, _I_ am not in the programme," said Rosalind. - -"Here's a policeman!" cried Miss Lascelles. "Can you tell us where -Gandy's the greengrocer's is?" she begged again. - -The constable did not know, and, official though useless, took a long -time to say so. More intelligently he remarked that it was "Nasty -weather for Boxing-day," and Conrad gave him a half-crown. The next -instant they deciphered the name of "Gandy" themselves. - -"What a stupid policeman!" exclaimed Rosalind, pouting. She pulled the -bell, and glanced at Conrad. Conrad happened to be glancing at her. -"Your troubles are nearly over," she said with a smile. - -"I am not impatient," owned Conrad. - -There were descending footsteps, and a woman opened the door. - -He said ingratiatingly, "I am sorry to disturb you, but we're trying to -get some flowers. Can you let me have some?" - -"Flowers?" said the woman. She had a vacant stare. - -"A few bunches of violets," Rosalind explained. - -"Y-e-s," murmured the woman. She made a long pause. "We 'aven't got -no flowers now," she said. "N--no. I'm sorry we can't oblige you." - -"Can you tell us where we can get some?" put in Miss Lascelles sharply. - -"No----no, I couldn't say, I'm sure," faltered the woman.... "There's -Peters' opperzite--p'raps _they_ might be able to oblige you." - -"Do you know where there's a florist's?" questioned Conrad. - -"Florist's?" She shook her head. "N--no, I can't say as I do--not one -as is likely to be open to-day." - -"Let's try Peters'!" they said; and scurried across the road. - -Here they pulled without effect; the bell yielded to them immoderately, -but no tinkle came. They regarded one another, discouraged. - -"You had better leave us to our fate," sighed Rosalind. - -"Are you dismissing me?" His tone was reproachful. - -"Releasing you," she said, in her best St. James' manner. - -"My chains are flowers," said he ornately. - -"I wish you'd give 'em to me!" said Tattie Lascelles. - -"You shall have them before we part. Ladies, I have an inspiration! -You know the way to the Parade--let's go down there and get a fly. -Then we've nothing more to do--the responsibility's the flyman's. -We'll take him by the hour, and make him drive us about Blithepoint -till we find a florist's. Is it carried?" - -"Unanimously!" cried Rosalind. "Right about face, quick march!" - -And there was a belated fly dozing by the pier. When the man had -recovered from his astonishment at being hailed, he grew quite brisk, -and developed ideas. He suggested "Mitchell's," and drove them to a -fashionable florist's in the Mall. Nothing could have been happier. -Mr. Mitchell accepted their apologies, and lit the gas as amiably as if -bank-holidays were of no importance. Bountifully he brought forward -his best for them, and his best was as beauteous as it was expensive. - -The warm, perfumed air was agreeable after the fog, and Rosalind among -the azaleas was divine. (There are few keener pleasures than taking -out a nice woman, and spending money on her; and it is unnecessary that -one should go out fond of the woman--it's so easy to get fond of her in -the process.) "Oh no, really!" she protested--and she meant it, for -Miss Lascelles was already laden--"No, none for me, really!" - -"Just these," pleaded Conrad; "they're so pretty--it's a shame to leave -them behind." He put them in her hands. - -"I'd like you to see some roses I've got here, sir," said the -proprietor; "it's not often you can see roses like those." - -"Exquisite," assented Conrad.... "And just a few roses, won't you?" - -"Well one, then," she said succumbing. - -"We'll have some roses!" commanded Conrad magnificently. "And those -look nice--those lilies-of-the-valley. You might give us some -lilies-of-the-valley, will you?" - -"I'll have nothing else," she told him in her first undertone. The -woman's first undertone is so sweet. - -"A few?" he entreated. "You _ought_ to wear lilies-of-the-valley! I -wish you were going to sing to-night." - -"Do you?" - -"I shall see you there, sha'n't I?" - -She nodded. "Yes, I shall be in 'front.'" - -"I'm so glad I met you!" - -He thought of taking them in to the hotel to tea, but her companion's -toilette had been very hasty. - -The fly was as fragrant as a flower show when they drove away. She -buried her fair face in the blossoms he had given to her. It's -permissible, but it may stir the man's imagination. It stirred -Conrad's; he had rarely wanted a kiss from a woman so much. In the -scented dusk, as their gaze met, her eyes were luminous--like stars. - -The fly rattled into Corporation Road, and he wondered whether she was -going to ask him if he would 'come in.' The fly stopped. - -"Au revoir," he said. "Victoria Hall? I have the name right?" - -"Won't you come and help us put the flowers in water?" she suggested. - -It was of interest to see her without a hat. When she took off her -coat he was captivated. He stayed about ten minutes, and the other -girl didn't go out of the room. Both went to the door with him when he -left. - -"Eight o'clock, then?" he said. - -"Eight o'clock." - -"Whom shall I ask for if I don't see you?" - -"'Miss Daintree;' but you're sure to see me." - -"You won't be late?" - -"No, I shall be there when it begins. Good-bye--and thanks!" - -"Oh!--Good-bye." - -He saw her smile to him again from the step--and the cab turned. - -"What a lark! I say, isn't he mashed on you! Do you like his -moustache? Hasn't he got lovely teeth?" exclaimed Tattie in the -passage. - -"Y-e-s.... He's rather nice," said Rosalind. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -Eight o'clock had just struck when Conrad arrived at the slum where he -was to spend the evening. The exterior of the hall had no sanguine -air. Four opaque gas globes glimmered over a narrow entrance, and, in -the obscurity, a written appeal affixed by wafers was barely legible. -He made it out to be: - - "Help the Poor _Kiss-and-Tell Girls_. - Stranded in the Town through No Fault of their Own. - Show your Sympathy by Patronising us." - - -Behind a portière a disreputable-looking man, wearing a queer overcoat, -sat at a small table with tickets. He asked, "Sixpence, or a -shilling?" and Conrad said, "A shilling," and the man said, "Front row." - -There was a piano on a shallow platform. In lieu of footlights, some -pots of ferns had been disposed at wide intervals. There was no -curtain, but a screen, behind which giggles were audible, turned a -corner of the hall into the most limited of artists' rooms. Those -artists who were not making their toilettes, sat quietly among the -audience. Perhaps two hundred chairs were ranged across the hall, and -about fifty of them were occupied. One of them was occupied by -Rosalind. - -"Good evening," she said. - -"Good evening," said Conrad. "May I sit down?" - -"These are the shilling ones," said she. "Oh, of course, if you -_have_! I'm afraid we're leading you into awful extravagance? ... It -isn't very full?" - -"No, I'm sorry. I wish I could have sent some people. Have you got -another concert to-morrow?" - -"They're talking about it--they've got the hall very cheap." - -"I might take some tickets, and see what I can do with them. I suppose -that would be a good plan, wouldn't it?" - -"Perhaps," said Rosalind, doubtfully. - -"Why 'perhaps?' I thought it was to help you all?" - -"Yes," she answered. "Oh, it's meant to." - -"There's a reservation in your manner," he said, "that-- What's the -use of our being such old friends if you don't confide in me?" - -"Ah, I didn't think of that," she laughed. "Well, did you see the man -with a coat?" - -"I saw him with aversion." - -"I thought it would please you! That's the manager, Mr. Quisby." - -"Your manager, do you mean?" - -"I'm telling you--the manager of the Company that came to grief. The -girls are supposed to have got this up for themselves; but you may have -noticed that you paid your shilling to Mr. Quisby." - -"A--ah!" said Conrad. "There seems a weak spot in the business -arrangements. Well, what do you propose?" - -A youth in a very shabby tweed suit came on to the platform. He sat -down at the piano, and rattled the introduction to the well-known music -hall song entitled _My Little Baby Boy_. On bounced the golden-haired -brunette. She wore a skirt to the knees, and had made up her face as -if for the glare of a theatre. Her appearance lowered the concert to -the level of a penny gaff. Several women of the shop-keeping class, -hitherto sympathetic, murmured "Oh!" and tightened their mouths. - -"Isn't the costume a mistake?" whispered Conrad. - -"Do you think so? How would you have dressed her?" - -"Well," said Conrad, "a long frock." - -"Mm. What sort of frock?" - -"Well, I should have made her look quiet, and very--er----" - -"Respectable. I know! ... Go on." - -"I should have said, 'Be pale, and pathetic!' - -"That's right, I wanted them to; but they've all got themselves up -wrong, except my friend Miss Lascelles. Sh!" - -The vocalist's blackened eyelids drooped to the paper that she held;-- - - "'Some folks want power and riches, and really will not - be denied, - And when they've accomplished their object, they are - very far from satisfied; - A fig for your wealth and your power, for riches I care - not a jot; - Contented am I--yes! and happy--I'm quite satisfied - with my lot.'" - - -"Inappropriate," said Rosalind under her breath, "isn't it?" - -The vocalist looked up again, for now she knew the words;-- - - "'I'm not tired of England, I've no wish to roam, - There's a little six-roomed house that's my home, sweet home; - My house is my castle--who is my pride and joy? - Why! his Royal Highness the King of the Castle, my little baby boy.'" - - -When she had shrilled the chorus times without number she withdrew, and -Conrad said, - -"Can't we go and sit further back where we can talk? Look at all those -chairs over there." - -"If you like. What do you think of her?" - -"She can't sing." - -"Oh, that's a detail. But she doesn't _work_ the song." - -"How do you mean?" - -"Didn't you feel what she ought to do? Well, of course you wouldn't! -'His Royal Highness the King' line ought to bring the house down. -Wouldn't _I_ make it 'go!'" - -"Show me," he begged. "There's nobody looking." - -So in the corner that they had found, she hummed the bars, and showed -him. - -"Oh, aren't you clever!" he exclaimed. "What a pretty voice you have! -Perhaps you're--er--fond of babies?" - -"If you mean 'have I got any children?' no, I haven't. That was an -actress, not a mother. I've no ring on--did you think I was married?" - -"Well, you looked so very devoted, I wondered for a moment." - -"Are _you_?" - -"Suddenly," said Conrad, gazing at her. - -"'Suddenly'--what?" - -"Devoted." - -"I meant 'married,'" she explained. - -"I?" he said. "Good heavens!" - -"Don't be so astonished!--such a thing has happened to men." - -"Yes, but I'm not a marrying man." - -"I think most men say they aren't marrying men till they say, 'Will you -marry me?' It's a pity they change their mind so often." - -"I have pitied them myself." - -"Them?" she said. "The girls, you mean! A man begins to be in love -much sooner than a woman, but he finishes much sooner too." - -"Well, that's why marriage was invented," said Conrad. "The man brings -the fervour, and the woman brings the faithfulness. You can't combine -better qualities." - -"Yes, and what about his fervour afterwards? He wants to go and be in -love all over again. Haven't I seen? In this profession, travelling -about, a girl often meets a good fellow; I don't say he's often -rich--the ones who mean well are generally hard up. Perhaps he's a -clerk, or something, in the town. He's taken with her from the -'front,' and gets to know her. Then he waits for her at the stage door -every evening, and sees her home, and makes her talk 'shop'--he always -makes her talk 'shop,' that's the fascination to him. After she goes -away, he writes to her, and by-and-by perhaps they marry. They do -sometimes. Of course she's to leave the stage; he generally asks for -that--the kind of man I'm talking about. Well, what's the result?" - -"She's sorry she gave it up." - -"No, she isn't. There are exceptions--don't I know it! but in most -cases she's only too thankful to give it up. There's no glamour about -it for the girl--_she_ has lived all that out; the 'little six-roomed -house and home sweet home' is the only ambition she has left. It's the -man who finds the marriage dull. He was in love with being in love -with an actress. He liked waiting for that smile over the -footlights--about the middle of the first verse of her solo; it -flattered him to know he was the one man in all the audience who was -going to talk to her directly. When they're married she's just an -ordinary girl--like Miss Smith, and Miss Brown, and the other girls he -knew. The fairy has lost her wings. She's a very good little wife -perhaps, but just a drab little mortal. He says, 'How romantic it used -to be when she was a fairy!'--and goes fairy-catching outside another -stage-door." - -"Poor little mortal!" - -"Men want romances. When you find them out, the most unlikely men are -romantic; but when you find them out, nine hundred and ninety women in -a thousand are domesticated." - -"Are _you_?" - -"There are the other ten," laughed Rosalind.... "And I'm not talking -of society women--of course I don't know anything about them; I'm -talking of every-day women, and us. Look at my friend! I suppose -you'd take her for a bohemian through and through? She has had to earn -her living in the Profession since she was sixteen, and she's slangy, -and she'd shock your sort of woman out of her wits. Marriage is the -last thing she thinks of now. But let a man she liked come along! -She'd marry him on two pounds a week, and go through fire and water for -him, and thank heaven for the joy of hanging up the washing in her own -back yard." - -Miss Lascelles, with a hint of coon steps, was singing-- - - "'What is the use of loving a girl - When you know she don't want yer _to_?'" - - -"I shouldn't have thought it," said Conrad. "She doesn't suggest -domesticity in back yards." - -"Does she suggest a boarding-school for young ladies?" - -His eyebrows asked a question. - -"There was a time when Tattie was among little girls who walked two and -two in Kensington." - -"Really? Do you know that hurts, rather? I'm sorry." - -"_I_'m sorry," sighed Rosalind. "But her heart's sweet," she added; -"it's only the bloom that has gone." She smiled. "Clap your hands! -She's my pal--you've got to applaud her." - -"She's very good," he said, applauding. "I thought she was going to do -a flower song? But I like that one. Isn't it pretty? I like the way -it goes." - -"Yes, rag-time--all against the beat. _Don't_ hum it out of tune!" she -said plaintively. "She's going to do the flower song next. -By-the-bye, I may have to introduce you to some of the girls. What -shall I call you?" - -"My _name_," Conrad answered deferentially, "is 'Warrener.'" - -She bent her head; - -"Thank you," said Lady Darlington. - -When the concert was over he walked with her as far as Mrs. Cheney's. -Tattie of course was with them. At the foot of the steps Tattie shook -hands with him and went indoors, and he remained a minute saying 'good -night' to Rosalind. The other girl might well have heard all they -said, but the minute had charm to him because the other girl had left -them. It implied something. And underneath, to both these -shuttlecocks of temperament, there was another charm, not defined -yet--to be savoured in the first moments of solitude--the charm of -recapturing a mood of years ago. At a doorstep, late: "You look -tired?" "Oh, it's nothing." A pause. "I shall see you to-morrow?" -"Yes, come in to tea." A whiff of the fragrance of his youth, a touch -of the sentimentality of her girlhood, idealised Corporation Road as -they parted in the fog. - -"I wish it were to-morrow! ... Good night." - -"Do you? ... Good night." - -The old tune was not classical, but it was pretty. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -"I want something substantial," said Conrad gravely, shaking his head. -"For the follow, say a Chateaubriand." - -Two days had passed, and in his mind a new and disquieting thought had -risen--the thought that Rosalind couldn't pay for enough to eat. - -Truly she was paying for a great deal to eat, conjuring steaks and -puddings on to the tables of a dozen lodgings, and inventing strange -stories to account for her having half-sovereigns to lend. But Conrad -could not know that. He only knew that the necessities of the -_Kiss-and-Tell_ Company were more urgent than he had understood; and he -felt very sorry for all the girls, but his heart bled for Lady -Bountiful. - -"A Chateaubriand," he repeated firmly. It was nourishing. "And pommes -soufflées.... No? Well, I'll leave the potatoes to you. With a -chestnut purée, eh? And let us have nice sweets. Don't give me the -table d'hôte sweets--special. What about peaches? ... Well, send for -the best fruit you can get--you've plenty of time. Where's the -wine-list? A quarter to two. That table in the corner--for three -persons." - -There is one place in Blithepoint where the chef can cook, though he -shirks pommes soufflées. You go downstairs to it--unless you choose -the hotel entrance--and it was in the restaurant downstairs that Conrad -ordered the luncheon on Monday. He meant to say things at luncheon. -But when Rosalind and Tattie arrived, there was a bomb-shell with the -hors d'oeuvres. - -"Mr. Quisby has bolted!" they cried, taking their seats. - -"Bolted?" he echoed. "How do you know?" - -"Queenie Vavasour and Miss Jinman have been to his rooms this morning. -They went to tell him they must have some money. He has gone, he went -last night--with our concert sixpences." - -"I say!" exclaimed Conrad. He was by this time almost a member of the -Company. "What are we all going to do?" - -"It's a nice fix," continued Rosalind, reproachfully. "I told you this -would happen, I never thought he'd be able to take us on anywhere -else--never for a moment. Didn't I warn you?" - -"You did," said Conrad. "Oh! I admit it. Will you have a sardine, -or----? Miss Lascelles, let me give you some of the pretty ones with -the red and yellow." - -"I told you all along," repeated Rosalind, "that girls could do nothing -for themselves in a matter like that; that it needed a man to take it -up. Now, didn't I say so?" - -"You said so several times. But you didn't suggest what I should do. -I couldn't menace him with a revolver." - -"Men are so lazy!" she smiled. - -"You may smile," said Conrad reprovingly, "but it's very serious for -us. We are all out of an engagement." - -"Yes," she agreed. "And goodness only knows when you'll get one again!" - -"That's sheer spite--you're jealous of my talent. Miss Lascelles, tell -her I can't be out of an engagement long." - -"With all his experience?" cried Tattie. "His notices as 'Buttercup' -were immense!" - -"Poor Miss Jinman!" sighed Rosalind; "I'm sorry for that old woman." -She nodded at Conrad. "You should see her this morning!" - -"I want to see her," he declared, "or rather, I want one of you to see -her for me. You know we've all got to stick together in this thing, -and----" - -"And 'be loyal to the show!'" said Tattie. - -"No, but joking aside, I want you girls to help me straighten things -out. I was going to talk to you about it anyhow. Now tell me--what do -they all want?" - -"I suppose they all want a 'shop,'" Tattie answered. - -"I can't give them a 'shop'--I'm not in the business--but I might send -them home with a few of the Best in their pockets. How would that do?" - -They lifted their heads, and looked at him; and the waiter put the soup -on the table. - -"Did you mean it?" murmured Rosalind when the waiter had turned his -back. - -"Well, of course. Now this looks very good; let's enjoy our lunch! We -seem to be getting on a bit, so we needn't worry. Don't you think you -ought to take your jacket off--you'll be cold when you go out?" - -"No, I've loosened it," she said. "But--er--do you know I'd rather you -didn't do that? I--I think they could all manage without." - -"Now, why interfere?" said Conrad peevishly. "This is my department. -You have bungled hopelessly yourself. By your own showing you -distrusted the man--and you let him escape, instead of patrolling his -doorstep like a bright young woman. Then when _I_ bring intelligence -to bear on the matter, and we're all happy, you must cut in and throw -cold water on the scheme. Take your soup and be good." - -"Isn't it nice?" said Tattie. - -"Now that's a sensible remark. I turn to _you_--we won't be interfered -with. Suppose you help me, Miss Lascelles? Will you be Santa Claus in -Corporation Road for me?" - -"Oh," she faltered. "You had better go yourself." - -"I?" gasped Conrad; "I wouldn't do it for a million--they'd thank me, -some people have got no tact." - -"They'd cry over you," she said, with tears in her own voice. "You -don't know what it is you're doing. They aren't used to men who-- -You're a trump!" - -"Oh, pickles," he said. "Where's that waiter? I say, we're all being -awfully solemn; I thought this was going to be a jolly party? Miss -Daintree----" - -"Mr. Warrener?" - -"Please talk." - -"I'm going to talk later on," she said. "I'm going to talk like a -mother to you." - -"Won't you talk like yourself in the meanwhile? I don't want anything -better." - -Then she talked like herself; and the plates were changed, and the hour -was pleasurable. It was a very uncommon hour, because her friend was -so nice. The pretty girl's friend is nearly always an infliction, and -makes mischief afterwards because she hasn't been sufficiently admired. -It was such a pleasurable hour that Conrad knew a pang of regret in -reflecting that there would be few more like it--Rosalind, no doubt, -would flee from Blithepoint as soon as the other women. Would he meet -her again? Of course she would drift into another Company; meet -another man in another town. Damn! - -"I'm going to miss that girl," he mused, "and know she's flirting with -somebody else while I'm remembering her!" - -"'The world,'" he exclaimed, indulging his weakness for quotation, "'is -a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those who feel!'" And -neither Rosalind nor Tattie found it needful to inquire to which -category he was assigning himself; there may be sentimental seconds -even over a chateaubriand. He added, "Let me fill up that glass for -you--you've nothing there but froth." - -It was more than half-past three when the waiter abased himself in -letting them out, and as they turned along the Parade, Tattie -recollected that she had "promised to be with Miss Vavasour at four." -They all stopped for a minute, and Conrad tried to look as if he didn't -want her to go. However she went, and he and Rosalind sauntered on -without her. - -"What shall we do?" he said. "Shall we go and hear the band?" - -"There isn't one in the afternoon this time of year." - -"Not in the band-stand, but I think there is on the pier. The -band-stand is retained chiefly as a rendezvous, I believe. When he -says 'Where will you meet me this evening?' she always says 'Opposite -the band-stand.'" - -Rosalind replied, "How do you know?" - -"I gather it. Pensive figures watch the clock, and look up and down. -They all turn hopefully when they hear you, and scowl at you as you -come in sight. I passed once in the evening; I felt myself such a -general disappointment that I always walk on the other side now." - -The man at the turnstiles told them that the orchestra was playing in -the theatre; and as they drew close they heard it, but for some little -time they could find no way inside. No charge was made for admission -to the theatre in the afternoon, and only the entrance to the balcony -was open. They saw nobody to guide them. There were no other -footsteps on the pier; there was no sound but the plaintive music that -they couldn't reach. They wandered round and round the terrace, trying -locked doors. - -The tide was out, and the sheen of the smooth wet sand was violet under -a paling sky. Little white waves were hurrying, and in the faded -distance the star of the lightship gleamed and hid. - -Through the window of an unexpected office they spied the girl who sold -the stall tickets in the evening. "Oh, yes!" she said, and ran out to -show them where to go. - -Only two or three figures inhabited the roomy balcony. Below, the body -of the house was soulless, shrouded in white wrappers. Faint daylight -touched the auditorium wanly, but gas jets yellowed the faces of the -orchestra. In the narrow line of glare amid the emptiness, they played. - -Rosalind and Conrad sat down in the last row, and spoke in low voices. -He knew that the impression of the scene was going to linger with him -after she had gone. - -In a few minutes she whispered, "Let's go on the terrace again," and -they crept to the door. - -"We couldn't talk in there," she said.... "Look here! what you were -saying to Tattie: I want you to tell me straight, I don't know anything -about you--can you afford to do all that?" - -"Oh yes," he said; "that's all right." - -"But really? Tell me the truth. How well off are you?" - -"Oh, well! ... I'm very well off." - -"Because if you're going to miss the money, there's another way out, -that's why. I shouldn't forgive myself if I put you in a hole; I bar -that sort of thing. Lunch and flowers are all very well, but the -other's rather steep." - -"I sha'n't miss the money." - -"Honour bright?" - -"Honour bright!" - -"Oh well, then! It's awfully good of you, I sha'n't forget it," she -said. "'Warrener' is really your name, isn't it?" - -"I thought you understood that at the time." - -"Yes," she said, "I did. I only wondered for a moment--I'm sorry." - -"Oh, it's nothing," he answered.... "You know what I want you to tell -me?" - -"What?" - -"About yourself. What can I do for you?" - -"Oh, you needn't count me or Tattie. We don't want anything." - -"That's all bosh. But you don't come in with the rest--I want to do -more than that for you. Treat me as a pal. You're on the rocks, and -I'm not; I've been there, and I know what it means. Let me give you a -hundred to set you right." - -"You want to give me a hundred pounds?" She threw back her astonished -face at him--she was all white throat and eyes. "D' ye like me so -much?" - -"Damnably!" said Conrad. - -The music had stopped, and now the bandsmen came hurrying past them. -They stood looking shoreward, in a pause. On the dusk of the Parade -the chain of electric globes quivered into light. - -"It's rather rough on you," she murmured. "Isn't it? I've always -drawn the line. It's no good." - -"I didn't think it was. I shouldn't have told you if you hadn't asked -me. I know; if a man cared about you, you'd expect him to want to -marry you." - -"Why shouldn't I?" - -"Oh, why not? Only I'm one of the men who aren't designed for -husbands. I could make a beautiful lover--while it lasted; a very -staunch friend--to a man, or a woman--all my life; but everybody has -his limitations. Women are just the same. There are women who are -made to be daughters--they're perfect as daughters; but they should -never marry. There are women who're meant for mothers. _They_ should -never marry--I mean they make very poor wives. Not many of us are -first-class all round. Still that's nothing to do with it. I haven't -asked you for anything, and I'm not going to. If you had -been--different, well, for my own sake, I should have been very glad! -I never played 'Faust,' though, everybody's morality begins -somewhere--it's just my luck that I've got fond of a girl who _isn't_ -'different.' But there it is! We needn't talk about it. Put that -aside, and let me help you as if I were your brother. I don't feel -like your brother, but you can trust me just as much. I quite -understand. I'm not vain enough to suppose you like me, but I quite -understand that it would be 'no use' if you did." - -She looked beyond him pensively, and pensively she hummed:-- - - "'What is the use of loving a girl - If the girl don't love you? - What is the use of loving a girl - When you know she don't want yer _to_?'" - - -"Don't do that," said Conrad. "I'm trying to talk to you like a chum. -If you sing that song, I shall kiss you." - -"Well, what do you want me to say?" she asked, strolling on. - -"I don't want you to say anything. You'll get the money for the others -in the morning, and I'll send you the hundred during the day." - -"You're not to!" she exclaimed. "I don't need it, I swear I don't. -You're not to send Tattie or me a shilling. If you do, I'll send it -back." - -"Why?" - -"Because I don't need it, that's why." - -"No it isn't. It's because you don't believe what I've said. My dear -girl, I don't suppose I shall ever see you again after you leave here. -When do you go?" - -"We go to-morrow." - -"You and Tattie? I mean 'Miss Lascelles'?" - -"Oh, 'Tattie' doesn't hurt. Yes, she's going to stay--we're going to -be together for a little while." - -"Where? Don't you want me to ask?" - -"London," she said. - -"Have you got any people there?" - -"No.... The only relation that counts is in the country now. Now -mind! You're not to send anything for us two, or you'll offend me. -Whatever you send will go to the others, all of it." - -"Have it your own way," he said quietly. - -They walked once round the terrace without speaking. - -"Are you angry?" she asked. - -"You've hurt rather. You've pitched it back at me. I don't mean the -beastly money, but the intention. I think you might have trusted me. -On my honour, I'd have taken no advantage of it!" - -After another pause, she said: - -"I'm a fool to tell you, but I can't help it.... I'm not on the stage -any more, I'm not hard up; I'm--married." - -"Married?" - -"I've been married five years." - -"Good Lord!" he said. "Well-- Not on the stage? What are you doing -here then?" - -"I wasn't acting; I only came down to be in it all again. I--" her -smile was wistful, "I was 'trying back'; I wanted to feel as I used to -feel--I was dull." - -He nodded comprehension; "Oh yes! I've done a lot of 'trying back' -myself.... Do you care for him?" - -She gave the faintest shrug. - -"I wish you weren't going away," he sighed. "I shall often see you -again?" - -"We're the only people left on the pier," said Rosalind. "Don't you -think we're having more than our twopenn'orth?" - -"I shall go to town on Wednesday," he told her, as they turned homeward. - -"Shall you?" - -"You haven't answered what I asked you." - -"I don't know," she said. "Besides you'll soon forget that you wanted -to." - -"If I don't forget?" - -"Well-- You may write to me." - -"Where?" - -"I'll post you a line before I leave," she promised. "We shall leave -as early as we can--as soon as we've done your business for you; I -sha'n't see you before I go. By-the-bye, I don't know if you're -staying at the hotel where we lunched?--there'll be letters for you -from the Company to-morrow, too." - -"No, I'm at the Grand," he said. "My Christian name is 'Conrad.'" - -It seemed a very short distance to Corporation Road. It seemed untrue -that it was only four days since he had stood at the door with her for -the first time. They went up the steps, and she did not turn the knob. - -"Are you coming in?" she murmured. "I daresay Tattie is back." - -"Do you know I think I'd rather say 'au revoir' to you alone." - -"Au revoir," she said. Her hand was formal. He was rather chilled. - -"You mean to post me that line?" he questioned. - -She nodded. And then in the darkness of the doorway, she laughed, and -began to hum the song that he had warned her not to sing. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -He found the evening very long. He was restless. The memory of her -kiss was exquisite, but it did not make for repose. It seemed to him -intolerably stupid that he was boring himself in the billiard-room of -the Grand when Corporation Road was so near. Still she had taken leave -of him--if he went he might be unwelcome to her, she might be -disappointing to him. - -Early next afternoon he received the line she had promised. It arrived -with letters from the Company. They were such deeply grateful letters -that they hurt him a little when he read them, but he guessed which was -hers, and he opened that one first. Mixed with the pleasure with which -he opened it there was the curiosity, even the--he would have refused -to acknowledge it--even the slight touch of apprehension with which a -man who likes a woman better than he knows her always opens her first -letter. - -He smiled--he heard her speaking. - -"If you ever write, the address is 'Miss Tattie Lascelles, c/o Madame -Hermiance, 42 bis Great Titchfield Street, W.' You understand? You -aren't to put my name on the outside envelope at all. Blithepoint is -blessing you.--R.D." - -If he ever wrote, did she say? By his halidom he was going to write -immediately! His impulse was to beg her to dine with him, but probably -she would find it easier to meet him during the day. Luncheon then. -But where? The choice of a restaurant bothered him--she might be -afraid of acquaintances seeing her. He bethought himself of the Café -Anonyme in Soho, and entreated her to lunch with him on Thursday at two -o'clock. As a postscript he scribbled, "You won't say you can't, will -you? If I don't hear from you, I shall be waiting for you at the -door." To enable her to reply, though he prayed that no reply would -come, he added that he should stay at the Carlton. - -He was glad to leave Blithepoint; when the woman one liked there has -gone, a place is always distressing. In the train it was agreeable to -reflect that she had read his note by this time. Again he imagined her -as she read it--looking down, looking up, putting it in her pocket. -The little Café Anonyme had been a good idea. They would do their best -for him there, and their soles à la Marguery were unequalled in London. -The private rooms, too, were not unhomely, they hit the happy -medium--there was no riot of red velvet and gilding, nor were there rag -roses hanging askew in dusty glass epergnes. It would have been -unappreciative--it would have been an insult--to ask Rosalind to be -made love to in a vulgar room. - -He wandered about the Carlton after dinner until the last post was -delivered, and was relieved to find there was nothing for him. He was -sure that if she hadn't meant to go, she would have declined at once. -She wouldn't raise his hopes only to dash them to the parquetry as the -clock was preparing to strike; she wouldn't be thoughtless, unfeeling. -Oh no, she wasn't like that! - -And there was no letter on Thursday either, and he sallied to Soho with -delight. - -The exterior of the Café Anonyme when he reached it looked to him a -shade less ingenuous than it had been, but upstairs all was well. The -view of the grim houses opposite was screened by lace, firelight -flashed on the Dutch hearth cheerfully, and the little white table, set -for tête-à-tête, invited confidences. He forced his attention upon the -menu, and lounged back into the street. It was a fine day for London. -The sky was funereal, and the pavements were muddy, but there was no -rain falling. He loitered before the restaurant happily, and glanced -at his watch. At five minutes to two, expectation began to swell. - -At two o'clock he couldn't hold back a smile--at any instant now her -face might irradiate the blank. He wondered which way she would come, -and if she would drive, or walk. He could see for some distance, both -to right and left, and his only regret was that he couldn't see both -ways at once. He kept turning his head, fearful that he might miss a -second's joy. - -There was a leaping moment in which a figure suggested her as it hove -in sight. The girl proved offensively plain, and he was furious with -her as she passed. Somehow he did not rebound from the mistake--it was -the first fall in the temperature; the girl had killed his elation. He -watched now eagerly, but he repressed no smile. - -She was late. Oh, of course she would come, but the fish would be -spoilt. Rather stupid of her! There was nothing more irritating than -to have a careful luncheon ruined because a woman took twenty minutes -to tie her veil. A melancholy church clock boomed the quarter. He -began to feel that he was looking a fool, traversing these twelve -paving-stones. He was annoyed with her--he should be at no pains to -conceal it! - -Constantly hansoms rattled into view, with disappointing people in -them. There appeared to him discouragement in the gaze of the portier -now, and a pair of loafers outside the public-house at the corner were -taking interest in him.... He supposed she _would_ come? Into the -tension of his mood there entered the first sick qualm of doubt. - -And the church clock boomed again. Hope was breathing its last in him. -Annoyance had melted into despair--he longed for her too intensely to -be reproachful if she came. He would rejoice over her, he would -unbutton her gloves, he would say how pretty her frock was, and that -the chef was delighted to have been given more time! - -Five-and-twenty minutes to three! ... Well, he had better see what he -had to pay; it was no use hoping any longer. Well, just five -minutes!--the last stake. If she weren't here then, she wouldn't come -at all; she wouldn't expect him to wait at the door all day.... "At -the door!"--his heart stopped--the words bore suddenly a new -significance. In Blithepoint "at the door" might have meant at the -door of her lodgings. Could it be possible she had misunderstood--had -she thought he would be on the doorstep in Great Titchfield Street? -No! how could she? she had told him she was married. But the address -was Tattie's--yes, she might have thought so! Good heavens! had _she_ -been waiting there for _him_? Perspiration broke out on him. What was -he to do? Look at the time!--she had given him up long ago, she had -gone away! ... Oh, how could she have thought it? he had named the -restaurant! ... Still it was very odd she hadn't come. He must find -her, he must explain! But--but--but she was a married woman, he -couldn't go and peal the bell and ask for her. Wait a moment, what had -she said? Was she to stay with Tattie, or was Tattie to stay with her? -... Anyhow Tattie _was_ there. Yes, he _could_ go--he could go there -and ask for Tattie! His head was spinning. What the devil had become -of all the cabs? - -Two minutes later the portier had blown his whistle, and Soho was -behind. - -The pace was reckless, but to Conrad's fevered stare even the omnibuses -seemed to mock his hansom. Alternately he threw bribes and -objurgations through the trap. Where was Great Titchfield Street -hidden? Were they making a tour of the West End slums? The cab jerked -to a stoppage at last, and he leapt out, and hesitated. Nothing but -shops confronted him. Had he forgotten the number--wasn't it "42 bis?" -The next moment he saw the name, painted over a window--"Madame -Hermiance, French Laundress." - -It was very warm inside. Three girls, and a moist loosely clothed -woman, whose opulent bosom was partially concealed, stood at work -behind a long table. It fluttered with aerial frills and scraps of -pink tissue paper; one of the girls was folding things up, and making -them look pretty. He said, "Bonjour, madame," and the woman said, -"Good afternoon, sare." - -"Miss Lascelles, is she staying here? Is she in?" - -"Oh no, sare, she is gone." - -"Gone?" ejaculated Conrad. - -"She did lodge 'ere," added the laundress; "I let 'er a room upstairs; -but she go away--she get an engagement. You mean an actress, isn't it?" - -"Yes, yes," he said, "I know all about the engagement, but she came -back. She came back the day before yesterday, didn't she?" - -"Mais non, monsieur." She shook her head. "She is not come back." - -"Damn," he faltered. "Er--but there was a letter sent here for her--it -must have been delivered yesterday morning. What has become of the -letter?" - -"Ah, letters?" She banged an iron about a shirt with double cuffs; -perturbed as he was, he shuddered to see the havoc she was wreaking. - -"Mees Lascelles 'as writ me a post carte--she ask if 'er letters come, -I send 'em on. I zink she gives up ze _théâtre_, I zink she takes a -situation wiz a lady of title. Julie!" she called; "zat letter zat -come yesterday for Mees Lascelles, it go to ze post, hein?" - -"J'-n'-sais-_pas_!" called Julie. She sent a button flying off a -waistcoat without turning a hair. - -"Ameliarran?" - -"Yes'm?" - -"Ze letter for Mees Lascelles, where ees it?" - -"There yer are!" replied "Ameliar Ann." She was sewing a red cotton -hieroglyphic into a customer's "tying bow"--near one of the ends. Her -nod indicated a shelf piled with packages, and Conrad perceived his -letter lying neglected among the washing. - -"Ah," said Madame Hermiance. "Alors, I post it to-night myself." - -"But this is no trifling matter," exclaimed Conrad, trembling with -rage. "Miss Lascelles may lose a very large salary through this. -That's a business letter--from an impresario. It should have been -forwarded without delay." - -"Tiens!" said Madame Hermiance calmly. "Julie! pack up ze collars." - -He tramped across the shop, and the three girls' heads turned to the -left. This much was certain: Rosalind had said that she and Tattie -would be together. Sheer babble, that about the situation! If the -note reached Tattie at once, there was hope yet. He strode back, and -the three girls' heads turned to the right. - -"Madame!" - -"Monsieur?" - -"I must apologise for occupying your time, but----" - -"Ça ne fait rien," said the laundress. "Julie! pack up ze shirts." - -"But I want you to do me a kindness--I want you to be good enough to -send the letter to Miss Lascelles now, by a messenger. I suppose it -won't take very long?" - -"Mais, monsieur, I 'ave nobody to send." - -"Well, but my dear lady," he said--and talked to her persuasively of -paying for the service and the hansom that was outside. - -"Alors!" said Madame Hermiance. - -Expectancy bubbled in him anew. He would scrawl a line explaining what -he had suffered, beseeching Rosalind to meet him still! Would Madame -have the kindness to provide him with an envelope? - -It was provided. - -And a sheet of note-paper? he was abased by the trouble he was causing -her. - -Alas! her note-paper was not in the shop, but she could offer him a -price-list--it was very long, and the back was blank. - -This was no moment to finick; the case was urgent. He put his foot on -a laundry basket, and the price-list on his knee; and at the back of -"Blouses," "Bodices" and "White petticoats from 6d," he pencilled his -appeal. - -When "Ameliarran" had cast off her apron, he promised her a sovereign -to buy feathers. She was given the post-card bearing the address, and -he let her depart without a question. It was evident now that Rosalind -had withheld her address very deliberately; to ascertain where she -lived wouldn't be playing the game! But would the appeal find her at -home? She might be shopping, visiting, taking an aimless, fatal walk! -Hope tottered in him again. The girls who remained eyed him -sympathetically; he was conscious that they placed no credence in his -narrative of the impresario, and he withdrew to wait where he would be -less interesting. - -The street was not picturesque; for the scene of a lover's impatience -it might be called "preposterous." The narrow pavements were so busy -that he was forced to choose the narrow road; and the road was made -narrower by stalls of vegetables and tin pots. "Ameliarran," he had -heard, might accomplish her mission in half an hour. He escaped from -the marketing, and lit a cigar in a grey thoroughfare of comparative -seclusion. - -"Would she be at home?" When he turned back he braced himself to meet -the crisis. He had consulted his watch frequently, but he had not -returned before "Ameliarran" might be expected. Nevertheless he was -too soon. He withdrew again, and fumed once more among the cabbages -and pans. - -The next time he was not too soon. He found her in the shop, and she -had a note for him. From Rosalind, or Tattie? Rosalind! he knew the -writing. Let the girls gape! he wasn't going outside to read it among -the vegetables. He opened it with elaborate listlessness. She had not -protracted his pain while she framed graceful messages. Her response -consisted of eight words; but they sufficed: - -"Wait at the laundry. Throwing on my hat." - -He doubled the girl's sovereign, and drove no bargain with her -mistress. But the laundry cooped him now. He closed the door, and -loitered gratefully on the step. Yes, indeed, he would wait; in the -sweetness of relief he was scarcely impatient. A little drizzle was in -the air, but he did not heed it. The day, and the morrow, and a -hundred days broke into smiles before him. And while he lingered -there--on the laundress's step, in the squalid street, under the -rain--Conrad suddenly awoke to the exhilaration that sparkled in him, -was startled by its freshness. He realised that fizzing in his pulses -and his mind was the zest, the buoyancy that he had mourned as dead. -It was here, alive! He reviewed with gusto his emotions of the -afternoon, the hope, the suspense, the desperation--the quiver of -rejoicing. It had been good! he had lived and felt this afternoon; he -would not have abated those emotions by a jot! The immoral truth was -clear to him, he had made his great discovery--that a man is young as -often as he falls in love. That Rosalind had beauty, was an -irrelevance. Again, to her lover a woman _is_ what she makes _him -feel_. Whether she is fair or ill-favoured, whether she is worthy or -worthless, whether she is formed like Venus, or clasps him in arms as -thin as penholders, to him she is supreme, and while he adores her he -is Young. - -The rain was pattering more smartly, and he waited under his umbrella. -Exultation was in his heart, her promise was in his pocket, ten years -of his age had been shed behind the door. And at this point it may be -discreet of us to take leave of Conrad--as Rosalind's cab comes -jingling round the corner. - - - -THE END - - - - * * * * * - - - - -_BY LEONARD MERRICK_ - - THE POSITION OF PEGGY - CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH - THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN: STORIES - WHISPERS ABOUT WOMEN: STORIES - LYNCH'S DAUGHTER - THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD - THIS STAGE OF FOOLS - CYNTHIA - ONE MAN'S VIEW - THE ACTOR MANAGER - THE WORLDLINGS - WHEN LOVE FLIES OUT O' THE WINDOW - THE QUAINT COMPANIONS - -_Several of Mr. Merrick's books are at present unpublished in America. -Mitchell Kennerley will publish new volumes from time to time._ - - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Conrad in Quest of His Youth, by Leonard Merrick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH *** - -***** This file should be named 56226-8.txt or 56226-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/2/2/56226/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -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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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 -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Conrad in Quest of His Youth - An Extravagance of Temperament - -Author: Leonard Merrick - -Release Date: December 23, 2017 [EBook #56226] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - -</pre> - - -<h1> -<br /><br /> - CONRAD<br /> -</h1> - -<p class="t2"> - IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - AN EXTRAVAGANCE OF TEMPERAMENT<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - BY<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t2"> - LEONARD MERRICK<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - MITCHELL KENNERLEY<br /> - NEW YORK AND LONDON<br /> - MCMXI<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - COPYRIGHT, 1911<br /> - BY MITCHELL KENNERLY<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> - -<h2> - CONRAD<br /> - IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH -</h2> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER I -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - "How we laughed as we laboured together!<br /> - How well I remember, to-day,<br /> - Our 'outings' in midsummer weather,<br /> - Our winter delights at the play!<br /> - We were not over-nice in our dinners;<br /> - Our 'rooms' were up rickety stairs;<br /> - But if hope be the wealth of beginners,<br /> - By Jove, we were all millionaires!<br /> - Our incomes were very uncertain,<br /> - Our prospects were equally vague;<br /> - Yet the persons I pity who know not the city,<br /> - The beautiful city of Prague!"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -If you can imagine the lonely shade of the man -who wrote that verse returning to Literary -London—where there is no longer a young man who -could write it, and merely a few greybeards are -left still to understand what it means—I say, if -you can imagine this, you may appreciate the -condition of Conrad when he went back to the -Quartier Latin. -</p> - -<p> -Conrad was no less sad, his disappointment was -no less bitter, the society that he had sought so -eagerly was no less alien to him. But while he -commanded bocks for all, and mourned the change -that left him desolate, the melancholy of his mood -was a subtler thing—for he realised that the -profoundest change was in himself. -</p> - -<p> -Something should be said of the longings that -had brought him back to the Quarter—longings -in one hour tender, and in the next -tempestuous—something hinted of the regretful years during -which his limbs reposed in an official chair while -his mind flew out of the official window to places -across the sea where he had been young, and -sanguine, and infinitely glad. To a score of places it -flew, but to none perhaps so often as Paris, where -he had studied art in the days when he meant to -move the world. -</p> - -<p> -Of course the trouble with the man was that -he wanted to be nineteen again, and didn't -recognise it. We do not immediately recognise that -our youth is going from us; it recedes stealthily, -like our hair. For a long time he had missed the -zest, the sparkle, the buoyancy from life, but for -the flatness that distressed him he blamed the -Colony instead of his age. He confused the emotions -of his youth with the scenes where he had felt -them, and yearned to make sentimental journeys, -fancying that to revisit the scenes would be to -recover the emotions. -</p> - -<p> -Because the office rewarded his mental flights -ungenerously he was restrained by one of those -little realities which vulgar novelists observe and -which are so out of place in novels—"sordid" -considerations, like ways and means. Give us lots -of Blood, and the dummy over the dashing highwayman's -shoulder! If you call him a "cavalier" -it's Breezy Romance. -</p> - -<p> -And then his Aunt Tryphena died, and left him -everything. -</p> - -<p> -At once he was lord of himself. Liberated by -"everything," he sailed for Home, and savouring -the knowledge that he was free to rove where he -listed, lingered in London. Some months -afterwards—when the crocuses were perking behind -the Park rails, and Piccadilly was abloom with the -first millinery of spring—he travelled to Dover, -en route for the Past. -</p> - -<p> -And lilac was everywhere—Paris was all lilac -and sunshine. He drove to an hotel on the left -bank. To behold it again! The grotesque clock -under the glass shade, and the clothes pegs that -were too large to hang clothes on, the scarlet -édredon that he would throw on the floor before -he got into bed, the sight of these things was sweet -to him as the welcome of a woman is sweet after -a passage made on a slow steamer to reach her -side. -</p> - -<p> -He said to the femme de chambre—she was -elderly and she was plain; pretty chambermaids -are all employed in farcical comedies; but she -was a femme de chambre, and he felt communicative. -He said, "La dernière fois que j'étais -Paris, j'étais un gamin." She smiled and gave a -shrug: "Monsieur n'est qu'un enfant aujourd'hui." What -English servant would have earned that -tip? ... Oh, yes! English servants are all too -truthful. -</p> - -<p> -When he had scattered his things about the -room, he strode out to seek the little restaurant -where the dinners had been so good, and the -company had been so witty years before. Well, it had -vanished. Perhaps he wasn't surprised, but he -loitered wistfully in the street from which the -faded sign had gone, and at the flashy establishment -where he dined instead, the plats lacked -flavour. -</p> - -<p> -By-and-by he sauntered along the Boul' Mich'. -While he walked he perceived that he had ceased -to look about him, and was again looking back. -The sigh of names that had been long forgotten -was in the plaintive night, and the air was thick -with echoes. He moved along the lamp-lit boulevard -seeing ghosts, and to right and left the heedless -faces of the fleshly crowd were strange to him. -All strange to him. This was the first impediment -in his road. -</p> - -<p> -"Gay Paree" is gayest in the doggerel of the -English music-halls; its gaiety is declining fast, -but its beauty is fadeless. No city goes to bed -more worldly, and wakes up looking more innocent. -At six o'clock next day, when they began to -beat carpets, and Conrad flung the windows wide, -some of the happiness of the wakened capital's -simplicity was breathed into his heart. And his -fervour, and his purse, overcame the first impediment. -Within a week of his arrival he had already -been called "Mon cher." -</p> - -<p> -He was called "Mon cher," and other things. -He puffed his "caporal" at the Café Vachette, -and found that he had lost his relish for French -tobacco; he sat among the cards and the -dominoes at the Café d'Harcourt—bought carnations -and écrevisses from the pedlars' baskets for -Angèle and Suzanne; and Angèle and Suzanne -proved witless compared with what their mothers -had been, and he noted—not without some slight -pride, for we are all patriotic abroad—that -though the art of tying a veil has been granted -to French women, the pretty features have been -granted to the English. -</p> - -<p> -It was now that the disappointment fell, now -that he cried:— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Oh for one hour of youthful joy!<br /> - Give back my twentieth spring!'"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The ardour of the students left him chilly, the -rodomontades of his compatriots sounded merely -stupid. They were all going to sacrifice themselves -for an ideal, all going to England to paint -persistently the class of work that England did -not want. "No concessions" was their battle -cry. Youth can never believe that it will live to -make concessions. Your adept finds nowhere so -scathing a critic as your novice. -</p> - -<p> -O beautiful time when he, too, had imagined he -was born with a mission! Bright morning when -he had vapoured with the vainest! This afternoon -the Rapsodie Anglaise was played to duller ears. -The freaks seemed joyless, and he said the -aspirations were "out of drawing." He was not sure -that it was of immense importance whether one -painted well, or ill—whether one painted at all. -There were more useful things to be done in the -world. He did not wish to do them, but he -suggested that they were there. Then the audience -hurled passages from the preface to "Mademoiselle -de Maupin" at him—without acknowledgment—pelting -him with the paragraphs full of -shoes and potatoes until he was dizzy, and -perhaps a little shaken. After all, when one has -failed to pluck the grapes it is easy to proclaim -that potatoes are more nourishing. On the whole -he was scarcely a success in the Quarter—a -success of curiosity at most—and he won no converts -to his theory (advanced in the Soleil D'Or) -that the greatest services to modern art were -rendered by the writers of ladies' fashion articles. -</p> - -<p> -"They are the Teachers who make the widest -school," he urged. "Under their influence the -fairest work of Nature takes an added loveliness. -To them we owe the enticements of the tea-gown, -the soul-compelling whisper of the silk petticoat. -What other apostle of Beauty can hope to shed -beauty in every home? Into how many homes -do you suppose your ballades will go?" He was -chatting to a poet. But the poet became diffuse. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Conrad returned to his hotel not wholly dissatisfied -with the impression he had made upon the -poet. In la Rue du Haut-Pavé he had one or two -vigorous thoughts concerning the vanity of -versification which he wished had occurred to him in -the cabaret, and when he had lit the lamp he began -to write. You can know very little about him if -you are surprised to be told that what he wrote -was verse. It was of course a monody to his -Boyhood. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -As his age has not been stated, and he had -begun to deplore it so much, it may be as well at -this point to say that he was thirty-seven. A less -venerable figure than you have pictured him, -perhaps, despite the chambermaid. There were, -however, hours when he felt a hundred. -</p> - -<p> -He felt a hundred towards the close of his stay -in Paris. He had resolved to go back to London, -but it had few associations for him, and he packed -his portmanteaux drearily. On the evening before -he crossed, his thoughts flashed to a little English -watering-place where he had spent a summer when -he was still proud of wearing trousers. He recalled -the moment of his invitation, the thrill of its -unexpectedness. A nursery, and four children: -three of them his cousins, departing for the -seaside next day, in fancy already on the sands. And -one of the trio had exclaimed—was it Ted -who began it?—one of the trio had exclaimed: -"Wouldn't it be jolly if Con could come too?" He -was "Con." He was Con hanging over the -banisters breathless five minutes later, for Nina, -and 'Gina, and Ted had descended to the drawing-room -tumultuously to prefer a petition to "Ma." -</p> - -<p> -"Ma says there wouldn't be beds enough," -they announced with long faces, mounting the -stairs; and then he stammered that he had -"expected there'd be something like that," and they -danced round him in a ring, crying: "We made -it up. You're to come with us if you -may—you're to go home and ask." -</p> - -<p> -The nursery was very clear to him. He saw the -gleeful group on the threshold again, and the -bright pattern of the wall-paper. He could see -the open window with the radiant sky across the -roofs. -</p> - -<p> -So they had all gone to the seaside together—he, -and Nina, and 'Gina, and Ted, in charge of -the governess; and the house had turned out to -be a school called "Mowbray Lodge," but the -boys were away. Jack, the dog, had been lost -on the journey—and killed the schoolmaster's -chickens when he was restored. The rows there -used to be with the master! Mr. Boultbee, that -was his name. There was a yellow field blazing -with dandelions, Conrad remembered, and behind -the shadow of the fir trees, apples swayed. He -remembered the garden of Rose Villa next door, -and the afternoon when Mary Page kissed her -hand over the fence. Mary Page! On a sudden -how close it was—all except her features—her -hat trimmed with blue, and her dangling plaits, -and the vibration of the time. Ted and he were -enslaved by her equally—without bitterness—and -used to show each other the love-letters she -wrote to them both after they went home. And -oh! how they longed to be back, and oh, the plans -they made, which never fructified, for husbanding -their pocket-money and taking her by surprise one -brilliant morning! -</p> - -<p> -"Qu'est-ce que vous m'offrez, monsieur? -Payez-moi un bock, hein?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Conrad, starting, "run along and -play, there's a good child!" These memories -had come to him at the Bal Bullier, and the band -was banging, and the petticoats were whirling, and -a young lady was asking to be refreshed. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER II -</h3> - -<p> -She pouted a protest at him, and whisked into the -dance. He observed that she had graces, and -heaved a sigh for the time when it would have -been piquant to brush the pout away. To-night it -would be tasteless. "Kissing a cocotte is like -eating tinned salmon," said Conrad to himself -regretfully, and went to the vestiaire for his -overcoat. -</p> - -<p> -The interruption had jarred him, but it was not -until the Closerie des Lilas was a hundred yards -behind that he knew he had left the hall for the -purpose of resuming his reverie in comfort. When -he reached the Boulevard Saint-Michel his interest -in the projects of five-and-twenty years ago was -again so keen that he grieved to think they had -been fruitless. Improving on history, he permitted -the boys who were boys no more to amass the -sovereign that they coveted, and, giving his fancy -rein, lived through the glorious day which had -never dawned. He tried very hard to be fair to -Ted after Mary had welcomed them, though to -prevent the conversation becoming a dualogue -irked him a good deal. In moments he discovered -that he was talking to her rather well for his age, -and then he corrected himself with loving artistry. -But he could seldom find it in his heart to correct -Mary, and she said the prettiest things in the -world. He came back to the present, swimming -with tenderness for the little maiden of his -retrospect. It shocked him to reflect that she must be -about thirty-eight if she lived still, and might even -have a marriageable daughter. The pathos of the -marriageable daughter indeed overwhelmed him, -and, taking a seat at the Taverne du Panthéon, he -pictured himself waking to realise that he was only -twelve years old and that all events subsequent to -the epoch had been a dream. -</p> - -<p> -The October air was bleak when he crossed on -the morrow, and the deck rolled to meet the -splashes of the waves. The idea of revisiting the -watering-place—and the idea had germinated—attracted -him less forcibly as his chair played see-saw -with the taffrail, but he remembered that he -had often been advised by advertisements "not to -risk infection from foreigners, when he could -winter in sunny Sweetbay, the fairest spot in -England." The fact that it had a reputation as a -winter resort encouraged him somewhat, and by -the time he saw the lamps of Charing Cross he -felt adventurous again. He also admired a girl -on the platform. "There's nothing like an -Englishwoman for beauty," he said; and the girl -exclaimed: "Oh, I've left my little fur in my -grip, right there!" -</p> - -<p> -He fulfilled his programme the next morning. -The drowsy station of Sweetbay seemed to him -larger than of yore as he glanced about him, but -he did not stop to gather information in the -matter. His bag was in the fly, and he was -rattled to an hotel where the manager appeared -surprised to see him. Although his sensations -on the boat had left him with no insistent longing -for a room with a sea-view, he accepted one -without complaint, and learning that luncheon was -being served, descended to where three -despondent-looking visitors were scattered among an acre -of tables. Evidently people continued to go -abroad in spite of the advice. However, he had -not come to Sweetbay for society. -</p> - -<p> -It was a neat and decorous little town awaiting -him when he sallied forth from the hotel. -Everything was very clean, very tidy. The pink-paved -sidewalks, bordered by trees, glistened like coral; -the snug villas, enclosed by euonymus hedges -trimmed to precision, had a fresh and wholesome -air, an air that made him think of honey soap and -good rice puddings. He backed before the walls -of the Parish Church. A play-bill of the Rosery -Theatre, near by, seemed an anachronism, and -even as he recalled Sweetbay it had been content -with Assembly Rooms. On a hoarding he saw a -poster of the Pier Pavilion—the pavilion was an -innovation too. In the High Street photographs -of some popular actors had invaded a shop -window, and he was struck by the extraordinary -resemblance they bore to one another—all -wearing on the brow the frown of intellectuality, and -carefully disordered hair. The Town Hall was a -landmark. He murmured Matthew Arnold's line: -"Expressive merely of the impotence of the -architect to express anything," but the unparalleled -ugliness of the building warmed him with -recollections. He branched to the left, as he used to -branch to the left when he carried Mary's bathing -shoes, and surrendering himself to sentiment -unreservedly now swung joyously for Eden. -</p> - -<p> -And from this point landmarks flocked thick -and fast. The way began to climb the hill, the -hill began to show the boughs, the boughs began -to veil the road, the road began to woo the lane, -the lane began to near the house, and—like the -old woman's pig—Conrad got over the stile. -</p> - -<p> -And "Mowbray Lodge" was still painted on -the gate! It was all so wonderfully the same for -a moment in the shade behind the fir trees—so -wonderfully—that he felt tearful. The scene -had stood so still that there seemed something -unreal in his returning here a man. Again he saw -the slender columns of the long veranda, and -the summer-house on which the weather-cock still -perched. He looked, and looked wide-eyed, at a -faded door—not green, not blue—and knew -suddenly that behind that door there should be -currant bushes and a tangle of nasturtium, and -hens prinking on the path. His soul embraced -the scene. And yet—and yet it was not the -features which had lived in his mind that moved -him most. The magic lay in the pervasive hush, -and in a gust of the fir trees' smell, which he had -forgotten until it swept him breathless across the -years. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, there seemed something unreal in his -standing here a man. His spirit was listening—and -he knew that it was listening—for calls from -children who had grown to middle-age now; his -gaze was waiting—even he knew that it was -waiting—for the rush of childish figures which the -scene should yield. -</p> - -<p> -Presently he sought the space where they had -played. But the Field of the Cloth of Gold was -transformed. Where the dandelions had spread -their splendour for Mary he saw a market-garden, -and the sun that had made a halo for Mary -glittered on glass. There was a quantity of glass, -there were consequential rows of it, all raising -money for somebody, all reminding the pilgrim -that meadows move with the times. "Well, I -suppose it's progress," said Conrad, shaking his -head. But he missed the dandelions. He was a -Conservative by instinct, though he was a Liberal -by reason. -</p> - -<p> -When he loitered back to the view of Mowbray -Lodge, a lady of the age which it is gallant -to call "uncertain" had come out on the veranda. -She had a little shawl over her shoulders, and in -her hand she held a pair of scissors with which -she was clipping a palm. The placid gaze she -lifted to him was not discouraging, and advancing -towards her with a bow he said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Pray forgive me for troubling you, but may -I ask if Mr. Boultbee lives here now?" -</p> - -<p> -"N—no," answered the lady pensively, "no -gentleman lives here. 'Mr. Boultbee'? I'm -afraid I don't know the name. Are you sure he -is still living in the town?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am sure of nothing," replied Conrad. "It -is so long since my last visit that I am even -doubtful if he is living at all." -</p> - -<p> -She seemed to reflect again and said: "Perhaps -they might be able to tell you at the post-office." -</p> - -<p> -"It really isn't important," he declared, -"though I'm obliged by your suggestion. To -confess the truth, I am more drawn to the garden -than to Mr. Boultbee. Years ago I spent a -summer here, and being in the neighbourhood -again I couldn't resist the temptation to come -and dream over the top rail of your gate." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh—er—would you care to look round the -place?" she murmured with a tentative wave of -the scissors. -</p> - -<p> -"I should be charmed," said Conrad, "if I -am not intruding." -</p> - -<p> -"Of course you don't see it to advantage now. -Last month—" She moved across the lawn -beside him, telling the falsehoods with which -everybody who has a garden always dejects a -visitor. He affected that thirst for knowledge -with which everybody who is shown a garden -always rewards a host. -</p> - -<p> -"It's a long time since you were here, I -think you said?" she remarked, pleased by his -eagerness. -</p> - -<p> -"It is," said Conrad, in his most Byronic -manner, "just a quarter of a century." The lady -looked startled, and he continued with a sigh, -"Yes, I was then in that exquisitely happy period -of life when we just begin to know that we are -happy; you may imagine what memories are -stirring in me:— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'I can recall, nay, they are present still,<br /> - Parts of myself, the perfume of my mind,<br /> - Days that seem farther off than Homer's now<br /> - Ere yet the child had loudened to the boy' ...<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -That poem—Lowell's 'The Cathedral'—flashed -into my mind as I came upon your parish -church awhile ago, and -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'gazed abashed,<br /> - Child of an age that lectures, not creates,'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -at its old honours. I quoted the best part of a -stanza to myself in the street. I'm afraid that is -a habit of mine." -</p> - -<p> -"It must be very nice," said the lady apprehensively; -"yes, indeed." -</p> - -<p> -It appeared that she was no more acquainted -with Lowell than with Mr. Boultbee, so gliding -to a subject which lay quite near his heart this -afternoon he introduced a third name. -</p> - -<p> -"When I was here last a Dr. Page occupied the -villa across the fence," he went on. "He had a -daughter. To be prolix, he had several daughters, -but to me his family consisted of Miss Mary. -We were engaged. I won't ask you if they are -there still—something warns me that they are -not—but can you, by any chance, give me news -of them?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am sorry I cannot," she returned, fluttering. -"There has been no Dr. Page in Sweetbay—I -am almost certain there has been no Dr. Page in -Sweetbay since I settled here. I am positive there -is none now—quite positive. There's Dr. Hunt, -there's Dr. Tatham—" She recounted laboriously -the names of all the medical men practising -about the town, while he wondered what she was -doing it for. -</p> - -<p> -"I thank you heartily," he said, when she -reached the end of the list. -</p> - -<p> -The next moment it became evident that she, -in her turn, had a question to put, for her glance -was interrogating him already, and at last she -faltered:— -</p> - -<p> -"Pardon my asking you, but did I understand -you to say that you were—h'm—engaged to -the daughter of Dr. Page twenty-five years ago? -Surely when you said you were a child then, it was -no figure of speech?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," answered Conrad; "but to be frank -with you, it was nothing less than the thought of -her that lured me back to-day. Let me admit that -I wasn't quite ingenuous when I spoke of—of -'being' in the neighbourhood; I came deliberately, -in fulfilment of a cherished plan. To me -your garden is a tomb—if I may say so without -depressing you—it is the tomb of the Used-to-be. -We were both children, but there are some things -that one never forgets:— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'I'm not a chicken; I have seen<br /> - Full many a chill September,<br /> - And though I was a youngster then,<br /> - That girl I well remember.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Holmes wrote 'gale,' not 'girl,' otherwise he -might have been speaking for me." -</p> - -<p> -"Such constancy is very beautiful," breathed the -lady; "I thought—" She paused, slightly pink. -</p> - -<p> -"But it was unfair," he assured her; "men can -be quite as constant as women—especially to -the women they never won." -</p> - -<p> -"Er—perhaps you would like to see the -house?" she inquired; "and you will allow me to -offer you some tea before you go?" -</p> - -<p> -"I accept both offers gratefully," said Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -He followed her into the hall, and she conducted -him, with little prefatory murmurs, to such of the -apartments as a maiden lady might modestly -display. Repapered and rearranged they looked -quite strange to him, but the knowledge that he -was in Mowbray Lodge averted boredom. -</p> - -<p> -"You find them altered," she said, as they went -back to the drawing-room. -</p> - -<p> -"Improved," said he. -</p> - -<p> -"And the town," she added; "no doubt you -find the town improved too?" -</p> - -<p> -"Altered," said Conrad, thinking of the market -garden. "Well, it is certainly bigger." -</p> - -<p> -"The rapid development of Sweetbay can -astonish none who bear in mind its remarkable -combination of climatic advantages, but the sylvan -fairness of the town is not diminished, and it -continues to present an unrivalled example of the -'rus in urbe,'" responded the lady with surprising -fluency. "Do you take sugar and milk?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah—thank you," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you making a long stay among us, or——?" -</p> - -<p> -"A very brief one. Indeed, I thought of -returning to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" There was a tinge of disappointment -in her "Oh." "I wondered if you meant to stop. -If you had meant to pass the winter here— But -I daresay you would have preferred an hotel -anyhow?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't understand," he said, sipping. "What -is it you were going to be good enough to -suggest?" -</p> - -<p> -"It occurred to me that, as the house has so -many associations for you, you might have liked -to take it for a short term. I am trying to let it -furnished during the next few months, and I could -leave the servants. My cook has been with me -now——" -</p> - -<p> -"You would let this house to me?" exclaimed -Conrad, thrilling, and saw such splendid visions -that for quite a minute he forgot to attend to her. -</p> - -<p> -"If the rent is too high—?" She was regarding -him nervously. -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all," he cried, "not at all. I was -simply lost in the effulgent prospect that you've -opened to me." -</p> - -<p> -"Really?" -</p> - -<p> -"It was an inspiration. How kind of you to -mention it." -</p> - -<p> -She deprecated gratitude. "There would be -no children, of course?" she said, her gaze -dwelling among her china. -</p> - -<p> -"Four," he answered promptly. "That is, -the youngest must be about thirty-five now. I beg -your pardon, but <i>I</i> have had an inspiration, too, -I'm dazzled by the idea of peopling the house -with the men and women who were children here -five-and-twenty years ago; I dare swear my relatives -have never set foot in Sweetbay since. We'll -be comrades all over again— You know how -Time loosens these childish ties—in the very -place, in the very rooms, where we were such -comrades then. Why, it's the most delightful plan -that was ever hatched!" He hesitated. "I -wonder if they'll come? How about the trains? -One of my cousins would have to go up rather -often, I expect." -</p> - -<p> -"The railway company has combined with -Mother Nature and a spirited Corporation to -render Sweetbay attractive to the jaded Londoner. -The service is fast and frequent, and well-appointed -'flys' may be chartered at most reasonable -fares," replied his hostess without an instant's -pause. -</p> - -<p> -"How convenient!" said Conrad. "What -more can he want?" -</p> - -<p> -"If you think your friends may need persuasion, -I should be pleased to present you with a copy -of a little work of mine to send them. It -describes all the attractions of the neighbourhood—and -it's quite unlike the usual guide-book. It is -thorough, but chatty. My aim has been to inform -the visitor in a sprightly way." -</p> - -<p> -"An authoress?" he said warmly. -</p> - -<p> -"Of one book only," she murmured, her face -suffused by an unbecoming blush. -</p> - -<p> -"But of many readers, I'll be bound! If -obstacles arise then, it shall be your pen that -conquers them. You overwhelm me with kindnesses. -I really think, though, the address will be magnet -enough for the friends I want. 'Mowbray Lodge, -Sweetbay'—how they'll stare! 'Bring your -spades and pails,' I shall write; 'come, and let us -all be boys and girls again.' The girls have little -girls and boys of their own now. No, don't be -afraid of their smashing that soul-stirring Chelsea, -my dear madam—I won't have them. That's -the essence of the contract, the new generation -must be left behind. There must be we four, and -nobody else—the four who will find their childhood -waiting for them here, just the four who can -feel the enchantment of Mowbray Lodge. So -it is settled?" -</p> - -<p> -"As far as—" She smoothed her gown. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, naturally there must be references, and -inventories, and all sorts of tiresome details—and -with your permission we will get them over -as soon as possible. I shall have the pleasure -of writing to you to-morrow. To whom——" -</p> - -<p> -"Miss Phipps," she intimated. -</p> - -<p> -"And mine is 'Warrener.' Stay, I have a -card. But, by the way, when did you propose -to let me come in, Miss Phipps?" -</p> - -<p> -"Would next month suit you?" she asked. -"Perhaps you would prefer it to be early in the -month?" -</p> - -<p> -"I wouldn't disorder your arrangements for -the world, yet I own that 'early' has a musical -ring. It would be agreeable to arrive before the -colder weather." -</p> - -<p> -"There are places in England where winter's -cold blasts seem never to penetrate, and where -birds and flowers go on singing and blooming in -defiance of the calendar," she rejoined. -</p> - -<p> -"Really?" said Conrad. "Still——" -</p> - -<p> -"And among such places," concluded the lady -firmly, "Sweetbay is pre-eminent.... But you -will let me give you another cup of tea?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER III -</h3> - -<p> -He could not persuade himself that the invitations -evoked enthusiasm, indeed two of them were -declined at the beginning. Only Nina accepted at -once. She wrote: "How on earth did you find -Sweetbay again—is it still on the map? Yes, -I will come—and with 'no encumbrances'—but -I won't promise to be rural so long as all that. -If I were you, I would arrange with the Stores -for constant supplies. Can you depend on the cook?" -</p> - -<p> -Regina was obviously indignant at the exclusion -of her husband. She replied that her cousin's -remembrance of their childhood was "quite -touching." This was underlined. "But though I fully -understand that Toto's presence would spoil your -romantic plan, I cannot pretend to forget that I -am now a wife, Conrad." Conrad was perturbed. -He drove to Regent's Park and showed the letter -to Nina, and she said that her sister couldn't -forget she was a wife, because she had married a -remote relation of Lord Polpero's. -</p> - -<p> -"They have stayed at the 'Abbey,' my dear; -at least she tells me they have as often as she -condescends to dine with us—Regent's Park is -'so far away' from their poky little place in -Mayfair! She can just call it 'Mayfair' without -getting a remonstrance from the postal authorities. -An 'Abbey' has been too much for her. Of -course Polpero is a pauper, and the Abbey's a -wreck, but I believe she slept with the family-tree -over her bed. It's about the only tree of Polpero's -that the woodman has spared, but 'Gina -feels Norman." -</p> - -<p> -Conrad was still perturbed. He hastened to -appease Regina, and moderating his desires, -implored "Toto" to spare her to him just for a -week or two. "Toto" said promptly that to -spend a couple of months at Sweetbay was exactly -what she needed for her cough. So she was won, -and there remained only Ted to conquer. -</p> - -<p> -As a young professional man with nothing to -do, Ted had naturally been slow to answer the -letter. Young professional men make a point of -delaying a long time before they answer letters—it -shows how busy they are. After they have -plenty of work on hand they answer more quickly. -When he wrote, he declared that the notion of -renewing their boyish memories in such tranquil -quarters appealed to him more forcibly than he -could say, but he was "so terribly hard pressed -that he feared he would get no change until he -ran over to Monte Carlo at the end of the -term." He was at the Bar, waiting for briefs. -</p> - -<p> -Conrad called at his chambers, and bore him -off to dinner. Ted was fortunately independent -of his profession, and his immutable purpose was -to convince people that it was wearing him to -death. In the restaurant he bent over his melon -a brow corrugated by the cares of imaginary suits; -he frowned at his soup through a monacle as -if he were perpending an "Opinion." But it was -a dinner of supreme excellence, and then they -adjourned to the club. If it had not been Ted's -club too, and socially undistinguished, Conrad -might have aspired to greater favours now. Invite -a man to a club for which he is ineligible himself, -and he will remember you with kindliness no less -often than he drawls, "A fellow was telling me -in Brooks's the other day—" Before they parted, -Ted had consented quite cheerfully—for the later -Ted—and all was well. -</p> - -<p> -So the evening came when Conrad sat in -Mowbray Lodge looking forward to the morrow -and the arrival of the train due at twelve fifteen. -And he looked forward with more eagerness -because the evening—strange to say—was rather -melancholy, and the knowledge that he was going -to bed in the room where he had slept as a boy -induced a mood totally different from the mood -he had expected of it. He did not feel a boy -as he sat in the silent house, by a bad light, -listening to the rain patter on the shrubs. On the -contrary he felt increasingly old and increasingly -mournful while the long evening wore away. The -dreary lamps depressed him, and the sad tick of -the clock, and the ceaseless dripping of the rain -sent him to the whisky-bottle. -</p> - -<p> -After breakfast next day he bought lamps—several -of them—with duplex burners. The -roads were a little sloppy, but the sky was blue. -He was gratified to reflect that his cousins were -doubtless blinking in a black fog; the permanent -pleasure of wintering in the country is the thought -of how unhappy our friends must be in town. In -the forlornest watering-places of the south coast -you may notice, on a fine November morning, -people folding newspapers briskly, and looking -heavenward with a twinkle in their eyes. They -are all returning thanks for the sufferings of their -friends in London. -</p> - -<p> -The train due at twelve fifteen wound into view -at twelve thirty-five. -</p> - -<p> -They were there! Nina, alert, a smile on her -thin, shrewd face; Regina, with an air of having -travelled under protest; Ted, bowed beneath the -weight of the Law Courts. -</p> - -<p> -"So you've come!" -</p> - -<p> -"At last! What a loathsome line!" -</p> - -<p> -"Who's looking after the luggage? Is there -a cab to be had?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of course. Do you suppose it's a village?" -</p> - -<p> -"How hot it is! You must be smothered in -those furs, dear?" This to Nina from 'Gina. -'Gina was always expensively clothed, and badly -dressed, but she couldn't vie with the Regent's -Park sables. "You must be half dead," she -insisted compassionately; "it's as warm as the -Riviera." -</p> - -<p> -"We boast of it in our advertisements," said -Conrad, "but it isn't. How did you leave Toto -and the family?" -</p> - -<p> -He heard that it was a fine day in town too, -and secretly resented the fact. The party drove -away, another "fly" rumbling with the baggage -in their wake. -</p> - -<p> -"The lane!" he exclaimed as he sprang out. -"And it's the same as ever." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't remember it a bit," said all three, -gazing about them vaguely. -</p> - -<p> -"The garden!" he displayed it in triumph. -</p> - -<p> -"I fancied it was quite big," said Nina. -"Funny how wee children's eyes exaggerate, isn't -it?" But she had not really been so wee as all -that. -</p> - -<p> -"The hall, where Boultbee was always ragging -us because we didn't wipe our shoes!" He had -thrown the door open before the maid could run -upstairs. -</p> - -<p> -"Who was Boultbee?" asked Regina. "What -a memory you have!" -</p> - -<p> -They lunched; and they were blithe at luncheon; -they discussed a divorce case in smart circles. -Regina said hurriedly that there was "another side -to the story." She knew no more about it than -she had read in the papers, but she now moved -on the confines of smart circles, and there are -people who can never accustom themselves to -advancement, pecuniary or social. -</p> - -<p> -"Her husband is such a scamp," she explained, -"such a scamp. I don't defend her, but there's -so much that never came out in court. Dear Lady -Marminger, her mother, was always against the -match; she always felt it would be fatal. I -recollect when we were staying at the Abbey -once—" She was the most obnoxious variety of -snob: the middle-class woman who has married -into the fringe of society. If she had written -novels, everybody in them who wasn't a duchess -would have been a duke. -</p> - -<p> -"One of the cleverest things ever said in the -divorce court," Ted began judicially, "was when -Hollburn was cross-examining——" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, the scamp theory is worn out," struck -in Nina. "When a woman has married a scamp, -her family feel provided with an excuse for -everything odious she does all the rest of her life." -</p> - -<p> -"Was when Hollburn was cross-examining—" He -was not to be put off. -</p> - -<p> -They were Nina, and 'Gina, and Ted, and -Conrad welcomed them with both hands, but he -caught himself thinking that for any influence -the surroundings had upon the conversation he -might as well have invited them to Princes'. -</p> - -<p> -He took Ted to see the summer-house when -luncheon was over—the summer-house in which -they used to have their conferences when they -were such chums—and Ted was a disappointment. -The summer-house had withstood the -years, but the chum had gone. He was affecting -interest, and it hurt—it hurt horribly, because -he was Ted and they were where they were. -He was led to Rose Villa, where Mary Page had -lived. The sound of its name had made their -hearts ache once, and the same name was on the -same gate-post, visible to the same eyes. He -passed it by, telling casual falsehoods about the -extent of the practice that he hadn't made, and -when the post was pointed out, he murmured: -"Oh, is it? By Jove!"—maintained a perfunctory -pause for ten seconds, and broke it with, -"Well, as I was saying——" -</p> - -<p> -Afterwards they all sauntered to the esplanade, -and Conrad owned to himself that it was no -animated scene. But the sun shone bright, and -when there is beautiful weather in Sweetbay it -almost compensates for the absence of everything -else there. -</p> - -<p> -"Like spring," he observed; "isn't it? Probably -there's a fog in town by now, or it's beginning -to snow. We're all well out of it." -</p> - -<p> -"Y-e-s," replied Nina. "You don't find it a -little depressing seeing so many people in -bath-chairs, do you?" -</p> - -<p> -"'So many people?'" Regina was derisive. -"I've only seen seven human beings since we -arrived." -</p> - -<p> -"Still the seven were all in bath-chairs," said -Nina. -</p> - -<p> -"One expects to meet people in bath-chairs -at the seaside," Conrad pleaded. -</p> - -<p> -"But not sick people," she said, "here they are -conscientious. It's a pretty little band-stand; what -time does the band play?" -</p> - -<p> -"It'll begin in June, I think," he answered. -</p> - -<p> -"June?" cried Regina. -</p> - -<p> -"It's not the season," he pointed out. "Of -course it's quiet just now." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't wish to cavil," said Ted, with a -forbearing smile, "but when you tell us it is not -the season, I am struck by a slight discrepancy -in your statements. A few minutes ago you told -us it was a winter place." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, so it is, but it's first of all an English -place. You mustn't ask for bands to discourse in -band-stands all the year round, my dear fellow—such -things don't happen.... A 'town band' -enlivens the streets once a week, I believe; I'm not -an authority yet—I only came down yesterday -morning, and I've been setting my house in order. -There's a theatre," he added hopefully; "we -might drop in to-night, if you like. I can't say -what is going on there, but we'll ascertain." -</p> - -<p> -They spied a framed play-bill in a confectioner's -window on the way back, and stopped to examine -it. Though the piece was familiar to them, and -the names of the company were strange, they -crowded before the play-bill cheerfully until they -discovered that it bore an ancient date. The -theatre, they learnt, was now closed, excepting -for an orchestral concert every Thursday evening. -This was Saturday. -</p> - -<p> -"We'll have a jolly evening at home," said Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"There isn't a billiard table, I suppose?" -inquired Regina; "I'm an awful swell with the -cue. I make them play every night at the Abbey -when we're there. Polpero chaffs me about it -immensely; he's one of the old school—sweet, -but of the old school. It's such fun—I chaff -him back. Toto <i>roars</i>." -</p> - -<p> -The inventory had not included a billiard table, -but he remembered after dinner that he had seen -a Pier "Pavilion" advertised, and his guests -seemed encouraged when he mentioned it. Regina -said it was fun to be "bohemian" sometimes. -</p> - -<p> -The place looked less animated still when they -sped forth to be "bohemian." Its aspect was no -longer sedate, it was bereaved. The vacant High -Street mourned behind its shutters. At the -Quadrant a forsaken policeman kept a doleful eye on -space. -</p> - -<p> -"Everybody must be on the pier," said Conrad. -"As soon as we turn the corner we shall see the -lights." -</p> - -<p> -Their feet sprung echoes in the stricken town -as they pressed forward; and through the gloom -that veiled a moaning sea, the pier became -distinguishable. But no light was on it save the light -of a misty moon, no gas-jet glimmered among the -globes on either side. The pay-box was black -and tenantless; the gates were locked. Against -them leant a lonely board, announcing a "Refined -Entertainment" for the twenty-second evening of -the previous month. The desolation of the scene -was tragic. -</p> - -<p> -Their return was made in silence, and the first -thing happened that recalled the days of their -childhood here: they all went to bed early. -</p> - -<p> -Nina wanted to know if she could be given -another room the next morning. She remarked -that the slowest railways always made the most -fuss, and that a train had been rehearsing outside -her window half the night. "It rattled and -snorted, and clashed and clanked till three -o'clock." She acknowledged Conrad's regrets -and assurances with a plaintive sigh, and shook -her head feebly at her coffee cup. -</p> - -<p> -It was raining. That it can rain in Sweetbay -for a fortnight on end with no longer intervals -than the entr'actes at a fashionable theatre is not -distinctive; the idiocrasy of Sweetbay is that it -recommences raining twenty times a day as if the -deluge had bee, hoarded for a year—it rains as -if the heavens had fallen out. Nina and 'Gina, -who had ventured into the lane "between the -showers," were drenched before they could gain -shelter, and they were taciturn when they had -changed their clothes. -</p> - -<p> -The rain was still pelting when Ted went up -to town on Monday, and a vicious wind lashed -"sunny Sweetbay" when he came back. On Tuesday -the ardour of the flood abated, but "the -fairest spot in England" was sodden under a -persevering drizzle, and a letter by the evening post -made Regina nervous about the health of her baby. -"Toto seemed a good deal worried," she said, -"and she thought under the circumstances she -ought to be at home." She departed on -Wednesday in a cataract. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you think she's good-looking?" asked Nina. -</p> - -<p> -"She is not good-looking," said Conrad reflectively, -"but she's so convinced that she is that -she almost persuades you in moments." -</p> - -<p> -"That's it," Nina assented; "she attitudinises -as if she were a beauty. When they're shown -photographs of her with her face bent, men are -quite eager to know her. Of course the baby's -bosh." -</p> - -<p> -"I'll confess that I'm not anxious about the -baby myself, I'm afraid she found it rather slow -here. I got <i>Punch</i> for her at the station, and a -servant went round before breakfast to order a -foot-warmer—it's necessary to give notice when -you'll want a foot-warmer—but it was weak -reparation. You were all very good to come." -</p> - -<p> -"If there were anything to read in the house, -I wouldn't mind so much," she said, "I mean I -wouldn't mind the weather. If it ever leaves off, -we might go and try to find 'a select library in -connection with Mudie's.'" -</p> - -<p> -"There are heaps of books in the house—I -can lend you all the poets." -</p> - -<p> -"I would rather have something to read," she -said, "thanks. Do you think if we found one, it -would be open oftener than once a week?" -</p> - -<p> -"You mustn't misjudge the town by the -theatre," he expostulated; "that the theatre only -opens once a week is due to a combination of -circumstances that I don't know anything about, -but I am sanguine of the shops opening every -day." -</p> - -<p> -"How long are you saddled with the place -for?" Her tone was sympathetic. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not sorry I took it," he answered. "Of -course everything is more or less a disappointment -except the unattainable. When Columbus reached -the new world at last, the aborigines said, 'Well, -what do you think of Amurrica?' He said, 'I -thought it would be bigger.' A bird in the hand -is not worth two in the bush; on the contrary, a -lark in the sky is worth two in the pudding. If -you ever scratched those pretty hands of yours -getting a glow-worm out of a hedge, you know -that, when you have brought it home, you wondered -why you had given yourself so much inconvenience -to acquire the little impostor. Possession -strains—it depresseth her that gives, and him that -takes. While it was in the hedge, the glow-worm -shone no less divine than the poet's star." -</p> - -<p> -"Where was that?" she said. -</p> - -<p> -"In a fable. Did you think I meant a star of -the music-halls? They weren't the fashion in -poetry yet. He was a glorious poet enchanted by -a star of the heavens. He stretched his arms to -it, he sang to it nightly. And for his sake the -star 'stooped earthward, and became a woman.' And -then the day came when the woman asked -her lover which was best—'The Star's beam, -or the Woman's breast':— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'I miss from heaven,' the man replied,<br /> - 'A light that drew my spirit to it.'<br /> - And to the man the woman sigh'd,<br /> - 'I miss from earth a poet.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"M-m, that's rather sensible," admitted Nina, -"I like that—I suppose it can't be really great -poetry. What get on my nerves so in the poetry -of the Really Great are those irritating words that -I knew were coming, like 'porphyry' and -'empyrean,' and 'bower' and 'nymph;' and then -there are the titles—they always sound so dull -because I never know what they mean. Well, go -on talking to me." -</p> - -<p> -About eleven o'clock the downpour ceased, and -presently a timid sunbeam played upon a puddle. -They went out to look for a library at noon. -There was no need for umbrellas. -</p> - -<p> -The librarian was a listless young woman of -"superior manners." When not occupied among -the literature, she assisted in the fancy -department. While Nina was lingering at the shelves, -three other readers went to the counter, and the -first lady said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Good morning. I want a ... book. -Something—er—rather exciting." -</p> - -<p> -The young woman threw an omniscient glance -at the collection, and plucked. The lady read -the title aloud:— -</p> - -<p> -"Is this rather exciting?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, madam, that is very exciting." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh." She ruffled the pages irresolutely. -"It's not very long," she murmured; "haven't -you anything longer?" -</p> - -<p> -The young woman plucked. -</p> - -<p> -"Is this rather exciting?" asked the lady. -</p> - -<p> -The librarian assured her that it was no less -exciting than the other novel. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," said the lady... "'The Face in the -Drawer.' Oh ... I'll take this one then. You -know the address, don't you? Good morning." -</p> - -<p> -The requirement of the second lady was: -"Something pretty ... not too short ... to -last me through the week." Conrad almost -expected to hear the librarian reply that they had -"A very durable line at three-three," but she -plucked again. -</p> - -<p> -"Shall I like it?" inquired the lady trustfully. -</p> - -<p> -The young woman, listless, but confident, told -her that she was "Certain to like that." -</p> - -<p> -"You're sure?" said the lady. "Oh, very -well then—I'll have it. Good day." -</p> - -<p> -The third subscriber was still more free from -the vice of favouritism. She simply stated that -she wanted "A nice book to read." The librarian -handed a book to her, and she accepted it as -unquestioningly as if it had been stamps in a -post-office. In not one of the three cases had any -author's name been mentioned. There are popular -writers, there is a public besieging the libraries -for their work, but the literary choice of the -Nation is bulk for its twopence and the tale -admired by the young woman at the desk. -</p> - -<p> -"I hope you haven't been bored?" said Nina -at last, holding out half-a-dozen volumes to be -carried for her. -</p> - -<p> -"Not in the faintest degree," cried Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -But he was exceedingly bored on the morrow -when Ted returned to dinner with elaborate excuses -for bringing his visit to a sudden close. Yes, -the host was bored then; he knew so well while -he responded: "What a nuisance!" and "Of -course it can't be helped," that Ted was not in -the least needed in town, only dull in Sweetbay. -They were all to have gone together to the -"Orchestral Concert," and when the barrister alleged -that he felt "too worn out," Conrad was not -pressing. Nina went with him alone, and they -walked some way before they spoke. She understood -that he was hurt; dimly she understood that -he had shown a stronger affection on his side than -they had shown on theirs. -</p> - -<p> -"So the experiment is a failure, Con?" she said. -</p> - -<p> -He sighed. "I'm afraid there's no other word -for it. It was rather idiotic of me—I might -have known you'd all be hipped." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't think it's that," she declared; -"as a professional man Ted isn't free." She was -ever ready to disparage Regina, but she had a -soft spot in her shrewdness for Ted. "Of -course," she added after a moment, "his going -means that I shall have to go too; I can't stay -with you by myself, ridiculous as these things are." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I thought of that," he said. "I'm sorry. -I'm sorry <i>you're</i> going, Nina. It's no use trying -to persuade him, I suppose? If you told him you -didn't want to go——" -</p> - -<p> -Every woman is to be touched by oral sentiment, -excepting the sentiment of her lover whom -she does not love. That irritates her to brutality. -Nina wavered:— -</p> - -<p> -"I might," she owned. "Perhaps he could -arrange." -</p> - -<p> -"It would be very nice of you," he said; "and -really when you get used to Sweetbay, you'll -find it has a—a certain charm. Hallo! What's -the matter here? Are we too soon?" -</p> - -<p> -They were opposite the theatre, but the building -was dark. His heart sank; he felt that the stars -in their courses were fighting against him. -</p> - -<p> -"It isn't open," said Nina superfluously. -</p> - -<p> -"We must have come too soon," he urged. -"Let's cross over, and see what time it begins." -</p> - -<p> -For a minute or two they peered at the glum -frontage, puzzled, and then they descried—affixed -by its flap to a large door—a small envelope. -It was an official announcement. On the -envelope was written, "No concert this evening." -</p> - -<p> -They turned away, and moved in reverie -towards the sea, which shimmered within sight. -</p> - -<p> -On the long lamp-blurred stretch of asphalt no -one moved. A mile of downcast lodging-houses, -veiled in gloom, kept hopeless watch over a blank -Parade; in their dim fan-lights the legend of -"Apartments" looked the emblem of despair. To -the right the black pier slumbered silently; to the -left a lugubrious hotel, unpeopled and unlit, -imparted to the view the last symbol of disaster. On -a sudden, spasmodically—in the wide-spread -desolation—the town band burst into the overture -to "Zampa." It was the jocularity of hysteria -at a funeral. Nina gave a gulp, and clutched his arm. -</p> - -<p> -"Conrad," she quavered, "let me go home -to-morrow, or I shall cry!" -</p> - -<p> -He did not plead with her; he recognised that -there was some justice in her plaint. He -promised that she should go by an early train, and -his kindness cheered her. -</p> - -<p> -She came down to breakfast with her hat on. -</p> - -<p> -She, too, had <i>Punch</i> and a foot-warmer, and -again he doubted if they were adequate to -exculpate him. -</p> - -<p> -"Try to bear no malice," he begged on the -platform. -</p> - -<p> -"You'll dine with us as soon as you come back, -won't you?" she laughed. -</p> - -<p> -"Good-bye, old chap," exclaimed Ted. He -had risen quite vivacious. "Mind you look me up -when you're in town; let me know well ahead, -and I'll manage a spare evening." -</p> - -<p> -"I expect I've left a lot of things behind," said -Nina brightly, bending to the window; "you -might tell the servants to send them on." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I'll tell them. Are you sure you don't -want any more papers?" -</p> - -<p> -"We're a long time starting, aren't we?" said -Ted. -</p> - -<p> -"You're just off," Conrad answered. -</p> - -<p> -It was less than a week since he had loitered on -the other side, impatient for their arrival. He -forced a smile, and stood bareheaded, and turned -from the station with a sigh. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Oh near ones, dear ones! you in whose right hands<br /> - Our own rests calm; whose faithful hearts all day<br /> - Wide open wait till back from distant lands<br /> - Thought, the tired traveller, wends his homeward way!<br /> - Helpmates and hearthmates, gladdeners of gone years'——<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -<i>Where are you?</i>" said Conrad. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER IV -</h3> - -<p> -He felt very lonely. Something of the Christmas -spirit descended on him—the true, the -unacknowledged Christmas spirit, in which, after we -have directed the last stack of cards, and hurried -out aglow with the last parcel, we sit before the -bare mantel-piece, discovering that most of our -acquaintances have become too advanced to -observe the season. We are quite sure it is -"advancement," though it looks a little like stinginess. -He wondered, as he entered the lane, whether the -other child he was remembering would have -proved a disappointment too; wondered if the -ache in his heart would be intelligible to her, or if -he would appear to her absurd. It interested him -to wonder. Conjecturing the disposition of the -strange woman whose whereabouts he did not -know, he endued her with many attributes that he -admired, and she moved before his mental vision -gradually as a fair and slightly pathetic figure, -prepared to be his confidante. He fancied she -was unhappy with her husband. At least the -sadness of life had touched her enough to tinge her -sentiment with cynicism, and she had flashes of wit -on rainy days. -</p> - -<p> -It surprised him that he had made no attempt -to trace her; his curiosity was awake. Many -things were more unlikely than that she was living -in the town. As he passed Rose Villa he was in -two minds about ringing the bell and trying to -gather information from the present occupants. -He would probably have obeyed the impulse, but -while he hesitated the householder came out—a -middle-aged little man, with a sanguine -complexion, and gaiters. -</p> - -<p> -Conrad accosted him. "Excuse me," he began. -</p> - -<p> -The gentleman saluted with his crop. "'Morning," -he said. -</p> - -<p> -"I was looking at your bell with the idea of -troubling you with an inquiry about a 'missing -friend.' May I ask if you happen to know the -address of your predecessor here—Dr. Page?" -</p> - -<p> -"Who?" said the little man briskly. -</p> - -<p> -"Dr. Page." -</p> - -<p> -"No. Don't know the name. Took the place -of people called—er—Greames.... Agents -might tell you—Chipper and Stokes in the High -Street. Page? Doctor? N-no." He shook his -head. "Sorry." -</p> - -<p> -"I thank you." -</p> - -<p> -"Not at all. Neighbours, I think, sir? For long?" -</p> - -<p> -"No; it's a very temporary pleasure of mine," -said Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"Congratulate you," said the little man. "If -your friend was a doctor, probably knew better -than to stop. Much misled myself. Recommended -here for my health. Most in-<i>ju</i>-rious! -Damp, sir, Sweetbay is damp. They call it a -'humid atmosphere'; 'humid atmosphere' be -damned, sir! Take your clothes off the peg in the -morning and wring 'em out. That's not a humid -atmosphere—it's a death-trap." -</p> - -<p> -"You astonish me," said Conrad. "I understood -the climate was so salubrious that the -inhabitants would all live to be a hundred if they -didn't die of the dulness young." He lifted his -hat. "I am obliged." -</p> - -<p> -"Pleasure," said the neighbour. "Er—hope -we shall—er, er——" -</p> - -<p> -"I hope so too," smiled Conrad. "Er—no doubt." -</p> - -<p> -"'Morning," said the gentleman, saluting with -his crop. -</p> - -<p> -It was discomfiting to find the occupant of -Mary's former home so completely ignorant of -Mary. Such ignorance, there, on the very threshold, -in view of the sun shutters that had framed -her face, seemed rather callous of him. As -Conrad watched him swagger up the lane, he resented -the usurper's privilege to stretch his gaitered legs -on the hearth to whose history he was so utterly -indifferent. -</p> - -<p> -Somehow the drawing-room looked emptier still -to Conrad for the colloquy, when he went indoors. -In the violent disassociation of the next house -from Mary Page, this one seemed suddenly -foreign to him; suddenly he felt that he had -committed a fatuous and a mournful act in taking it. -Sweetbay had meant to him four persons, and of -these, three had fled, and the fourth was lost. -Why should he stay here? He thought vaguely -of a little dinner at "Odd-and-even's," and a stall -at the Alhambra. He nearly stretched his arm for -the time-table—and all the while the melancholy -that oppressed him urged him to remain and find -Mary. His mind demanded her more insistently -than before. It was no longer a whim: it was a -strenuous desire. "After all, it would be a crazy -thing, to go to London for pleasure!" he mused. -"I'll hear what the agents have to say." -</p> - -<p> -He strolled to their office after luncheon, and -a small boy told him that Mr. Stokes was in. For -once Conrad chafed at the local languor. The -torpid tradesmen, unconcerned whether he bought -or not, had amused him, but the heavy young -man who gazed at him with vacant eyes was irritating. -</p> - -<p> -"Dr. Page?" echoed the young man dully; -"Rose Villa? There was a Dr. Page in -Esselfield, wasn't there?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know," said Conrad. "Perhaps you -can tell me. Where is Esselfield?" -</p> - -<p> -"That's along the Esselfield Road," said -Mr. Stokes with deliberation. "What do you want to -know for?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm trying to learn the address of a friend -who has moved," Conrad explained, labouredly -polite. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh y-e-s." He paused so long that it seemed -doubtful if he would speak again. "There was a -Dr. Page in Esselfield; I can't say if he's there -still." -</p> - -<p> -"The gentleman I mean was—well, he must -be an elderly man," said Conrad. He could not -remember in the least how Dr. Page had looked; -he wished he knew his Christian name. "An -elderly man. He had a family. They used to be -at Rose Villa, next door to Mowbray Lodge. I'm -talking of years ago—a good many years ago.... -Perhaps your partner might be able to assist me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Major Bompas lives at Rose Villa now," said -Mr. Stokes. His tone was a little firmer, the tone -of one who says a helpful thing. -</p> - -<p> -"And he took it of people called 'Greames'; -I know all that. Dr. Page had the house before -the Greames." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," murmured Mr. Stokes, "did he? Y-e-s.... -No, I couldn't say, I'm sure. Mr. Greames -lived there before Major Bompas. Mr. Greames -was there a long while back." -</p> - -<p> -"Dr. Page lived there in—let me think, -where are we now? It must have been in eighteen -seventy-seven." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh Gawd!" said the young man faintly. For -the first time an expression humanised his -countenance, an expression of dismay tempered with -entertainment. It made Conrad feel prehistoric. -"Eighteen sev-enty-sev-en? I'm sure I couldn't -tell you who lived there then." A snigger escaped -him. "There was a Dr. Page at Esselfield," he -repeated; "he may have been at Rose Villa first." -</p> - -<p> -"Is there any place in the town," asked Conrad, -with frank disgust, "where it's possible to -see an old directory?" -</p> - -<p> -"I shouldn't think," averred the heavy young -man, "that a directory was published in Sweetbay -in 'sev-enty-sev-en." There was nearly a twinkle -in his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you," said Conrad. "Good afternoon." -</p> - -<p> -He went forth to seek the Esselfield Road -incensed as well as disappointed now. 'Seventy-seven? -Who was this blank-faced dolt to jeer at -'seventy-seven? Sweetbay had been an infinitely -more attractive place in 'seventy-seven than it was -to-day. The High Street bored him as he walked. -Once it had been stimulating, replete with -interest, and now it was unworthy his attention. He -looked at it as a young girl looks at a married -man. There was a fresh-coloured woman dandling -her baby behind the glass door of a baker's -shop as he passed, and he recognised with a frown -that she had not been born in 'seventy-seven. It -was a small matter, but it depressed him more. -</p> - -<p> -The sepulchral window of a monumental mason -caught his glance. Overhead was the inscription, -"Established 1852." He wavered in his course -and entered. The interior was like a premature -graveyard, ranged with marble tombstones waiting -for allotment, and brittle wreaths lamenting -the dissolution of "Beloved" relatives who were -still alive. There seemed to him something -appropriate in pursuing his investigations among the -tombstones. But though the business had been -established in 1852, the mason himself proved to -be very recent. When he realised that his -interlocutor was not there to give an order, the -sympathetic droop of his bearing evaporated, and he -straightened into a careless soul to whom the -mention of 'seventy-seven was almost as disconcerting -as it had been to Mr. Stokes. -</p> - -<p> -The Esselfield Road was thick with mud after -the heavy rains. His long tramp—for he had -learnt that it was necessary to walk—had no -enlivening effect on Conrad's mood, nor was the -village cheering when he reached it. A few houses -were scattered beside a common; some geese -waddled around a pond. Beyond an inn, a -labourer in his cups shouted a refrain of the London -music-halls. -</p> - -<p> -Conrad went into the "bar-parlour" and asked -for beer. In the sensitiveness to his years which -was being so rapidly developed in him he observed -with satisfaction that the untidy proprietress was -middle-aged. "Yes, there had been a Dr. Page,". -she told him. "Not what you might call a -regular doctor—he didn't do nothing. She believed -he had moved into Sweetbay, so as to be near the sea." -</p> - -<p> -"I understood that he moved here from Sweetbay. -An elderly man. He had a family," said -Conrad with fatigue. -</p> - -<p> -"There was two young gals," she agreed. -"<i>They</i> was always about." -</p> - -<p> -"'About'?" he murmured. -</p> - -<p> -"Picking, and skating, and that. I used to say -they was never at 'ome." -</p> - -<p> -"Oho?" said Conrad. And added to himself, -"The younger children grown up. Girls of -spirit!"—"When did they leave?" he continued. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, it must be a long time," she answered. -She turned to a man who had the air of being her -husband. "'Ow long is it since that Dr. Page was -'ere, pa?" -</p> - -<p> -"Dr. Page," drawled the man wonderingly. -"Oh, it's a long time ago." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she repeated, "it's a long time ago." -</p> - -<p> -"But, roughly, how long?" persisted Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"W-e-ll, it must be—eight years or more," she -said, visibly resenting an occasion to be definite. -</p> - -<p> -In his soul he groaned; if eight years seemed -so remote, what would they think of twenty-five? -Again he was bowed beneath the sense of senility. -"You don't happen to know where he settled in -Sweetbay?" he proceeded. -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head, she had no idea at all; -neither of the pair had any idea, so he finished his -ale, and paid for some cigars, which there was of -course no need to smoke. -</p> - -<p> -The lamps were winking through the dusk when -he drew in sight of Sweetbay. At a stationer's -he bought a directory of the current year, and -studied it at the counter. It contained a "Captain -Page," and "John Page, milkman." He found -also "Miss Page, ladies' outfitter," and -"Mrs. Page, laundress," but there was no "Page" of -promise among the leaves. He availed himself -of the opportunity to inquire again concerning -the likelihood of his discovering an ancient copy -of the work, but at his reference to 'seventy-seven -the stationer, too, fell agape. It recurred to -Conrad that in connection with Mr. Boultbee the -post-office had been suggested. Physically he was tired -by now, but mentally he was unflagging, and he -bent his steps to the general post-office forthwith. -The clerk who sold the stamps to him "couldn't -say"; she retired, however, to repeat his question -to the postmistress, and it was at this point that -the outlook brightened. The postmistress was a -young and gracious woman in a pink blouse, and -she came forward with a confident smile to inform -him that Dr. Page was no longer a resident of -Sweetbay, but had removed to Redhill. "Redhill?" He -had not suspected that anyone ever -got out there. -</p> - -<p> -"An elderly man. He had a family," he reiterated -with exhaustion. "Two young girls." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, yes," she nodded, "that's the same. -Very pretty, tall young ladies? <i>They</i> were always -in and out." -</p> - -<p> -"Really?" said Conrad. Mary's sisters began -to beckon to him. "Can you help me to -communicate with Dr. Page?" -</p> - -<p> -"We have the address he left with us—the -one we used to forward letters to; I don't know -if he's there still." She confessed the limitation -of her knowledge with regret. "It's some years -since he went from Sweetbay." -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps you would be so merciful as to give -me the one you have? I am an old friend of -Dr. Page's family—very old—and till Providence -directed my steps to you I despaired of finding -them again." He outlined the difficulties he had -encountered, but he had grown diffident of -mentioning 'seventy-seven. -</p> - -<p> -The postmistress laughed quite mirthfully at his -recital, which, encouraged by her appreciation, he -falsified sufficiently to make amusing. After -bidding the clerk turn to a book, she announced to -him that the address was "Home Rest, Peregrine -Place," and the assurances of his gratitude seemed -amply to repay her. -</p> - -<p> -Conrad went to bed with much more exhilaration -than he had looked for. The day, after all, -had seen something accomplished. Within his -head, when he punched the pillow, the project of -running Dr. Page to earth on the morrow promised -agreeable developments. At the onset the -interview would be a trifle embarrassing he -foresaw, inasmuch as the gentleman on whom he -intruded would certainly have no recollection of his -name; but the ice would break under a few suave -references to "My first visit to the neighbourhood -since I was a boy," and "My little playmates of -long ago"—he would put her in the plural, his -inquiries could be concentrated gradually. If -Mary herself were living in Redhill he might -remain there. He would intimate that he thought -of doing so—it would forefend the suspicion of -impetuosity. -</p> - -<p> -The sun was shining when he woke. The birds -chirruped among the fir trees, and there were -echoes of old-time music in his heart while he -brushed his hair—until he fought to draw up a -sailor's knot under one of those "double collars" -that have led to so much domestic unhappiness at -the breakfast-table. -</p> - -<p> -He travelled by the South-Eastern and Chatham, -but he reached Redhill, and smelt the tannery -as he searched for an exit from the station. -The salient features of Redhill are the smell of -leather, the shrieks of trains, and the all-night -barking of mongrels. He was directed to Station -Road, and told to "bear to the left." The -townlet seemed to him to blend the most unpleasant -characteristics of Clapham Junction and Hanley -in the Potteries. He started briskly. The way -was long, and several times he paused to seek -further information. Occasionally a carriage -passed, the occupants with protesting noses. By -degrees all the villas and the pavement dropped -behind him; the smell of the tannery was fainter, -and the path on either side was bordered by a -hedge. From the altitude of a butcher's cart a -boy in blue encouraged him with the assurance that -Peregrine Place was "straight on." Presently the -way wound, and a terrace of small semi-detached -houses with little front gardens gladdened his view. -As he drew close he saw "Home Rest" painted -on the gate-post at the corner. Outside, in the -sequestered road, a venerable tenant, with a velvet -skull-cap and silvery hair, was pottering around a -camera. At Conrad's approach he lifted his head, -and regarded him with gentle curiosity. The sight -of the blue eyes and placid face seemed suddenly -familiar to Conrad; he felt far-off memories -stirring in him as his gaze met the old man's features, -and, doffing his hat, he murmured, with the -deference that sat so well upon him:— -</p> - -<p> -"Dr. Page, I think?" -</p> - -<p> -"Heh?" said the old gentleman, inclining the -other ear. -</p> - -<p> -"You don't know me," said Conrad wistfully, -but in a louder tone. "We haven't met since I -was a boy, Dr. Page—that's many years ago." -</p> - -<p> -The old gentleman indicated Home Rest impatiently. -</p> - -<p> -"Next door," he snapped, "Dr. Page lives next door!" -</p> - -<p> -Conrad retreated with hasty apologies, feeling -considerably foolish. He would have preferred -to stroll awhile before repeating his exordium, -and only the consciousness of being watched by -the old gentleman who had misled him constrained -him to unlatch the gate. -</p> - -<p> -A neat servant answered that Dr. Page was -not at home. He was relieved. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll call again," he said. "When do you -expect him to come in?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, he's away, sir, he won't be back for two -or three days. Would you like to see Mrs. Page, -sir?" -</p> - -<p> -He had no remembrance of a Mrs. Page, but -there was the objection to travelling fruitlessly, -and the thought that a woman would be susceptible -to the prettiness of his visit. He hesitated—he -answered that he would. The girl conducted him -to a small, cheerless drawing-room, and returned -to say that Mrs. Page would be down in a few -minutes. There were antimacassars everywhere, -and the cold white mantelpiece exhibited the -perpetual porcelain courtship which has never -advanced; the amorous male still smirked inanely, -and the simpering maiden seemed still to hope. -Conrad was much attracted by a large album that -reposed on an occasional table. He sat tempted -to unclasp it, and had just risen and made a -tentative step in its direction when he heard the -doorknob move. -</p> - -<p> -The lady who came in seemed to deprecate her -entrance; she was evidently timid, and she blinked. -He thought at first that she suffered from some -affection of the eyes, but when she spoke, he -opined that the blinking was due entirely to -nervousness. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Warrener?" she said in a whisper. -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Page," he began, "I must crave your -pardon for intruding on you in this fashion. It's -very audacious of me because, even when I tell you -who I am, I daren't suppose that you will recollect -me." -</p> - -<p> -Her eyelids fluttered more, and she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"Wo—won't you sit down?" She wore mittens, -and plucked at them. -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you." Instinctively he lowered his -voice, as if he were speaking to an invalid. "My -excuse is rather unusual—I hope it won't appear -to you preposterous. When I was a boy, your -children and I used to be bosom friends, and I -found myself in Sweetbay the other day for the -first time since. I needn't tell you that I went to -look at the house, and the desire to—to find them -all again was very strong.... I was fortunate -enough to learn that you had moved to Redhill, -so I decided to risk your ridicule, and throw myself -on your forbearance." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, not at all," she faltered. "I—I'm sure -I—" Her nervousness seemed increased, rather -than diminished, by his address. There was an -awkward pause. -</p> - -<p> -"I trust Dr. Page and—and my former comrades -are all well?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, thank you, yes they are all quite well." -</p> - -<p> -He wished that Mary's were not the only name -among them he could recall; "All well!" he said, -forcing a hearty note, "All well! It's strange to -me to think of them as grown-up. Time—er—brings -many changes, madam?" -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed," she concurred timorously; "as you -say!" But she volunteered no news, and he began -to feel that they were getting on slowly; his -harassed gaze wandered to the china courtship. -</p> - -<p> -"May I ask if they are still with you?" he -ventured. -</p> - -<p> -"My eldest daughter is married," she replied. -"The others are ... I hope very soon. I—er -don't quite understand when it was you knew -them? While we were in Sweetbay, I think you -said?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he answered musingly, "when the -daughter who is married was a little girl, -Mrs. Page. To think that she's a woman and a wife! -Why, Miss Mary and I were like brother and -sister then—how wonderful it would be to meet -her now!" -</p> - -<p> -"My daughter's name is Ursula," she demurred. -She blinked fast. There was another -pause. -</p> - -<p> -"'Ur—Ursula?'" stammered Conrad, with -the precursory sinking of an awful fear. "Miss -Mary <i>not</i> the eldest? ... But surely at Rose -Villa she was the eldest at home—during that -summer, at least?" -</p> - -<p> -"I think there must be some mistake," she -quavered; "I have no daughter 'Mary.' I think -there must be some mistake." -</p> - -<p> -"Good heavens!" gasped Conrad. He was -covered with confusion. "My dear madam, what -can I say to you? I—I have been most shamefully -deceived. I knew the family of a Dr. Page -in Sweetbay in 'seventy-seven. I was assured—I -was officially misinformed—that they had -removed to Redhill. This house was mentioned to -me as their residence. I am abased, I can't -sufficiently express my regret. Possibly—I'll say -'probably'—my informant was led astray by the -sameness of the surname and the profession, but -nothing can excuse an error that has caused you so -much annoyance. Nothing!" he repeated implacably. -"I can only offer you my profoundest, my -most contrite apologies." -</p> - -<p> -The lady was now blinking so rapidly that it -was dazzling to watch her. -</p> - -<p> -"My husband never practised in Sweetbay," the -said. "My husband's name is 'Napoleon Page.' We -had never seen Sweetbay in 'seventy-seven. -Our house was not called 'Rose Villa.' Oh dear -no! I'm afraid there must be some mistake." -</p> - -<p> -"Obviously," cried Conrad; "it overwhelms -me. I shall severely reprimand the person -who—who is responsible. Permit me to thank you -for the patience, the infinite courtesy with which -you have listened to my—my totally irrelevant -reminiscences. I— Pray don't trouble to ring, -madam!" -</p> - -<p> -His cheeks were hot when he gained the step. -He walked towards the station swiftly, eager to -leave "Home Rest" and Redhill far behind. -Long after the train, for which he was obliged to -wait, had started, the incident continued to distress -him. He smarted anew in the compartment. He -was even denied the unction of feeling he had -made a satisfactory exit, and the certainty that -the lady would describe his later demeanour as -"flurried" annoyed him more than he could say -in the presence of his fellow-passengers. To fall -into the mistake was natural, he argued, but he -wished ardently that he had extricated himself -from it with more grace, with more of the leisurely -elegance he could display if the situation -were to occur again. -</p> - -<p> -Well, he had done with his search for Mary! -He said he abandoned it in disgust, and was still -firm on the point when he reached Mowbray -Lodge. He began to reconsider packing his -portmanteaux. For two days he made no further -inquiry of anyone, and lingered, as it were, under -protest. Yet in England at least he might spend -December amid worse surroundings than Sweetbay -presented now; he owned that. From the -chief thoroughfares the last speck of mud had -long since been removed; the pink sidewalks -shone as spotless as when he trod them in October. -The air was tender, there was an azure sky, -a sunlit sea curled innocently upon the beach. Yes, -of a truth, he might fare worse. If it were not -for the dulness, he could scarcely fare better. On -the third afternoon, as he sauntered through the -High Street, it occurred to him that it could do -no harm to announce his failure to the mirthful -postmistress. He did not pledge himself to -resume his efforts, but—— It certainly was very -dull, and if he were more explicit she might be -able to give him another hint. -</p> - -<p> -She recognised him at once, and advanced, -sparkling as before. -</p> - -<p> -"Did you find your friends, sir?" she asked -as he saluted her. -</p> - -<p> -"I did not," said Conrad, "but I intruded -on an inoffensive household who were perfect -strangers to me. The Dr. Page whose address -you very kindly furnished was not my Dr. Page -at all." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh dear! how very awkward," she said. "I -am so sorry." -</p> - -<p> -"It was awkward, wasn't it?" he concurred. -"Of course I threw all the blame on you, so they -forgave me, but I'm now quite helpless. My -friends seem to have vanished as utterly as if -Sweetbay had closed over their heads, and to -complete the difficulty this family of spurious Pages -arose since. I foresee that as often as I make -another attempt I shall be directed to Redhill. -I didn't like to tell you before, because it makes -me sound so old, but the people I mean are the -Pages who lived here in 'seventy-seven. I beg of -you not to jump. Everybody jumps—that's why -I have grown so nervous of mentioning the date." -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes were full of amusement; she leant -her elbows on the counter. -</p> - -<p> -"I wasn't in the office then," she said reflectively. -</p> - -<p> -"Naturally," he returned. "You must have -been in your cradle. <i>I</i> was only a little boy. -They were companions of my cherub stage; -believe me, I was rosily young." -</p> - -<p> -"There's a gentleman in the town who might -be able to tell you something," she suggested: -"Mr. Irquetson, the vicar of All Saints. He has -been here thirty years, or more." -</p> - -<p> -"Really?" exclaimed Conrad, and added, -"It's a shame to be beaten, isn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, it is," she agreed; "and he's a very nice -gentleman; he'll be glad to help you if he can." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I think I'll go to see him; if he has -been here thirty years, he can hardly fail to -remember the Dr. Page I'm talking about." He -glanced at the clock. "Do you think he's likely -to be in now?" -</p> - -<p> -"I should think the morning would be the best -time, sir," she answered; "but you might try—it -isn't far. If you'll wait a second, I'll write -the address down for you." -</p> - -<p> -"You are too good," said Conrad impressively. -His pulses quickened at the chance. Instantly -the thought of quitting Sweetbay was forgotten. -Again he thanked her, and again she bowed -graciously over her pink blouse as he withdrew. -When he turned at the doors, she was bowing still. -</p> - -<p> -They swung to behind him, and he wished he -had reported himself to her three days ago. What -amiability! He had never seen anything to compare -with it in a post-office. As he strode towards -the vicar's, he was possessed by amazement. The -experience had an air of the ideal, as everybody -will admit. Probably the mirthful postmistress -was the only member of her calling ever known to -exhibit a pleasant countenance to the public, -excepting— But the Exception merits a paragraph to -herself, and as she has nothing to do with the story, -you are recommended to skip to the next chapter. -</p> - -<p> -Excepting a little lady who once brightened the -ancient post-office of Southampton Row. The -"post-office," have I said? Rather should I say -she brightened the district with that sunny smile -of hers, and the daily flower freshening her neat -little frock. To watch her, it seemed she found -long hours "in the cage" the very poetry of -bread-winning. Dull matrons from Russell Square, and -tired clerks from Guilford Street alike felt the -encouragement of her cheerfulness, and went on -their way refreshed. One may well believe she -was the unwitting cause of many kindly actions in -West Central London, for a crowd was ever at -the counter, and the sourest soul of all on whom -she smiled must for a space have viewed the world -with friendlier eyes. Often I used to wonder, as -I bought a postcard, and waited for the farthing -change, whether it was interest in her duties, or -the message of the daily flower that kept that light -of happiness in the girlish face. When she -vanished, Southampton Row was grey. They -repainted and replanned it; and built spruce hotels, -and pink "mansions," but nothing could make -good the loss. It was whispered she had left to be -married. All Bloomsbury must hope that he is -kind to her! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER V -</h3> - -<p> -And after that little tribute, which has been owing -for more years than it exhilarates me to -count—and which has been paid with no expense to -anyone who followed my advice—let us overtake -Conrad on the doorstep, where he had just learnt -that the vicar was at home. -</p> - -<p> -The Rev. Athol Irquetson was a sombre-eyed -priest with a beautiful voice. In his zeal, he had -studied how to use it—under an eminent actor; -in his discretion, he suppressed the fact—for he -knew his Sweetbay. He had also a fine faculty for -gesture, which his parishioners found -"impressive"—and which they would have found -"theatrical" had they guessed that for years it had -been cultivated daily before a looking-glass. Why -invalidate an instrument? To admiring friends -he said his gestures "came to him." They did, -by this time. He waved Conrad's apologies aside, -and motioning towards a seat, sank slowly into a -study-chair himself. Conrad ardently appreciated -the pose of his hand there, as—a pensive profile -supported by his finger-tips—the vicar asked, in -a voice to make converts: "And what can I do -for you?" -</p> - -<p> -Yes, he remembered Dr. Page. Dr. Page was -dead. But soon it was the vicar's turn to be -appreciative, for the intruder's glance kept straying -to the Canaletto prints that graced the walls, and -it was a rare thing for Mr. Irquetson to have a -visitor to whom they spoke. Those glances -warmed his heart, and a digression melted his -reserve. -</p> - -<p> -"There are not many," he said; "but I think -my small room is the richer on that account." -</p> - -<p> -"Surely," said Conrad. "If a picture is worth -owning, it is worth a spacious setting. A mere -millionaire may buy a gallery, but it takes a man -of taste to hang a sketch. I have always thought -that a picture calls for two artists—one to -create it, and the other to prepare his wall for its -reception." -</p> - -<p> -"But how little the second art is understood. -Of course the eye should be enabled to rest on a -picture reposefully. The custom of massing pictures -in conflicting multitudes is barbarous. It's -like the compression of flowers into bundles that -hide half their loveliness. The Western mind is -slowly learning from the Japanese that a flower -ought to be displayed so that we may appreciate -its form. I have hope that when they have taught -us how a flower should be put in water, they may -proceed to teach us how a picture should be hung." -</p> - -<p> -Quite ten minutes passed in such amenities. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, Dr. Page died long ago," said the deep -voice again; but the subject was resumed in a -manner almost intimate; "his wife was living -in—Malvern, I think. There was—it was -common knowledge at the time—some domestic -unhappiness late in life; or perhaps it would be more -correct to say that it culminated late in life, for, -like so many mighty issues, I believe it originated -in a seeming trifle. He was a man acutely -sensitive to noise, and his wife was decidedly a noisy -woman. I remember his remarking once that if -she but touched a cup it had a collision with all the -china on the table, and that a newspaper in her -hands became an instrument of torture. No doubt -he could have controlled his irritability, but by all -accounts his temper grew unbearable. However, -the news of his death must have been a blow to -the lady, for he died suddenly soon after they had -separated. Death is a wondrous peacemaker. -The gravest offence looks smaller in our eyes when -it is too late to condone it." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," assented Conrad; -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'And I think, in the lives of most women and men,<br /> - There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,<br /> - If only the dead could find out when<br /> - To come back, and be forgiven.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"That is a beautiful thought," said the vicar, -"or, speaking more strictly, I should say it is an -ordinary thought beautified. From one of Owen -Meredith's early poems, isn't it? But do you -remember those lines of Coventry Patmore's to the -dead? -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'It is not true that Love will do no wrong.<br /> - Poor Child!<br /> - And did you think, when you so cried and smiled,<br /> - How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake,<br /> - And of those words your full avengers make?<br /> - Poor Child, poor Child!<br /> - And now, unless it be<br /> - That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee,<br /> - O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!<br /> - Poor Child!'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Oh," exclaimed Conrad, "exquisite! I used -to read Coventry Patmore all day. Do you know -'Departure'?—'With <i>huddled</i>, unintelligible -phrase!' ... Ah! surely his hope was not vain—the -Posterity he respected will respect him. -But—but," he bubbled, "I am so glad I came! -My dear sir, you enchant me; your recognition of -Owen Meredith alone would make the interview -memorable." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" returned Mr. Irquetson, with a whimsical -smile, "there was once a time when I read -much poetry—and wrote much verse; and I have -a good memory. I remember"—his trained -gaze took in the name, which he had forgotten, on -the card—"I remember, Mr. Warrener, when -I used to pray to be a poet." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you think prayers are ever answered?" -inquired Conrad. "In my life I have sent up -many prayers, and always with the attempt to -persuade myself that some former prayer had been -fulfilled. But I knew—I knew in my heart none -ever had been. Things that I have wanted have -come to me, but—I say it with all reverence—at -the wrong time, as the means to buy unlimited -toffee comes to a man when he has outgrown his -taste for sweets." -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Irquetson's fine hand wandered across his -brow. -</p> - -<p> -"Once," he began conversationally, "I was -passing with a friend through Grosvenor Street. -It was when in the spring the tenant's fancy lightly -turns to coats of paint, and we came to a ladder -leaning against a house that was being redecorated. -In stepping to the outer side of the ladder, -my friend lifted his hat to it; you may know the -superstition? He was a 'Varsity man, a man of -considerable attainments. I said, 'Is it possible -that you believe in that nonsense?' He said, -'N—no, I don't exactly believe in it, but I never -throw away a chance.'" On a sudden his inflexion -changed, his utterance was solemn, stirring, -devout: "'I think, sir, that most people <i>pray</i> on -my friend's principle—they don't believe in it, -but they never throw away a chance.'" -</p> - -<p> -He had said it before; the whole thing was too -assured, too finished, for an impromptu, but the -effect of that modulation was superb. All the -artist in Conrad responded to it. -</p> - -<p> -"And when they are sincere?" he questioned, -after a pause; "for they are sometimes. Your -walls remind me how passionately I prayed to be -a painter. And your own prayers, I take it, came -from the soul when you craved to be a poet." -</p> - -<p> -"But should I have been more useful as a poet? -It wouldn't have contented me to write—let us -say—'The Better Land,' and more minds are to -be influenced by simple sermons than by great -poetry. You think, perhaps, that as a painter you -would have been happier. But perhaps you -wouldn't. We are often like little children -petitioning their parents for the dangerous. I will -not suggest that a merciful God chastises us to -demonstrate our error, but many an observant -man must have noticed the truth that what we -have desired most strenuously often proves an -affliction to us, while the only sunshine in our lives -is shed by the thing which we prayed might never -come to pass." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Conrad, thoughtfully, "I have -seen more than one example of that. But if we -are mere blunderers beseeching in the dark—if -we are like children importuning their parents -without discernment, as you say—isn't the act -of prayer futile? Isn't it even presumptuous?" -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Irquetson raised his head, his eyes looked -upward; "No—pray!" he said, and the melody -of his tone gave glory to a commonplace. -"Pray," he repeated, and Conrad wanted to kneel -to him then, there, on the study floor. "One day -perhaps you will afford me an opportunity to make -my thoughts on prayer quite clear to you. Pray—but -with fervour, and with sense. With humility! -Sir, I cannot reconcile my faith in an omniscient -Creator with the idea that it is necessary -to advise Him we need rain in Rutland ... But -I'm withholding the little information that I am -able to give you. I was about to say that -Mrs. Page, so far as I know, lives still in -Malvern—or perhaps it was Matlock; and the eldest -girl——" -</p> - -<p> -"Mary?" interposed Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"Quite so, 'Mary.' Mary married some time -before her father's death, and is settled in London, -I think. My wife would know her whereabouts -better than I, she is friendly with a resident who -has some fitful correspondence with Mrs. Bailey." -</p> - -<p> -"'Mrs. Bailey' is the eldest girl's married -name?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, it used to be," replied the clergyman, -with another of his smiles. "But I was wrong—I -should have said 'Mrs. Barchester-Bailey.' She -acquired the 'Barchester' after the ceremony; -I cannot supply its exegesis. The result of six -months in the capital, I suppose, though it is not -everybody who can make such a great name in -London in six months." -</p> - -<p> -"Much may be done in six months; his parents -gave Keats to the world in seven," said Conrad. -"I am infinitely grateful to you for your -kindness." He rose. "If Mrs. Irquetson should -mention Mrs. Barchester-Bailey's address to you, and -you would have the additional goodness to let me -know it——" -</p> - -<p> -"I will drop you a line to-night—or to-morrow -at the latest," declared the vicar; and he pencilled -the direction on the card. -</p> - -<p> -"Good-bye," said Conrad. "I shall always be -your debtor for more than the address, sir." -</p> - -<p> -"Good-bye," said the vicar, extending his hand; -and 'good-bye' as he pronounced it was a -benediction. -</p> - -<p> -Conrad had been so much impressed—so uplifted -by the cleric's manner—that, instead of -swinging homeward in high feather at the end of -his difficulties, he proceeded slowly, in serious -meditation. It was not until the following -afternoon when he learnt that Mrs. Barchester-Bailey's -residence was Beau Séjour, Hyperion Terrace, -Upper Tooting, that interest in his project -was again keen. Then there was a little throb in -his pulses; a little tremor stole from the note; -he had annihilated the obstacles of five-and -twenty years—it excited him to realise that -he stood so close to her who had been Mary Page. -</p> - -<p> -The "Barchester," however, disturbed him -somewhat. A woman who reverenced apocryphal -hyphens promised less companionship than he had -pictured ... Perhaps the snobbishness was her -husband's. Tooting? He had a dim recollection -of driving through it once, on his way somewhere. -Was it to the Derby? -</p> - -<p> -Well, he supposed the correct course would be -to write to her and hint at his return to town. He -wondered whether the signature would waken -memories in her if she perpended it. Unless it did, -the letter was likely to prove a failure—he could -not indite a very stimulating epistle to a married -woman of whom he knew nothing. Yet to call on -her without writing—? No, he must stand, or -fall, by the signature. That would say everything, -if it said anything at all ... How stupid, in the -circumstances, "Dear Madam" sounded! -</p> - -<p> -And what a stumbling-block it looked! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Dear Madam"—he wrote—"Though I -cannot hope you will be able to recall my name, I -think you may remember Mowbray Lodge. I have -regretted very much, during my visit, that -Mrs. Page is not my neighbour. It would have given -me so much pleasure to call on her, and to meet -the family who were such very good comrades -of mine in the year when this house was a school, -kept by Mr. Boultbee, and a posse of children -came down for the summer holidays. Perhaps -the names of my cousins, Nina and 'Gina, may be -more familiar to you than my own. At least those -old-time friends of yours have shared my -disappointment. It is only since they left that I have -had the good fortune to hear your address -mentioned. Will you pardon a stranger writing to -express this vehement interest on the part of -people whom you have probably forgotten? If -I debated the matter for long, my courage would -desert me, and I should leave my cousins to make -their own inquiries next week, when I go back to -town. On the other hand, if you and your sisters -remember us, pray believe that none sends kinder -regards to you all than— -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - "Yours truly,<br /> - "CONRAD WARRENER."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Come, I don't think anybody can take exception -to that," mused Conrad. And he sent it to -the post, with a line of thanks to Mr. Irquetson. -</p> - -<p> -On the next evening but one he began to doubt -if she meant to reply. It seemed to him the sort -of thing a woman would acknowledge immediately -if she didn't mean to ignore it altogether. -Yet why should she ignore it? Silence would be -rather uncivil, wouldn't it—a humiliation needlessly -inflicted? If she had reasons for wishing -to decline his acquaintance, it was quite possible -to prevent his advancing, and to frame an urbane -answer at the same time. Had he said too much -about Nina and 'Gina, appeared too much in the -light of an amanuensis? Surely she had the wit -to understand? -</p> - -<p> -Four or five days passed before he tore open -an envelope stamped with the initials "M.B.B." The -enclosure began "Dear Sir," and his brows -contracted. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Dear Sir"—he read—"I was very surprised -to receive your letter. What a long time -ago, is it not? It is very nice of you all to -remember us after so long. I left Sweetbay at the time -of my marriage, and have been living in Tooting -some years now. My mother has removed to -Matlock. If you or your cousins are ever in the -neighbourhood I shall hope to have a chat over -old times. Please give them my remembrances, -With kind regards—Yours truly, -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - "MARY BARCHESTER-BAILEY."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -There were only three wrong ways of beginning -a response—three blatant solecisms—and -she had chosen one of them when she wrote -"Dear Sir." Conrad was disappointed. The -"fair and slightly pathetic" figure of his dreams -grew fainter; his ideal confidante didn't make -these mistakes. He put the missive in his pocket, -and drew dejectedly at his pipe. -</p> - -<p> -"Of course I shall go," ran his thoughts, "but -I've made rather an ass of myself, taking such -trouble to find her!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER VI -</h3> - -<p> -The man to whom he gave his ticket at the station -of Balham and Upper Tooting told him that he -could walk to Hyperion Terrace in about ten -minutes. He perceived that he would reach the -house too early if he proceeded there at once, so -he strolled awhile in the opposite direction. The -pavements were dry, and he was thankful, for he -had seen no cab when he came down the station -stairs, and he would have been chagrined to -present himself in muddy boots. -</p> - -<p> -When he estimated that he would arrive at -Beau Séjour none too soon to be welcome, he -retraced his steps, and now anticipation warmed -his blood once more. After all, she was the -woman who had been Mary Page—it was a -piece of his boyhood that awaited him. Indeed -he was repentant that he had cavilled at minor -defects. By dint of inquiries he found the way to -Hyperion Terrace. It was new, and red, and all -that a man who could call a street "Hyperion -Terrace" would naturally create. -</p> - -<p> -A very small servant, wearing a very pretentious -cap, showed him at once to the drawing-room, -where "The Soul's Awakening" met his -distressed view, on a pink and gold wall-paper. -He heard flying footsteps overhead, sounds of -discomposure; there are houses at which a visitor -always arrives too early. His nerves were -tremulous while he sat alone. But Mary's home would -have pleased him better if it had been no more -than a single room, with a decent etching over a -bed masquerading as a sideboard, and half-a-dozen -shilling classics on a shelf. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Warrener? How d' ye do?" -</p> - -<p> -She advanced towards him with a wide smile, -a large and masculine woman wearing a vivid silk -blouse, and an air of having dressed herself in a -hurry. She wore also—with a droll effort at -deception—a string of "pearls" which, if it had -been real, would have been worth more than the -street. For an instant his heart seemed to drop -into his stomach; and in the next an overwhelming -compassion for her swept him. He could -have shed tears for her, as he took her hand, and -remembered that she had once been a dainty child. -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Barchester-Bailey—so good of you to -let me call." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I'm sure it was very kind of you to -come!" she said. "Won't you sit down? ... How -very odd that you should have been -living in Mowbray Lodge, isn't it? Quite a -coincidence." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he said, "yes. I wanted a place there, -and Mowbray Lodge happened to be to let for a -few months. It was the first time I had been -to Sweetbay since that summer.... Your old -house looks just the same—the outside at least; -I've not been in it." -</p> - -<p> -"Really?" she said. "Yes—does it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes.... And the lane looks just the same -too, until you get to the field; and then—then -there isn't one. But perhaps that had vanished -before you left?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, there was no change when I was down -there last, but that's a long while ago! Horrid -old place! I'm very glad there's nothing to take -me there any more." -</p> - -<p> -"Didn't you like it?" he asked, pained. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, it was so slow! I wonder how I put up -with it as long as I did. Didn't you find it slow? -I must have gaiety. People tell me I'm a regular -gadabout, but—" She laughed—"one's only -young once, Mr. Warrener; I believe in having a -good time while I can. I say I shall have plenty -of time to be on the shelf by-and-by." -</p> - -<p> -She was very, very plain. It was while he was -thinking how plain she was, how ruthless the -years had been to her, that the sudden pity for -himself engulfed him—the pathetic consciousness -that she must be reflecting how hard the -years had been on <i>him</i>. -</p> - -<p> -"It can't be difficult for you to have a good -time," he returned, labouredly light. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I don't think it is," she declared; she -tossed her large head, and rolled colourless eyes -at him archly. "People tell me I've quite woke -Tooting up since I've been here, and I must -say I've done my best. I must <i>lead</i>. I mean -to say if I'd been a man I should have liked -to be a great politician, or a great general, you -know." -</p> - -<p> -"You could be nothing more potent than -Mrs. Barchester-Bailey." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh now that's very sweet of you!" she said. -"But I mean to say I must <i>lead</i>. I started the -Tooting 'Thursdays.' You mustn't think I'm -just a frivolous little woman who cares for -nothing but pleasure—I'm—I'm very interested in -literature too. At the 'Thursdays' we have -literary discussions. Next week the subject is Miss -Verbena's novels. Now which do you think is -Miss Verbena's greatest novel?" -</p> - -<p> -He could only assume that she never saw a -comic paper. "I—I'm afraid I haven't read -any of them," he owned. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh! Oh, you surprise me. Oh, but you must: -they're enormously clever. Ettie Verbena is quite -my favourite novelist, excepting perhaps that -<i>dear</i> man who writes those immensely clever -books that never offend in any way. So pure they -are, such a true religious spirit in them! You -know, Mr. Warrener, I'm a curious mixture. -People tell me that I seem to enjoy myself just -as much talking to a very clever man as when -I'm romping through a barn-dance. And it's -true you know; that is me. But I suppose you're -more interested in stocks and shares, and things -like that, than in books?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I—I shouldn't describe myself as -widely-read," answered Conrad; "still books do -interest me." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh well, then, you must come on one of my -At-Home days next time," she said graciously; -"one of the ladies you'll meet writes for -'Winsome Words,' and you'll meet several people -you'll like." -</p> - -<p> -"I should be charmed," he said. -</p> - -<p> -The servant bustled in, and carried a bamboo -table to the hearth. As she threw the teacloth -over it, a cold wind blew through his hair. -</p> - -<p> -"Do your cousins live in London?" inquired -Mrs. Barchester-Bailey, with the tail of a worried -eye on the maid's blunders. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he said, "yes, they do. But I haven't -seen them since I came back. I'm not sure -whether they're in town." -</p> - -<p> -"Are they married?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he said again. "Oh yes, they're -married—both of them." -</p> - -<p> -"Where are they?" she asked; "anywhere -this way?" -</p> - -<p> -"No; unfortunately they're a long way off. -That's the drawback to town, isn't it? Everybody -lives at such a distance from everybody else." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't know," she said; "one can get -about so quickly nowadays. What part are they -in?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nina lives in Regent's Park," he replied, -"where the mists are." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, really? Regent's Park?" She seemed -impressed. "I was wondering whether she would -care to join our Thursday debates—we want to -get as many members as we can. Two of the -ladies come over from Wandsworth, but from -Regent's Park it would be a drag certainly. Shall -I put in sugar and milk?" -</p> - -<p> -"Please." He took the cup, and sat down -again—and knew that he had entered on that -grade of society where there are no more men -and women, and they all become "ladies" and -"gentlemen." -</p> - -<p> -"And the other one—'Gina?" she continued. -</p> - -<p> -He felt very uncomfortable; he wouldn't say -"Mayfair." -</p> - -<p> -"'Gina lives further west," he murmured. -"No, I won't have any cake, thank you." -</p> - -<p> -"Then your cousins are quite high up?" she -exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -"'High up?'" -</p> - -<p> -"They're quite swells?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" he shrugged his shoulders. "No, I -don't think I should call them that. Too swell for -me, rather, but then I'm half a Colonial, and the -other half a bohemian. I haven't been Home -long—it's all strange to me; until I came out -here to-day I had no idea London could be so -picturesque. How glorious your Common must -be in the summer!" -</p> - -<p> -"So healthy!" she said promptly; "the air is -so fine. We moved here from the West-end for -the children's sake." -</p> - -<p> -"You have children?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" she rolled her eyes again. "Four, -Mr. Warrener. My eldest boy is getting quite -big—people tell me they wouldn't believe he was mine -at all, but it makes me feel quite old sometimes, -to look at him. I think it's cruel of children to -grow up, don't you?" -</p> - -<p> -He stifled a sad assent. "Sometimes they grow -up still more charming," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, now, that's very sweet of you! Now -really that's very pretty. But I mean to say I -think it's cruel to us when they shoot up so fast. -You're not married yourself yet, eh?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I hate asking favours." -</p> - -<p> -"What a modest way of putting it! But you -should. A good wife would be the making of you, -and give you something to think about. Don't -you know that?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sure of it. A man can have no greater -blessing than a good wife—excepting none," he -concluded mentally. "Shall I be allowed to see -them before I go?" -</p> - -<p> -"The children? Would you like to? Dudley -is out, but the others are just going to have tea -in the next room. My husband isn't back from -the city yet, of course. Oh, the city! What a -hold it does get on you men. As if it really -mattered whether you made an extra thousand pounds -one month or not!" A trayful of crockery rattled, -and the footsteps of the little servant thudded -through the passage. -</p> - -<p> -"You're quite right," said Conrad. "What -does it matter, when one comes to think of it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not but what Herbert's the best of boys," -she added. "If it weren't that——" She -hesitated, she endeavoured to look confused. "The -fact is, he's—he's jealous, he's a very jealous -man. Not that he has any reason to be—not -exactly. Of course I'm awfully fond of him; -he's a dear old silly! But I mean to say I can't -help it when men want to talk to me—now can -I? If I get half-a-dozen men round me, even -though we're only talking about the simplest -thing, he doesn't like it. Of course it makes it -awfully awkward for me socially." -</p> - -<p> -"It must," responded Conrad; "yes, I can -understand that." -</p> - -<p> -"I tell him he should have married a different -woman." She giggled. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, but how unreasonable of you!" he said. -"Then—if they won't mind being disturbed—I -am really to see your children?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, they won't mind at all, but I'm afraid -you'll find them very untidy—they've just been -having high jinks." -</p> - -<p> -She led him to them presently, and slammed the -door behind her. It shook his thoughts to the -clergyman's description of Mrs. Page. Heredity -again, perhaps. Two girls of about twelve or -fourteen years of age and a boy in a pinafore were -sitting at a table. At their mother and the -visitor's entrance, they all took their hands off the -cloth and stared. -</p> - -<p> -"And so this is the family?" cried Conrad, -trying to sound enthusiastic. "How do you do? -And will you say 'how do you do' to me, my little -man?" -</p> - -<p> -Three limp hands flopped to him in turn, and -he stood contemplating the group, while the lady -cooed silly questions to them, and elicited dull, -constrained replies. They were not attractive -children; they were indeed singularly uninteresting -children—even for other people's, whose virtues -seldom strike us vividly. To Conrad, who failed -to allow sufficiently for their shyness, they -appeared stupidity personified. "Yes," and "No," -they answered; and their eyes were round, and -their mouths ajar. Like all children, from the -lower to the middle classes inclusive, they -proclaimed instantaneously the social stratum of their -parents. With a monosyllable a child will do this. -It is by no means impossible for a man to -exchange remarks with a girl from a show-room, -and at the end of five minutes to be still uncertain -to what class she belongs. But when the intrusive -little cub in the sailor suit romps up to her, -he betrays the listless beauty's entourage with the -first slovenly words he drops. -</p> - -<p> -"Have your cousins any children, Mr. Warrener?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he said, "oh yes, they have three or -four each." He was speculating what individuality -lay concealed behind the vacant fronts. -Their mother had been no older than the eldest -when he was sick with romance for her—oh, -positively "romance," although its expression had -been ludicrous in that period. Was it possible -that these meaningless little girls also had -precocity and sweethearts? Appalling thought—had -Mary been so unpleasant? Had he idealised -a dirty mouth? -</p> - -<p> -"I should like to see them. I wish Nina -and—er—'Gina would come over one morning to -lunch." Her tone was painfully eager. "Or -I might look them up. Do you know their -'days'?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," he murmured, "I can't say I do. I——" -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps they'll come with you next time?" -</p> - -<p> -"I hope you'll see them sooner; it's more than -likely I go back to Paris in a day or two—I only -left a few weeks ago. I may remain there through -the year." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, really?" she exclaimed. "Then you -have no business in London? Mary," she broke -off impatiently, "what is it? What is Ferdie -fidgeting about for—what does he want?" -</p> - -<p> -"Jam, ma," said the plainer of the girls in a -whisper. -</p> - -<p> -"What do you say? Do speak up, dear." -</p> - -<p> -"Jam, ma," repeated her daughter; "he wants -jam on the first piece." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, give him it then. Only this once, now, -darling. You shouldn't tease him so, -Mary—remember he's a very little boy." -</p> - -<p> -Mary <i>minor</i> leant towards him, and Conrad -thought she muttered "Little pig!" -</p> - -<p> -"Then you have nothing to do in London?" -resumed the lady, as he followed her from the -room. -</p> - -<p> -"Quite all that I hoped to do in London I have -done this afternoon," he smiled. "As a matter -of fact, I don't suppose I shall call on anybody -else before I leave." But he saw clearly that she -wanted to know the women who were "high up," -and he was self-reproachful. Distressed, he -wished that he had made no reference to them in -his letter. -</p> - -<p> -"Sha'n't you even go to see your cousins?" -she persisted. "But you say you're not sure if -they're in town? If they are, any day would suit -me. If they would drop me a line——" -</p> - -<p> -"No," he said, "I'm not sure; I haven't -heard from either of them since they left -Sweetbay." He was at the point of mentioning Nina's -address; he reminded himself that he had a duty -to Nina too. -</p> - -<p> -Yet a moment later he succumbed. The remembrance -of what he had written, even civility -itself, prevented his parrying so keen an aim as -Mrs. Barchester-Bailey's. He mentioned the -address, and he said how pretty the plain -children were, and regretted that her husband was -not in. He sat smiling at boredom for five -minutes longer, and when he escaped at last -he had the reward of knowing that she thought -he admired her very much. He had owed her -that. -</p> - -<p> -As he felt the air in his lungs he thanked heaven. -Well, he would explain the occurrence to Nina, -who would consider him an idiot, and tell her to -expect a speedy visit. The rest lay with the visitor -herself—with her powers to please. For his -own part, never, never did he want to see her -again. He walked fast, her image still pursuing -him. What an exhausting woman! -</p> - -<p> -He dined at his club and wondered if it would -be bad taste for so new a member to make a -complaint to the committee. Afterwards he drifted -into a music-hall, where quailing brutes who had -been created to scamper on four legs were -distorted to maintain a smirking brute who was -unworthy to walk on two. The animals' sufferings -diverted the audience vastly, and the applause -sickened Conrad more than the club dinner. -</p> - -<p> -And though his disappointment at Tooting may -sound a very trivial matter, it continued to depress -him. He was sad, not because one woman was -different from what he had hoped to find her, but -because the difference in the one woman typified -so much that seemed pathetic to him in life. And -to sneer at him as a sentimentalist absorbed by -opal-tinted sorrows blown of indolence, would not -be conclusive. It is, of course, natural that those -of us who have to struggle should set up the Man -of Leisure as a figure to be pelted with -precepts—indeed, we pelt so hard at the silver spoon in -his mouth that between the shies we might well -reflect that Ethics is often an <i>alias</i> of Envy—but -with Conrad the leisure was quite recent and the -sentiment had ached for years. In his case wealth -had not formed a temperament, wealth had simply -freed it. -</p> - -<p> -Let us accept him as he was. My business is to -present, not to defend. Were tales tellable only -when the "hero" fulfilled both definitions of the -word, reviewers would have less to do. If I could -draw, a frontispiece should enlist your sympathies -for him: "Conrad and the Coquette;" for that -is Youth—a laughing jilt showing us her heels, -and tempting over her dimpled shoulder as she -flies. -</p> - -<p> -This is where you begin to think me insufferably -dull. I see your fair brow clouding, I can see -your beautiful lips shaping to say, "Oh, bother!" Be -patient with me; we have arrived at a brief -interval in which nothing particular happened. -It is true that soon afterwards Conrad went to -Monte Carlo, but details would not interest you -in the least. Be gracious to me; yield to the book -another finger-tip—I feel it slipping. Say, -"Poor drivel as it is, a man has written it in the -hope of pleasing me." For he has indeed. On -many a fine morning I have plodded when I would -rather have sunned myself where the band played; -on many an evening I have wound my feet round -the legs of the table and budged not, when the -next room and a new novel—paid for and -unopened—wooed me as with a siren song. And -all to win a smile from You. -</p> - -<p> -I have thought of you so often, and wanted to -know you; you don't realise how I have longed to -meet you—to listen to you, to have you lift the -veil that hides your mind from me. Sometimes in -a crowd I have fancied I caught a glimpse of you; -I can't explain—the poise of the head, a look in -the eyes, there was something that hinted it was -You. And in a whirlwind of an instant it almost -seemed that you would recognise me; but you said -no word—you passed, a secret from me still. To -yourself where you are sitting you are just a -charming woman, with "a local habitation and a -name;" but to me you are not Miss or Madam, -not M. or N., you are a Power, and I have sought -you by a name you have not heard—you are my -Public. -</p> - -<p> -And O my Lady, I am speaking to you! I feel -your presence in my senses, though you are far -away, and I can't hear your answer. I do wrong -to speak like this; I may be arraigned for -speaking; I have broken laws for the honour of -addressing you—among all the men who have -worshipped you, has one done more?—and I will -never offend again. But in this breathless minute -while I dare, I would say: "Remember that -overleaf, and in every line unto the end I shall be -picturing <i>you</i>, working for you, trembling lest <i>you</i> -frown." Unto the End. Forgive me. I have -sinned, but I exult—it is as if I had touched your -hand across the page. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER VII -</h3> - -<p> -Conrad drifted from the Riviera with the rest, -and lingered through June in Paris; not on the -left bank this time—in the Paris of the -Boulevards and the Bois, where he was a world away -from the quarter where he had run to clasp the -illusions of his youth, and stayed to mourn them. -Although he was finding life pleasant, there were -moments when he looked at the bridges, and felt -wistful; but he never crossed one—he knew now -that he could not walk over the Pont Neuf into -the Past. -</p> - -<p> -Nor was it with any definite purpose that he -returned to London. Amusement, agreeable society -had lulled that desire to revisit old scenes. -And his experiments had been such failures: the -endeavour to recapture his fervour as an -art-student; the ludicrous attempt to revive in cynical -adults the buoyant comradery of childhood; the -interest in the little girl whom time had turned into -the least interesting of women—it was with a -mental blush that he recalled these follies. If he -thought no less tenderly of his youth, he thought -of it less often; if he was still liable to a sense of -bereavement, he was now idling as conventionally -as any other man of his class. -</p> - -<p> -He arrived in London while the sun shone, and -told the cabman to drive to the Carlton, where -some Americans whom he liked in Monte Carlo -had talked of staying. After he had made himself -presentable, he descended to the palm court, and -ordered tea, since tea was in evidence, and glanced -round the groups that sipped and chatted. His -Americans were not there—perhaps they had -been faithful to the American hotel. By-and-by -he inquired about them, and learnt that they were -unknown. He was hipped, for they had been -companionable, and one of the women was very -pretty. He felt rather "out of it" among the -dawdling groups. -</p> - -<p> -During dinner he asked himself to what theatre -he should go. He remembered reading recently -that a farcical comedy had scored a great success, -and decided to go to see that. One of his oddities -was a reluctance to inconvenience people by passing -in front of them in a theatre after the curtain -had risen, so he didn't dally at the table. The -piece began at a quarter past eight. He had a cup -of coffee, and a red Grand Marnier, and slid into -a hansom. There would be just time to smoke a -cigarette comfortably during the drive. -</p> - -<p> -Hansoms darted everywhere in the pale -evening—a man and a friend, a man and a girl, a -man going to meet a girl. From Pall Mall the line -of liveries rolled up endlessly, the broughams and -landaus flashing glimpses of coiffures, and jewelled -ears, and flowers. Where a block occurred in the -traffic, a young man, who had paused on the curb, -in a dress-suit that looked rather tight for him, -bowed delightedly to the occupants of a victoria, -and they beamed in response. The encounter was -gratifying on both sides, for the young man had -not often occasion to put on a dress-suit, and his -acquaintances had not long acquired a carriage. -Conrad, who missed the humour of the incident, -was again sensible of loneliness in an atmosphere -where everybody seemed to know someone but -himself. But as he passed a barrow at the corner -of a side street he appreciated the humour of a -costermonger shouting, "Liedy, I can sell you -some o' the finest cherries that was ever brought -into this country!" -</p> - -<p> -When he entered the house the overture was -being played, and as he squeezed towards his -chair a faint hope rose of discerning his Monte -Carlo companions among the audience. He sat -down, between a lady with a moustache and a -youth who was trying to cultivate one, and scanned -the profiles that were visible, but there was none -he recognised. -</p> - -<p> -The attendants were still busy; in his velvet -fauteuil he watched the arrivals almost as eagerly -as the Poor had watched them on the pavement. -What white backs the women had when they -slipped them out of their cloaks! he wondered if -it was safe for them to lean against the seats. -With what geometrical perfection the hair margined -the napes of their slender necks! how did -they do it? -</p> - -<p> -The rising excitement of the overture warned -him that it was about to bang to an end. His -programme had fallen to the floor. He stooped for it -with the idea of looking at the cast before the -lights were lowered. -</p> - -<p> -At this moment the lady in the stall next to him -took out her handkerchief. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER VIII -</h3> - -<p> -As she did so the curtain went up, and showed a -divided scene. On the right, the stage represented -the office of a matrimonial agent; on the left, the -office of an agent who obtained "reliable evidence -for divorce." But Conrad was not attending. -The two careers were followed by the same person -under different names—his introductions in the -first capacity led to business in the second. He -explained this soon after he bustled on, and the -audience laughed. But Conrad did not hear. The -lady still held her handkerchief, a scrap of lawn -and lace that was scented with chypre—and he -had been heaved to Rouen and was seventeen -years old there, by the side of The Woman We -Never Forget. -</p> - -<p> -For in the life of every man, whether he will -own it or not, there is at least one unmentioned -woman whom he never permanently forgets while -he keeps his faculties. She may not be the best, or -the prettiest, or even the nicest woman he has -loved—not her virtues, but his madness, graved -so deep—and he will take the impression out -sometimes when he has lost his figure and his hair, -and when a boy who is storing experiences on his -own account calls him "the governor." No, her -qualities have as little to do with the matter as the -date on her birth certificate. A woman isn't her -age, or herself; she is what she makes us feel—like -art, and nature, like a musical phrase, or a -line of words, like everything of suggestion and -mystery. The woman her husband hates and her -lover adores, is an equally vivid personality to -both men. That to herself she is vividly a third -character makes no difference to the view of either -of them. -</p> - -<p> -To say that on the few occasions Conrad had -smelt chypre during the last twenty years it had -never failed to "remind" him of Mrs. Adaile—to -say this would be to imply that he yielded himself -leisurely to reverie, and it would sound truer -than the truth. But the fact is that there was -nothing voluntary at all in what occurred. It was a -physical swirl that the smell always caused him, -and it left him vibrant for a few seconds with the -very craving, the very sickness of the time when -he had worshipped her. He often thought of her, -even strummed a song she used to sing, but in such -moments as these he was less conscious of thinking -than of feeling. Normally he looked back at her, -with the reflections of a man; when he smelt -chypre he was near her again, with the tremors of -a boy. -</p> - -<p> -Life is less consistent than fiction, even than -tolerably bad fiction. "What perfume do you -use?" wrote Maupassant to a correspondent -whom he had not seen, but who had made him -curious. Her answer—if it hadn't been -"none"—would have meant a thousand times more to -him than it would mean to the man in the crowd, -but it might very easily have misled him too. In -fiction, Conrad was dimly aware, Mrs. Adaile and -chypre would never have been associated; it -wasn't faint enough, fresh enough, it wasn't -matutinal enough for Mrs. Adaile; to one who had -not seen her it could never be evocative. -Yet—perhaps it had been a passing fancy, even an -experiment—in some days that were immortal to -him chypre had been her scent. -</p> - -<p> -The piece became funny by-and-by, and he began -to listen to it, but though the sensations -wakened by the lady's handkerchief subsided, the -memories did no more than doze. Between the -acts, and when he left the theatre, they beset him -with full force. As he strolled to the club, he -surrendered to them. He had recalled Mrs. Adaile -so often, so often re-enacted scenes with her, and -mocked himself that he had not played them -differently, that the episode seemed to him by no -means so remote as it was; it seemed much closer -than many episodes that had happened since. It -was with a shock in the reading-room that he -counted the years. Was it possible? Good -heavens! how time flew. It indicates the fervour -of his mood to say that when he made this -reflection it had to him a sense of novelty. -</p> - -<p> -Then she must be—Again "Good heavens!" That -girl!—for she had been but a girl, although -she was married and he had felt himself a child -beside her. He remembered the afternoon when -she came to the hotel and he told his people that -"the most beautiful woman he had ever seen" -had just arrived. Well, she figured still as one -of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. -But was that twenty years ago? -</p> - -<p> -What a babe he had been! And he used to -believe himself sapient for his age.... Well, -perhaps in some things! How stupid he must have -seemed to her for a boy of seventeen! Yet she -used to confide in him on the terrace. He could -not have seemed so stupid to her after all? ... Innocent. -</p> - -<p> -That night on the terrace—always the terrace, -it appeared!—when she let him hold her hand, -and bent her face to him, saying, "A mosquito has -bitten me on the cheek—look." As if it were -yesterday he could remember how his heart -pounded, and the fatuous words he muttered in -his tight throat. He wished forcefully now that -he had had the courage! What atom of difference -would it make to-day? Yet he did wish that -he had had the courage. O imbecile! ... But -how exquisite it all was; if it could only come over -again! -</p> - -<p> -There were no more than two men besides -himself in the room; one of them was reading, and -the other slept. The silence was absolute until a -page sped in to bawl the name of a member who -wasn't there, and sped forth to bawl for him -somewhere else. The man who had slept said -"damn" very softly, and turned to sleep on the -other side. -</p> - -<p> -Conrad lay back in the deep chair, and let fancy -reign. There were many gaps, but there were -moments that made the calendar unreal. He -remembered intimately things that she had said to -him—oddly enough, more of the things that he -had said to her. He stared at his whisky-and-potash, -and mentally relived the story. And this -is the story he relived:— -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER IX -</h3> - -<p> -The boy came to the French windows paint-smeared -and tired. He had been to Bonsecours, -where the monument of Jeanne D'Arc is now, and -tried to make a study of the landscape from the -Cemetery. On the boat—they had no dream of -electric trams then—the immensity of his failure -had filled him with alarm. A tall, slight woman -was standing in the salon, with her back to him. -She wore a pale coloured travelling coat, and a -hat with a wing in it. As his step sounded on the -terrace she turned, and he forgot the landscape. -He passed awkwardly, and was troubled afterwards -by the thought that he should have bowed. -</p> - -<p> -He said to his mother: "The most beautiful -woman you've ever seen is downstairs; I wonder -if she means to stay." -</p> - -<p> -"She <i>is</i> staying," answered his mother. "She's -Grice Adaile's wife—the man who made that -speech in the House the other day. Well, is -Bonsecours worth going to?" -</p> - -<p> -"Rather!" he said. He was still thinking of -the woman's delicate, wistful face. -</p> - -<p> -He thought of it while he dressed for dinner. -He had thought of nothing latterly but that he -would be studying art in Paris soon, had wished -for nothing but to escape before his parents could -withdraw their consent. All at once he would -have regretted to learn that he was leaving -suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -At table she was opposite him; she sat next to -Miss McGuire. He perceived that they were -friends and was dismayed, for Miss McGuire -considered he had been impertinent to her and no -longer spoke to him. He recognised blankly that -the beautiful woman would be told he was a cub. -</p> - -<p> -If he had done wrong his punishment had -overtaken him: Mrs. Adaile vouchsafed no word to -him for days. Her disapproval humbled him so -much that he used to leave the salon when she -was laughing with his mother and the rest. He -hoped she would observe he was humiliated, and -be stirred with pity; it seemed to him he must -awaken her respect by the course he was adopting. -Incongruously there was an element of -unacknowledged joy in his distress; it was not without its -exultation, to think that Mrs. Adaile was being -heartless to him—to feel that she was making -him suffer. -</p> - -<p> -But it was with thanksgiving he heard that Miss -McGuire had said she wished he would apologise; -she had forbidden him to address her. He -followed her from the dining-room, and begged her -pardon in the hall. She replied: "You're a nice -boy really; I'm so glad you've said you're -sorry." He wanted to tell her that he appreciated -her kindness, but he could only falter, and grip her -hand. It discomfited him to know that he was -blushing. -</p> - -<p> -In the afternoon he was sitting on the terrace, -with a sketching-block on his knees, and -Mrs. Adaile came out through the windows. She -sauntered to and fro. He couldn't lift his eyelids -when she approached, but each time he listened, -tense with the frou-frou of her skirt. All his -consciousness was strung to the question whether she -would stop. -</p> - -<p> -"May I look?" she said. -</p> - -<p> -The sensation was in his chest—he felt as if -his chest had gone. She stood there, amused by -his symptoms, for two or three minutes, and -moved away. He was incredibly excited, boundlessly -happy until he began to think of the better -answers he might have made. Visions of the -evening and the morrow dazzled him; when he -went inside it was not the same hotel to him, they -were not the same rooms. It does not take -a woman six days to create a world for any man. -</p> - -<p> -By the end of the week he talked to her often -and freely. At the end of a fortnight: -</p> - -<p> -"I used to be afraid you'd never say anything -at all to me," he owned. -</p> - -<p> -"I thought you weren't very nice," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"Miss McGuire told you things about me?" -</p> - -<p> -"She told me as soon as you apologised to her, -too. I was pleased you did that, even if you -weren't in the wrong." -</p> - -<p> -"Wouldn't you ever have taken any notice of -me if I hadn't?" -</p> - -<p> -"I did notice you," she smiled. -</p> - -<p> -"Did you? But 'ever spoken to me,' I mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know. We shouldn't have been such -good friends as we are. I've never liked any boy -as I like you, Con." -</p> - -<p> -He ached to tell her how infinitely grateful he -felt, but he could not find a word. They walked -up and down together. Perhaps she understood. -On a sudden he thought how cruel it was that the -end would come when he went to Paris, or when -she went to England. In that moment instinct -taught the lad as remorselessly as experience -teaches man. He <i>knew</i> their friendship was the -merest incident to her, and the hurtfulness of the -knowledge squeezed his throat. -</p> - -<p> -"If we meet again one day, you'll give me a -stiff little bow and pass by," he blurted. -</p> - -<p> -"Con!" she murmured. "Why, I've become -chummier here with you in a little while than I -am with people I've known at home for years." -</p> - -<p> -Still instinct was heavy in the boy. -</p> - -<p> -He always spent the morning out of doors with -his brushes; soon he found himself restless during -the morning, impatient to return to the hotel. -And he did not know he was in love with her. It -did not occur to him as possible he could be in -love with her. He had absolutely no suspicion. -</p> - -<p> -It was still more extraordinary because he had -so often thought he was in love, and gloried in -being so; when we are very young, half the pleasure -of being miserable about a girl consists of -exciting comment, and pretending to be offended by -it. Yet no idea of falling in love with Mrs. Adaile -had crossed his mind. Perhaps it was because she -was married. Perhaps it was because he was for -the first time really in love. -</p> - -<p> -Through most of the stages the boy went -without an inkling of his complaint. One day his -father said to him, "You've caught it very badly, -Con," and laughed a warning. The boy was -startled. He went away bewildered, and asked -himself if it was true. When Mrs. Adaile sat -with him on the terrace that night he was -self-conscious and husky. For once her presence was -scarcely welcome. It rather frightened him, -though he would have died sooner than admit the -shameful word to himself. -</p> - -<p> -Afterwards he did not know how it came to -pass, but she used to confide to him that her -husband wasn't very kind to her. He was in -London, and she sighed when she referred to going -home. Her sighs were very plaintive, and her -self-pity was sincere, but it was nothing to the -pity that overwhelmed the boy. -</p> - -<p> -"People don't guess how unhappy I am," she -said to him one evening. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish I were a woman," he muttered; "I can -never tell you how sorry I am for you, and if I -were a woman I could put my arms round you, -and you'd know." -</p> - -<p> -It was a beautiful thing to say, but he said it -badly, because he felt it too much to make it -effective. No woman should deride a boy's love. It -is ludicrous, but it is ludicrous only because it is -so genuine. He has not learnt yet to trick the -truth out. He does not know yet that before one -could make converts to the very truths of God -they had to be presented with art. -</p> - -<p> -"Have you any idea when you'll go?" she inquired. -He was to travel with a friend, who was -visiting in England. -</p> - -<p> -"I may get a letter any day," he answered. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you in a hurry?" -</p> - -<p> -"No." -</p> - -<p> -"I thought you were?" -</p> - -<p> -He was dumb. -</p> - -<p> -"I've been quite loyal to you—I haven't said -a word of what I think to your people when -they've talked of you." -</p> - -<p> -"I knew you wouldn't. It only needs a word -to make them back out." -</p> - -<p> -"I wouldn't let you go if <i>I</i> were your mother. -Supposing I did spoil it all for you? How you'd -hate me!" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I shouldn't," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Why? Have you changed your mind, -then—don't you want to go after all?" -</p> - -<p> -"I shouldn't hate you, because I couldn't hate -you whatever you did," he explained, haltingly. -"Yes, of course I want to go, but—but I don't -want to go yet." -</p> - -<p> -They sat down, and there was a pause. In the -pause, his consciousness of her presence grew -queerly acute, almost painful. -</p> - -<p> -"What's the scent you've got on?" he asked, -unsteadily. -</p> - -<p> -"Chypre," she said; "do you like it?" -</p> - -<p> -She played with a ring she wore, and showed -it to him. He touched the ring—and in a tumult -of the spirit was holding her hand. They sat -silent again. He knew that he ought to say -something, that she was waiting for him to say -something, that his long silence was ridiculous—and -he could think of nothing to say. He was at once -tremulous with joy and faint with fear—the fear -that she would withdraw her hand before his -effort had wrenched out words. -</p> - -<p> -She withdrew it. He gazed before him blankly. -When he was a man, and recalled that evening, he -wondered whether the atmosphere had seemed so -much a part of his emotions at the time as it did -in looking back. He wondered whether, in his -heartthrobs and his sickness, he had been acutely -conscious of the black shrubs in the moonlight, of -all the soft sounds and odours that stole up on the -air. He thought not. Yet long after her features, -which he tried to vitalise, were hazy to him, -he could still see clearly the position that the two -chairs had occupied, could have sketched the -terrace almost with the accuracy of a plan, and felt -the night air of Rouen in his throat. -</p> - -<p> -Presently she said: -</p> - -<p> -"The head-waiter thinks some people who came -from Italy must have brought the mosquitoes in -their luggage." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh?" said the boy. -</p> - -<p> -"I believe this is a mosquito bite on my cheek," -she added. "Look!" -</p> - -<p> -She turned her cheek, and leant forward. He -leant forward too. Her face had never been so -close to him, his fingers craved its softness—he -only realised that, with courage, he might touch it -with a finger. And the courage was not there. -</p> - -<p> -"My hand is cold," he said, hoarsely. And -afterwards, too, he used to wonder whether he -had been excusing his cowardice to himself, or to her. -</p> - -<p> -And yet it was with no abashment that he -tramped his bedroom later. It was with an exaltation -that panted for vast solitudes. The whirl of -the unexpected was in his being. The marvel of -her hand, the marvel that she had let him hold her -hand, uplifted him beyond belief. And through all -the turbulence of his pulses and his mind there was -not a carnal thought, not an instant's base imagining. -He adored her without desire, without reflection, -without asking what he adored. -</p> - -<p> -When he was alone with her once more during -some minutes he tried, trembling, to examine the -ring again. -</p> - -<p> -"No," she said gently; "it's wrong." -</p> - -<p> -And in the next few days nothing happened, one -day was like another. -</p> - -<p> -Then the date of his departure was settled. He -looked for her as soon as he read the news, sought -her dismayed because he was to go, and twice -unhappy because on his last evening she would be -out. She was shopping, and he met her at the -corner of la Rue Thiers, where the horlogerie is. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going," he said; "and my chum can't -stay here!" -</p> - -<p> -"Is it fixed?" Her eyes were startled. He -had never known her eyes were quite so blue. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, he's travelling at night, and won't break -the journey. I'm to be at the station." -</p> - -<p> -At six in the morning he was to be at the -station—the next morning but one. The train reaches -Rouen at an earlier hour now, but the service was -a tidal one twenty years ago. When she had -scanned the letter neither of them spoke for—it -seemed a long time to him. They had crossed the -road into the Solférino Garden, and he stood beside -her with his hands thrust in his jacket pockets, -staring at the little lake. -</p> - -<p> -"So we shall soon be saying 'good-bye,'" she -said at last. -</p> - -<p> -He nodded miserably. "To-morrow evening -about nine o'clock," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Why so early?" -</p> - -<p> -"Have you forgotten you're going to a dance -with Miss McGuire to-morrow night? <i>I</i> didn't -forget; I thought of it directly I saw the date. -What time shall you begin to dress?" -</p> - -<p> -"You don't know me very well, Con, after all," -she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -His heart leapt; he pretended not to understand -what she meant. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't I?" he asked; "why not?" -</p> - -<p> -"How could you think I'd go out on your last -night here?" she answered. -</p> - -<p> -"You won't go? ... Oh, Mrs. Adaile!" -</p> - -<p> -And as they moved away under the horse-chestnut -blossom, it was less dreadful to him that -he was going to leave her. -</p> - -<p> -Why did she do it? It could not have been to -test her power over him; it could not have been -to wound him wantonly. Who shall say why she -did it! A woman is often unable to define her -motive to herself. Two men came into the hotel -after dinner—acquaintances both—and she became -engrossed by them, and sent up little peals of -laughter, and seemed to like their admiration, -which was presumptuously barefaced. He sat -tongue-tied in a corner, unwittingly providing equal -entertainment for other women in the room. -Though she knew he was suffering, she threw no -glance to him. And that evening the boy entered -on another stage—the stage of jealousy. -</p> - -<p> -The fires of jealousy are always horrible, and -there is none they ravage more fiercely than the -lad whose torture the world finds comic. There -is none, because no man, nor woman, nor young -girl in such a pass, is so totally defenceless as a -lad; to none other than a lad, when his love is -outraged, does nature forbid even the resource of -simulated dignity. His torments are intensified -by the knowledge of his ineptitude. Always -present is the thought that he ought to adopt an -attitude which he is too raw to discover, and he is -prostrated in perceiving that beside his glib rival -he looks ridiculous and a lout. -</p> - -<p> -After a clock had struck many times, "She -makes herself too cheap," Mrs. Van Buren said -<i>sotto voce</i>, and Madame de Lavardens assented -by a grimace. The boy overheard, and got up, -and wandered away. A new misery tightened his -throat, and burned behind his eyeballs. She had -been disdained! his world rocked. He was -degraded, vicariously—for her sake, degraded that -his Ideal should afford these people the opportunity -to disparage her. Resentment beat in him; -he longed to vindicate, to lay down his life for -her—and knew himself a cipher, and that the -tempest in his soul would be thought absurd. -Disdained! It was paramount, bitterest. The -humiliation of neglect dwindled; all his pain, all his -consciousness was the hurricane of humiliation -that he felt for <i>her</i>. -</p> - -<p> -"If you weren't so young I should think you -were trying to insult me, Conrad. Please don't -speak to me any more," she said next morning, -when he had made tactless, seventeen-year-old -reproaches to her. -</p> - -<p> -Her voice and gaze were cold, as if he were a -stranger. She rose and left him. The grace of -the slender figure had no mercy in it as he watched. -The sun was streaming, and the birds chirped -loud, and he thought his heart was broken as he -watched. He sat looking the way that she had -gone for long after the terrace was bare. And -heavy hours passed emptily, and he was still -bereft. And it was his last day here. -</p> - -<p> -Half of it was lost when wretchedness waylaid -her at a door. "I'm sorry," he gulped. She bent -her head, and moved by him without speaking. -In the group about the tea-table she was no gentler. -The glare of sunshine mellowed. His father -claimed him, and talked with unusual earnestness -of ambition and of life; his mother wrapt his arm -about her waist, and was pathetic and confident -by turn. In the chatter of the salon he heard that -Mrs. Adaile was going to the dance. From herself -he had still no word or look. The flush in the -sky faded. A relentless star peered forth. And -it was his last day here. -</p> - -<p> -She went. Until the final minutes he could not -feel that she would go, could not believe it until -he saw her in the triumphant cruelty of her ball -gown with the lilies at her dazzling breast—saw -her giddily with the long gloves and the fan in her -hands. -</p> - -<p> -The room was full of animation, of movement. -The boy sat mute, his gaze fastened on her face. -The fiacre grated to the curb. Miss McGuire -asked her if she was ready. "Yes, I'm ready." Colonel -Van Buren put the cape about her shoulders. -She turned carelessly, her hand outstretched: -"Well, I'll say 'good-bye,' Con; you've all my -good wishes." "Good-bye, Mrs. Adaile," he -faltered. His eyes implored her, but her touch was -fleeting. The fiacre rattled—she had gone. -</p> - -<p> -And upon the hotel fell a profound and deathly -silence. He heard nothing. Damp he was, and -blind. -</p> - -<p> -He had seen her for the last time. He kept -saying it. It seemed unreal—an impossible -thing—though the harrowing of it was so actual. His -mind wouldn't seize it, even while the weight of -it was grinding his youth. -</p> - -<p> -For the last time! Outside, he bit hard upon -his nether lip, to check its silly quivering. A -myriad stars glittered over Rouen now; a breeze was -blowing across the river. There was a roll of -wheels approaching. Foolish as he knew the hope -to be, he waited strained till they rolled past. At -the piano Miss Digby-Smith was playing Ascher's -"Alice." His mother joined him, and sat there -with him—and scarcely spoke. She took his -hand. He thought she didn't guess. -</p> - -<p> -"It's late, Con," she said at last. "Hadn't -you better go to bed?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not tired," said the boy. -</p> - -<p> -"You'll come to my room as soon as you're -dressed in the morning?" -</p> - -<p> -"You won't be able to go to sleep again." -</p> - -<p> -"I want you to. Your father's going to the -station with you, do you know?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, he told me ... What time"—the indifference -of his tone!—"what time do you think -Miss McGuire and—er—Mrs. Adaile will be -back?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not for hours yet," she said; "I daresay it -will be three or four o'clock." She looked away -from him. He thought she didn't guess! -</p> - -<p> -Presently the lights were turned out. People -said "good-night," and bade him "good-bye." But -for very shame he would have sat alone in -the salon till it was time for him to start—sat -there just to see the woman pass through the -hall. -</p> - -<p> -In his bed he listened—he lay in the darkness -listening, holding his breath. He wanted to hear -her come home; to hear her would be something. -The wind was rising, and alternately it tricked and -terrorised him; he trembled lest a gust should -drown the faint stir of her return. It was a long, -long while that he had listened. Sleep pressed -upon his eyelids, but he would not yield. Once it -was mastering him, and he twitched to wide -wakefulness in the guilty fear that he had missed -her. -</p> - -<p> -The blustering wind, and the clock of St. Ouen -made the only sounds. -</p> - -<p> -He saw the door opening with the dim notion -that he was being called too soon. For a mere -vague moment, which seemed dishonour to him in -the next, he beheld without realising her. He -raised himself slowly on his elbows, and it thrilled -through him that she was moving to his side. -</p> - -<p> -"I've come to say 'good-bye' to you, Con." -</p> - -<p> -"Mrs. Adaile!" The name was all that he -could whisper. "Oh, Mrs. Adaile!" -</p> - -<p> -"I've been horrid to you. Haven't I?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, no," he said strenuously, "it was I; I -want to beg your pardon. Forgive me! Oh, you -do forgive me, don't you? It's been awful." -</p> - -<p> -Her hands were swift and live; he held them -fast. The ghostliness of daybreak was in the -room. In the pallor she sat at the edge of the -bed, the ball gown wan, and the faded lilies -drooping at her breast. Being so young, he was shy -that his hair was on end and the collar of his -nightshirt crumpled. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sorry," she said; "I've been sorry all -the night." -</p> - -<p> -Her penitence started his tears, and blinking -wouldn't keep them back. He wanted to smear -them away, but he didn't want to let go her hands. -He turned his head. He was ashamed—but less -ashamed than he would have expected—that she -should see him blub. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't!" she said, and he had never heard -that note before. "You'll make me hate myself." -</p> - -<p> -"I love you," he exclaimed, "I love you." -</p> - -<p> -"Sh! You mustn't say that, Con," she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -"I love you, I love you," cried the boy. -</p> - -<p> -"I know," she said, "I know you do." -</p> - -<p> -And, wonderfully, there was nothing wonderful -to his mind that he had owned it to her. At the -instant there was nothing but perfect peace. -</p> - -<p> -"You've made me so happy," he breathed. -</p> - -<p> -Afterwards that sounded to her a little funny, -but as she heard him say it she thought it only -strange and beautiful. Something tenderer than -liking, something graver came into her gaze as she -looked down at him. -</p> - -<p> -"I've not been a nice woman to you, Con," she -said. "One day you'll think so." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall never think so," he vowed, "never. -I deserved you should punish me." -</p> - -<p> -But that wasn't what she had meant. "You -will think so." She nodded. "Only you won't -mind then, because you'll laugh at it all." -</p> - -<p> -"You're cruel," he choked. "Because I'm -not a man you think I can't love you really. No -man could love you better than I do. If I could -only tell you what I feel! I'd die for you, I'd do -anything for you. Oh, Mrs. Adaile, I shall never -see you any more—for God's sake let me kiss -you once!" -</p> - -<p> -Quick as her compassion was, the misgiving of -a boy was quicker—in the dizzy second that he -saw her bending to him he wondered how he ought -to hold her. Then her bosom fell upon his -breathlessness, and he went to Heaven against her lips. -</p> - -<p> -"I must go," she said, freeing herself. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, don't," he begged, "not yet." -</p> - -<p> -"I must; I oughtn't to have come up." -</p> - -<p> -"What shall I do?" he groaned. "Oh, it's -awful to be leaving you!" -</p> - -<p> -"I wish I hadn't made you fond of me," she -sighed. -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't; you couldn't help it. But what -shall I do? My life's no good to me; I shall be -thinking of you, and longing for you when you've -forgotten all about me." -</p> - -<p> -She smoothed the ruffled hair. -</p> - -<p> -"Think of me sometimes when you've got over -it," she said; "think of me when you're going to -do anything that isn't worthy of you now." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall be true to you as long as I live," said -the boy, understanding. "Mrs. Adaile——" -</p> - -<p> -It was odd to her ear that he called her that -a moment after she had been in his arms. -"What?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"When you go down to breakfast, <i>I</i> shall be in -Paris." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"Shall you read the papers by the window this -morning?" -</p> - -<p> -"Do you want me to?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes—I should be able to know where you were." -</p> - -<p> -"I will then." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall be imagining you all the time.... -What shall you do this evening?" -</p> - -<p> -"Reproach myself," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"No, you mustn't; what for? Will you think -of me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes. After dinner I'll go on the terrace, -Con, and I'll sit there alone, wondering what -you're doing, and thinking of—just now. And—well, -perhaps I'll say a little prayer for you. -I <i>must</i> go now. Say 'good-bye' to me." -</p> - -<p> -"I can't," he gasped, "I can't." -</p> - -<p> -"Con, I must." -</p> - -<p> -"Give me something," he stammered; "give -me something you've got on." -</p> - -<p> -She broke off a handful of the flowers they had -crushed, and, stooping, took his strained face -between her palms, and kissed him twice—once on -the lips, and, by impulse, on the brow. Then she -opened the door cautiously. She smiled back at -him, and stole away into the passage. And in the -loneliness she left behind her, the boy lay kissing -her lilies, and sobbing with his great despair. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER X -</h3> - -<p> -Across twenty years a man made an obeisance to -a woman for risking what she had risked that she -might comfort a boy's pain. Conrad got up from -the club chair and crossed over to the bookcase. -He pulled out the Post Office Directory—and -it sprawled open on the top shelf. Would he -find the name under "A?" ... "Grice Ewart -Adaile, M.P., 62 Norfolk Street, Park Lane." And -she? Was she alive? could she be there, so -close to him as that? -</p> - -<p> -He mourned to think how different she must -be to-day. The woman had changed, and the boy -had changed, and though he didn't know it, the -town had changed the most. The ubiquitous rush -and whir of electric trams, the ceaseless clangour -of their bells beating through the brain, had turned -peace into a pandemonium. Rouen had acquired -all the noise of New York without any of its -gaiety. Telegraph wires and telephone wires -spanned the tops of the churches, and a mesh-work -of iron ropes obscured the sky. -</p> - -<p> -He strolled to Norfolk Street the next afternoon. -There was a half hope in his mind of finding -a carriage at the door waiting to take the lady -for her drive. If Mrs. Adaile came out—Oh, if -Mrs. Adaile came out he would be well repaid; it -would be exciting to recognise her, although she -wouldn't recognise him! -</p> - -<p> -But she did not come out. The door was shut -fast, and no familiar face happened to gaze -pensively over the window boxes. He was -disappointed. In the evening he went to another -theatre. The hero of the comedy was supposed -to be a man of his own age, and talked about -himself as if he were a centenarian. He said he was -thirty-seven and had "lived his life," and he called -the heroine "Child." His hair was silvered at the -temples, and he depressed Conrad exceedingly. -</p> - -<p> -The situation of Norfolk Street was so convenient, -however, that Conrad took to passing through -it rather often. And though he was old enough to -know better, he certainly looked young enough to -be the hero's son. One day he found the windows -of No. 62 blank behind shutters. So the family -had left town! He sauntered on, and hesitated, -and went back. Here was an opportunity to -ascertain what he wanted to know. He rang the -bell, and asked a solemn functionary when -Mrs. Adaile was expected home. -</p> - -<p> -"I can't say, sir," said the man; "Mrs. Adaile -is on the Continent." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," said Conrad, with a heart-prank. She -did live! He vacillated—and obeyed a -second impulse; "Can you give me Mrs. Adaile's -address?" -</p> - -<p> -The solemn person noted the pearl in the -stranger's tie, the silk lining of the coat he -unbuttoned, and the direction in which his hand was -travelling. Mrs. Adaile was in Ostend. "Thenk -you, sir." He named the hotel, and Conrad -proceeded to Piccadilly enamoured of temptation. -How tired he was of London! In any case he -would go away; why shouldn't he go to Ostend? -He had never been there—and he might sit next -to her at dinner. It would be an absurdity of -course, but—— -</p> - -<p> -The hero of thirty-seven with hair silvered at -the temples, admonished him from every hoarding -and he took a hansom to avoid his sedate -contemporary's reproof. Entering the club, he -walked through an avenue of decorators' ladders; -the smoking-room was full of paint and pails. -What could be more absurd than to remain in town? -</p> - -<p> -He winced as it occurred to him that Adaile -might have been married twice. Supposing the -"Mrs. Adaile" in Ostend proved to be a stranger, -an unfamiliar person profaning a hallowed name? -How complete a fool he would feel when he -arrived! But he would not dwell on that -contingency. "Far fetched," he said. Even a fate that -showered disappointments as freely as if they were -confetti must draw the line somewhere. -</p> - -<p> -He was among the tourists, and the luggage-thieves -at Charing Cross by ten o'clock next morning. -When he reached Ostend it was a fine afternoon, -and the town was baking. By comparison -London had been pleasant, so a multitude of -Londoners had flocked to Ostend. With trepidation -he beheld the hotel that sheltered her—what if -he were unable to obtain a room in it? But -no—so far, so good. Fate was, perhaps, napping in -the heat—a room was to be had. He washed his -face in No. 17 victoriously, and overlooked the -scarlet geraniums, and the Faience fountain, -glistening in a grass plot, and the red-striped -sun-umbrellas that sprouted through the little tables. -Nobody was visible among the basket chairs. A -starling's twittering in a lilac bush, was the only -voice. The number of his room chimed with -his mood—a happy coincidence. To the manager's -mind, at least, he was "seventeen" again. -Again he stood in an hotel bedroom preparing -to join her downstairs! Had she changed <i>very</i> much? -</p> - -<p> -Presently he wandered into the salon, and -lounged round the reading-room. Everywhere it -was unpromisingly quiet. A hint of siesta -pervaded the hotel. Should he go out? He sauntered -through the hall, but the dazzle of the Plage -blistering in the glare made his eyes ache. He -went back to the shade, and ruffled newspapers, -and smoked cigarettes. A child came into the -scorching courtyard that was called a "garden," -and hopped round on one leg, and said to another -child, "Can you do that?" The starling twittered -imperturbably. Who said Ostend was gay? -</p> - -<p> -Benighted male! the women weren't asleep, -they were all changing their frocks again. When -he woke he had missed one of the sights of the -day—the "creations" that vie with another -between five o'clock and seven. A gong was -booming. Only the first gong. Good! There was time -for him to dress before the room began to fill. He -sought the head-waiter, and inquired if a place -facing the door could be arranged. The -headwaiter had house property, and two sons at -college, but he was the urbanest of head-waiters. A -novice tips the servants when he leaves an hotel, -and, if he is a generous novice, pays for attention -which he hasn't received; a traveller of experience -tips them when he arrives, and gets the liver -wing and a seat by the window. -</p> - -<p> -The second gong was still reverberating when -No. 17 descended to dinner. The urbanest of -head-waiters hovered on the threshold. For -scrutinising the company Conrad had scarcely time to -glance at the menu. The doorway was as -dazzling as the Plage had been: a cinematograph of -toilettes, a succession of audacities—only clusters -of diamonds seemed to keep some of the bodices -up. Man formed a shifting background to an -exhibition of jewels, a pageant of skirts and -breasts. Still more gowns. The humming room -was the apotheosis of Clothes—until the women -sat down, and then it was the apotheosis of Bosom. -</p> - -<p> -She came in late. She wore white satin, -embroidered in silver, and a "collar" of emeralds. -He recognised her at once. There was no hesitation -in his mind—he had expected to hesitate—he -knew her the instant she appeared. She had -altered certainly—even pathetically; the girl of -twenty years ago was lost; but in the flash of the -moment the difference in her face startled him less -than the difference in her figure. A shade too -stout. Yes, a shade too stout for his taste! -And—and <i>had</i> her hair been copper colour in Rouen? -</p> - -<p> -But a pretty woman, nobody could deny it. She -didn't look a day more than thirty-five—might -pass for thirty now the rose glow of the lamps was -on her! ... Well—almost! -</p> - -<p> -Her table was well in view. She was with -another woman—perhaps younger, a brunette, -vivacious—and an elderly man with projecting -teeth, and eyes like a fish. Adaile? How -grotesque he must have looked making love! He had -a nose as long as the one in Blake's portrait of -the man who built the Pyramids. And he used to -be unkind to her!—one could read that he was -a cold-blooded, unappreciative stick.... Now -he was talking to her. On second thoughts, -perhaps he wasn't her husband—he displayed the -projecting teeth to her in so many smiles. The -other woman's husband then! Quite a good chap -in his way, no doubt. He was doing them very -well in the matter of wine. -</p> - -<p> -Would there be a chance to speak to her -to-night? Abominably hard lines if he had to wait -till to-morrow, but he wanted to find her -alone—in the garden, for preference, in the moonlight.... -No—no—thirty-five; but no more, not -an hour. How beautiful she <i>used to be</i>! She -didn't know she was sitting in the room with a -man she had kissed. Rather an amusing reflection -that! ... Scores of men in the room, though; -perhaps she did. How sick he would have felt -to think so once! Where was the splendid -jealousy he ought to feel this evening? -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses<br /> - On the old banks of the Nile!'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -He made his coffee last till the party got up, -and then followed them to the salon. The salon -did not keep them—they drifted to the hall. -They disappeared. The hall was a bevy of women -who had been upstairs to put on hats, and were -desiring to be taken to the Kursaal. "Poppa" -was in constant demand. Conrad observed that -all the family men seemed inclined to loll where -they were, and that all the unaccompanied men -made sprightly departures. In the concert-room -he found her again, but he didn't find his -opportunity. To be sure, he had hardly expected one -there. Still he felt rather hipped the last thing -at night as he sat among a crowd, and the popping -of champagne corks, in a buffet where the casks -were utilised as seats, and the ladies' toilettes were -as gorgeous—and as modest—as the ladies' -toilettes in the hotel. -</p> - -<p> -In the morning he met her coming back from the -sands with an enormous sunshade, in the "early -bath" costume; and he met her later wearing a -picture hat in the "after bath" costume: also he -saw her in the costume she put on when <i>déjeuner</i> -was over—and still she was unapproachable. If -she proved too elusive, he'd be tempted to swim -after her next day and try his luck in the water. -But could he be sentimental with his hair dripping? -And even in Ostend it wouldn't be—Oh, in the -wrong key altogether! -</p> - -<p> -She was scribbling on a picture postcard at one -of the little writing tables, and there was nobody -else there. -</p> - -<p> -"May I remind Mrs. Adaile that I have had -the happiness of being presented to her?" -</p> - -<p> -She turned her head, and there was approval -in the lady's gaze. There was, however, not a -scintilla of recognition in it. -</p> - -<p> -"My name is Warrener," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes," she murmured; "I'm so short-sighted——how -d'ye do?" But he saw that -she was twenty years away from knowing who he -was. -</p> - -<p> -"This is tremendously nice of you," he -exclaimed; "I was afraid you wouldn't remember me." -</p> - -<p> -"How absurd!" she said perfunctorily. "Why -shouldn't I? We met at——?" -</p> - -<p> -"But so long ago. I <i>was</i> afraid, really. I've -been warning myself that you couldn't be expected -to remember—and yet I knew I should be so -pained if you forgot." -</p> - -<p> -She made a little amiable movement of her -hands. He understood it to signify that his doubts -had done injustice to them both. Inwardly he -laughed. -</p> - -<p> -"Is your husband in Ostend, Mrs. Adaile?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," she said, "no, he's in the Tyrol—Innsbruck. -I'm here with my sister and my -brother-in-law. You know them, don't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I've never had the pleasure. They -weren't with you there." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, no," she said, "no, they weren't.... -Ostend is very dull this year, don't you think?" -</p> - -<p> -"I've found it very exciting; I saw you yesterday -at dinner, and I've been trying to meet your -eyes ever since." -</p> - -<p> -"Really?" said the lady. She allowed him to -meet them, and looked away, her expression -vacillating between a pucker and a smile. -</p> - -<p> -"My courage wasn't equal to risking a snub -from you publicly, and you were never alone. -You balked me last night, you escaped me this -morning, and you drove me to desperation this -afternoon. I ought to have known you wouldn't -forget, but I always had misgivings, hadn't I?" -</p> - -<p> -"Had you?" she said. The pucker was getting -the upper hand. She played with the postcard. -</p> - -<p> -"Confess!" said Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"I remember you perfectly," she insisted with -transparent hypocrisy, "but just for the moment -I'm fogged where it was we met." -</p> - -<p> -"Will it help me if I mention Normandy?" -</p> - -<p> -"Normandy?" she echoed vaguely. -</p> - -<p> -"Rouen—the Hôtel Britannique—a boy who -was called 'Con.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Con?" she cried. And the smile had things -all its own way with her; for an instant the spirit -of his youth flashed so close that he nearly -captured it. "You are 'Con?'" -</p> - -<p> -"Still," he affirmed earnestly. "And you are -still—Mrs. Adaile." -</p> - -<p> -"You are Con," she repeated, wondering, "that -boy! And did you remember me directly you saw -me last night?" -</p> - -<p> -"No—I've remembered you all the time." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," she laughed reproval, "what a long -while ago that makes it seem!—the boy never -told me pretty falsehoods." -</p> - -<p> -"The boy never told you half the truth; he -was a very backward boy." -</p> - -<p> -"If we are to be friends you mustn't run -him down, Mr. Warrener," she said; "I was -very fond of Con.... 'Rouen!' Have you -ever been there since?" -</p> - -<p> -"No; I was abroad for years—out of Europe, -I mean." -</p> - -<p> -"You were going to be an artist?" -</p> - -<p> -"I hoped to be." -</p> - -<p> -"Aren't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No; I haven't the artist's temperament—I'm -too constant." -</p> - -<p> -She regarded the postcard on the table again, -and he did justice to her eyelashes. -</p> - -<p> -"Ostend is going down dreadfully, isn't it?" -she remarked. "All the ridiculous people who -have just got titles have brought them here. -We're leaving on Thursday." -</p> - -<p> -He sighed. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be foolish," she said, not too flippantly. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," said Conrad now, "what a long while -ago that makes it seem!—the boy was not told he -was foolish." -</p> - -<p> -"No one could be so unkind to him—and he -wasn't." -</p> - -<p> -"You'll make me jealous of that boy before -you've done. Don't you believe you could?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know what you mean," she declared. -</p> - -<p> -"You used to take <i>him</i> seriously." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, we were capital friends." -</p> - -<p> -"Did he deserve your friendship more than I?" -</p> - -<p> -"You're absurd," she smiled. Her eyes were -as blue as they had been in the Solférino Garden. -He looked into them, wishing he could feel the -despair that had been his that radiant morning. -</p> - -<p> -"Is a wretched boy you only knew for a few -weeks to be privileged above a man who has -thought of you for years?" Within an ace he -had said "for twenty years," but the blunder was -nipped in time. -</p> - -<p> -"You mean 'hours,'" she said. "We dined -last night at eight o'clock—it's just four -now." -</p> - -<p> -"You don't believe me—you think I'm making -the most of a happy accident? What if I -gave you a conclusive, an overwhelming proof?" -</p> - -<p> -"A proof of what?" -</p> - -<p> -"Of what? That I am constancy itself! Supposing -I told you that my only reason for coming -here was to see you again. What would you say -to that?" -</p> - -<p> -"I hope I should answer quite politely," she -murmured. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, you didn't doubt me once!" he exclaimed -with grave reproach. -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't tell such tarra-diddles once," she -urged. -</p> - -<p> -"I came here simply and solely to see you. -Look at me. Will you give me your hand?—I -want to repeat it solemnly." She glanced at the -door, and yielded him her hand. It was very -soft and agreeable to hold; he continued with no -undue haste: "Now, holding your hand, and with -my eyes meeting yours, I say that I came here to -see you—for no one, and nothing else—that -I had no idea of coming to the place till I knew -you were here. That isn't all!" he detained her -hand gently. "For an age I have been trying to -see you. I knew none of your friends—it was -awfully difficult for me. Could I call upon you -and begin 'Once upon a time?' Should I write -to you? You might read my note in the wrong -mood. Oh, I tell you I racked my brains! That -isn't all!"—her hand had been retreating again. -"The day before yesterday as I passed your -house—No. 62; you have window boxes, the flowers -are calceolarias and marguerites this season—the -day before yesterday as I passed, I saw the shutters -were closed. I rang the bell. I deceived -your servant, I led him to imagine you—you -would be glad to welcome me. I wormed your -address from him and threw myself onto the boat -rejoicing. That isn't all——" -</p> - -<p> -She drew the hand free, nevertheless, and -realising that it wasn't coming back to him yet, he -concluded, "But it is enough to show you that -you've been cruel." -</p> - -<p> -At this moment they were interrupted, and she -said, "Oh, let me—Mr. Warrener, my sister, -Lady Bletchworth." -</p> - -<p> -"How d' ye do," said Lady Bletchworth. "Ostend -is very dull this year, don't you think?" -</p> - -<p> -"I've just said that," Mrs. Adaile told her. -</p> - -<p> -"It doesn't matter," said Lady Bletchworth. -"It's a very good opening remark, and I make it -to everybody." -</p> - -<p> -"Won't you put me up to the correct answer?" -asked Conrad; "I've only just come, and I should -like to catch the tone." -</p> - -<p> -"Most of them say, 'Oh, my <i>dear</i>!'" she replied; -"but our latest novelty is, '<i>South</i>end! -What?'" -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Warrener's people and I used to be very -chummy ages ago," said Mrs. Adaile. "I am -afraid to inquire, Mr. Warrener?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," he said, "I—I am alone." -</p> - -<p> -"He was quite nice in those days," she added -to her sister. -</p> - -<p> -"What has spoilt you, Mr. Warrener?" -</p> - -<p> -"I find my world so sceptical, Lady Bletchworth." -</p> - -<p> -"Not here," she said; "they can even believe -Ostend is smart. Can you do a sum? If 'it -takes three generations to make a gentleman,' how -many shops does it take to make a knight?" -</p> - -<p> -"One: England," said Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't believe he's spoilt after all, Joan," -said Lady Bletchworth. "There's hope for him -yet." -</p> - -<p> -"It's much too early to say <i>that</i>," murmured -Mrs. Adaile. But the glance she cast at him was -not discouraging. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XI -</h3> - -<p> -The rest of the afternoon promised nothing, so -Conrad bought "Le Marquis de Priola" to kill -time. It passed away so peacefully that he was -surprised when he found it was dead. -</p> - -<p> -After dinner he saw the two women on a -lounge, and they moved their skirts for him, and -commented on the visitors. There was the Earl -of Armoury, wearing a stud as big as a brooch, and -a Malmaison the size of a saucer. He made -grimaces like Arthur Roberts, and when he sang -"Pip, pip! the Lodger and the Twins," Society -found him as funny as Harry Randall. As -everybody knows, the Duke of Merstham married -Flossie Coburg from the music halls; the heir had -inherited his mother's gift. "The best of it," -said Lady Bletchworth, "is that his mother -herself has become too prim for words since she has -been respectable. She asks bishops to dinner, and -does her hair in plain bands. Heredity is her -cross! Oh," she went on, "you'll meet all the -world and his wife—Ostend-sibly. A man -brought his wife to the hotel last week, and when -he went upstairs to bed she wasn't there. After -he had searched high and low for her he went -to the bureau, and asked the clerk if he could tell -him where she was. The clerk hadn't an idea, -but said that a married lady came to him a little -while ago in a fix—she didn't know the number -of her room, and she had forgotten the name of -her husband. Please don't smile, I was terribly -shocked myself." -</p> - -<p> -Conrad didn't say that the story was not original, -and had been told about town six months -before. -</p> - -<p> -Then Lord Bletchworth drifted to them, and -was tedious. Lord Bletchworth twaddled -ponderously. He considered there was a lot of -disgraceful bosh being printed about the Service, and -the Country at large, in the papers just now. My -dear sir, an Englishman who had the interests -of England at heart would hold his tongue while -she slid down hill, and silently watch her bump to -the bottom. That wasn't how he put it, but it -was the gist of what he said. He added that the -battle of Waterloo had been won on the playing -fields of Eton, and he seemed as satisfied with -Waterloo as if it were situated in the Transvaal. -</p> - -<p> -However, he had his uses—he walked with his -wife when they went to the Kursaal, and left -Conrad with Mrs. Adaile. -</p> - -<p> -"How quiet you've become," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"I am asking myself what to say to you." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you find me so hard to talk to?" -</p> - -<p> -"I find you so hard to convince." -</p> - -<p> -"Why try to convince me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why did I come to Ostend?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, that was a pretty tale," she said. "It -wasn't true, really, was it?" -</p> - -<p> -"You know it was true. I've looked forward -to meeting you again for years. I can't tell you -how fond I was of you. You're the only woman -I've ever cared for." -</p> - -<p> -"You were a child." -</p> - -<p> -"And now I'm a man—doesn't that show, -doesn't it prove? Is it nothing to think of a -woman so long as I've thought of you? What -other man could say to you what <i>I</i> can say?" -</p> - -<p> -"But you <i>mustn't</i> say it," she smiled—it -cannot be written that she "forbade." -</p> - -<p> -"Is your life so full," he asked, "that you have -no room for my love?" -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Warrener, but really——" -</p> - -<p> -"You hurt me," he said. "What have I done -since we parted, to become 'Mr. Warrener' to you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Are we going to sit on the terrace," said -Lord Bletchworth, looking back, "or are we going -inside? Mr. Warrener, you play, perhaps?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Conrad, "I haven't played here. -I don't care much about it anyhow." -</p> - -<p> -"Let's sit down outside," said Lady Bletchworth. -"It's so hot in there." -</p> - -<p> -On the terrace it was very agreeable. The -orchestra did not sound too insistent, and they -found chairs where they could watch the people -promenade without being inconvenienced by them. -Extremes meet, and Ostend is their meeting-place. -Only a light railing divides the fashionable world, -and the half world from the world that works. On -one side plod a humble flock of wearied trippers, -who have had tea "As nice as mother makes it," -in a sweltering shop at the back of the town. -Among the shell pin-cushions, the franc souvenirs, -they have had tea. All the evening they pass and -repass with flagging feet, wishing they had chosen -Margate. On the other side, women who were -born in the same class trail Paquin's gowns. On -the necks of some there are flowers that have cost -as much as a tripper's holiday; a diamond in an -ear is worth more than the price of a tripper's -home. And Maggie from Dalston, with three -tired children clinging to her ten-and-sixpenny -skirt, gazes across that slender rail, and thinks. -And her thoughts might be unpleasant to hear. -</p> - -<p> -A really extraordinary thing was that no one -but Conrad seemed aware that the railing bisected -two worlds and a half. As for Conrad his -reflections engrossed him so much that he quite forgot -to attend to Mrs. Adaile. Only when he chanced -to notice she was looking pensive in the starlight -did it occur to him that he was ignoring a situation -by which he ought to be thrilled. -</p> - -<p> -For here they were. The stars were twinkling, -the waves were murmuring, the lady was waiting. -It was true her sister and Bletchworth were in -the way, but even allowing for their presence this -should mean emotion. Where was it? On the -terrace while he made small talk, and on the -Plage when they strolled back, and as he smoked -his last cigar that night in the garden, the question -in Conrad's mind was insistently "Where is the -emotion?" -</p> - -<p> -Because she was still an attractive woman, and -he perceived it. He was even making love to -her—to <i>her</i>, to Mrs. Adaile!—and she was not -adamant. What had happened to him? Where -were his transports, the spiritual whirlwinds, -where was everything that he had travelled to -recover? -</p> - -<p> -She had a whim to do fancy work in the salon -next day during the hour when the women changed -their déjeuner dresses for the five-o'clock-to-seven -costumes. He had met her as she was passing -his door—their rooms were in the same -passage—and they had gone downstairs together. -</p> - -<p> -"You've told me nothing of your life since -we used to know each other," he said, playing -with a thimble. -</p> - -<p> -"What would you like me to tell you?" -</p> - -<p> -"You used to tell me a good deal—if I am -privileged to remember it." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm afraid I did. How I must have bored -you! It was rather a shame. But I was in my -egotistical stage, and you listened with such big -eyes—Con." -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you," said Conrad. "But I wasn't -bored. And you weren't an egotist—you were -the sweetest woman I've ever met. I was awfully -sorry for you—so sorry! Only a cub's -sympathy, but you've had none truer from anyone." -</p> - -<p> -"You were a nice boy—I've thought about -you sometimes. Are the scissors there? Do -look." -</p> - -<p> -"If a woman knows when she is really loved, -you should have thought about me very often," -he answered, giving them to her. "Are you -happier than you were?" -</p> - -<p> -"Let us say I don't worry so much about being -unhappy. I suppose it amounts to the same -thing." She sighed—and smiled. "Would you do this -leaf green, or yellow?" -</p> - -<p> -"I shouldn't do it at all," he said. "Put it -down and talk to me. I remember once when you -were telling me your troubles, you cried. It was -one afternoon on the terrace; you had on a pale -blue frock, and a big floppy hat. I'd have given -my life to kiss you at that moment." -</p> - -<p> -"You mustn't say these things to me," she -faltered. She said it more gravely than on the -Plage; she was not smiling now, and she lowered -her eyes—he knew that he might seize her hands. -</p> - -<p> -"I've waited for you so long," he exclaimed. -"Joan, be kind to me!" -</p> - -<p> -But his heart did not thud in her silence. He -held her hands fast; the doyley she was making -had fallen to the couch. -</p> - -<p> -At last she murmured, still looking down, -"How can you care for me? We've only just met." -</p> - -<p> -"I've cared for you ever since. If you knew -how I worshipped you—if you knew what I -suffered when you were vexed with me! That night -you sat talking to those men, and the next -morning when you were offended—I remember what -I felt as if it were a month ago. I remember -what you said as you turned away, and how I sat -watching, praying that you'd come back. And -then I waited at the door, and begged your -pardon, and you wouldn't forgive me. I've relived -it all so often. I did love you, darling, I did, -I did! ... It sounds idiotic: there was a song of -yours, 'To-day, to-day our dream is over—To-day -the waking cold and grey'; I learnt to strum -the refrain there to—to make me feel nearer to -you when I had gone. Since I've been a man I've -strummed that refrain a hundred times, and longed -for you—I was strumming it years after you had -forgotten you ever sang it. I've thought about -you sometimes till my boyhood has been alive in -me, trembling. If Faust's chance could have come -to me in any year since we parted, I'd have said -'Let me be seventeen again in Rouen.'" -</p> - -<p> -"The past is always beautiful. I made you -very wretched, though." -</p> - -<p> -"But you liked me a little. Heaven knows -why I—I was a fool. Still you did." -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps it was because you were a 'fool' that -I was foolish. That's all over." She drew her -hands from his clasp. -</p> - -<p> -"It isn't over," he said. "You sha'n't say it's -over. The present may be as beautiful as the past." -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head; "Can we work miracles? -Can I make myself a girl again, or you a boy?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, if you've not forgotten what you felt -for me. If the memories are not all mine, you -can even do that. You see I'm a fool still; -I—I half hoped that you'd remember.... Joan, -'you were not once so wise!'" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" she said. "If I were younger now—or -if you had been older then—who knows?" -</p> - -<p> -"Could you sing that song still?" he asked. -"Listen." He opened the piano, and played a -few bars. "Can you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" She forced a laugh. "It was too long -ago. And what a song besides!" -</p> - -<p> -"Try," he pleaded. "Try it!" -</p> - -<p> -"I can't remember the words," she murmured -</p> - -<p> -"The words?— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'You tell me, Love, that I'll forget you—<br /> - I own it, in our last "good-bye,"'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -I'd be so grateful. Please!" -</p> - -<p> -"How does it go on?" -</p> - -<p> -"It goes on— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'Our dream has been too sweet to let you<br /> - Remember that I spoke a lie.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Oh yes," she said, coming forward. She -hummed. "Let me see!— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'I know the years will crowd above you,<br /> - I know despair must fade away;<br /> - But here and now I know I love you,<br /> - I love you—and we part—to-day.'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Is that it?" -</p> - -<p> -"That's it; and then there's what I was -playing— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'To-day, to-day our dream is over,<br /> - To-day the waking, cold and grey.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -She nodded; "Yes, yes— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'What care I Time will—'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -something, what is it?— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'The throes that rend my heart to-day?'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Well, I'll try, but I'm sure I sha'n't be able to. -I haven't heard it for years." -</p> - -<p> -Then she sat down, and began it; and he shut -his eyes and tried to think he was seventeen and -she was twenty. -</p> - -<p> -The music stopped short. "I knew it would be -a failure! It's gone. It was too long ago," she -repeated. -</p> - -<p> -"It was yesterday!" he cried, and caught her -in his arms as she got up. -</p> - -<p> -For a second she held him back from her, -regarding him curiously. Regret, tenderness, irony -were mingled in the gaze she bent on him. Like -him she mourned for what had perished; like him -she sought to delude herself that it bloomed anew.... -"It's absurd," she said, and drooped to him -with a kiss. -</p> - -<p> -As they moved apart, both were disappointed. -The man thought, "I have spoilt my memory of -her kiss to me in Rouen." -</p> - -<p> -"I adore you," he said mechanically. -</p> - -<p> -The woman's smile was enigmatic as she left him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap12"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XII -</h3> - -<p> -"Are you heartless?" he continued; "have you -no pity for me?" -</p> - -<p> -It was the next evening. They were sitting -among the basket chairs and the dinner dresses in -the garden, and there was no one inconveniently -near. Lady Bletchworth had gone inside a few -minutes before. A warm breeze bore strains of -Chopin to them from the <i>Kursaal</i>; the little -fountain plashed languidly, and a full moon had been -assisting Conrad to deceive himself. -</p> - -<p> -"I am not heartless," returned Mrs. Adaile, -"I am sensible. And—there are a thousand -reasons." -</p> - -<p> -"For one thing?" -</p> - -<p> -"For one thing.... I don't want romance—I -want comedy. I want to laugh with you, my -dear Con, not to be serious." -</p> - -<p> -This was difficult to answer, for he could not -offer to laugh at his grand passion. He sighed. -</p> - -<p> -"Besides," she went on, "I couldn't make you -happy. It isn't in my power—you don't really -care for me. You are in love with a memory, not -with me. I'm no longer the woman you fell in -love with. I've changed. Really I didn't know -how much I had changed till you came here, I -must like you very much to want to talk to -you—because you make me feel elderly, you do -indeed." -</p> - -<p> -"You're unjust," he exclaimed—and he was -genuinely distressed. "Not care for you? You -don't believe it, you can't believe that. I swear to -you——" -</p> - -<p> -"No, don't," she said. "I can imagine all you -would say. Haven't I listened to you? Haven't -I even ... tried to make illusions for myself? -You talk of what you felt for me, not of what you -feel. You don't know it, but you rave to me about -what I was, not about what I am. You remember -the hat and the frock I had on twenty years -ago—can you tell me what I wore last night?" -</p> - -<p> -"Is such constancy nothing?" he cried hastily. -</p> - -<p> -"It would be irresistible," she said, "if you -could find the girl that you've been constant to. -But she doesn't live, Con—she's gone. <i>I</i> am -such a different person from the girl you've -looked for that—that I've even felt a tiny bit -jealous sometimes of your rhapsodies to me about -her. Well? I'm being quite frank with you, you -see. It's pathetic, I think. There have been -moments when I've listened to you and felt a little -pained because you seemed to forget all about me.... -I am hurting you?" -</p> - -<p> -"You hurt me," said Conrad, "because for the -first time I realise you <i>are</i> different from the girl -I've looked for. Till now I've felt that I was -with her again." -</p> - -<p> -"That's nice of you, but it isn't true. Oh, I -like you for saying it, of course.... If you had -felt it really——" -</p> - -<p> -"Go on." -</p> - -<p> -"No, what for? I should only make you -unhappier." -</p> - -<p> -"You want comedy?" he demurred; "you -have said the saddest things a woman ever said -to me!" -</p> - -<p> -She raised a white shoulder—with a laugh; -"I never get what I want!" -</p> - -<p> -"It should have taught you to feel for me, but -you are not 'wondrous kind.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I am more to be pitied than you are! -What have I got in my life? Friends? Yes—to -play bridge with. My husband? He delivers -speeches on local option, and climbs mountains. -Both make me deadly tired. I used to go in for -music—'God save the King' is the only tune he -knows when he hears it, and he only knows that -because the men take their hats off. I was -interested in my house at the beginning—after you've -quarrelled in your house every day for years it -doesn't absorb you to make the mantelpiece look -pretty. I wanted a child—well, my sister has -seven! ... Voilà my autobiography up to date." -</p> - -<p> -"There is to-morrow," said Conrad, moved. -</p> - -<p> -"To-morrow you must give me the comedy," -she smiled; "and the morning after, I go to the -Highlands—and big men will shoot little birds, -and think it's 'sport.' Did you ever see a -sparrow die? I watched one once. It was human. -Like a child! ... Come on, come on, let's go out!" -</p> - -<p> -And behold another woman! She had been wise, -and dejected him; now she was unwise, to make -amends. Behold a myriad women in one. Before -half an hour had passed she had told him her -philosophy was a puff ball, that she had prated reason -only to be reasoned with. And she told him so -without a word about it—said so by the modulation -of her voice while they talked trifles. -</p> - -<p> -And Conrad? Conrad had been scrambling to -the point of friendship, and he slipped back to -folly. Conrad strove to forget that discomfiting -phrase, "You are in love with a memory, not with -me." It made the folly so difficult. -</p> - -<p> -He could not succeed in forgetting it. It was in -his mind next day, coldly a fact. Yes, he was -making love to Mrs. Adaile because she was -Mrs. Adaile, not because she was a charming -woman. He knew that if they hadn't met -before he came to Ostend, he might have admired -her, tried to know her, grown to like her, but that -he would never have said to her what he had said. -Nor wished to say it. -</p> - -<p> -Yet there was the regnant truth that it was she. -She had the fascination of sharing with him his -dearest, his sweetest remembrances; the radiance -of the past still tinged her—in her keeping lay -the wonder of his youth. -</p> - -<p> -So they ate Neapolitan ices in the morning, -and she brought down the doyley in the afternoon, -and they listened to Chopin again in the -evening. -</p> - -<p> -It was the last evening. The Bletchworths and -she were leaving early on the morrow, and he was -unlikely to be alone with her again before she -went. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish you weren't going," he said. "How -horribly I shall miss you! I sha'n't stop here. -Why aren't you going to Homburg, instead of to -people in Scotland? Then we might have met -again." -</p> - -<p> -"Are you going to Homburg to be 'cured'?" -</p> - -<p> -"I think I shall go there. Or to Antwerp. -Yes, I shall go to Antwerp first. I was there when -I was a boy. I was happy in Antwerp." -</p> - -<p> -"How funny you are," she said involuntarily. -</p> - -<p> -"I've never found anyone much entertained by -me. How?" -</p> - -<p> -"You'll go to Antwerp, of all places in the -world, because you liked it when you were a boy! -Antwerp will disappoint you—too." -</p> - -<p> -"You could always stab deep with a monosyllable," -he said, "but you used to have more mercy." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sorry I have deteriorated," said the lady -rather stiffly. -</p> - -<p> -She leant back in her chair, and a minute passed -in silence. She gave her attention to the orchestra, -tapping time with the tip of a shoe. -</p> - -<p> -"Does it amuse you to say cruel things to me?" -asked Conrad. "If it does, by all means say what -you like." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't understand you." She drooped -disdainful eyelids. -</p> - -<p> -"What you said was unworthy of you. You -know it was." -</p> - -<p> -"I really forget what I did say. Please talk -about something else. What is it they are -playing?" -</p> - -<p> -They were playing <i>Cavalleria</i> now, so he -scorned to reply to this otherwise than by a look. -</p> - -<p> -"I asked you a question," she said in tones of ice. -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon," he answered hastily. -"They are playing <i>Cavalleria Rusticana</i>. An -opera. Written by a young Italian. His name is -Mascagni." -</p> - -<p> -"You are rude!" she exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -"I am human, Joan. You hurt me!" -</p> - -<p> -Then her sister and Bletchworth reappeared. -"Perhaps you know a good hotel?" Conrad was -saying. -</p> - -<p> -"An hotel where?" inquired Lady Bletchworth. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Warrener is going to Homburg; I tell -him everybody says it's deadly dull there this -year," murmured Mrs. Adaile. -</p> - -<p> -It was deadly dull in Ostend, too, during the -next hour. Both women were rather quiet, and -Bletchworth was exceptionally wearisome. But -for the fact that it was the farewell evening -Conrad would have seen friends among the company -and gone to greet them. -</p> - -<p> -However, at last the orchestra finished, and -they all got up. A leisurely crowd was flocking to -the exit, and—perhaps it was the crowd, perhaps -it was Lady Bletchworth—Conrad and -Mrs. Adaile were separated from the others for -satisfactory seconds. -</p> - -<p> -"Won't you forgive me?" he whispered. -</p> - -<p> -Even a crowd has merits—her hand rested on -his arm an instant. -</p> - -<p> -"It must be fate," he said; "I always offend -you just when we're going to part. Do you -remember?" -</p> - -<p> -She nodded. "I remember." Her glance was -very pretty in the moonshine. -</p> - -<p> -"This won't be our last talk together?" he -begged. "What are you going to do when we go -in?" -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose we shall sit in the garden." -</p> - -<p> -"But—everybody?" -</p> - -<p> -"I expect so.... Don't let's keep behind! -Walk with Lily." She addressed her -brother-in-law, and Conrad sauntered beside Lady -Bletchworth. -</p> - -<p> -The windows of the Villa this, and the Villa -that, were thrown wide behind the mass of blooms. -In the crimson dusk of lamp-shades there was the -glint of a white gown, the glow of a cigarette point -among cushions, a bubble of laughter. Every -minute a dim interior flashed to brightness—someone -returned and switched on the light, a woman -took off her hat before the mirror. Through one -window came the jingle of money on a card table; -through another shouts—Paulette Fleury was -singing to friends one of the songs that she had -not sung at the Empire in London. To the left, -the track of moonlight on the sea kept pace with -Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -It was more agreeable in the garden than on -the terrace at the onset. Already it had an air of -intimacy, the artificial enclosure, with its tesselated -paving, and its affectation of rusticity; already he -was on good terms with it. Curiously enough, -such hotel gardens, misnamed as they are, have a -knack of making a visitor feel at home, of endearing -themselves to him, more quickly than acres of -lawns and elms. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Bletchworth wanted a brandy-and-soda, -and Conrad had one, too; Mrs. Adaile and -Bletchworth drank champagne. Presently they -referred to the shooting-box, to the people they -expected to see there. Almost for the first time -Conrad was blankly sensible of inhabiting a -different sphere; he hoped they wouldn't ask him -if he knew any of the people they were mentioning. -He got very near to his youth in that moment; -there was a revival of his boyhood's dumb -constraint.... How odd it was! they were all -sitting together like this, and after to-night he was -never likely to meet her. Front doors between -them. 'Gina, of course, might be useful; but how -stupid of him not to have got into the right set in -town when he came back from the Colony! He -supposed it wouldn't have been difficult, with the -money. Londoners boasted that everything the -world yielded was to be bought in London, and -it was true—even to dignities and reputations. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I am forced to admit that I don't know -what women go to the moors for," said Bletchworth. -"You don't take the sport seriously, and -therefore you are out of place. What do you say, -Mr. Warrener?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I can hardly say anything," owned -Conrad; "I <i>don't</i> go to the moors." -</p> - -<p> -"But if you did, you wouldn't prefer a grouse -to a woman, I'm sure?" asked Lady Bletchworth. -</p> - -<p> -"A man does not go to the moors to talk to -women," insisted her husband. "That is my -point. Women always want to flirt just as the -birds are rising. Women are very desirable at a -dance, but when it comes to birds, or it comes to -cricket, when it comes to anything important, I -say, reluctantly, they can't be serious. That is my -point—you don't take the thing seriously. Now, -at the Eton and Harrow, were you earnest about -it; had you got the matter at heart? No, no; -all you wanted to do was to walk about, and to -have lunch." -</p> - -<p> -"A lot of boys playing ball!" she said. "And -then they take up all the lawn besides. So selfish -of them!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" said Bletchworth warningly, "that is -the tone that is going to do the harm, that is the -tone we have to guard against. What has made -us what we are? What has given England the -place she holds? I protest, I protest absolutely -against irresponsible—er—comment. The foreign -ideas that are creeping into papers that have -always had my—er—approval will sap the -country's manhood if we don't make a stand. -Joan—I am sure Joan agrees with me?" -</p> - -<p> -She was leaning back absently, trifling with a -porte-bonheur on her wrist; the blue fire of the -diamonds was ablaze. It caught Conrad's glance; -from her wrist his gaze travelled to her eyes. -They told him, "I'm so bored." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, indeed," she assented, "you're quite -right." It would have been evident to anyone -but Bletchworth that she had not heard what he -said. -</p> - -<p> -There were fewer people in the garden by this -time. In the knowledge that the evening was -nearly over, a wave of sentiment stirred Conrad. -Even her message of comprehension did nothing -to subdue his annoyance. What likelihood -remained of a tête-à-tête? The evening from first -to last had been wasted in stupidities. -</p> - -<p> -Presently another group went inside, presently -there was no one left but themselves. Finally -Lady Bletchworth yawned. He wished fervently -that she had yawned an hour ago. -</p> - -<p> -"I think it's time we all went to bed," she -said. "You've laid down the law quite enough, -Charlie. Shall we see you in the morning, -Mr. Warrener?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes," he said, "of course. What time is -the boat?" -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know—ten something, isn't it? -Well, I'll say 'good night.' I wish we were -staying on, really I do—I shall have a racking -headache to-morrow evening. Are you ready, Joan?" -</p> - -<p> -"Quite," said Mrs. Adaile; "<i>I</i> have a headache now." -</p> - -<p> -He was hopeless until she let him see her slip -the porte-bonheur into her chair before she rose. -</p> - -<p> -"Good night, Mr. Warrener." -</p> - -<p> -"Good night, Mrs. Adaile," he said. -</p> - -<p> -When he was alone he sat down again, and -waited for her return; her manoeuvre might fail, -someone return with her—the bracelet must be -lying where she had "dropped" it. -</p> - -<p> -More than five minutes crept by before a step -sounded. He turned eagerly, and with dismay -beheld Lord Armoury approaching. The intruder -gaped at the view, and stood hesitating, with his -hands in his pockets. It was an instant of the -keenest suspense. Would he withdraw? No, he -lounged forward. He threw himself into the very -chair, and stretched his legs across another. -</p> - -<p> -Conrad muttered an anathema on him. -</p> - -<p> -"Eh?" said Lord Armoury. -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't speak," said Conrad frigidly. -</p> - -<p> -The young man took out a cigarette, and opened -his match-box. It was empty. -</p> - -<p> -"Got a light?" he inquired. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm sorry I haven't," said Conrad, momentarily -encouraged. -</p> - -<p> -"Rotten show!" said the Earl; "where's a -waiter?" He contemplated his cigarette with a -semi-intoxicated frown, and transferred his feet to -the table. It was apparent that he meant to stop -although he could not smoke. With his change of -position he was liable to come in contact with the -bracelet, and Conrad watched him nervously, but -he did not seem to be discommoded by it. -</p> - -<p> -"Seen Paulette?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"No." The "no" of a man who is not to be -drawn into conversation. -</p> - -<p> -"Pauly's a bit of <i>all</i> right," affirmed the Earl, -undeterred. "I don't pretend to be up to all the -patter, but—wot <i>ho</i>!" -</p> - -<p> -Speechlessly Conrad hoped the lady wouldn't -come back yet. -</p> - -<p> -"Three hundred a week she refused for a -return engagement at the Empire—told me so -herself to-night. That's Pauly! Got the hump. -What's three hundred to Pauly? I told 'em how -she'd catch on before she went over. Don't I -know?" He winked profoundly. "Look here, -you'll see an artist in October at the Syndicate -halls, that's—wot <i>ho</i>! She's going to knock -'em. Between ourselves she's got some new -'business,' that—well, it's great! Never been tried. -I saw her when she was doing the last turn at the -South London. I said to George, 'Cocky, that's -a winner!' Robey couldn't see it. <i>I</i> saw it; I -can put my finger on the talent every time. She's -going to make Marie sit up, my boy—she's -another Marie Lloyd. Don't I <i>know</i>? I've got the -judgment. I can spot 'em with one peeper! ... Isn't -there a waiter in this damned hotel? I could -do with a tiddley. Where's a bell?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's no use ringing," said Conrad, "nobody -ever comes. It wants someone to go in and stir -them up." -</p> - -<p> -But now Mrs. Adaile reappeared. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" she murmured. And then, "I've -dropped a bracelet somewhere; I came down to -look for it. Good evening, Lord Armoury." -</p> - -<p> -"A bracelet?" echoed Conrad with concern. -</p> - -<p> -"Good evening, Mrs. Adaile—a bracelet? -Crumbs!" said Armoury. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, isn't it a nuisance! I don't know how I -could have lost it—I suppose the clasp was loose. -I had it on out here." -</p> - -<p> -"Let me help you," said Conrad. In an -undertone he added, "Don't find it yet. Let's -look further off. Oh my dearest, it was so -sweet of you! I'm in such a rage, I'm so -wretched." -</p> - -<p> -"Where were you sitting, Mrs. Adaile?" asked -Armoury, peering about. -</p> - -<p> -"Over here, over there, I don't know," she said -hurriedly.... "Is it still in the chair?" she -whispered. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," whispered Conrad. "Are you sorry -you're going from me?" -</p> - -<p> -"A little." -</p> - -<p> -"To leave you like this," he sighed, "it's -awful. Joan——" -</p> - -<p> -"Well?" -</p> - -<p> -"Let me come to your room to say 'good-bye.'" -</p> - -<p> -She started. -</p> - -<p> -"Hallo! Have you got it?" exclaimed Armoury. -</p> - -<p> -"No," she said, "I—I thought I had." -</p> - -<p> -"Joan?" -</p> - -<p> -"I daren't," she faltered. "My maid——" -</p> - -<p> -"Come and say 'good-bye' to <i>me</i>, then. Do!" -</p> - -<p> -"Find it!" she said agitatedly—"he'll guess." -</p> - -<p> -"What's that?" cried Conrad. "Here it is—why, -in one of our chairs! May I—?" He -fastened the bracelet on her wrist. "Make me -happy. Come to me," he begged. "Will you? -Number seventeen." -</p> - -<p> -Her fingers touched his hand. -</p> - -<p> -"I'm so immensely grateful to you both," she -said serenely. -</p> - -<p> -"Lucky for her we were here!" the intruder -remarked when she had gone. "One of the -servants might have pinched it by the morning." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I suppose it was as well we were here," -said Conrad amiably. "If it hadn't been for you, -I should have turned in before this." He dropped -back into his seat, resigning himself to tedium a -little longer. -</p> - -<p> -He lolled there discreetly, making civil -responses—and gradually he realised that Flossie -Coburg's son was not wholly to be blamed for the -tedium; he recognised that there was a dulness of -his own spirit. While he countenanced the -garrulity of a fool, his thoughts were with scenes of -twenty years before, and sadly the man strove to -revive in his heart the idolatry and illusions of the -boy. Oh, for the enchantment of the summer -when he had called her "Mrs. Adaile!" ... If -he could only keep remembering it was the same -woman! But never had she seemed so different -to him as in these minutes—never had he desired -so little as now when she had promised all. -</p> - -<p> -The ground floor of the hotel was partially -dark when he crossed it; a purposeless waiter -hovered in obscurity. Upstairs, along the passage, -the tan and black rows of boots, shapely on -boot-trees, indicated that most of the visitors had -retired. A drowsy lady's-maid put forth an -expectant face, and withdrew it wearily. Conrad -felt about the wall for the electric button, which -seemed always in a different spot, and found it. -Then he closed his door as completely as was -possible without turning the knob. -</p> - -<p> -As he put down his watch he saw that it was -late, but he knew that it was not yet late enough, -and his movements were leisurely. He wanted a -cigarette—the more because he had deprived -himself of one outside by saying that he had no -match, but he was reluctant to give the odour of -tobacco to the room. A superfluous grace, -perhaps, now that most women smoked? Still he was -reluctant. He threw down his cigarette-case, too, -and the rest of the things that had been in his -pockets.... -</p> - -<p> -He looked at himself ruminatingly in the -mirror, and brushed his moustache. -</p> - -<p> -One of the lights hung above the pillow—it -was convenient to read by. Presently it occurred -to him that nearly two acts of "Le Marquis de -Priola" remained to divert him. He put forth -his arm for it, and, stretching, reached it. He -turned the leaves.... <i>Une dame viendra de deux -à trois</i>. Ah yes, this was as far as he had read. -</p> - -<p> -The effort to give his attention to the play grew -gradually less. Mournfulness faded, and in the -next scene his interest was alert. Once he laughed. -His thoughts were no longer with the boy who had -lain wakeful through a night just to hear her -footstep in the hall. -</p> - -<p> -The wind was rising, and intermittently it -tricked and irritated him. The blustering wind, -and the chiming of a clock made the only sounds. -</p> - -<p> -Again the clock rang out. This time he counted -the strokes with annoyance. He yawned. His -interest was wandering from the play now. It -began to seem to him that Priola talked too much. -What was keeping her—had she repented her -promise? He tossed the book aside, and lay -watching the door. -</p> - -<p> -After he had watched it for nearly half-an-hour -it was gently opened, and swiftly closed, and -Mrs. Adaile stood on the threshold. She paused there -diffidently, with downcast eyes. She wore a long -clinging robe of crêpe de chine, veiled partly by a -stole of Venetian point. The sleeves of the deep -toned lace, dividing at the shoulders, drooped from -her like wings. One daring touch of colour, the -flame of nasturtium, at her breast threw into -dazzling relief the gleaming whiteness of her skin, the -burnished gold of her hair. She paused, awaiting -doubtless the words of welcome, of encouragement, -that would vanquish her timidity. But Conrad -slept. A respiration too loud to be thought -rapture, and too faint to be called a snore, smote -the lady's hearing. Startled, she looked up; -forked lightning flashed at him from her indignant -eyes. But, tranquil, Conrad slept. -</p> - -<p> -What an offence! Wasn't it enough to enrage -the sweetest of women? Put yourself—I mean -it was unpardonable! -</p> - -<p> -For a second she seemed about to escape even -more surreptitiously than she had entered; and -then a smile, half sad, half whimsical, twitched her -lips. A sense of humour—how much it spares -us, how far it goes in life! A little pathetic that -often a sense of humour wins affection, and the -noble qualities get nothing but a dull respect. She -looked at a pencil-case on the table, and stood -tempted, her fingers at her mouth. Dared she do -it! She would not have roused him for a coronet—and -the creak of a board, even the scratching -of the lead, might be fatal. She wavered. She -moved towards the pencil slowly, stealthily, inch -by inch. -</p> - -<p> -The table was gained. There was nothing to -write on. A paper-covered volume lay to her -hand; with infinite precaution she tore the -title-page. Tremulously she scribbled, holding her -breath. Where to leave the message, where to put -it so that it couldn't be overlooked? Again she -hesitated. Conrad slept sound, a glance assured -her of it. Again she ventured. An instant her -gaze dwelt upon him, still with that smile half -mirthful and half melancholy on her face. She -nodded, wide-eyed—and on the tips of her toes -crept out unheard, unseen. -</p> - -<p> -When Conrad woke, a servant was admitting -the sunshine through the window; his coffee -steamed by his side. As he sat up—and almost -before memory thudded in him—his view met -the front page of "Le Marquis de Priola" pinned -to the bed-curtain. He rolled towards it -haggardly. On it was written:— -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Dreamer</i>! Good-bye. There is no way back to Rouen." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap13"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XIII -</h3> - -<p> -"I must say I was very happy on the stage," -sighed the Countess of Darlington, lifting the -teapot. -</p> - -<p> -The Earl of Armoury's mother threw up her -eyes. A shapeless, waddling woman, the duchess, -with a sanctimonious voice. There were elderly -gentlemen who, remembering Flossie's agility with -a tambourine at the old Pavilion, felt reformation -to be a sad affair when they looked at her. -</p> - -<p> -"Not 'happy,'" she said piously, "dazzled—only -dazzled, dear Lady Darlington. Ladies like -you and I can't be happy on the stage. It goes -against the grain with you and I." -</p> - -<p> -Lady Darlington pouted. She was provokingly -pretty when she pouted. She had pouted at -Darlington on the day he met her. -</p> - -<p> -"But I <i>was</i> happy," she declared. -</p> - -<p> -"You weren't satisfied in your heart; I'm sure -you always felt there was better work to be -done?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, but I hoped to get leading parts in -time." -</p> - -<p> -"I mean purer work," explained the duchess, -wincing, "social, helpful work." -</p> - -<p> -Lady Darlington laughed. She was prettier -still when she laughed. She had laughed at -Darlington on the day he proposed. -</p> - -<p> -"No, really not," she said frankly, "I never -thought about it for a moment. Do you know, -Duchess, I've always wanted to ask you—didn't -you ache to go back to it after you married?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh never," exclaimed the duchess; "I was -grateful to Providence for letting me get away -from it all. Circumstances made me go into the -business, but I was never a pro—I mean to say -a 'professional'—by nature. My father, the -captain, died when I was quite a child, and I had -my dear mother to support." -</p> - -<p> -"M'yes," murmured Lady Darlington, looking -at the ceiling. "You were before my time, but -of course I've heard.... Perhaps if I had been -in the music-halls <i>I</i> should have been glad to get -away from it all," she added; "I was in the -theatres, you know." -</p> - -<p> -"The 'smalls,' I think—I mean to say the -'minor provincial towns?'" said the duchess a -shade tartly; "one of Jenkinson's Number -II. companies, wasn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Lots of people considered it was better than -the Number I.," returned Lady Darlington with -pride, "and the <i>Rotherham Advertiser</i> said a -voice of such diapason as mine wasn't often heard -in musical comedy." -</p> - -<p> -"Such what as yours?" -</p> - -<p> -"Diapason. Won't you have some muffin?" -</p> - -<p> -"They always serve me out so," said the -duchess, "but I <i>will</i> have just a mossel." She -regarded her hostess anxiously; "I hope you -aren't going to be mad?" she said. -</p> - -<p> -"I am mad," admitted Rosalind—her name -was Rosalind—"mad with the longing for auld -lang syne. If I weren't crazy I shouldn't own -it, because you can't enter into my feelings a bit, -but you're the only woman I meet who ought to -be able to understand them. Long? Sometimes -for a treat I tell the servants I'm not at home to -anyone, and I shut myself up and long the tears -into my eyes!" -</p> - -<p> -"You cry for the stage? Oh, but, my dear -Lady Darlington, you mustn't give way, you must -be firm with yourself. Think, just think, what an -example you'd be setting if you took to it again! -In our position we have the Country to consider. -The middle classes say 'What's good enough for -the Aristocracy must be good enough for us.' We -have to consider our influence on those in a -humbler sphere." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm not going to take to it again," said -Rosalind. "How can I? Besides, I don't want so -much to act—I've no ambition except to be -jolly—it's the life I ache for. I'm dull, dull, -dull! I want to be among the people I remember. -My heart turns back to Dixie. I wouldn't say -'thank you' to be with actors and actresses in -London, in the West-End; they're only imitations -of the Lords and Ladies that bore me. I -want to be on the road with a Number II. crowd—yes, -and a Number III. crowd for preference. -I want to arrive in a hole-and-corner town on a -Sunday night, and have supper in lodgings, and -see stout in a jug again, and call the landlady -'Ma.' Oh, how soul-stirring it would be to call -a landlady 'Ma!'" -</p> - -<p> -"Lodgings? Look at your drawing-room, with -Louis Cans furniture!" said the duchess -admonishingly. "You can't be serious?" -</p> - -<p> -"Serious? I'm pathetic! Of course I should -find I had been spoilt for it—the pleasure -wouldn't last; the stout would taste sour soon, -and I should find the landlady impudent, and the -lodgings dirty; I daresay I should wish -myself back in St. James' Square before I had -been away a month. But I don't want to give -up St. James' Square—I only want a week-end -sometimes as a tonic. That's all I want, just -week-ends. If I could be Rosalind Heath again -from Saturday to Monday sometimes, I'd be -Lady Darlington all the rest of the year cheerfully -enough." -</p> - -<p> -This was the moment when her Idea was born. -As the idea had consequences, it is noteworthy -that this was the moment. If she could be -Rosalind Heath again from Saturday to Monday! -She had never debated the possibility; but why -not—why not even for a week? She couldn't -call herself "Rosalind Heath" again, because -everybody in Theatre Land knew that Rosalind -Heath had married the Earl of Darlington, but -who among a lowly band of players would know -her face? She had not been a star. All she -needed for the freak was a confidante. What had -become of Tattie Lascelles? -</p> - -<p> -Lady Darlington blushed with self-reproach. -That she should have to question what had -become of Tattie! She sat, after the duchess had -departed, remembering days when she and Tattie -had been bosom friends. They had shared hopes -and lodgings; they had told each other their -peccadilloes, and even their salaries. And now -she didn't know where Tattie was? Could -St. James' Square have made her heartless? How -had their correspondence died? ... Ah yes, in -Tattie's last letter ages ago she had asked for the -sum of five pounds "just for a fortnight." But -how monstrous of Tattie to feel constrained -because she hadn't sent it back! Who had -expected it? -</p> - -<p> -On the seventeenth day of December, when -Darlington, looking a ridiculous object, had -boomed away in a new car, of which he was -inordinately proud, Rosalind stole guiltily into a -news-agent's. She would not meet her lord again -for a month. Her beautiful eyes sparkled, and -her cheeks were flushed. She tendered two -pennies to a vulgar man, smoking a clay pipe -behind the counter, and asked for the <i>Stage</i>. To the -happily constituted there can seem nothing -calculated to kindle the emotions in the act of buying -a twopenny paper in a squalid shop, but Rosalind -had a temperament, and temperaments play queer -tricks. (See Conrad's.) The tender grace of a -day that was dead hallowed the damp copy of a -journal in which she had formerly advertised that -she was "Resting;" the touch of vanished hands -sent little thrills to her heart as her gaze embraced -familiar names. -</p> - -<p> -She went back to the drawing-room fire, and -read them diligently. Dusk and a footman crept -in before she discovered Miss Tattie Lascelles, -but that artist's announcement leapt to her with -the electric light. Miss Tattie Lascelles informed -the kingdom that she was specially engaged to -create the part of "Delicia Potts" in the maritime -musical farce entitled <i>Little Miss Kiss-And-Tell</i>, -on Blithepoint Pier. The date chosen for -this perfectly unimportant production was -Monday, December 22nd. Then Rosalind, who was -to go to the Marrables in Leicestershire for -Christmas, wrote Lady Marrable a note of grieved -excuse, and scribbled a letter to Tattie, which began, -"Take two bedrooms in Blithepoint, and don't -breathe a word to a soul till you see me." -</p> - -<p> -And though the happily constituted may be -sceptical again, she felt more joyous than she had -done for five illustrious years. -</p> - -<p> -Blithepoint is about thirty-three miles by rail -from Sweetbay. It is a grey, bleak place, with the -plainest female population in England. On three -hundred days of the year the wind is due east, but -on the other sixty-five it is southeast, and then the -residents go about saying what "lovely weather -they're having." Blithepoint is much larger than -Sweetbay, and more fashionable. It is also nearly -as dull. Nobody is aware how much can be spent -on being deadly dull until he has stayed in a -Blithepoint hotel. Rosalind was a shade uneasy in the -thought that someone among the visitors might -recognise her; she knew that at Christmas eccentric -Londoners occasionally went down there, and -wished afterwards they had been economical and -gone to Egypt. But she didn't falter. -</p> - -<p> -She ran away on Sunday the 21st. She had put -on her simplest costume, and her portmanteau told -no tales. To make-believe to the fullest extent, -she travelled in a third-class compartment. -Already she was greatly excited. As the train -crawled out of Victoria she could have clapped -her hands. -</p> - -<p> -When she arrived it was eight o'clock, and a -bitter evening. The scramble for luggage kept -her shivering on the platform for ten minutes, and -then a fly bumped her through the shuttered town. -It was the hour of local dissipation; on one side -of the favourite thoroughfare the blades of -Blithepoint paraded jauntily, crying "Pip, pip" to -stolid-faced young women on the other, who took -no notice of them. Lady Darlington, reckless for -sensations, envied these "roysterers" who could -feel devilish gay so innocently. -</p> - -<p> -The cab shaved a corner, and rattled into -a neighbourhood of obscure apartment-houses. -Her mutinous heart warmed with sentiment, and -she forgot how cold her pretty feet were. The -cab stopped. She saw the blind of the ground-floor -window dragged aside; an impetuous figure -appeared, and vanished. The street-door was -pulled wide, and a girl with a cloud of hair, and -a string of barbaric beads dangling to the waist, -flew down the steps and hugged her. -</p> - -<p> -"You trump! You've really come!" -</p> - -<p> -"You duck! How jolly to see you!" -</p> - -<p> -"'Ere, two bob, missie," said the flyman, -"when you've done canoodling." -</p> - -<p> -They ran into the parlour, and laughed at each -other in the gaslight. -</p> - -<p> -"Take your things off," said Tattie: "let me -help you. I hope you'll like the diggings. I -wrote to the swellest address I could hear of, when -I got your letter." -</p> - -<p> -"But you shouldn't have. What for?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, for you." -</p> - -<p> -"I wanted everything just as it used to be. -That was it." -</p> - -<p> -"How funny! But I don't suppose these will -strike you as very swagger after what you've got -at home." -</p> - -<p> -"They don't." -</p> - -<p> -"Won't they be good enough?" -</p> - -<p> -"They're heavenly. Oh, Tattie, how good it -is to be back! Did anybody bring in my trunk? -'In the Shade of the Palm,' and a Vocal Folio -on the piano! And professional photographs on -the shelf! Oh, let me see the photographs! -'To Mrs. Cheney from Miss Bijou -Chamberlain—wishing you a Merry Christmas.' Who is -she?" -</p> - -<p> -"She was here last week—a Variety artist. -She seems to have been comfortable, as she gave -the landlady her photograph. Are you ready for -supper?" -</p> - -<p> -"Stout?" -</p> - -<p> -"Of course." -</p> - -<p> -"In a jug?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I thought after what you had come -from I had better order Guinness." -</p> - -<p> -For a moment Rosalind looked downcast. -"Ah well, never mind," she said; "we'll have -it in a jug to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -They drew their chairs to the ham-and-beef, -and the landlady brought in the Guinness. -</p> - -<p> -"Good evening, Ma," said Rosalind, with -youth in her bosom. -</p> - -<p> -"Good evening, my dear," said Mrs. Cheney. -"You'll be glad of your supper, I daresay, after -your journey?" She put comestibles on the table -in three paper bags. "I was meaning to tell you, -Miss Lascelles, that if you'd like a bit of -something hot in the evening when you come back from -the show, you can have it. I'm not one to fuss -about hotting something up. Sundays we let the -fire out, but in the week you can have it and -welcome." -</p> - -<p> -"Good business!" said Miss Lascelles. "In -some places you 'get it hot' if you ask for it." -</p> - -<p> -"By rights some places shouldn't take -professionals," returned Mrs. Cheney. "I've 'eard -many tales. Miss Chamberlain—her on the -mantelpiece—was telling me that where she was -in Brighton they wouldn't allow her to have her -uncle in to see her. Such a quiet, ladylike gal, -too!" -</p> - -<p> -"Can such things be?" cried Rosalind. "Is a -poor girl to be cut off from her own flesh and -blood because she's in diggings?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, I don't wonder at your asking!" said -Mrs. Cheney. "Not, mind you," she added, "but -what letting lodgings over a number of years -makes one a bit suspicious of uncles. I've known -a gentleman brought to these very rooms after -the show on three different Monday evenings as -the uncle of three different young ladies. And -dreadful taken aback he was when he see me each -time!" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm afraid those were flighty girls," said -Rosalind severely. -</p> - -<p> -"Untruthful they was," said Mrs. Cheney, -"and so I told 'em. I say nothing about visitors, -I'm not that evil-minded. So long as the lady -pays a bit extra for the gas, and the gentleman -don't slam the door when he goes, I like to think -well of everyone. But I 'ate lies." -</p> - -<p> -She drew the cork, and retired; and Rosalind -said, "Well, what about the show, Tat? What -sort of part have you got?" -</p> - -<p> -"The part's rather good," said Miss Lascelles. -</p> - -<p> -"Hurrah! What screw?" -</p> - -<p> -"Rotten—thirty-five shillings. I had to take -what I could get; I've been 'out' a long time. -They're paying awful salaries in this crowd; the -chorus only get about fifteen bob, I believe—they're -half of them novices." -</p> - -<p> -"I say! Whose crowd is it?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's a Syndicate; nobody ever heard of it -before. And the Tenor has such a cold he could -hardly speak at the dress-rehearsal last -night—goodness knows how he's going to sing to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"Who is your principal woman?" -</p> - -<p> -"She has backed out; they've put somebody -else into the part at the last minute. And the -scenery has still to come down—it's a bit of a -muddle all round. I wish I could have got into a -better thing, but I was so hard up—you ought -to have seen where I was lodging! I tried to -get 'shopped' last month as an Extra. That -speaks!" -</p> - -<p> -"An Extra? No? Tat! why didn't you write -to me?" exclaimed Rosalind reproachfully. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, I don't know. I heard the 'great' Miss -Hayward wanted thirty Extra-ladies to go on in -the ball scene. It was twenty-five bob a -week—she wanted picked women—it would just have -done me. Lil Rayburn lent me her little squirrel -coat and a black velvet hat. I tell you I looked a -treat when I went down! There were three hundred -and forty girls waiting; we were sent across -the stage thirty at the time. The great Hayward -sat in the stalls, with her pince-nez up. 'You!' -she said, pointing; 'the one in the squirrel coat!' So -I went to her. 'I think you'll do,' she drawled; -'you know what the money is?' 'Twenty-five, -Miss Hayward,' I said, 'isn't it?' 'No, a -guinea,' she said, 'it doesn't matter to -<i>you</i>.' 'Thank you,' I said, 'I've got to keep myself -out of <i>my</i> salary—<i>I</i> haven't got a man, and a -flat!' Potter, the agent, was in an awful stew—'Oh, -you shouldn't have spoken to Miss Hayward -like that!' 'To <i>hell</i>!' I said." -</p> - -<p> -"Cat!" cried Rosalind. "Because you were -well-dressed?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes; and if I had gone shabby, she wouldn't -have noticed me at all.... You know I've been -in the Variety business since you saw me?" -</p> - -<p> -"The music-halls! You haven't?" -</p> - -<p> -"Straight! I was one of the Four Sisters -Tarantelle. Jolly good money—I got five -pounds a week when we worked two shows a -night; I never got less than three ten. I can't get -it on the stage." -</p> - -<p> -"Why did you give them up? But the tips -are very heavy, aren't they?" -</p> - -<p> -"They weren't heavy for <i>me</i>, I didn't tip -anybody except the dresser. Chloe made the -engagements, so Chloe could pay the tips. Trust -this child! What does make you sick in that -business is the comedians, with the red noses and the -umbrellas—they're always after you. There -was a little brute in one show—his wife was in -the bill, too; she did sentimental ballads. Well! how -he could let her travel <i>I</i> don't know. It <i>was</i> -her last week, but she wasn't fit to be working so -long, we almost expected any night—— And -there he was after me all the time! 'I shall write -to you, Tattie—I see you go to Balham, and -Walham Green next week!' 'Who gave you -leave to call me "Tattie?"' I said; 'you low cur, -I wish I was a man, to give you a good hiding!' I -did pity his wife. She never spoke to me—she -used to pass me in the wings with her head turned -away; I suppose she thought I was as bad as <i>he</i> -was. I said to her one evening when she was ill, -'Can I get you anything, Miss——' I forget -what her name was. 'No, I thank you, Miss -Tarantelle,' she said—like that; wouldn't look -at me! I <i>was</i> so sorry for her. Poor little -woman, what a life!" -</p> - -<p> -Rosalind shuddered. After a pause, she said:— -</p> - -<p> -"You're well out of it, dear." -</p> - -<p> -"Except for the money. I expect I'll go back -to it as soon as I can. I had a contract for a -year—they wanted the option of renewing for another -year." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>They</i> were to have the option?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes—all on their side; I didn't think it was -good enough to sign that. So I said I'd like to, -but I was going to be married at the end of the -summer." -</p> - -<p> -"You weren't really?" -</p> - -<p> -"Not much! No marriage for me—not in -the Profession anyhow!—but lots of them think -a contract doesn't bind you any more if you marry. -Lil Rayburn put me up to that dodge. She lent -me her song when the Tarantelles wanted me—it -was a great concession: her big success! Whenever -she doesn't want to sign an option and is -afraid to refuse point-blank, she looks bashful and -says she's going to be married at the end of the -summer. She has been going to be married 'at -the end of the summer' for the last nine years!" They -turned to the fire, and lit cigarettes—Rosalind's; -she had remembered to put a hundred -in her trunk. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'What is the use of loving a girl<br /> - If the girl don't love <i>you</i>?'"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -hummed Tattie. The song was just published. -"They <i>are</i> fine cigarettes! -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'What is the use of loving a girl<br /> - When you know she don't want yer <i>to</i>?'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Of course, you have the best of everything now. -It does seem curious." -</p> - -<p> -"My having the best of everything?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, your wanting the worst. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 'What if she's fair beyond all compare,<br /> - And what if her eyes are blue——'<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Fancy living in your style, and coming to rooms -like these for fun!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, Tattie," said Rosalind, "that's just what -I did come for! I haven't any fun at home." -</p> - -<p> -"But I thought in Society they had no end of -a good time?" -</p> - -<p> -"So they do, in a way, but it's the wrong way -for me—I never rehearsed for it, I'm not easy -in the part; I wasn't meant for high-class comedy. -And I miss you—I've no pal now." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>I</i>'ve missed <i>you</i>, I can tell you! Oh, the -tour after you left, wasn't that damn dull! The -girl I lived with was so 'off'—common. Well, -you can tell <i>I'm</i> a perfect lady—I just said -'damn'—but I usedn't to, did I? Remember? -Good-hearted girl, but she was so horrid at table. -And under that silk blouse—all anyhow! Not -that I like to see a girl with too smart underlinen, -I always think it looks fishy; but hers was—well, -if she had been run over one day when we were -out, I'd have been ashamed to own her!" -</p> - -<p> -"Let's go and look up some of the Company, -shall we?" said Rosalind. "What name had -I better have?" -</p> - -<p> -"What's the matter with 'Heath?' There -are plenty of 'Miss Heaths' about." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, but you're sure to let the 'Rosalind' -slip, and that will give me away. Introduce me as -'Miss Daintree.' Do you know where any of the -women are staying?" -</p> - -<p> -"We'll find them on the pier. We always -make for the pier on Sunday evenings when there's -a concert; it's something to do. I suppose I'm -to say you're in the Profession?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm an actress out of an engagement," assented -Rosalind, throwing her cigarette in the -fender. "Make haste, or we shall be too late!" -</p> - -<p> -The boards of <i>Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell</i> were -big outside the pier. At the turnstile Miss -Lascelles nodded towards them, saying, "In the -Company." The man answered, "All right, Miss; -come in through the gate, then." At the pay-box -of the theatre she showed her card, saying, "Can -you oblige me with a couple of seats?" The -business manager answered, "With pleasure, my -dear." -</p> - -<p> -The gas-stoves glowed redly, and the theatre -was much better warmed than the majority of -theatres in London. They sat down in the third -row of the stalls, and listened to a dispirited -soprano who was supposed to be singing "The -Holy City." She was not really singing "The -Holy City;" from beginning to end she articulated -not a word save "Jerusalem." She simply -kept her mouth ajar and wailed the air; but she -was successful. -</p> - -<p> -There were only about twenty people in the -crimson velvet seats, and most of these were -<i>Kiss-and-Tell</i> people. The others were very young -men, in caps, who bore the sacred music on -Sunday evening for the sake of an advance view of the -girls who were to perform on Monday. The very -young men watched the arrivals with much interest, -and if the ladies in the stalls were unattractive, -it was said in a Blithepoint club on Sunday -night that the piece on the pier to-morrow was no -good. -</p> - -<p> -When the dispirited soprano had finished, the -actresses applauded her warmly, in the hope of -cheering her up; and the sixpenny balcony rattled -its umbrellas, in the hope of getting a song more -than it had paid for. Then one of the actresses -murmured to Miss Lascelles, "How badly she -holds herself, doesn't she?" and Miss Lascelles -presented "Miss Daintree." -</p> - -<p> -Rosalind soon discovered that nobody was -sanguine of <i>Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell</i> being well -received, and—having forgotten something of the -world she was revisiting—it surprised her to note -the light-heartedness of the professionals, who -tottered on the brink of disaster. They were all -pitiably poor, they were likely to fall out of -employment at the worst time of year; but they said -gaily, "Oh well, let's hope for the best! It may -be all right at night. It's no use looking on the -black side of things." And most of them were -totally dependent on their salaries, though that -was not the belief of the very young men who -endured "The Holy City." -</p> - -<p> -Only Miss Jinman, a large, elderly lady who -spoke in a bass voice, was pessimistic. Years ago -she had sung in parts of dignity, and hectored -first-rate touring companies; to-day she was engaged -for an amorous old woman in Turkish trousers, -whom the low comedian was to pelt with insults as -often as she came on the stage. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't think the piece will last a month," she -said to Rosalind, in her lugubrious bass. "It -isn't amusing at all. Vulgar, very vulgar! I may -be too critical; I'm used to such high-class things, -as you know—my notices as 'Buttercup' were -immense—but I call it a 'rotter.' I see a frost, a -killing frost, my dear! I keep my opinion to -myself"—she was disseminating it with gusto—"I -don't want to give the others the hump, but I see -us all out of a shop till the spring comes." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you're always croaking, Miss Jinman," -snapped a black-eyed girl with golden hair. "Give -us a chance, do!" -</p> - -<p> -"A chance?" returned Miss Jinman heavily. -"Chit, you have no chance. It's only kindness to -tell you so." -</p> - -<p> -"Thanks for being so kind!" said the girl. -She had not been long on the stage. Her married -sister kept "Dining Rooms" in Holloway, and -less than a year ago the "artiste" had served as -waitress there and been ordered to "'Urry up with -that there Yorkshire-pudden." -</p> - -<p> -"You will never do any better than you're -doing," affirmed Miss Jinman. "And I could say -as much to others present if I hadn't too much -consideration for their feelings. To more than -one!" she added significantly. "Look at <i>me</i>, -with all my experience! And <i>I</i> am clever, and <i>I</i> -can sing; my notices as 'Buttercup' were -immense. And where am I now? On a pier with -amateurs—amateurs and novices. I don't know -what the Profession is coming to—it's a very -different thing to what it was when <i>I</i> was in my -prime!" -</p> - -<p> -"I expect most things have woke up a bit since -then," said the golden-haired brunette; "the -bringing in of railways must have made such a -difference." -</p> - -<p> -"Small-part people were taught to respect the -principals," said Miss Jinman sternly. "Minxes -kept their places." -</p> - -<p> -"It's a pity you couldn't keep yours," said the -dark one with the golden locks. But harmony was -restored during the next selection by the band. -</p> - -<p> -There was a little sleet blowing when the -audience straggled homeward. The lights of the -Belle Vue Hotel were not put out yet, and -carelessly, Miss Jinman observed that the people -inside must be warmer than <i>she</i> was. Rosalind took -the hint. It is only in the lowest ranks of the -theatrical profession that the ladies refresh -themselves in bars; a second-rate provincial actress -would wither the person who invited her; but Miss -Jinman and Miss Lascelles had adapted their -manners to their company, and it was a very -humble Company indeed. So they went into the -Lounge, and sat down. -</p> - -<p> -Another professional lady came in, and inquired -generously, "Are you drinking, girls?" -</p> - -<p> -Miss Lascelles said, "Yes, we've got port wine." -</p> - -<p> -"Serve you right," said the other lady, with a -pretty wit. -</p> - -<p> -Though she was on the high road to Prague, -Lady Darlington was relieved to see that the clock -pointed to five minutes to ten. When the Lounge -closed, the party shook hands with her heartily, -and hoped they would meet her again in the morning. -Distressingly ill-bred of them to drink port -in a smoky bar—not at all the sort of thing I -can ask you to condone. But some of the sirens -who had lolled in velvet fauteuils were financing -on coppers until the first week's treasury was paid, -and tea and bread-and-butter was all they had had -to support their internal economies during the -day. How amused the very young men in the -stalls would be at my simplicity in believing it! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap14"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XIV -</h3> - -<p> -Since the last chapter went away to be -typewritten I, myself, have been in the theatre on -Blithepoint Pier. A pantomime was being -performed. The seat I was in yielded me a view of -more than I had paid to look at; I could see the -Prompt entrance, which is the place where they -signal for the sunset and the moonbeams and -where the players come to peep at the doings on -the stage. Last night a young woman came there. -She wore a brief, blue skirt, and a silver crown, -and for the nonce an unlovely wrap hung over her -whitened back and bosom, since you may get -rheumatism in the Prompt entrance, as well as -moonbeams. Before the footlights two comic men were -bawling a duet; I knew they were comic because -they had made their faces so repulsive; and the -spirit moving her, the woman broke into lazy -dance steps to the refrain. In the glare, and the -distance she was pretty. As I watched, I felt -instinctively for the hand of Rosalind; I knew the -craving that was in her blood, and turned to meet -her gaze. If she had been there, I think she would -have liked me. I said, "Those who saw that -would understand Rosalind; the tawdry figure -dancing in the draught says everything!" That -was why I brought the picture at home, to show it -to you ... but somehow, all at once, I doubt -whether you will understand any better than you -did. -</p> - -<p> -However I beg you to believe that on the -morrow Rosalind accompanied Tattie Lascelles to a -rehearsal with infinite zest. She had no right to -accompany her, but a discussion was in progress -when they arrived, and she passed unchallenged. -Mr. Omee, the local manager, who stood in the -pit, was talking to Mr. Quisby, the travelling -manager, who stood on the stage. It appeared that -owing to the pressure of Christmas traffic, the -railway company had failed to dispatch the -scenery. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, but who has been to the station? What -do they say?" -</p> - -<p> -"I tell you the fools at this end don't know -anything about it." -</p> - -<p> -"What the bleak Helvellyn's the good of -bringing the piece without any scenery?" -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't there any scenery in your theatre?" -</p> - -<p> -"I've told you what cloth you can have, my -boy. That's the best we can do." -</p> - -<p> -"It's no use offering us Hyde Park Corner -when we want a blooming mosque! ... Well, -let's have a look at it!" -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Omee shouted for "Bates." -</p> - -<p> -There was a lull, and then from unseen heights -a voice announced that Bates had just "stepped -outside." -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Omee ramped in the pit. -</p> - -<p> -The shouts for "Bates" were resumed—the -rafters rang with the name of "Bates"—and -after some minutes a discomfited working man -slouched onto the stage, to be received with a -volley of abuse. He was understood to retort that -he was unable to be in two places at once, and -parties who expected it might find someone else -to do the work, that was the straight tip. Those -nearest to him also learnt that he had a poor -opinion of the job at its blessed best. -</p> - -<p> -"Let's have that Hyde Park cloth," commanded -Mr. Omee. "Come on, look alive, man—hurry up!" -</p> - -<p> -"What <i>I</i> want to know," grunted the low -comedian, "is 'ow I'm to get that wheeze of -mine into that song. That's what's bothering -me." -</p> - -<p> -"What song?" inquired Miss Lascelles. -</p> - -<p> -"What song! Why, 'All the Winners.' I was -going to say the Blithepoint football team was 'all -the winners' in the match on Saturday, and now -I'm told that Sweetbay beat 'em. My luck again! -That queers my wheeze." -</p> - -<p> -"Why not say," suggested Rosalind, "that the -<i>next time</i> Sweetbay is rash enough to play them, -Blithepoint will be all the winners?" -</p> - -<p> -"Wot ho!" said the low comedian, brightening. -He added promptly, "Of course that's what -I was thinking of doing! But I must see if I can -get all that cackle into the tune. Where's the -conductor of the blooming band?" -</p> - -<p> -Presently the cloth was displayed. It was no -faithful representation of Hyde Park Corner, but -it was still less like a mosque, and the players stood -about, and sneered, and muttered contemptuous -criticisms. Miss Jinman said that in all her -experience she had never known such disgraceful -mismanagement before. She was to figure in her -Turkish trousers in this scene, and she pointed -morosely to the omnibuses painted outside the -hospital. -</p> - -<p> -"Clear the stage, please!" cried Mr. Quisby. -"We'll just run through Miss Vavasour's scenes. -Come on, Miss Vavasour—we don't want to be -here all day!" He told her this indignantly, as -if the delay in lowering the cloth were directly -attributable to her. She was the girl who had been -suddenly promoted to the leading part. -</p> - -<p> -The manager of the theatre lounged from the -pit into the stalls, where Rosalind sat now too. -He chewed his cigar, and there was gloom on his -face. This should have been a week of large -receipts, but the outlook was unpromising. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Vavasour was rendered additionally nervous -by the fact that she had not had time to learn -the lines. She advanced constrainedly, and said -in a timid voice— -</p> - -<p> -"'We are alone at last! Oh rapture!'" -</p> - -<p> -"Speak up, my dear!" said Mr. Quisby. "Say -it as if you meant it. 'Rapture!' Do a bit of a -caper there, be <i>fetching</i>!" -</p> - -<p> -"'We are alone at last!'" repeated Miss -Vavasour, with a mechanical jump. "'Oh rapture!'" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh rats!" said the manager of the theatre. -He turned to Rosalind—"Can she sing?" he -asked. -</p> - -<p> -"She sings even better than she acts," said -Rosalind innocently. -</p> - -<p> -"Good Lord!" groaned the manager. "Well, -what are they waiting for now?" -</p> - -<p> -It was the cue for an embrace, and Miss -Vavasour was hanging forward to be clasped in the -Tenor's arms, but the Tenor had a request to -make— -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Quisby," he said, disregarding her, "I -think it would be better if somebody read my part. -I don't know how I shall get through to-night as -it is—my cold is so severe." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, my sufferings!" muttered the manager -of the theatre. "Now the Tenor's got a -cold. This is going to be a great draw, this -show is!" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you think you could just 'walk -through' the 'business,' my boy?" Mr. Quisby -asked. "The girl's a bit uneasy in the love -scenes—she'll be all over the shop to-night if she don't -know what you're going to do." -</p> - -<p> -"I am really very ill," insisted the Tenor -feebly; "I'm not fit to rehearse, I ought to be -in bed." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, all right then," answered Mr. Quisby. -He beckoned to the prompter. "Here, read the -lines—give Miss Vavasour her cues. Do get on, -Miss Vavasour, we shall be in the theatre till -Doomsday if you don't wake up! 'We are alone -at last'—go back, please." -</p> - -<p> -"'We are alone at last. Oh rapture!'" faltered -Miss Vavasour for the third time, with the -mechanical jump. -</p> - -<p> -"That's marked 'Kiss,'" said the prompter. -He was a slovenly man with a dirty face. -</p> - -<p> -"I know it is," snapped Miss Vavasour. "Do -let's get to the next line!" -</p> - -<p> -"I was 'elping yer," said the prompter, -aggrieved. "If yer don't want no 'elp, sye -so!" He read, "'My Prize! My Pearlikins!'" -</p> - -<p> -"'Sometimes,'" continued Miss Vavasour, -simulating maiden modesty. "'I wonder if it's all -a dream. <i>Why</i> do you love me? You might have -married Delicia, who has millions—<i>I</i> am a very -poor girl.'" -</p> - -<p> -"You're a very poor actress too," said Mr. Omee -under his breath. -</p> - -<p> -"'Why do I love yer, sweetheart?'" mumbled -the prompter. "'Your question reminds me of -what the apple-blossom said to the moon.'" -</p> - -<p> -"Band cue!" shouted Mr. Quisby. "Have -you got that, there in the orchestra?—'The -Apple-blossom and the Moon,' song! Go on, -Mr.—er—Song over. Get on with the -lines." -</p> - -<p> -"Excuse me!" exclaimed the Tenor, reappearing. -"That's a cue for the limelight. I don't -think it has been marked; I didn't get it at the -dress rehearsal." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes, it is marked," declared the prompter; -"<i>I</i> marked it." He referred resentfully to the -typescript. "'Moonlight'! There it is, in its -proper plice." -</p> - -<p> -"Its proper place is <i>on me</i>," said the Tenor. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, we'll see it's all right to-night," said -Mr. Quisby, with impatience. "If you're so ill, -you had better get home and rest your voice, -hadn't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I should be only too glad to be at home," rejoined -the Tenor stiffly. "I just called attention -to the matter for the sake of the scene.... -Interests of the Show at heart!" -</p> - -<p> -"Where do I speak from now, Mr. Quisby?" -murmured Miss Vavasour. -</p> - -<p> -"You're on the balcony, my dear—up left. -'And now ta-ta, my Romeo'! Get on with it, -get on!" -</p> - -<p> -"One moment, Miss Vavasour!" put in the -Tenor, coming back. "You mustn't speak too -soon, there; I expect an encore! Take your cue -from me." -</p> - -<p> -She nodded helplessly. "'And now ta-ta, my -Romeo.'" -</p> - -<p> -"''T is not the nightingale, let's have a -lark!'" read the prompter. "'Come out to -supper!—— -</p> - -<p> -'For thou art as glorious to this night, being -o'er my 'ead——'" -</p> - -<p> -"Come to cues!" said Mr. Quisby, stamping. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'When 'e bestrides the liezy-piecing clouds,<br /> - And siles upon the bosom of the air,'"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -gabbled the prompter. -</p> - -<p> -"'Bosom of the air'!" bellowed Mr. Quisby. -"Pick up your cues, Miss Vavasour, for Gawd's -sake!" -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon, I didn't hear it, -Mr. Quisby," she stammered. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, then, listen, my girl! What do you -suppose we're here for? 'Bosom of the air'—caper -down centre. Lightly—<i>lightly</i>! Great -Scot! not like that. You come down like a sack -o' coals." -</p> - -<p> -"The girl has no experience," remarked Miss -Jinman in a deep undertone to all about her. -</p> - -<p> -"Go back," shouted Mr. Quisby. "'Bosom of -the air,' now again! What have you to say as you -run down?" -</p> - -<p> -"I forget," she whimpered. -</p> - -<p> -"What's the line, Mr.—er—you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I—I'm just looking to see," said the -prompter. -</p> - -<p> -"Looking to see?" yelled Mr. Quisby, furiously, -throwing up his arms. "Upon my life and -soul it's maddening! What's your business, what -are you engaged as, what is it you're supposed -to be? <i>Are</i> you the prompter, or are you not? -Good — ——— is it asking too much of a man -with the book in his hand to follow the lines? -I've got the whole weight of the production on -me, I've done the work of twenty men, I'm -wearing myself out—and nobody takes the trouble to -study a part, or to read the 'scrip! Ladies and -gentlemen, the ensanguined rehearsal is dismissed, -while the prompter looks for the line!" -</p> - -<p> -"'Supper? Oh, it will be a merry evening!' -read the prompter, sulkily. -</p> - -<p> -"Very well then! Now, Miss Vavasour! let's -have it." -</p> - -<p> -"I think it's v-v-very hard on me," said Miss -Vavasour, beginning to cry; "I've only had the -p-part three days." -</p> - -<p> -"Come, come, do your best! You've nothing -to cry about, I've been very patient with you. -'Supper? Oh, it <i>will</i> be a merry evening!' Trip -down <i>pretty</i>; speak as you come." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Very</i> hard on me," she sobbed; "I think it's -m-m-most unfeeling!" -</p> - -<p> -"Bring me a chair!" called Mr. Quisby to no -one in particular. "Look here, my girl, I'm -going to see you do it if we have to stop on the -stage till the doors open. Understand? If I -keep you here till the curtain rises, I'll see you -do it! 'Bosom of the air!' Now take it up sharp." -</p> - -<p> -"A bit of <i>all</i> right, keeping the Company 'ere -to see a novice taught her business, I <i>don't</i> think," -grumbled the low comedian. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Vavasour, still sobbing, drooped to where -the balcony was to be imagined. She sniffed -violently, and, with an effort at sprightly grace, -scuttled down the stage again. -</p> - -<p> -"'Supper? Oh, it <i>will</i> be a merry evening!' -she quavered. -</p> - -<p> -"It'll be a merry evening to-morrow—about -sixpence in the house!" growled the manager of -the theatre. He caught Rosalind's eye. "Are -the rest of you as good as this, my dear?" he said -bitterly. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes," said cheerful Rosalind, "I think -you'll like us all!" -</p> - -<p> -Presently Miss Lascelles wanted to see where -she was to dress, and with a heartful of memories -Rosalind explored with her. The pencilled lists -of names on most of the doors were lengthy, but -Miss Lascelles was to share a room with no one -but Miss Vavasour this week, so she was jubilant, -and had been in no hurry to annex a gas-burner. -As a rule the ladies scamper on Monday morning -to secure the best places. -</p> - -<p> -The room was very comfortably furnished. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh my!" said Miss Lascelles, enraptured. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh dear!" said Lady Darlington, disappointed. -"Why, there's a full length mirror! -Where's the single washstand for five people? -Where's the one chair, broken? Why, you've -got two rugs! This is a blow, Tattie!" -</p> - -<p> -Miss Lascelles was doing coon steps before the -mirror. "Is the rehearsal hateful enough for you?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's a dream of delight," said Rosalind. -</p> - -<p> -But even she was rather tired of it when it -finished at five o'clock. -</p> - -<p> -It was nearly half-past five when they reached -their lodging, and they were glad to hear from -Mrs. Cheney that "the kittle was on the bile." At -a quarter to seven Miss Lascelles had to hurry -to the theatre again. -</p> - -<p> -Rosalind went later. The wind had risen, and -on the pier she had to fight against it. The lamps -streaked a heaving sea. The little wooden theatre -was fairly full, and a few Christmas trippers in -the balcony were comporting themselves with less -decorum than prevails in Blithepoint as a rule. -Knowing what she knew of affairs behind the -curtain, Rosalind heard the whistles with misgiving. -She feared that if the whistlers found the -entertainment meagre, they were likely to create -entertainment for themselves. -</p> - -<p> -However, they listened to the opening chorus -with polite attention. It was surprising how -attractive many of the chorus ladies had become. -They represented the seamen of the Battleship -<i>Deadly Oyster</i>, and wore sailors' jackets and -trousers made of silk—or a material that -passed for it. Some of the seamen also wore -paste necklaces. They sang that there was -"No life so jolly as Jack's," and when one -watched their saucy gambols, and remembered -that they were actually paid to be there, it looked -as if there could be no life so jolly as a chorus -girl's. -</p> - -<p> -As it happened, the first to provoke dissatisfaction -was the Tenor. He had been refused permission -to beg indulgence for his cold, but resolving -that the Audience should understand that they -were not hearing him to advantage, he kept laying -his hand on his chest, with an air of suffering. It -made him a depressing figure; and when he -exclaimed, "'Beware, my temper's hot!'" a -humourist in the balcony cried, "How's your -poultice?" -</p> - -<p> -A man in the pit said "Hush!" but several -persons giggled, and the humourist was stimulated -to further witticisms. Other humourists began to -envy him his successes; as the piece proceeded, -the interruptions were frequent. Once the low -comedian attempted a repartee, but it came too -late in the evening to turn the scale; the -malcontents had grown spiteful, and as a rejoinder he -was hissed. His companions stared at one -another haggardly. "Behind," they stood quaking, -dreading the cues that would recall them to the -stage. -</p> - -<p> -At every exit they came off gasping, "The -brutes! the pigs! Oh, what a <i>wicked</i> house it is!" -</p> - -<p> -The "house" would have been astonished at -the emotion displayed, at the "extraordinary -sensitiveness of such people." To the Stalls there -were "Just a few noisy young fellows upstairs -who made jokes." Indeed it seemed a long time -between the jokes to the Stalls; they wore an air of -superior detachment, but they were secretly amused. -Only Rosalind understood. Rosalind felt faint. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Lascelles had been accepted by the -Balcony while they were still good humoured, and she -was among those who escaped contumely; but Miss -Jinman's record availed her little. Derisive cheers -greeted her every entrance, and a lifetime on the -boards could not save her from the sickness of -the senses which attacks a player who is being -"guyed." As for Miss Vavasour, she trembled -as if she had ague when a youth mimicked her -high notes in her solo, and on her bloodless face, -while she sang, the make-up stood out in patches, -like paint on the cheeks of a corpse. At the -conclusion of the song she clung hysterically to Tattie -Lascelles in the wings. -</p> - -<p> -When the end was reached, the Audience rose -murmuring that it was a "silly piece," and "not -worth going to"—they "shouldn't think it -would be a success!" No one but Rosalind -suspected the despair that was hidden by the curtain. -</p> - -<p> -She made her way to the stage-door. Tedious -as the performance had been, a number of young -men had preceded her, and were assembling to -address the chorus ladies when they came out. -(Thirty were waiting there that night when the -Chorus came out at last.) An old woman—a -dresser—was hurrying in with two glasses -containing whisky from the refreshment room. One -of the young men asked her jauntily if she would -take a message for him to "the sixth girl on -the right." She said she was in a hurry, and -pushed the door open. As the door-keeper wasn't -there, to be obstructive, Rosalind followed her -inside. -</p> - -<p> -Many of the players were in the flaring passage. -They had not begun to doff their costumes yet; -they were lingering in groups, a tinselled, -nerveless crowd with harassed eyes. Miss Vavasour -sat crying on a clothes hamper; Miss Jinman was -waiting weakly for her whisky. As it appeared, -her gaze fell on the huddled girl; "Here, have -half of this, child!" she said gently. The -brunette with golden hair exclaimed, "No, no, take -yours, Miss Jinman; Queenie can have half of -mine!" Everybody kept casting anxious glances -in the direction of the stage, where voices could be -heard disputing. -</p> - -<p> -"Poor old Tat!" murmured Rosalind. -</p> - -<p> -Now Miss Lascelles, as we know, had had less -than the majority to unhinge her, but so infectious -was the atmosphere, so easily swayed are some of -these "extraordinarily sensitive" people of the -theatre, that as Rosalind's arm was slipped round -her waist, she immediately burst into tears, and -sobbed as if her heart would break. -</p> - -<p> -"Cheer up," said Rosalind. "It'll go all right -after a few more rehearsals." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall be b-better directly," gulped Miss -Lascelles. "D-don't mind me. I'm a fool, but -I can't help it; I'm broke up!" -</p> - -<p> -"We're all of us broke up," groaned Miss -Jinman. "Did you ever see such a house as it -was? In all my experience I never saw anything -like it! What were they saying as they came out? -Do you think we shall go on, my dear?" -</p> - -<p> -"<i>I</i> sha'n't be kept, anyhow," wailed Miss -Vavasour. "Mr. Quisby's been bullying me as if it -was all my fault. I shall be out of a shop again! -And I did hope I was settled till the spring—I -don't know what I shall do, I'm sure!" -</p> - -<p> -"Where is he?" inquired Rosalind. -</p> - -<p> -"That's him, quarrelling with Mr. Omee -there," said Miss Lascelles. "Mr. Omee says -he won't let the piece go on to-morrow night." -</p> - -<p> -"Not go on?" -</p> - -<p> -"They say he says so," put in the demi-blonde. -"That's all gas—he'd have to shut the theatre; -he won't do that." -</p> - -<p> -"If you ask <i>me</i>," said the low comedian, taking -part in the conference gloomily, "it puts the -kybosh on the tour. We may as well pack up our -props, and git. There's no good health for <i>Miss -Kiss-and-Tell</i> after to-night's show." -</p> - -<p> -"Git?" demanded Miss Jinman, "Git where? -I shall have my rights; I've got a contract." -</p> - -<p> -"Take it to your Uncle's!" said the low comedian. -"See what he'll lend you on it. If you -ask me, the Syndicate's a wrong 'un. If we strike -it lucky, we'll get our fares; and if we don't -strike it lucky, we can travel on our luggage. I see -it sticking out a foot!" -</p> - -<p> -A shudder ran through the players. They gathered -about him dumbly. -</p> - -<p> -"We can all claim a fortnight's salary in lieu -of notice," asserted Miss Jinman, rallying. -"That's the Law. It's the Rule of the -Profession." -</p> - -<p> -The company perked up a little. They turned -their eyes to Miss Jinman. -</p> - -<p> -"So I've been led to believe," said the low -comedian. "And in such circs the pros always -get it, I <i>don't</i> think! Claim? Oh, we can claim! -We'll all get fat claiming, won't we? You're -better off to claim from the Post Office than from -a Syndicate—at all events you do know where -St. Martin's le Grand <i>is</i>." -</p> - -<p> -The company collapsed. -</p> - -<p> -"The long and the short of it," he continued, -"is that we're out with a stumour of a piece. -<i>Why</i> didn't it go? Is there anything wrong with -<i>us</i>? No! a jolly clever crowd, if you ask <i>me</i>. -The piece has got no stamina—" "stamina" was -not the word he used—"that's what's the -matter; and that 'Iyde Park Corner cloth settled us. -I'll lay anyone 'ere ten to one that the tour dries -up, and the Syndicate does a guy. 'Oo's Quisby?" -</p> - -<p> -"Quisby?" they gasped. "'Who's Quisby?'" -</p> - -<p> -"Quisby!" repeated the low comedian -emphatically; "I say, 'Oo's Quisby? I'll lay -anybody 'ere ten to one that Quisby calls us to-morrow -to say he ain't responsible. Now? I wish all -Syndicates were in 'ell." -</p> - -<p> -The dispute between the powers had ended, -and suddenly the prompter's voice rang through -the passage. He bawled, "Everybody on the -stige, please! Principals and Chorus are wanted -on the stige!" -</p> - -<p> -The eyes met for a moment, and then the players -trooped away, with sinking hearts. The cold, -bare stage was in shadow, for the floats and -battens had been extinguished, and the only light -was shed by a single burner of the T-piece. By -the T-piece Mr. Quisby stood, his back to the -dark emptiness of the auditorium. The prompter -was still heard calling in the distance;— -</p> - -<p> -"Everybody on the stige, please! Principals -and Chorus on the stige!" -</p> - -<p> -Shivering, they flocked there, some in their -plumes and spangles, others already in their -shabby street clothes; many were in a state of -transition—the faces daubed with grease, the -undergarments and naked necks revealed by hasty -ulsters. Nobody spoke. When the last comer -had scrambled to the crowd, all looked at -Mr. Quisby. The suspense that held them mute was -pitiable. -</p> - -<p> -Outside, the thirty young men had collected to -accost the merry chorus girls. -</p> - -<p> -"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Quisby, -"there will be no performance to-morrow." He -forced a hearty air. "I'm going to talk to you -like a pal. Things look a bit rocky, but we must -hope for the best. I won't disguise from you that -there may be no tour. Now you all know as much -as <i>I</i> do—there <i>may</i> be no tour. Whether there -is, or not, I've no doubt we shall all get what's -due to us. I hope we shall, I'm sure—God -knows <i>I</i> can't afford to lose what they owe me!" He -made a slight pause, to let this sink. "As -soon as I hear from London what the Management -intends to do, we'll put our heads together -again. You worked nobly to-night, nobly—one -and all! Some of you ought to be in London, -getting your thirty, and forty, quid a week! If the -thing's a frost, it won't be the fault of the artists, -and I mean to let the Management know it!" -</p> - -<p> -"What Management?" cried the low comedian. -"'Ave <i>you</i> left off being manager all of a -sudden?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ladies and gentlemen, as you're all aware, -the Management is a Syndicate," Mr. Quisby -proceeded with difficulty. "If this was <i>my</i> crowd, I -should talk very different. Do you know what I -should say if this was my crowd? I should say, -'Between you and I, I'm a bit doubtful of the -piece—that's straight!—but I've got a first-class -company of artists, and by George I mean to -keep 'em!' I should say, 'If I can't pull this -piece together, then I'll cast the whole blessed -crowd for another!' That's what I should say -if <i>I</i> was manager. But I'm not. No, I'm one of -you. We're all in the same boat. I'm engaged -at a salary, like yourselves. Still"—he smeared -the perspiration round his lying lips—"still it's -always darkest before dawn. There's a silver -lining to every cloud, and we may find as good fish -in the sea as ever came out of it. Mr. Omee won't -have the piece, and—er—you're all to clear -your props out of the theatre first thing in the -morning; but there are plenty of other theatres -in the kingdom! We must stick together. Where -there's a will, there's a way! We must stick -together, like Englishmen in the hour of trouble -all the world over, and—er, er—be loyal to -the show! Ladies and gentlemen—Boys and -girls!—Mr. Omee is waiting to see me in his -office. That's all." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, he couldn't have spoken any fairer," -many of the poor, wretched women said to one -another as they lagged through the forsaken -streets. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap15"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XV -</h3> - -<p> -Indeed it was Mr. Omee whom the Company -censured—Mr. Omee who had been inhuman -enough to banish a worthless performance from his -theatre. "Never," said Miss Jinman, "in all her -experience had she known artists to be so grossly -insulted." Mr. Quisby's position might be -ambiguous, Mr. Quisby might be shirking his -responsibilities; not to put too fine a point upon it, -Mr. Quisby might be a rogue. But he had paid -them compliments—and Mr. Omee had shut his -doors against them. Mr. Omee was the innocent -person whom they execrated and reviled. -</p> - -<p> -In the quarter where the "professional -apartments" of Blithepoint are most numerous, the -landladies looked anxious in the morning. On -every doorstep in Corporation Road, and half way -down Alfreton Terrace, the news was known by -nine o'clock. The lodgers were obliged to fence -with searching questions at breakfast, and many of -the houris heating curling-tongs in the parlour-fire -were told that it would "save trouble if they got -in their dinner themselves." -</p> - -<p> -Towards midday the Company straggled off the -pier with baskets and parcels, and the baggageman -was busy collecting the clothes-hampers. The -boards of <i>Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell</i> had gone -from the turnstiles, and later, bill-stickers came -along and splashed up advertisements of a -stopgap. The rejected comedians stood on the Parade -and eyed the work morosely. They had hoped -the theatre would have to be closed. Miss Jinman -said, "It was very strange, to say the least; she -didn't understand how the bills had been printed -since last night! It looked to <i>her</i> as if Mr. Omee -had been <i>playing them false from the start</i>!" -</p> - -<p> -Then striking proof of Mr. Omee's perfidy was -forthcoming, his brutal nature was revealed to the -full—he offered to make the stranded performers -by whom he had lost money, a present of their -fares if they liked to return to their homes. -"Ah," said the Chorus, "<i>that</i> shows what a dirty -trick he served us!" "He has exposed his hand -<i>there</i>," said Miss Jinman; "<i>wants to get us out -of the town</i>!" -</p> - -<p> -And Mr. Quisby, who meant to pay them nothing, -but was endeavouring to make use of them in -Slocombe-on-the-Swamp the following week before -he decamped, told them there was a reviving -prospect of a three months' tour. -</p> - -<p> -So not more than a third of the Company -profited by Mr. Omee's generosity, and the others -warned them that they were being very unwise. -</p> - -<p> -And by this time the tidings of the disaster had -spread from Corporation Road and Alfreton Terrace -as far as the Grand Hotel, where it provided -languid amusement, and the plight of the players -was known to all the visitors on the Front. -Including Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -But it was not until Friday, December 26th, -that one of those incidents which may occur to -anybody associated him with the matter. -</p> - -<p> -It had been misty since morning, and towards -the close of day the fog deepened. When he left -a house where he had been lunching with a man, -he took the wrong turning. So far as he was able -to see at all, he saw that he had blundered into a -neighbourhood which was strange to him. A -humble neighbourhood, apparently, with nothing -of a watering-place about it. This being Boxing-day, -the little shops to which he came were shuttered, -and owing to the weather, few people were -abroad. He wandered amid dim desertion. -Then as he paused, hesitating, two girls emerged -suddenly from the fog, and stopped before him. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" exclaimed one of them, "could you tell -us where Gandy's the greengrocer's is?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am so sorry," said Conrad, "I can't. Can -you direct me to the Parade?" -</p> - -<p> -She answered absurdly that he was "coming -away from it," though he was standing still. -"It's over there," she said; "you go down there, -and take the first on the left, and keep straight -on. You can't miss it." -</p> - -<p> -"I <i>have</i> missed it," demurred Conrad. -"Thank you for rescuing me. I wish I could -direct you to Gandy's the greengrocer's in return." -</p> - -<p> -The other girl had not spoken yet, but now she -said— -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, never mind, thanks, we shall find it; they -say it's quite near. But it's too dark to make -out the names." -</p> - -<p> -It was also too dark to make out her features, -but her voice was delicious, and if the fog didn't -flatter her, she was dowered with the eyes that he -most ardently admired. He was all at once -sensible of a keen interest in the whereabouts of the -greengrocer's. -</p> - -<p> -"That seems to be a shop at the corner; I'll -go over and see what it is!" he said promptly. -But it was a general dealer's, and he came back -not displeased. -</p> - -<p> -"Bother! We <i>must</i> find it!" cried the first girl. -</p> - -<p> -"May I come and help you?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you can come if you like," she said; and -added as a pure concession to formality, "It's -awf'ly kind of you." -</p> - -<p> -So they all proceeded through the fog. -</p> - -<p> -"It's such a nuisance everything being shut -to-day," the first girl went on. "That's why we -want Gandy's—they say Gandy's live there, and -might oblige us. We can ring 'em up." -</p> - -<p> -"Fruit?" he inquired. -</p> - -<p> -"No," she said; "flowers—violets. We -want some for the concert to-night. Are you -going?" -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly I am," said Conrad. "What -concert? I haven't heard about it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh well, it was only settled this morning. -We're giving a concert at the Victoria Hall—<i>The -Little Miss Kiss-and-Tell</i> Company. It's to -help us all. Mr. Quisby—our manager—only -let me know just now. I'm going to sing a -'flower-song,' and I want some 'button-holes' to -throw among the Audience; I can't do the song -without." -</p> - -<p> -"Throw one to me," said Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"I will," she promised. "We ought to get -some people in, as it's bank holiday, don't you -think so? And if the show 'goes,' we can have -the hall again to-morrow. The tickets are only -sixpence and a shilling. Did you see us on the -pier?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," he said, "I wasn't here then—I was -just too late. How many tickets can you let me -have?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you'll get them at the door! we haven't -got any. You'll really come, won't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll come if I miss my dinner to get there," -he vowed. "Where <i>is</i> Victoria Hall?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's—I don't know the name of the street. -It's near the station. Anybody'll tell you. We -begin at eight o'clock." -</p> - -<p> -This was all very well, but the Girl of the Voice -had not spoken again, and he wished she would -say something. -</p> - -<p> -"Shall I hear you sing, too?" he asked, looking -across at her. He looked across at her just -as they approached a lamp-post, and his most -sanguine hopes were realised. He found her -adorable. -</p> - -<p> -"No, <i>I</i> am not in the programme," said -Rosalind. -</p> - -<p> -"Here's a policeman!" cried Miss Lascelles. -"Can you tell us where Gandy's the greengrocer's -is?" she begged again. -</p> - -<p> -The constable did not know, and, official though -useless, took a long time to say so. More -intelligently he remarked that it was "Nasty weather -for Boxing-day," and Conrad gave him a -half-crown. The next instant they deciphered the -name of "Gandy" themselves. -</p> - -<p> -"What a stupid policeman!" exclaimed Rosalind, -pouting. She pulled the bell, and glanced at -Conrad. Conrad happened to be glancing at her. -"Your troubles are nearly over," she said with a -smile. -</p> - -<p> -"I am not impatient," owned Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -There were descending footsteps, and a woman -opened the door. -</p> - -<p> -He said ingratiatingly, "I am sorry to disturb -you, but we're trying to get some flowers. Can -you let me have some?" -</p> - -<p> -"Flowers?" said the woman. She had a vacant stare. -</p> - -<p> -"A few bunches of violets," Rosalind explained. -</p> - -<p> -"Y-e-s," murmured the woman. She made a -long pause. "We 'aven't got no flowers now," -she said. "N—no. I'm sorry we can't oblige -you." -</p> - -<p> -"Can you tell us where we can get some?" put -in Miss Lascelles sharply. -</p> - -<p> -"No——no, I couldn't say, I'm sure," -faltered the woman.... "There's Peters' -opperzite—p'raps <i>they</i> might be able to oblige you." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you know where there's a florist's?" -questioned Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"Florist's?" She shook her head. "N—no, -I can't say as I do—not one as is likely to be -open to-day." -</p> - -<p> -"Let's try Peters'!" they said; and scurried -across the road. -</p> - -<p> -Here they pulled without effect; the bell yielded -to them immoderately, but no tinkle came. They -regarded one another, discouraged. -</p> - -<p> -"You had better leave us to our fate," sighed -Rosalind. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you dismissing me?" His tone was -reproachful. -</p> - -<p> -"Releasing you," she said, in her best -St. James' manner. -</p> - -<p> -"My chains are flowers," said he ornately. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish you'd give 'em to me!" said Tattie -Lascelles. -</p> - -<p> -"You shall have them before we part. Ladies, -I have an inspiration! You know the way to the -Parade—let's go down there and get a fly. -Then we've nothing more to do—the responsibility's -the flyman's. We'll take him by the hour, -and make him drive us about Blithepoint till we -find a florist's. Is it carried?" -</p> - -<p> -"Unanimously!" cried Rosalind. "Right -about face, quick march!" -</p> - -<p> -And there was a belated fly dozing by the pier. -When the man had recovered from his astonishment -at being hailed, he grew quite brisk, and developed -ideas. He suggested "Mitchell's," and -drove them to a fashionable florist's in the Mall. -Nothing could have been happier. Mr. Mitchell -accepted their apologies, and lit the gas as -amiably as if bank-holidays were of no importance. -Bountifully he brought forward his best for them, -and his best was as beauteous as it was expensive. -</p> - -<p> -The warm, perfumed air was agreeable after -the fog, and Rosalind among the azaleas was -divine. (There are few keener pleasures than -taking out a nice woman, and spending money on -her; and it is unnecessary that one should go out -fond of the woman—it's so easy to get fond of -her in the process.) "Oh no, really!" she -protested—and she meant it, for Miss Lascelles was -already laden—"No, none for me, really!" -</p> - -<p> -"Just these," pleaded Conrad; "they're so -pretty—it's a shame to leave them behind." He -put them in her hands. -</p> - -<p> -"I'd like you to see some roses I've got here, -sir," said the proprietor; "it's not often you can -see roses like those." -</p> - -<p> -"Exquisite," assented Conrad.... "And just -a few roses, won't you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well one, then," she said succumbing. -</p> - -<p> -"We'll have some roses!" commanded Conrad -magnificently. "And those look nice—those -lilies-of-the-valley. You might give us some -lilies-of-the-valley, will you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll have nothing else," she told him in her -first undertone. The woman's first undertone is -so sweet. -</p> - -<p> -"A few?" he entreated. "You <i>ought</i> to wear -lilies-of-the-valley! I wish you were going to sing -to-night." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I shall see you there, sha'n't I?" -</p> - -<p> -She nodded. "Yes, I shall be in 'front.'" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm so glad I met you!" -</p> - -<p> -He thought of taking them in to the hotel to tea, -but her companion's toilette had been very hasty. -</p> - -<p> -The fly was as fragrant as a flower show when -they drove away. She buried her fair face in the -blossoms he had given to her. It's permissible, -but it may stir the man's imagination. It stirred -Conrad's; he had rarely wanted a kiss from a -woman so much. In the scented dusk, as their -gaze met, her eyes were luminous—like stars. -</p> - -<p> -The fly rattled into Corporation Road, and he -wondered whether she was going to ask him if he -would 'come in.' The fly stopped. -</p> - -<p> -"Au revoir," he said. "Victoria Hall? I -have the name right?" -</p> - -<p> -"Won't you come and help us put the flowers -in water?" she suggested. -</p> - -<p> -It was of interest to see her without a hat. -When she took off her coat he was captivated. -He stayed about ten minutes, and the other girl -didn't go out of the room. Both went to the door -with him when he left. -</p> - -<p> -"Eight o'clock, then?" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Eight o'clock." -</p> - -<p> -"Whom shall I ask for if I don't see you?" -</p> - -<p> -"'Miss Daintree;' but you're sure to see me." -</p> - -<p> -"You won't be late?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I shall be there when it begins. Good-bye—and -thanks!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!—Good-bye." -</p> - -<p> -He saw her smile to him again from the -step—and the cab turned. -</p> - -<p> -"What a lark! I say, isn't he mashed on you! -Do you like his moustache? Hasn't he got lovely -teeth?" exclaimed Tattie in the passage. -</p> - -<p> -"Y-e-s.... He's rather nice," said Rosalind. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap16"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XVI -</h3> - -<p> -Eight o'clock had just struck when Conrad -arrived at the slum where he was to spend the -evening. The exterior of the hall had no sanguine air. -Four opaque gas globes glimmered over a narrow -entrance, and, in the obscurity, a written appeal -affixed by wafers was barely legible. He made it -out to be: -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - "Help the Poor <i>Kiss-and-Tell Girls</i>.<br /> - Stranded in the Town through No Fault of their Own.<br /> - Show your Sympathy by Patronising us."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Behind a portière a disreputable-looking man, -wearing a queer overcoat, sat at a small table with -tickets. He asked, "Sixpence, or a shilling?" and -Conrad said, "A shilling," and the man said, -"Front row." -</p> - -<p> -There was a piano on a shallow platform. In -lieu of footlights, some pots of ferns had been -disposed at wide intervals. There was no curtain, -but a screen, behind which giggles were audible, -turned a corner of the hall into the most limited of -artists' rooms. Those artists who were not making -their toilettes, sat quietly among the audience. -Perhaps two hundred chairs were ranged across -the hall, and about fifty of them were occupied. -One of them was occupied by Rosalind. -</p> - -<p> -"Good evening," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"Good evening," said Conrad. "May I sit down?" -</p> - -<p> -"These are the shilling ones," said she. "Oh, -of course, if you <i>have</i>! I'm afraid we're leading -you into awful extravagance? ... It isn't very -full?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I'm sorry. I wish I could have sent -some people. Have you got another concert -to-morrow?" -</p> - -<p> -"They're talking about it—they've got the -hall very cheap." -</p> - -<p> -"I might take some tickets, and see what I can -do with them. I suppose that would be a good -plan, wouldn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps," said Rosalind, doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -"Why 'perhaps?' I thought it was to help -you all?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she answered. "Oh, it's meant to." -</p> - -<p> -"There's a reservation in your manner," he -said, "that— What's the use of our being such -old friends if you don't confide in me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, I didn't think of that," she laughed. -"Well, did you see the man with a coat?" -</p> - -<p> -"I saw him with aversion." -</p> - -<p> -"I thought it would please you! That's the -manager, Mr. Quisby." -</p> - -<p> -"Your manager, do you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'm telling you—the manager of the Company -that came to grief. The girls are supposed -to have got this up for themselves; but you may -have noticed that you paid your shilling to -Mr. Quisby." -</p> - -<p> -"A—ah!" said Conrad. "There seems a -weak spot in the business arrangements. Well, -what do you propose?" -</p> - -<p> -A youth in a very shabby tweed suit came on to -the platform. He sat down at the piano, and rattled -the introduction to the well-known music hall -song entitled <i>My Little Baby Boy</i>. On bounced -the golden-haired brunette. She wore a skirt to -the knees, and had made up her face as if for the -glare of a theatre. Her appearance lowered the -concert to the level of a penny gaff. Several -women of the shop-keeping class, hitherto -sympathetic, murmured "Oh!" and tightened their -mouths. -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't the costume a mistake?" whispered -Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you think so? How would you have -dressed her?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said Conrad, "a long frock." -</p> - -<p> -"Mm. What sort of frock?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, I should have made her look quiet, and -very—er——" -</p> - -<p> -"Respectable. I know! ... Go on." -</p> - -<p> -"I should have said, 'Be pale, and pathetic!' -</p> - -<p> -"That's right, I wanted them to; but they've -all got themselves up wrong, except my friend -Miss Lascelles. Sh!" -</p> - -<p> -The vocalist's blackened eyelids drooped to the -paper that she held;— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Some folks want power and riches, and really will not<br /> - be denied,<br /> - And when they've accomplished their object, they are<br /> - very far from satisfied;<br /> - A fig for your wealth and your power, for riches I care<br /> - not a jot;<br /> - Contented am I—yes! and happy—I'm quite satisfied<br /> - with my lot.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Inappropriate," said Rosalind under her -breath, "isn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -The vocalist looked up again, for now she knew -the words;— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'I'm not tired of England, I've no wish to roam,<br /> - There's a little six-roomed house that's my home, sweet home;<br /> - My house is my castle—who is my pride and joy?<br /> - Why! his Royal Highness the King of the Castle, my little baby boy.'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -When she had shrilled the chorus times without -number she withdrew, and Conrad said, -</p> - -<p> -"Can't we go and sit further back where -we can talk? Look at all those chairs over -there." -</p> - -<p> -"If you like. What do you think of her?" -</p> - -<p> -"She can't sing." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, that's a detail. But she doesn't <i>work</i> -the song." -</p> - -<p> -"How do you mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"Didn't you feel what she ought to do? Well, -of course you wouldn't! 'His Royal Highness -the King' line ought to bring the house down. -Wouldn't <i>I</i> make it 'go!'" -</p> - -<p> -"Show me," he begged. "There's nobody -looking." -</p> - -<p> -So in the corner that they had found, she -hummed the bars, and showed him. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, aren't you clever!" he exclaimed. -"What a pretty voice you have! Perhaps -you're—er—fond of babies?" -</p> - -<p> -"If you mean 'have I got any children?' no, -I haven't. That was an actress, not a mother. -I've no ring on—did you think I was married?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well, you looked so very devoted, I wondered -for a moment." -</p> - -<p> -"Are <i>you</i>?" -</p> - -<p> -"Suddenly," said Conrad, gazing at her. -</p> - -<p> -"'Suddenly'—what?" -</p> - -<p> -"Devoted." -</p> - -<p> -"I meant 'married,'" she explained. -</p> - -<p> -"I?" he said. "Good heavens!" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be so astonished!—such a thing has -happened to men." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, but I'm not a marrying man." -</p> - -<p> -"I think most men say they aren't marrying -men till they say, 'Will you marry me?' It's a -pity they change their mind so often." -</p> - -<p> -"I have pitied them myself." -</p> - -<p> -"Them?" she said. "The girls, you mean! -A man begins to be in love much sooner than a -woman, but he finishes much sooner too." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, that's why marriage was invented," -said Conrad. "The man brings the fervour, and -the woman brings the faithfulness. You can't -combine better qualities." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, and what about his fervour afterwards? -He wants to go and be in love all over again. -Haven't I seen? In this profession, travelling -about, a girl often meets a good fellow; I don't -say he's often rich—the ones who mean well are -generally hard up. Perhaps he's a clerk, or -something, in the town. He's taken with her from the -'front,' and gets to know her. Then he waits for -her at the stage door every evening, and sees her -home, and makes her talk 'shop'—he always -makes her talk 'shop,' that's the fascination to -him. After she goes away, he writes to her, and -by-and-by perhaps they marry. They do sometimes. -Of course she's to leave the stage; he generally -asks for that—the kind of man I'm talking -about. Well, what's the result?" -</p> - -<p> -"She's sorry she gave it up." -</p> - -<p> -"No, she isn't. There are exceptions—don't -I know it! but in most cases she's only too thankful -to give it up. There's no glamour about it for -the girl—<i>she</i> has lived all that out; the 'little -six-roomed house and home sweet home' is the -only ambition she has left. It's the man who -finds the marriage dull. He was in love with being -in love with an actress. He liked waiting for that -smile over the footlights—about the middle of -the first verse of her solo; it flattered him to know -he was the one man in all the audience who was -going to talk to her directly. When they're -married she's just an ordinary girl—like Miss Smith, -and Miss Brown, and the other girls he knew. -The fairy has lost her wings. She's a very good -little wife perhaps, but just a drab little mortal. -He says, 'How romantic it used to be when she -was a fairy!'—and goes fairy-catching outside -another stage-door." -</p> - -<p> -"Poor little mortal!" -</p> - -<p> -"Men want romances. When you find them -out, the most unlikely men are romantic; but when -you find them out, nine hundred and ninety women -in a thousand are domesticated." -</p> - -<p> -"Are <i>you</i>?" -</p> - -<p> -"There are the other ten," laughed Rosalind.... -"And I'm not talking of society women—of -course I don't know anything about them; I'm -talking of every-day women, and us. Look at my -friend! I suppose you'd take her for a bohemian -through and through? She has had to earn her -living in the Profession since she was sixteen, and -she's slangy, and she'd shock your sort of woman -out of her wits. Marriage is the last thing she -thinks of now. But let a man she liked come -along! She'd marry him on two pounds a week, -and go through fire and water for him, and thank -heaven for the joy of hanging up the washing in -her own back yard." -</p> - -<p> -Miss Lascelles, with a hint of coon steps, was -singing— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'What is the use of loving a girl<br /> - When you know she don't want yer <i>to</i>?'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"I shouldn't have thought it," said Conrad. -"She doesn't suggest domesticity in back yards." -</p> - -<p> -"Does she suggest a boarding-school for young -ladies?" -</p> - -<p> -His eyebrows asked a question. -</p> - -<p> -"There was a time when Tattie was among little -girls who walked two and two in Kensington." -</p> - -<p> -"Really? Do you know that hurts, rather? -I'm sorry." -</p> - -<p> -"<i>I</i>'m sorry," sighed Rosalind. "But her -heart's sweet," she added; "it's only the bloom -that has gone." She smiled. "Clap your hands! -She's my pal—you've got to applaud her." -</p> - -<p> -"She's very good," he said, applauding. "I -thought she was going to do a flower song? But -I like that one. Isn't it pretty? I like the way -it goes." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, rag-time—all against the beat. <i>Don't</i> -hum it out of tune!" she said plaintively. "She's -going to do the flower song next. By-the-bye, I -may have to introduce you to some of the girls. -What shall I call you?" -</p> - -<p> -"My <i>name</i>," Conrad answered deferentially, -"is 'Warrener.'" -</p> - -<p> -She bent her head; -</p> - -<p> -"Thank you," said Lady Darlington. -</p> - -<p> -When the concert was over he walked with her -as far as Mrs. Cheney's. Tattie of course was -with them. At the foot of the steps Tattie shook -hands with him and went indoors, and he remained -a minute saying 'good night' to Rosalind. -The other girl might well have heard all they -said, but the minute had charm to him because -the other girl had left them. It implied -something. And underneath, to both these shuttlecocks -of temperament, there was another charm, -not defined yet—to be savoured in the first -moments of solitude—the charm of recapturing a -mood of years ago. At a doorstep, late: "You -look tired?" "Oh, it's nothing." A pause. -"I shall see you to-morrow?" "Yes, come in to -tea." A whiff of the fragrance of his youth, a -touch of the sentimentality of her girlhood, -idealised Corporation Road as they parted in the fog. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish it were to-morrow! ... Good night." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you? ... Good night." -</p> - -<p> -The old tune was not classical, but it was -pretty. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap17"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XVII -</h3> - -<p> -"I want something substantial," said Conrad -gravely, shaking his head. "For the follow, say -a Chateaubriand." -</p> - -<p> -Two days had passed, and in his mind a new -and disquieting thought had risen—the thought -that Rosalind couldn't pay for enough to eat. -</p> - -<p> -Truly she was paying for a great deal to eat, -conjuring steaks and puddings on to the tables of -a dozen lodgings, and inventing strange stories -to account for her having half-sovereigns to lend. -But Conrad could not know that. He only knew -that the necessities of the <i>Kiss-and-Tell</i> Company -were more urgent than he had understood; and -he felt very sorry for all the girls, but his heart -bled for Lady Bountiful. -</p> - -<p> -"A Chateaubriand," he repeated firmly. It was -nourishing. "And pommes soufflées.... No? -Well, I'll leave the potatoes to you. With a -chestnut purée, eh? And let us have nice sweets. -Don't give me the table d'hôte sweets—special. -What about peaches? ... Well, send for the -best fruit you can get—you've plenty of time. -Where's the wine-list? A quarter to two. That -table in the corner—for three persons." -</p> - -<p> -There is one place in Blithepoint where the -chef can cook, though he shirks pommes soufflées. -You go downstairs to it—unless you choose the -hotel entrance—and it was in the restaurant -downstairs that Conrad ordered the luncheon on -Monday. He meant to say things at luncheon. -But when Rosalind and Tattie arrived, there was -a bomb-shell with the hors d'oeuvres. -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Quisby has bolted!" they cried, taking -their seats. -</p> - -<p> -"Bolted?" he echoed. "How do you know?" -</p> - -<p> -"Queenie Vavasour and Miss Jinman have -been to his rooms this morning. They went to tell -him they must have some money. He has gone, -he went last night—with our concert sixpences." -</p> - -<p> -"I say!" exclaimed Conrad. He was by this -time almost a member of the Company. "What -are we all going to do?" -</p> - -<p> -"It's a nice fix," continued Rosalind, reproachfully. -"I told you this would happen, I never -thought he'd be able to take us on anywhere -else—never for a moment. Didn't I warn you?" -</p> - -<p> -"You did," said Conrad. "Oh! I admit it. -Will you have a sardine, or——? Miss -Lascelles, let me give you some of the pretty ones -with the red and yellow." -</p> - -<p> -"I told you all along," repeated Rosalind, -"that girls could do nothing for themselves in a -matter like that; that it needed a man to take it -up. Now, didn't I say so?" -</p> - -<p> -"You said so several times. But you didn't -suggest what I should do. I couldn't menace -him with a revolver." -</p> - -<p> -"Men are so lazy!" she smiled. -</p> - -<p> -"You may smile," said Conrad reprovingly, -"but it's very serious for us. We are all out of -an engagement." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she agreed. "And goodness only -knows when you'll get one again!" -</p> - -<p> -"That's sheer spite—you're jealous of my -talent. Miss Lascelles, tell her I can't be out of -an engagement long." -</p> - -<p> -"With all his experience?" cried Tattie. -"His notices as 'Buttercup' were immense!" -</p> - -<p> -"Poor Miss Jinman!" sighed Rosalind; "I'm -sorry for that old woman." She nodded at -Conrad. "You should see her this morning!" -</p> - -<p> -"I want to see her," he declared, "or rather, -I want one of you to see her for me. You know -we've all got to stick together in this thing, -and——" -</p> - -<p> -"And 'be loyal to the show!'" said Tattie. -</p> - -<p> -"No, but joking aside, I want you girls to help -me straighten things out. I was going to talk to -you about it anyhow. Now tell me—what do -they all want?" -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose they all want a 'shop,'" Tattie -answered. -</p> - -<p> -"I can't give them a 'shop'—I'm not in the -business—but I might send them home with a -few of the Best in their pockets. How would -that do?" -</p> - -<p> -They lifted their heads, and looked at him; -and the waiter put the soup on the table. -</p> - -<p> -"Did you mean it?" murmured Rosalind when -the waiter had turned his back. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, of course. Now this looks very good; -let's enjoy our lunch! We seem to be getting on -a bit, so we needn't worry. Don't you think you -ought to take your jacket off—you'll be cold -when you go out?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, I've loosened it," she said. "But—er—do -you know I'd rather you didn't do that? -I—I think they could all manage without." -</p> - -<p> -"Now, why interfere?" said Conrad peevishly. -"This is my department. You have -bungled hopelessly yourself. By your own -showing you distrusted the man—and you let him -escape, instead of patrolling his doorstep like a -bright young woman. Then when <i>I</i> bring intelligence -to bear on the matter, and we're all happy, -you must cut in and throw cold water on the -scheme. Take your soup and be good." -</p> - -<p> -"Isn't it nice?" said Tattie. -</p> - -<p> -"Now that's a sensible remark. I turn to -<i>you</i>—we won't be interfered with. Suppose you -help me, Miss Lascelles? Will you be Santa -Claus in Corporation Road for me?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh," she faltered. "You had better go -yourself." -</p> - -<p> -"I?" gasped Conrad; "I wouldn't do it for -a million—they'd thank me, some people have -got no tact." -</p> - -<p> -"They'd cry over you," she said, with tears in -her own voice. "You don't know what it is -you're doing. They aren't used to men -who— You're a trump!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, pickles," he said. "Where's that -waiter? I say, we're all being awfully solemn; -I thought this was going to be a jolly party? Miss -Daintree——" -</p> - -<p> -"Mr. Warrener?" -</p> - -<p> -"Please talk." -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to talk later on," she said. "I'm -going to talk like a mother to you." -</p> - -<p> -"Won't you talk like yourself in the meanwhile? -I don't want anything better." -</p> - -<p> -Then she talked like herself; and the plates -were changed, and the hour was pleasurable. It -was a very uncommon hour, because her friend -was so nice. The pretty girl's friend is nearly -always an infliction, and makes mischief -afterwards because she hasn't been sufficiently -admired. It was such a pleasurable hour that -Conrad knew a pang of regret in reflecting that there -would be few more like it—Rosalind, no doubt, -would flee from Blithepoint as soon as the other -women. Would he meet her again? Of course -she would drift into another Company; meet -another man in another town. Damn! -</p> - -<p> -"I'm going to miss that girl," he mused, "and -know she's flirting with somebody else while I'm -remembering her!" -</p> - -<p> -"'The world,'" he exclaimed, indulging his -weakness for quotation, "'is a comedy to those -that think, a tragedy to those who feel!'" And -neither Rosalind nor Tattie found it needful to -inquire to which category he was assigning -himself; there may be sentimental seconds even over -a chateaubriand. He added, "Let me fill up -that glass for you—you've nothing there but froth." -</p> - -<p> -It was more than half-past three when the -waiter abased himself in letting them out, and as -they turned along the Parade, Tattie recollected -that she had "promised to be with Miss Vavasour -at four." They all stopped for a minute, and -Conrad tried to look as if he didn't want her to -go. However she went, and he and Rosalind -sauntered on without her. -</p> - -<p> -"What shall we do?" he said. "Shall we go -and hear the band?" -</p> - -<p> -"There isn't one in the afternoon this time of -year." -</p> - -<p> -"Not in the band-stand, but I think there is on -the pier. The band-stand is retained chiefly as -a rendezvous, I believe. When he says 'Where -will you meet me this evening?' she always says -'Opposite the band-stand.'" -</p> - -<p> -Rosalind replied, "How do you know?" -</p> - -<p> -"I gather it. Pensive figures watch the clock, -and look up and down. They all turn hopefully -when they hear you, and scowl at you as you come -in sight. I passed once in the evening; I felt -myself such a general disappointment that I -always walk on the other side now." -</p> - -<p> -The man at the turnstiles told them that the -orchestra was playing in the theatre; and as they -drew close they heard it, but for some little time -they could find no way inside. No charge was -made for admission to the theatre in the -afternoon, and only the entrance to the balcony was -open. They saw nobody to guide them. There -were no other footsteps on the pier; there was -no sound but the plaintive music that they couldn't -reach. They wandered round and round the -terrace, trying locked doors. -</p> - -<p> -The tide was out, and the sheen of the smooth -wet sand was violet under a paling sky. Little -white waves were hurrying, and in the faded -distance the star of the lightship gleamed and hid. -</p> - -<p> -Through the window of an unexpected office -they spied the girl who sold the stall tickets in -the evening. "Oh, yes!" she said, and ran out -to show them where to go. -</p> - -<p> -Only two or three figures inhabited the roomy -balcony. Below, the body of the house was -soulless, shrouded in white wrappers. Faint -daylight touched the auditorium wanly, but gas jets -yellowed the faces of the orchestra. In the -narrow line of glare amid the emptiness, they -played. -</p> - -<p> -Rosalind and Conrad sat down in the last row, -and spoke in low voices. He knew that the -impression of the scene was going to linger with -him after she had gone. -</p> - -<p> -In a few minutes she whispered, "Let's go -on the terrace again," and they crept to the door. -</p> - -<p> -"We couldn't talk in there," she said.... -"Look here! what you were saying to Tattie: -I want you to tell me straight, I don't know -anything about you—can you afford to do all -that?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh yes," he said; "that's all right." -</p> - -<p> -"But really? Tell me the truth. How well -off are you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, well! ... I'm very well off." -</p> - -<p> -"Because if you're going to miss the money, -there's another way out, that's why. I shouldn't -forgive myself if I put you in a hole; I bar that -sort of thing. Lunch and flowers are all very -well, but the other's rather steep." -</p> - -<p> -"I sha'n't miss the money." -</p> - -<p> -"Honour bright?" -</p> - -<p> -"Honour bright!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh well, then! It's awfully good of you, -I sha'n't forget it," she said. "'Warrener' is -really your name, isn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"I thought you understood that at the time." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she said, "I did. I only wondered -for a moment—I'm sorry." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, it's nothing," he answered.... "You -know what I want you to tell me?" -</p> - -<p> -"What?" -</p> - -<p> -"About yourself. What can I do for you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, you needn't count me or Tattie. We -don't want anything." -</p> - -<p> -"That's all bosh. But you don't come in -with the rest—I want to do more than that for -you. Treat me as a pal. You're on the rocks, -and I'm not; I've been there, and I know what -it means. Let me give you a hundred to set you -right." -</p> - -<p> -"You want to give me a hundred pounds?" She -threw back her astonished face at him—she -was all white throat and eyes. "D' ye like me -so much?" -</p> - -<p> -"Damnably!" said Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -The music had stopped, and now the bandsmen -came hurrying past them. They stood looking -shoreward, in a pause. On the dusk of the -Parade the chain of electric globes quivered into -light. -</p> - -<p> -"It's rather rough on you," she murmured. -"Isn't it? I've always drawn the line. It's -no good." -</p> - -<p> -"I didn't think it was. I shouldn't have told -you if you hadn't asked me. I know; if a man -cared about you, you'd expect him to want to -marry you." -</p> - -<p> -"Why shouldn't I?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, why not? Only I'm one of the men -who aren't designed for husbands. I could -make a beautiful lover—while it lasted; a very -staunch friend—to a man, or a woman—all -my life; but everybody has his limitations. -Women are just the same. There are women -who are made to be daughters—they're perfect -as daughters; but they should never marry. -There are women who're meant for mothers. -<i>They</i> should never marry—I mean they make -very poor wives. Not many of us are first-class -all round. Still that's nothing to do with it. I -haven't asked you for anything, and I'm not -going to. If you had been—different, well, for -my own sake, I should have been very glad! I -never played 'Faust,' though, everybody's -morality begins somewhere—it's just my luck that -I've got fond of a girl who <i>isn't</i> 'different.' But -there it is! We needn't talk about it. Put that -aside, and let me help you as if I were your -brother. I don't feel like your brother, but you -can trust me just as much. I quite understand. -I'm not vain enough to suppose you like me, but -I quite understand that it would be 'no use' if -you did." -</p> - -<p> -She looked beyond him pensively, and pensively -she hummed:— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'What is the use of loving a girl<br /> - If the girl don't love you?<br /> - What is the use of loving a girl<br /> - When you know she don't want yer <i>to</i>?'"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Don't do that," said Conrad. "I'm trying -to talk to you like a chum. If you sing that -song, I shall kiss you." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, what do you want me to say?" she -asked, strolling on. -</p> - -<p> -"I don't want you to say anything. You'll -get the money for the others in the morning, and -I'll send you the hundred during the day." -</p> - -<p> -"You're not to!" she exclaimed. "I don't -need it, I swear I don't. You're not to send -Tattie or me a shilling. If you do, I'll send it -back." -</p> - -<p> -"Why?" -</p> - -<p> -"Because I don't need it, that's why." -</p> - -<p> -"No it isn't. It's because you don't believe -what I've said. My dear girl, I don't suppose -I shall ever see you again after you leave here. -When do you go?" -</p> - -<p> -"We go to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"You and Tattie? I mean 'Miss Lascelles'?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, 'Tattie' doesn't hurt. Yes, she's going -to stay—we're going to be together for a little -while." -</p> - -<p> -"Where? Don't you want me to ask?" -</p> - -<p> -"London," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"Have you got any people there?" -</p> - -<p> -"No.... The only relation that counts is in -the country now. Now mind! You're not to send -anything for us two, or you'll offend me. -Whatever you send will go to the others, all of it." -</p> - -<p> -"Have it your own way," he said quietly. -</p> - -<p> -They walked once round the terrace without -speaking. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you angry?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"You've hurt rather. You've pitched it back -at me. I don't mean the beastly money, but the -intention. I think you might have trusted me. -On my honour, I'd have taken no advantage -of it!" -</p> - -<p> -After another pause, she said: -</p> - -<p> -"I'm a fool to tell you, but I can't help it.... -I'm not on the stage any more, I'm not -hard up; I'm—married." -</p> - -<p> -"Married?" -</p> - -<p> -"I've been married five years." -</p> - -<p> -"Good Lord!" he said. "Well— Not on -the stage? What are you doing here then?" -</p> - -<p> -"I wasn't acting; I only came down to be in -it all again. I—" her smile was wistful, "I -was 'trying back'; I wanted to feel as I used -to feel—I was dull." -</p> - -<p> -He nodded comprehension; "Oh yes! I've -done a lot of 'trying back' myself.... Do you -care for him?" -</p> - -<p> -She gave the faintest shrug. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish you weren't going away," he sighed. -"I shall often see you again?" -</p> - -<p> -"We're the only people left on the pier," said -Rosalind. "Don't you think we're having more -than our twopenn'orth?" -</p> - -<p> -"I shall go to town on Wednesday," he told -her, as they turned homeward. -</p> - -<p> -"Shall you?" -</p> - -<p> -"You haven't answered what I asked you." -</p> - -<p> -"I don't know," she said. "Besides you'll -soon forget that you wanted to." -</p> - -<p> -"If I don't forget?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well— You may write to me." -</p> - -<p> -"Where?" -</p> - -<p> -"I'll post you a line before I leave," she -promised. "We shall leave as early as we -can—as soon as we've done your business for you; -I sha'n't see you before I go. By-the-bye, I don't -know if you're staying at the hotel where we -lunched?—there'll be letters for you from the -Company to-morrow, too." -</p> - -<p> -"No, I'm at the Grand," he said. "My -Christian name is 'Conrad.'" -</p> - -<p> -It seemed a very short distance to Corporation -Road. It seemed untrue that it was only four -days since he had stood at the door with her for -the first time. They went up the steps, and she -did not turn the knob. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you coming in?" she murmured. "I -daresay Tattie is back." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you know I think I'd rather say 'au -revoir' to you alone." -</p> - -<p> -"Au revoir," she said. Her hand was formal. -He was rather chilled. -</p> - -<p> -"You mean to post me that line?" he questioned. -</p> - -<p> -She nodded. And then in the darkness of the -doorway, she laughed, and began to hum the song -that he had warned her not to sing. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap18"></a></p> - -<h3> -CHAPTER XVIII -</h3> - -<p> -He found the evening very long. He was restless. -The memory of her kiss was exquisite, but -it did not make for repose. It seemed to him -intolerably stupid that he was boring himself in -the billiard-room of the Grand when Corporation -Road was so near. Still she had taken leave of -him—if he went he might be unwelcome to her, -she might be disappointing to him. -</p> - -<p> -Early next afternoon he received the line she -had promised. It arrived with letters from the -Company. They were such deeply grateful -letters that they hurt him a little when he read -them, but he guessed which was hers, and he -opened that one first. Mixed with the pleasure -with which he opened it there was the curiosity, -even the—he would have refused to acknowledge -it—even the slight touch of apprehension -with which a man who likes a woman better than -he knows her always opens her first letter. -</p> - -<p> -He smiled—he heard her speaking. -</p> - -<p> -"If you ever write, the address is 'Miss Tattie -Lascelles, c/o Madame Hermiance, 42 bis Great -Titchfield Street, W.' You understand? You -aren't to put my name on the outside envelope -at all. Blithepoint is blessing you.—R.D." -</p> - -<p> -If he ever wrote, did she say? By his halidom -he was going to write immediately! His impulse -was to beg her to dine with him, but probably -she would find it easier to meet him during the -day. Luncheon then. But where? The choice -of a restaurant bothered him—she might be -afraid of acquaintances seeing her. He bethought -himself of the Café Anonyme in Soho, and -entreated her to lunch with him on Thursday at -two o'clock. As a postscript he scribbled, "You -won't say you can't, will you? If I don't hear -from you, I shall be waiting for you at the door." To -enable her to reply, though he prayed that -no reply would come, he added that he should -stay at the Carlton. -</p> - -<p> -He was glad to leave Blithepoint; when the -woman one liked there has gone, a place is always -distressing. In the train it was agreeable to -reflect that she had read his note by this time. -Again he imagined her as she read it—looking -down, looking up, putting it in her pocket. The -little Café Anonyme had been a good idea. They -would do their best for him there, and their soles -à la Marguery were unequalled in London. The -private rooms, too, were not unhomely, they hit -the happy medium—there was no riot of red -velvet and gilding, nor were there rag roses -hanging askew in dusty glass epergnes. It would -have been unappreciative—it would have been -an insult—to ask Rosalind to be made love to -in a vulgar room. -</p> - -<p> -He wandered about the Carlton after dinner -until the last post was delivered, and was relieved -to find there was nothing for him. He was sure -that if she hadn't meant to go, she would have -declined at once. She wouldn't raise his hopes -only to dash them to the parquetry as the clock -was preparing to strike; she wouldn't be thoughtless, -unfeeling. Oh no, she wasn't like that! -</p> - -<p> -And there was no letter on Thursday either, -and he sallied to Soho with delight. -</p> - -<p> -The exterior of the Café Anonyme when he -reached it looked to him a shade less ingenuous -than it had been, but upstairs all was well. The -view of the grim houses opposite was screened -by lace, firelight flashed on the Dutch hearth -cheerfully, and the little white table, set for -tête-à-tête, invited confidences. He forced his -attention upon the menu, and lounged back into the -street. It was a fine day for London. The sky -was funereal, and the pavements were muddy, but -there was no rain falling. He loitered before -the restaurant happily, and glanced at his watch. -At five minutes to two, expectation began to -swell. -</p> - -<p> -At two o'clock he couldn't hold back a smile—at -any instant now her face might irradiate -the blank. He wondered which way she would -come, and if she would drive, or walk. He could -see for some distance, both to right and left, and -his only regret was that he couldn't see both -ways at once. He kept turning his head, fearful -that he might miss a second's joy. -</p> - -<p> -There was a leaping moment in which a figure -suggested her as it hove in sight. The girl proved -offensively plain, and he was furious with her as -she passed. Somehow he did not rebound from -the mistake—it was the first fall in the temperature; -the girl had killed his elation. He watched -now eagerly, but he repressed no smile. -</p> - -<p> -She was late. Oh, of course she would come, -but the fish would be spoilt. Rather stupid of -her! There was nothing more irritating than to -have a careful luncheon ruined because a woman -took twenty minutes to tie her veil. A melancholy -church clock boomed the quarter. He began -to feel that he was looking a fool, traversing -these twelve paving-stones. He was annoyed with -her—he should be at no pains to conceal it! -</p> - -<p> -Constantly hansoms rattled into view, with -disappointing people in them. There appeared to -him discouragement in the gaze of the portier -now, and a pair of loafers outside the public-house -at the corner were taking interest in him.... -He supposed she <i>would</i> come? Into the -tension of his mood there entered the first sick -qualm of doubt. -</p> - -<p> -And the church clock boomed again. Hope was -breathing its last in him. Annoyance had melted -into despair—he longed for her too intensely -to be reproachful if she came. He would rejoice -over her, he would unbutton her gloves, he would -say how pretty her frock was, and that the chef -was delighted to have been given more time! -</p> - -<p> -Five-and-twenty minutes to three! ... Well, -he had better see what he had to pay; it was no -use hoping any longer. Well, just five minutes!—the -last stake. If she weren't here then, she -wouldn't come at all; she wouldn't expect him -to wait at the door all day.... "At the door!"—his -heart stopped—the words bore suddenly -a new significance. In Blithepoint "at the door" -might have meant at the door of her lodgings. -Could it be possible she had misunderstood—had -she thought he would be on the doorstep in -Great Titchfield Street? No! how could -she? she had told him she was married. But the -address was Tattie's—yes, she might have thought -so! Good heavens! had <i>she</i> been waiting there -for <i>him</i>? Perspiration broke out on him. What -was he to do? Look at the time!—she had -given him up long ago, she had gone away! ... Oh, -how could she have thought it? he had -named the restaurant! ... Still it was very odd -she hadn't come. He must find her, he must -explain! But—but—but she was a married -woman, he couldn't go and peal the bell and ask -for her. Wait a moment, what had she said? -Was she to stay with Tattie, or was Tattie to -stay with her? ... Anyhow Tattie <i>was</i> there. -Yes, he <i>could</i> go—he could go there and ask -for Tattie! His head was spinning. What the -devil had become of all the cabs? -</p> - -<p> -Two minutes later the portier had blown his -whistle, and Soho was behind. -</p> - -<p> -The pace was reckless, but to Conrad's fevered -stare even the omnibuses seemed to mock his -hansom. Alternately he threw bribes and -objurgations through the trap. Where was Great -Titchfield Street hidden? Were they making a -tour of the West End slums? The cab jerked -to a stoppage at last, and he leapt out, and -hesitated. Nothing but shops confronted him. Had -he forgotten the number—wasn't it "42 bis?" -The next moment he saw the name, painted -over a window—"Madame Hermiance, French -Laundress." -</p> - -<p> -It was very warm inside. Three girls, and a -moist loosely clothed woman, whose opulent -bosom was partially concealed, stood at work -behind a long table. It fluttered with aerial frills -and scraps of pink tissue paper; one of the girls -was folding things up, and making them look -pretty. He said, "Bonjour, madame," and the -woman said, "Good afternoon, sare." -</p> - -<p> -"Miss Lascelles, is she staying here? Is she in?" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh no, sare, she is gone." -</p> - -<p> -"Gone?" ejaculated Conrad. -</p> - -<p> -"She did lodge 'ere," added the laundress; "I -let 'er a room upstairs; but she go away—she get -an engagement. You mean an actress, isn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, yes," he said, "I know all about the -engagement, but she came back. She came back -the day before yesterday, didn't she?" -</p> - -<p> -"Mais non, monsieur." She shook her head. -"She is not come back." -</p> - -<p> -"Damn," he faltered. "Er—but there was -a letter sent here for her—it must have been -delivered yesterday morning. What has become -of the letter?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, letters?" She banged an iron about a -shirt with double cuffs; perturbed as he was, he -shuddered to see the havoc she was wreaking. -</p> - -<p> -"Mees Lascelles 'as writ me a post carte—she -ask if 'er letters come, I send 'em on. I zink she -gives up ze <i>théâtre</i>, I zink she takes a situation -wiz a lady of title. Julie!" she called; "zat -letter zat come yesterday for Mees Lascelles, it -go to ze post, hein?" -</p> - -<p> -"J'-n'-sais-<i>pas</i>!" called Julie. She sent a -button flying off a waistcoat without turning a hair. -</p> - -<p> -"Ameliarran?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes'm?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ze letter for Mees Lascelles, where ees it?" -</p> - -<p> -"There yer are!" replied "Ameliar Ann." She -was sewing a red cotton hieroglyphic into a -customer's "tying bow"—near one of the ends. -Her nod indicated a shelf piled with packages, -and Conrad perceived his letter lying neglected -among the washing. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," said Madame Hermiance. "Alors, I -post it to-night myself." -</p> - -<p> -"But this is no trifling matter," exclaimed -Conrad, trembling with rage. "Miss Lascelles -may lose a very large salary through this. That's -a business letter—from an impresario. It should -have been forwarded without delay." -</p> - -<p> -"Tiens!" said Madame Hermiance calmly. -"Julie! pack up ze collars." -</p> - -<p> -He tramped across the shop, and the three -girls' heads turned to the left. This much was -certain: Rosalind had said that she and Tattie -would be together. Sheer babble, that about the -situation! If the note reached Tattie at once, -there was hope yet. He strode back, and the -three girls' heads turned to the right. -</p> - -<p> -"Madame!" -</p> - -<p> -"Monsieur?" -</p> - -<p> -"I must apologise for occupying your time, -but——" -</p> - -<p> -"Ça ne fait rien," said the laundress. "Julie! pack -up ze shirts." -</p> - -<p> -"But I want you to do me a kindness—I -want you to be good enough to send the letter -to Miss Lascelles now, by a messenger. I -suppose it won't take very long?" -</p> - -<p> -"Mais, monsieur, I 'ave nobody to send." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, but my dear lady," he said—and -talked to her persuasively of paying for the -service and the hansom that was outside. -</p> - -<p> -"Alors!" said Madame Hermiance. -</p> - -<p> -Expectancy bubbled in him anew. He would -scrawl a line explaining what he had suffered, -beseeching Rosalind to meet him still! Would -Madame have the kindness to provide him with -an envelope? -</p> - -<p> -It was provided. -</p> - -<p> -And a sheet of note-paper? he was abased by -the trouble he was causing her. -</p> - -<p> -Alas! her note-paper was not in the shop, but -she could offer him a price-list—it was very -long, and the back was blank. -</p> - -<p> -This was no moment to finick; the case was -urgent. He put his foot on a laundry basket, -and the price-list on his knee; and at the back -of "Blouses," "Bodices" and "White petticoats -from 6d," he pencilled his appeal. -</p> - -<p> -When "Ameliarran" had cast off her apron, -he promised her a sovereign to buy feathers. She -was given the post-card bearing the address, and -he let her depart without a question. It was -evident now that Rosalind had withheld her -address very deliberately; to ascertain where she -lived wouldn't be playing the game! But would -the appeal find her at home? She might be -shopping, visiting, taking an aimless, fatal walk! -Hope tottered in him again. The girls who -remained eyed him sympathetically; he was -conscious that they placed no credence in his -narrative of the impresario, and he withdrew to wait -where he would be less interesting. -</p> - -<p> -The street was not picturesque; for the scene -of a lover's impatience it might be called -"preposterous." The narrow pavements were so busy -that he was forced to choose the narrow road; -and the road was made narrower by stalls of -vegetables and tin pots. "Ameliarran," he had -heard, might accomplish her mission in half an -hour. He escaped from the marketing, and lit -a cigar in a grey thoroughfare of comparative -seclusion. -</p> - -<p> -"Would she be at home?" When he turned -back he braced himself to meet the crisis. He -had consulted his watch frequently, but he had -not returned before "Ameliarran" might be -expected. Nevertheless he was too soon. He -withdrew again, and fumed once more among the -cabbages and pans. -</p> - -<p> -The next time he was not too soon. He found -her in the shop, and she had a note for him. -From Rosalind, or Tattie? Rosalind! he knew -the writing. Let the girls gape! he wasn't -going outside to read it among the vegetables. -He opened it with elaborate listlessness. She -had not protracted his pain while she framed -graceful messages. Her response consisted of -eight words; but they sufficed: -</p> - -<p> -"Wait at the laundry. Throwing on my hat." -</p> - -<p> -He doubled the girl's sovereign, and drove -no bargain with her mistress. But the laundry -cooped him now. He closed the door, and -loitered gratefully on the step. Yes, indeed, he -would wait; in the sweetness of relief he was -scarcely impatient. A little drizzle was in the -air, but he did not heed it. The day, and the -morrow, and a hundred days broke into smiles -before him. And while he lingered there—on -the laundress's step, in the squalid street, under -the rain—Conrad suddenly awoke to the exhilaration -that sparkled in him, was startled by its -freshness. He realised that fizzing in his pulses -and his mind was the zest, the buoyancy that he -had mourned as dead. It was here, alive! He -reviewed with gusto his emotions of the afternoon, -the hope, the suspense, the desperation—the -quiver of rejoicing. It had been good! he -had lived and felt this afternoon; he would not -have abated those emotions by a jot! The -immoral truth was clear to him, he had made his -great discovery—that a man is young as often -as he falls in love. That Rosalind had beauty, -was an irrelevance. Again, to her lover a woman -<i>is</i> what she makes <i>him feel</i>. Whether she is fair -or ill-favoured, whether she is worthy or worthless, -whether she is formed like Venus, or clasps -him in arms as thin as penholders, to him she is -supreme, and while he adores her he is Young. -</p> - -<p> -The rain was pattering more smartly, and he -waited under his umbrella. Exultation was in his -heart, her promise was in his pocket, ten years -of his age had been shed behind the door. And -at this point it may be discreet of us to take -leave of Conrad—as Rosalind's cab comes -jingling round the corner. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -THE END -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="thought"> -******** -<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap19"></a></p> - -<p class="t3b"> -<i>BY LEONARD MERRICK</i> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - THE POSITION OF PEGGY<br /> - CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH<br /> - THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN: STORIES<br /> - WHISPERS ABOUT WOMEN: STORIES<br /> - LYNCH'S DAUGHTER<br /> - THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD<br /> - THIS STAGE OF FOOLS<br /> - CYNTHIA<br /> - ONE MAN'S VIEW<br /> - THE ACTOR MANAGER<br /> - THE WORLDLINGS<br /> - WHEN LOVE FLIES OUT O' THE WINDOW<br /> - THE QUAINT COMPANIONS<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>Several of Mr. Merrick's books are at<br /> - present unpublished in America. Mitchell<br /> - Kennerley will publish new volumes from<br /> - time to time.</i> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Conrad in Quest of His Youth, by Leonard Merrick - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH *** - -***** This file should be named 56226-h.htm or 56226-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/2/2/56226/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -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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