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diff --git a/old/60278.txt b/old/60278.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d31aabc..0000000 --- a/old/60278.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8119 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Thirteen Travellers, by Hugh Walpole - - -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: The Thirteen Travellers - - -Author: Hugh Walpole - - - -Release Date: September 11, 2019 [eBook #60278] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS*** - - -E-text prepared by Val Wooff, Tim Lindell, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/thirteentravelle00walp - - -Transcriber's note: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - Text enclosed by plus signs has small capital letters - (+small capital letters+). - - - - - -THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS - -HUGH WALPOLE - - - * * * * * * - -_Books by_ HUGH WALPOLE - - -_NOVELS_ - -THE WOODEN HORSE -THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN -THE GREEN MIRROR -THE DARK FOREST -THE SECRET CITY -THE CAPTIVES - - -_ROMANCES_ - -MARADICK AT FORTY -THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE -FORTITUDE -THE DUCHESS OF WREXE - -_SHORT STORIES_ - -THE GOLDEN SCARECROW -JEREMY -THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS - - -_BELLES-LETTERS_ - -JOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL STUDY - - * * * * * * - - -THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS - -by - -HUGH WALPOLE - -Author of "The Captives," "Jeremy," "The Secret -City," "The Green Mirror," Etc. - - - - - - -New [Illustration] York -George H. Doran Company - -Copyright, 1921, -by George H. Doran Company - -[Illustration] - -Copyright, 1920, 1921, -by the Pictorial Review Company - -Printed in the United States of America - - - - -TO - -JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER -IN FRIENDSHIP - - -"After they were blown up they were blown down again, and then had to -pause for a moment to get their breath...."--_Hanspickle._ - - +Henry Galleon+ - - - - -CONTENTS - - I +Absalom Jay+ - II +Fanny Close+ - III +The Hon. Clive Torby+ - IV +Miss Morganhurst+ - V +Peter Westcott+ - VI +Lucy Moon+ - VII +Mrs. Porter and Miss Allen+ - VIII +Lois Drake+ - IX +Mr. Nix+ - X +Lizzie Rand+ - XI +Nobody+ - XII +Bombastes Furioso+ - - - - -THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS - - -AUTHOR'S NOTE - - -_No character in this book is drawn from any person now living._ - - - - -THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS - - - - -I - -ABSALOM JAY - - -Somewhere in the early nineties was Absalom Jay's first period. He -was so well known a figure in London at that time as to be frequently -caricatured in the weekly society journals, and Spy's "Absalom," that -appeared in the 1894 volume of _Vanity Fair_, is one of his most -successful efforts. In those days were anyone so ignorant as to be -compelled to ask who Jay was he would probably receive the answer: -"Oh, don't you know? He's a cousin of John Beaminster's. He founded -the "Warrington" with Pemmy Stevens. He's.... Oh, I don't know.... He -goes everywhere. Knows more people than anyone else in London, I should -imagine." - -Spy's caricature of him has caught that elegant smartness that was -Absalom's most marked individuality, _too_ smart critics have been -known to say; and certainly, if the ideal of correct dress is that no -one should notice your clothes Absalom was not correct. Everyone always -noticed his clothes. But here again one must be fair. It may not have -been altogether his clothes that one noticed. From very early years his -hair was snow-white, and he wore it brushed straight back from his pink -forehead in wavy locks. He wore also a little white tufted Imperial. -He had an eyeglass that hung on a thick black cord. His favourite -colour was a dark blue, and with this he wore spats (in summer of a -truly terrific whiteness), a white slip, black tie, and pearl pin. -He wore wonderful boots and shoes and was said to have more of these -than any other man in London. It was also said that his feet were the -smallest (masculine) in the British Isles. He was made altogether on a -very small scale. He was not, I should think, more than five-feet-six -in height, but was all in perfect proportion. His enemies, of whom he -had, like everyone else, a few, said that his wonderful pink complexion -was not entirely Nature's work, but here his enemies lied. Even at -the very last he did not give way to the use of cosmetics. He was -the kindest-hearted little man in the world, and in the days of his -prosperity was as happy as the day was long. He lived entirely for -Society, and because this is intended to be a true portrait, I must -admit that there was something of the snob in his character. He himself -admitted it frankly. "I like to be with people of rank," he would say, -"simply because I'm more comfortable with them. I know just what to say -to Johnny Beaminster, and I'm tongue-tied with the wife of my barber. -_Que voulez-vous?_" - -I'm afraid, however, that it went a little further than that. In the -Season his looking-glass was thronged with cards, invitations to dinner -and dances and musical evenings. "I live for Society," he said, "as -some men live for killing pheasants, and other men for piling up money. -My fun is as good as another man's. At any rate I get good company." - -It was his intention to be seen at every London function, public or -private, that could be considered a first-class function; people -wondered how he got about as he did. It seemed as though there must be -three or four Absaloms. - -His best time was during the last few years of King Edward VII.'s -reign. His funny little anxious face could be frequently seen in -those groups of celebrities invited to meet the King at some famous -house-party. It was said that the King liked his company, but I don't -know how that can have been because Absalom was never in his brightest -days very amusing. He talked a good deal, but always said just what -everyone else said. He was asked everywhere because he was so safe, -because he was so willing to fetch and carry, and because he knew -exactly what it was that ladies wanted. He entertained only a little in -return, but nobody minded that because, as everyone knew, "he really -hadn't a penny in the world"--which meant that he had about L1,500 a -year in various safe investments. - -A year before the war he was seized with a little gust of speculation. -Against the advice of "Tony" Pennant, who looked after his investments -for him, he ventured to buy here and sell there with rather serious -results. He pulled up just in time to save disaster, but he had to -give up his little house in Knightsbridge and took a flat at Hortons -in Duke Street. Although this was a "service" flat he still retained -his man James, who had been with him for a number of years and knew his -habits to perfection. - -He made his rooms at Hortons charming, and he had the dark blue -curtains and the gold mirror bristling with invitations, and the old -coloured prints and the big, signed photographs of Queen Alexandra -and the Duchess of Wrexe in their silver frames, and the heavy silver -cigarette-box that King Edward had given him, all in their accustomed -places. Of course, the flat was small. His silver-topped bottles and -silver-backed brushes, and rows of boots and shoes and the two big -trouser-presses simply overwhelmed his bedroom. - -But he was over sixty-five now (although he would have been -horrified if he thought that you knew it) and he didn't need much -space--moreover, he was always out. - -Then came the war, and the first result of this was that James joined -up! During those first August days Absalom hadn't fancied that the war -would touch him at all, although he was hotly patriotic and cried out -daily at the "Warrington" that he wished he were a lad again and could -shoulder a gun. - -James's departure frightened him; then "Tony" Pennant explained to him -that his investments were not so secure as they had been and he'd be -lucky if any of them brought him in anything. And of course the whole -of his social world vanished--no more parties, no more balls, no more -Ascots and Goodwoods, no more shooting in Scotland, no more opera. He -bustled around then in a truly remarkable manner and attacked his -friends with the pertinacity of a bluebottle. The war was not a month -old before Bryce-Drummond secured him a job in one of the Ministries -at six hundred a year. It was not a very difficult job (it consisted -for the most part in interviewing eager young men, assuring them that -he would do his best for them, and then sending them along to somebody -else). He had a room to himself, and a lady typist who looked after him -like a mother. He was quite delighted when he discovered that she was a -daughter of the Bishop of Polchester and very well connected. She was -most efficient and did everything for him. - -He took his work very seriously indeed, and was delighted to be "doing -his bit." No one knew exactly what it was that he did at the Ministry, -and he himself was very vague about it, but he hinted at great things -and magnificent company. During those first years when there were so -many wonderful rumours, he hinted and hinted and hinted. "Well, I -mustn't mention names, of course; but you can take it from me----" and -people really did think he _did_ know. He had been in the closest touch -with so many great people before the war that it was only natural that -he should be in touch with them still. As a matter of fact he knew -nothing except what his typist told him. He led an extremely quiet -life during these years, but he didn't mind that because he understood -that it was the right thing to do. All the best people were absorbed -in their work--even old Lady Agatha Beaminster was running a home for -Serbians, and Rachel Seddon was a V.A.D. in France, and old "Plumtree" -Caudle was a Special Constable. He did not therefore feel left out of -things, because there was nothing really to be left out of. Moreover, -he was so hard up that it was safer to be quiet. All the more would he -enjoy himself when the war was over. - -But as the years went on and there seemed to be no sign of the war -being over, he began to be querulous. He missed James terribly, -and when in the summer of 1917 he heard that James was killed in -Mesopotamia it was a very serious blow. He seemed to be suddenly quite -alone in the world. In Hortons now they employed only women, and the -girl straight from Glebeshire who "valeted" him seemed to have but -little time to listen to his special needs, being divided up between -four flats and finding it all she could do, poor girl, to satisfy them -all. "After the war," Mr. Nix, the manager of Hortons, assured Absalom, -"we shall have men again!" - -"After the war!"--those three simple little words became the very -Abracadabra of Absalom's life. "After the war" everything would be -as it had always been--prices would go down, Society would come up, -his gold mirror would once again be stuck about with invitations, -he would find a successor to James, and a little house. What would -he live on? Oh, that would be all right. They would keep him at the -Ministry. He was so useful there that he couldn't conceive that they -would ever get on without him--there would be his work, of course, and -probably they would raise his salary. He was an optimist about the -future. Nothing made him so indignant as unjustified pessimism. When -someone talked pessimistically it was as though he, Absalom Jay, were -being personally threatened. Throughout the terrible spring of 1918 he -remained optimistic. "Britain _couldn't_ be beaten"--by which he meant -that Absalom Jay must be assured of his future comforts. In spite of -all that had happened he was as incapable in June, 1918, as he had been -in June, 1914, of imagining a different world, a different balance of -moral and ethical values. Then the tide turned. During that summer -and early autumn of 1918 Absalom was as happy as he had ever been. He -simply lived for the moment when "life would begin again." He began -to go out a little, to pay calls, to visit an old friend or two. He -found changes, of course. His own contemporaries seemed strangely old; -many of them had died, many of them had shattered nerves, many were -frightened of the future. - -If they were frightened it was their own fault, he declared. They -_would_ talk of ridiculous things like the Russian Revolution--nothing -angered him more than to hear chatter about the Russian Revolution--as -though that absurd affair with its cut-throats and Bolsheviks and Jews -and murderers could have anything to do with a _real_ country like -England. - -It was all the fault of our idiotic government; one regiment of British -soldiers and _that_ trouble would have been over.... No, he'd no -patience.... - -November 11th came, and with it the Armistice; he actually rode all the -way down Whitehall on a lorry and waved a flag. He _was_ excited, it -seemed as though the whole world were crying, "Hurray! Absalom Jay! -You were right, after all. You shall have your reward." - -He pictured to himself what was coming: 1919 would be the year; let -those dirty ruffians try and imitate Russian methods. They would see -what they would get. He resumed his old haughtiness of demeanour to -dependents. It was necessary in these days to show them their place. -Not that he was never kind. When they behaved properly he was very -kind indeed. To Fanny, the portress at Hortons--a nice girl with a -ready smile and an agreeable willingness to do _anything_, however -tiresome--he was delightful, asking her about her relations and once -telling her that he was grateful for what she did. He was compelled, -however, to speak haughtily to Rose, the "valet." He was forced often -to ring twice for her, and once when she came running and out of breath -and he showed her that she had put some of his waistcoats into one -drawer and some into another, thereby making it very difficult for him -to find them, she actually tossed her head and muttered something. He -spoke to her very kindly then, and showed her how things were done in -the best houses, because, after all, poor child, she was straight up -from the country. However, she did not take his kindliness in at all -the right spirit, but burst out angrily that "times was different now, -and one was as good as another"--a shocking thing to say, and savouring -directly of Bolshevism. - -He was getting into the habit of calling almost everything Bolshevism. - -Then the first blow fell. He found a letter on his table at the -Ministry; he opened it carelessly and read therein that as the war -was in process of being "wound up," changes were taking place that -would compel the Ministry, most reluctantly, to do without Mr. Jay's -services. Would he mind taking a month's notice?... - -He would mind very much indeed--Mind? It was as though a thunderbolt -had struck him on the very top of his neat little head. He stood in -front of the Ministerial fireplace, his little legs extended, the -letter trembling in his hand, his eyes, if the truth must be spoken, -flushed with tears. Dismissed! With a month's notice! He would speak -... he would protest ... he would abuse.... In the end, of course, he -did nothing. Bryce-Drummond said he was so very sorry, "but really -everythin' was tumblin' about one's ear's these days," and offered him -a cigarette. Lord John, to whom he appealed, looked distressed and said -it was "a damn shame; upon his word, he didn't know what we were all -coming to...." - -Absalom Jay was left; he realised that he could do nothing; he retired -into Hortons. - -There was in his soul a fund of optimism, or rather, to speak more -accurately, it took him time to realise the shifting sands upon which -his little house was built. He made now the very most of Hortons. It is -true that time began to lie heavy upon his hands. He rose very late in -the morning, having his cup of tea and boiled egg at nine, his bath at -ten; he read the _Morning Post_ for an hour; then the barber, Merritt, -from next door, came in to shave him and give him the news of the day. -Merritt was a most amusing dark and dapper little man. In him was the -very spirit of St. James's, and the Lord only knows how many businesses -he carried on beside his ostensible hair-dressing one. He could buy -anything for you, and sell anything, too! And his gossip! Well, really, -Absalom had thought himself a good gossip in his day, but he had never -been anything to Merritt! Of course, half-a-crown was a good deal for -a shave, and Absalom was not sure whether in these days he ought to -afford it--"my only luxury" he called it. - -He did not see many of his friends this Christmas time. They were all -out of London he supposed. He was a little surprised that the Beaumonts -hadn't asked him to spend Christmas at Hautoix. In the old days that -invitation had been as regular as the Waits. However, they had lost -their eldest son in the Cambrai fighting. They were having no parties -this Christmas, of course. - -He had thought that the Seddons might ask him. He got on so well with -Roddy and Rachel. They sent him a card "from Rollo," their baby. Kind -of them to remember him! So he busied himself about the flat. He was -preparing for the future--for that wonderful time when the war would be -really and truly over, and the world as it had been in the old days. -His life was centred in Hortons and the streets that surrounded it. He -could be seen every morning walking up Duke Street into Piccadilly. He -knew every shop by heart, the picture shops that seemed to be little -offspring of the great "Christie's" round the corner, with their -coloured plates from Ackermann's "Microcosm," and Pierce Egan, and -their oils of large, full-bosomed eighteenth century ladies; and the -shops with the china and the cabinets and the lacquer (everything very -expensive indeed); and Bottome's, the paper shop, with Mr. Bottome's -humourous comments on the day's politics chalked on to a slate near the -door, and the _Vie Parisienne_ very large in the window; then there was -the shop at the corner of Jermyn Street, with the silk dressing-gowns -of dazzling colours, and the latest fashions with pink silk vests, -pyjamas; and the great tobacconists and the wine-windows of Fortnum and -Masons--at last the familiar broad splendours of Piccadilly itself. -Up and down the little old streets that had known all the famous men -of their day, that had lodged Thackeray and Swift and Dryden, and now -lodged Mr. Bottomley and the author of _Mutt and Jeff_, the motors -rolled and hooted and honked, and the messenger boys whistled, and the -flower-man went up and down with his barrow, and everything was as -expensive and pleasant and humourous as could be. All this Absalom Jay -adopted. He was in his own mind, although he did not know it, King of -St. James's, and he felt that they must all be very glad to have him -there, and that rents must have gone up since it was known that he had -taken his residence among them. - -He even went in one day and expostulated with Mr. Bottome for having -the _Daily Herald_ in his window. Mr. Bottome agreed with him that it -was not a "nice" paper, but he also added that sinister sentence that -Absalom was getting now so tired of hearing that "these were strange -times. 'E didn't know what we were coming to." - -"Nonsense, my good man," said Absalom rather tartly, "England isn't -Russia." - -"Looks damned like it sometimes," said Mr. Bottome. - -Then as the year 1919 extended Absalom began to feel terribly lonely. -This fear of loneliness was rapidly becoming a concrete and definite -terror, lurking behind the curtains in his flat, ready to spring out -upon him at any moment. Absalom had never in all his life been alone. -There had always been people around him. Where now were they all? -Men now were being demobilised, houses were opening again, hospitals -were closing, dances were being given, and still his gold mirror -remained innocent of invitations. He fancied, too (he was becoming very -sensitive to impressions), that the men in the "Warrington" were not so -eager to see him as they had been. He went to the "Warrington" a great -deal now "to be cheered up." He talked to men to whom five years ago he -would not have condescended to say "Good-morning"--to Isaac Monteluke, -for instance, and Bandy Manners. Where were all his old friends? They -did not come to the club any longer, it seemed. He could never find a -bridge four now with whom he was really at home. This may have been -partly because he was nervous these days of losing money--he could not -afford it--and he did not seem to have his old control of his temper. -Then his brain was not quite so active as it had been. He could not -remember the cards.... - -One day he heard some fellow say: "Well, if I'd had my way I'd -chloroform everyone over sixty. We've had enough of the old duds -messing all the world up." - -Chloroform all the old duds! What a terrible thing to say? Why, five -years ago it had been the other way. Who cared then what a young man -said? What could he know? After all, it was the older men who had had -the experience, who knew life, who could tell the others.... - -He found himself laying down the law about things--giving ultimatums -like--"They ought to be strung up on lamp-posts--pandering to the -ignorant lower classes--that's what it is." - -If there had been one thing above all others that Absalom had hated -all his life it had been rudeness--there was the unforgivable sin. As -a young man he had been deferential to his elders, and so in his turn -he expected young men to be to him now. But they were not. No, they -were not. He had positively to give up the "Warrington" because of the -things that the young men said. - -There was a new trouble now--the trouble of money. His investments -were paying very badly, and the income tax was absurd. He wrote to the -_Times_ about his income tax, and they did not print his letter--did -not print it when they printed the letters of every sort of nobody. -Everything was so expensive that it took all his courage to look at -his weekly bill. He must eat less; one ate, he read in the paper, -far more than one needed. So he gave up his breakfast, having only a -cup of coffee and a roll, as he had often done in France in the old -days. He was aware suddenly that his clothes were beginning to look -shabby. Bacon, the valet, informed him of this. He did not like Bacon; -he found himself, indeed, sighing for the departed Rose. Bacon was -austere and inhuman. He spoke as seldom as possible. He had no faults, -he pressed clothes perfectly, kept drawers in absolute order, did not -drink Absalom's claret nor smoke Absalom's cigarettes. No faults--but -what an impossible man! Absalom was afraid of him. He drew his little -body together under the bedclothes when Bacon called him in the morning -because of Bacon's ironical eyes. Bacon gave him his _Times_ as though -he said: "How dare you take in the _Times_--spend threepence a day when -you are as poor as you are?" - -It was because of Bacon that Absalom gave up Merritt. He did not dare -to have him when Bacon knew his poverty. - -"I'm going to shave myself in the future, Merritt," he said; "it's only -laziness having you." Merritt was politely sorry, but he was not very -deeply grieved. Why should he be when he had the King's valet and Sir -Edward Hawksbury, the famous K.C., and Borden Hunt, the dramatist, to -shave every morning? - -But Absalom missed him terribly. He was now indeed alone. No more -gossip, no more laughter over other people's weaknesses, no more hearty -agreement over the wicked selfishness of the lower orders. - -Absalom gave up the _Times_ because he could not bear to see the lower -orders encouraged. All this talk about their not having enough to live -on--wicked nonsense! It was people like Absalom who had not enough to -live on. He wrote again to the _Times_ and said so, and again they did -not publish his letter. - -Then he woke from sleep one night, heard the clock strike three, and -was desperately frightened. He had had a dream. What dream? He could -not remember. He only knew that in the course of it he had become very, -very old; he had been in a room without fire and without light; he had -been in prison--faces had glared at him, cruel faces, young, sneering, -menacing faces.... He was going to die.... He awoke with a scream. - -Next day he read himself a very serious lecture. He was becoming -morbid; he was giving in; he was allowing himself to be afraid of -things. He must pull himself up. He was quite severe to Bacon, and -reprimanded him for bringing his breakfast at a quarter to nine instead -of half-past eight. He made out then a list of houses that he would -visit. They had forgotten him--he must admit that. But how natural it -was! After all this time. Everyone had forgotten everybody. Why, he had -forgotten all sorts of people! Could not remember their names! - -For months now he had been saying, "After the war," and now here "after -the war" was. It was May, and already Society was looking something -like itself. Covent Garden was open again. Soon there would be Ascot -and Henley and Goodwood; and the Peace Celebrations, perhaps, if only -those idiots at Versailles moved a little more quickly! He felt the -old familiar stir in his blood as he saw the red letters and the green -pillars repainted, saw the early summer sunshine upon the glittering -windows of Piccadilly, saw the green shadows of Hyde Park shift and -tremble against the pale blue of the evening sky, saw, once again, the -private cars quiver and tremble behind the policeman's hand in the -Circus; saw Delysia's name over the Pavilion, and the posters of the -evening papers, and the fountains splashing in Trafalgar Square. - -He put on his best clothes and went out. - -He called upon Mary, Countess of Gosport, the Duchess of Aisles, Lady -Glenrobert, Mrs. Leo Torsch, and dear Rachel Seddon. At the Countess of -Gosport's he found a clergyman, a companion, and a Chow; at the Duchess -of Aisles' four young Guardsmen, two girls, and Isaac Monteluke, who -had the insolence to patronise him; at Lady Glenrobert's a vast crowd -of men and women rehearsing for a Peace pageant shortly to be given at -the Albert Hall; at Mrs. Leo Torsch's an incredible company of artists, -writers, and actors, people unwashed and unbrushed, at sight of whom -Absalom's very soul trembled; at dear Rachel's charming young people, -all of whom looked right through him as though he were an easy and -undisturbing ghost. - -He came back from these visits a weary, miserable, and tired little -man. Even Rachel had seemed to have no time to give him.... An -incredible lassitude spread through all his bones. As he entered -the portals of No. 2 a boy passed him with a _Pall Mall_ poster. -"Railwaymen issue Ultimatum." In his room he read a _Times_ leader, -in which it said that the lower classes were starving and had nowhere -to sleep. And they called the _Times_ a reactionary paper! The lower -classes starving! What about the upper classes? With his door closed, -in his own deep privacy, surrounded by his little gods, his mirror, his -silver frames, and his boot-trees, he wept--bitterly, helplessly, like -a child. - -From that moment he had no courage. Enemies seemed to be on every side. -Everywhere he was insulted. If he went out boys pushed against him, -taxi-men swore at him, in the shops they were rude to him! There was -never room in the omnibuses, the taxis were too expensive, and the -Tubes! After an attempt to reach Russell Square by Tube he vowed he -would never enter a Tube door again. He was pushed, hustled, struck in -the stomach, sworn at both by attendants and passengers, jammed between -stout women, hurled off his feet, spoken to by a young soldier because -he did not give up his seat to a lady who haughtily refused it when he -offered ... Tubes!... never again--never, oh, never again! - -What then to do? Walking tired him desperately. Everywhere seemed now -so far away! - -So he remained in his flat; but now Hortons itself was different. -Now that he was confined to it it was very small, and he was always -tumbling over things. A pipe burst one morning, and his bathroom was -flooded. The bathroom wall-paper began to go the strangest and most -terrible colours--it was purple and pink and green, and there were -splotches of white mildew that seemed to move before your eyes as you -lay in your bath and watched them. Absalom went to Mr. Nix, and Mr. -Nix said that it should be seen to at once, but day after day went by -and nothing was done. When Mr. Nix was appealed to he said rather -restively that he was very sorry but he was doing his best--labour was -so difficult to get now--"You could not rely on the men." - -"But they've got to come!" screamed Absalom. - -Mr. Nix shrugged his shoulders; from his lips fell those fatal and now -so monotonous words: - -"We're living in changed times, Mr. Jay." - -Changed times! Absalom should think we were. Everyone was ruder and -ruder and ruder. Bills were beginning to worry him terribly--such -little bills, but men would come and wait downstairs in the hall for -them. - -The loneliness increased and wrapped him closer and closer. His temper -was becoming atrocious as he well knew. Bacon now paid no attention to -his wishes, his meals were brought up at any time, his rooms were not -cleaned, his silver was tarnished. All he had to do was to complain -to Mr. Nix, who ruled Hortons with a rod of iron, and allowed no -incivilities or slackness. But he was afraid to do that; he was afraid -of the way that Bacon would treat him afterwards. Always, everywhere -now he saw this increasing attention that was paid to the lower -classes. Railwaymen, miners, hair-dressers, dockers, bakers, waiters, -they struck, got what they wanted and then struck for more. - -He hated the lower classes--hated them, hated them! The very sight of a -working man threw him into a frenzy. What about the upper classes and -the middle classes! Did you ever see a word in the paper about them? -Never! - -He was not well, his heart troubled him very much. Sometimes he lay on -his sofa battling for breath. But he did not dare to go to a doctor. He -could not afford a doctor. - -But God is merciful. He put a period to poor Absalom's unhappiness. -When it was plain that this world was no longer a place for Absalom's -kind He gathered Absalom to His bosom. - -And it was in this way. There arrived suddenly one day a card: "The -Duchess of Aisles ... Dancing." His heart beat high at the sight of it. -He had to lie down on his sofa to recover himself. He stuck his card -into the mirror and was compelled to say something to Bacon about it. -Bacon did not seem to be greatly impressed at the sight. - -He dressed on the great evening with the utmost care. The sight of -his bathroom affected him; it seemed to cover him with pink spots -and mildew, but he shook that off from him and boldly ventured forth -to Knightsbridge. He found an immense party gathered there. Many, -many people.... He didn't seem to recognise any of them. The Duchess -herself had apparently forgotten him. He reminded her. He crept about; -he felt strangely as though at any moment someone might shoot him in -the back. Then he found Mrs. Charles Clinton, one of his hostesses -of the old days. She was kind but preoccupied. Then he discovered -Tom Wardour--old Tom Wardour, the stupidest man in London and the -greediest. Nevertheless he was glad to see him. - -"By Jove, old man, you _do_ look seedy," Tom said; "what have you been -doing to yourself?" - -Tactless of Tom, that! He felt more than ever that someone was going to -shoot him in the back. He crept away and hid himself in a corner. He -dozed a little, then woke to hear his own name. A woman was speaking of -him. He recognized Mrs. Clinton's voice. - -"Whom do you think I saw just now?... Yes, old Absalom Jay. Like a -visit from the dead. Yes, and _so_ old. You know how smart he used to -be. He looked quite shabby, poor old thing. Oh no, of course, he was -always stupid. But now--oh, dreadful!... I assure you he gave me the -creeps. Yes, of course, he belonged to that old world before the war. -_Doesn't_ it seem a long time ago? Centuries. What I say is that one -can't believe one was alive then at all...." - -Gave her the creeps! Gave Mrs. Clinton the creeps! He felt as though -his premonition had been true, and someone _had_ shot him in the back. -He crept away, out of the house, right away. - -He crept into a Tube. The trains were crowded. He had to hang on to a -strap. At Hyde Park Corner two workmen got in; they had been drinking -together. Very big men they were. They stood one on each side of -Absalom and lurched about. Absalom was pushed hither and thither. - -"Where the 'ell are you comin' to?" one said. - -The other knocked Absalom's hat off as though by an accident. Then the -former elaborately picked it up and offered it with a low bow, digging -Absalom in the stomach as he did so. - -"'Ere y'are, my lord," he said. They roared with laughter. The whole -carriage laughed. At Dover Street Absalom got out. He hurried through -the streets, and the tears were pouring down his cheeks. He could not -stop them; he seemed to have no control over them. They were not his -tears.... He entered Hortons, and in the lift hid his face so that -Fannie should not see that he was crying. - -He closed his door behind him, did not turn on the lights, found the -sofa, and cowered down there as though he were hiding from someone. - -The tears continued to race down his cheeks. Then suddenly it seemed as -though the walls of the bathroom, all blotched and purple, all stained -with creeping mildew, closed in the dark about him. - -He heard a voice cry--a working-man's voice--he did not hear the words, -but the walls towered above him and the white mildew expanded into -jeering, hideous, triumphant faces. - -His heart leapt and he knew no more. - - * * * * * - -Bacon and the maid found him huddled thus on the floor dead next -morning. - -"Well now," said Bacon, "that's a lucky thing. Young Somerset next -door's been wanting this flat. Make a nice suite if he knocks a door -through--gives him seven rooms. He'll be properly pleased." - - - - -II - -FANNY CLOSE - - -Since the second year of the war Fanny Close had been portress at -Hortons. It had demanded very much resolution on the part of Mr. Nix -to search for a portress. Since time immemorial the halls of Hortons -had known only porters. George, the present fine specimen, had been -magnificently in service there for the last ten years. However, Mr. Nix -was a patriot; he sent his son aged nineteen to the war (his son was -only too delighted to go), himself joined the London Air Defences, and -then packed off every man and boy in the place. - -The magnificent James was the last to go. He had, he said, an ancient -mother dependent upon him. Mr. Nix was disappointed in him. He did not -live up to his chest measurement. "You're very nearly a shirker," he -said to him indignantly. Nevertheless he promised to keep his place -open for him.... - -He had to go out into the highways and by-ways and find women. -The right ones were not easily found, and often enough they were -disappointing. Mr. Nix was a tremendous disciplinarian, that was why -Hortons were the best service flats in the whole of the West End. -But he discovered, as many a man had discovered before him, that the -discipline that does for a man will not do nine times out of ten for a -woman. Woman has a way of wriggling out of the net of discipline with -subtleties unknown to man. - -So Mr. Nix discovered.... Only with Fanny Close Mr. Nix had no trouble -at all. She became at the end of the first week a "jewel," and a jewel -to the end of her time she remained. - -I don't wish, in these days of stern and unrelenting realism, to draw -Dickensian pictures of youth and purity, but the plain truth is that -Fanny Close was as good a girl as ever was made. She was good for -two reasons, one because she was plain, the other because she had a -tiresome sister. The first of these reasons made her humble, the other -made her enjoy everything from which her sister was absent twice as -much as anyone else would have enjoyed it. - -She was twenty-five years of age; the mother had died of pleurisy -when the children were babies, and the father, who was something very -unimportant in a post office, had struggled for twenty years to keep -them all alive, and then caught a cold and died. The only brother had -married, and Aggie and Fanny had remained to keep house together. Aggie -had always been the beauty of the family, but it had been a beauty -without "charm," so that many young men had advanced with beating -hearts, gazed with eager eyes, and then walked away, relieved that for -some reason or another they had been saved from "putting the question." -She had had proposals, of course, but they had never been good enough. -At twenty-six she was a disappointed virgin. - -Fanny had always been so ready to consider herself the plainer and -stupider of the two that it had not been altogether Aggie's fault that -she, Aggie, should take, so naturally, the first place. Many a relation -had told Fanny that she was too "submissive" and didn't stand up for -herself enough, but Fanny shook her head and said that she couldn't be -other than she was. The true fact was that deep down in her heart she -not only admired her sister, she also hated her. How astonished Aggie -would have been had she known this--and how astonished, to be truly -platitudinous for a moment, we should all be if we really knew what our -nearest and dearest relatives thought of us! - -Fanny hated Aggie, but had quite made up her mind that she would never -be free of her. How could she be? She herself was far too plain for -anyone to want to marry her, and Aggie was apparently settling down -inevitably into a bitter old-maidenhood. Then came the war. Fanny was -most unexpectedly liberated. Aggie did, of course, try to prevent her -escape, but on this occasion Fanny was resolved. She would do what she -could to help--the country needed every single woman. At first she -washed plates in a canteen, then she ran a lift outside some Insurance -office, finally she fell into Mr. Nix's arms, and there she stayed for -three years. - -She knew from the very first that she would like it. She liked Mr. Nix, -she liked the blue uniform provided for her, most of all she liked the -"atmosphere" of Hortons, the coloured repose of St. James's, the hall -of white and green, the broad staircase, the palms in the staircase -windows, the grandfather's clock near Mr. Nix's office; she even -liked her own little rabbit-hutch where were the little boxes for the -letters, the cupboard for her own private possessions, the telephone, -and a chair for her to sit upon. In a marvellously short time she was -the mistress of the whole situation. Mr. Nix could not have believed -that he would have missed the marvellous James so little. "Really," he -said to Mrs. Nix, "a great discovery, a remarkable find." - -"Well, I hope she won't disappoint you," said Mrs. Nix, who was an -amiable pessimist. Fanny did not disappoint; she got better and better. -Everyone liked her, and she liked everyone. - -Because she had as her standard Aggie's grudging and reluctant -personality, she naturally found everyone delightful. She was very -happy indeed because they all wanted her assistance in one way or -another. "Men _are_ helpless," was her happy comment after a year's -experience at Hortons. She stamped letters for one, delivered telephone -messages for another, found addresses for a third, carried bags for a -fourth, acted as confidential adviser for a fifth. She was not pretty, -of course, but she was much less plain in her uniform than she had been -in her private dress. The blue, peaked cap suited her, and managed -somehow, in combination with her pince-nez, to give her quite a roguish -complexion. - -Nevertheless she was looked upon as a serious person--"quite like a -man," she reflected with satisfaction. She did not wish to waste her -time with flirtations, she wanted to do her job efficiently. It needed -great self-control not to take too active an interest in the affairs -of the ladies and gentlemen in her charge. She was, for instance, -deeply sorry for poor old Mr. Jay, who was obviously poor and helpless -and had no friends. He used to ask her whether "So-and-so" had called, -to tell her that he was expecting Lady This, and Lord That to ring up. -Of course, they never did. No one ever came to see him. Fanny's heart -simply ached for him. - -Then there was young Mr. Torby--the Hon. Clive Torby. Fanny thought -him the most wonderful figure in London. He was in France and was -wounded, went back and was wounded again, this time losing an arm. He -had the D.S.O. and M.C., and was simply the most handsome young man -in London--but Fanny feared that he was leading a very idle life. He -was always happy, always good-tempered, always laughing, but Fanny -shivered at the thought of the money that he spent. Lord Dronda, his -father, used to come and see him and "remonstrate with him," so the -Hon. Clive told Fanny after the interview. But what was the good? All -the young ladies came just the same, and the flowers and the fruit and -the wine---- - -"We can only love once, Fanny," the young man declared one day. "And -I've been so near kicking the bucket so many times lately that I'm -going to make the most of the sunshine." - -How could you blame him? At any rate, Fanny couldn't. - -There were many others into whose histories and personalities this is -neither the time nor place to enter. Fanny felt as though she were -living at the very heart of the great, bustling, eventful world. When -she saw Edmund Robsart, the famous novelist, whose flat was No. 20, -go up in the lift, when he said "Good-evening" to her and smiled, he -whose picture was quite often in the daily papers, whose books were on -the railway book-stalls, whose name was even mentioned once in Fanny's -hearing by T. E. Dunville at the Victoria Palace--well, there was -something to be proud of. True, he was over fifty, and fat and a little -pompous--what did that matter? Fanny had taken messages to him in his -rooms and seen him once in a purple silk dressing-gown. - -She did not consider herself overworked. She had to be on duty at -eight-thirty every morning, and she remained until six-thirty in the -evening. She had every Saturday afternoon and every other Sunday. -She did every kind of thing in between those hours. The whole warm -pulsing life of the twenty chambers seemed to radiate from her. -She fancied herself sitting there in her little office, taking the -messages from the flats and distributing them to the different valets -and servants in the kitchen, watching everyone who came in and out, -detecting suspicious people who wanted to see "So-and-so on very urgent -business," attending to Mr. Nix when he had anything to say or wanted -anything ... and sometimes in the hot summer weather she would sit -and look out upon the white and shining street, feeling the heat play -in little gleaming waves upon the green staircase behind her, hearing -the newsboys shout their war-news, watching stout Mr. Newbury, of -the picture-shop, as he stood in his doorway and speculated on the -weather. How cool here, and how hot out there!--and in the winter how -warm the flats and how cold the dusky blue-green street! - -She sometimes wondered whether it were not wicked of her to care for -her life at Hortons so much when it all came to her from the horrible -war, which did indeed seem to her the most dreadful thing that had ever -happened. - -She had not known many young men, but there had been Mr. Simmons and -Mr. Frank Blake and his brother Tom Blake--nice young men, and most -amusing in the evening after supper or on an evening out at the Music -Hall--all gone.... Tom Blake dead, Frank Blake without a leg, Mr. -Simmons gassed.... Oh, she _hated_ this war, she _hated_ it--but she -loved Hortons. - -The fly in the ointment was the old familiar fly of family comment. The -war had not had a good effect upon Aggie. She sat at home and grew more -and more pessimistic. There never _was_ such pessimism. Germany was to -Aggie a triumphing, dominating force that nothing could stop. "What's -the use of our fighting?" she would say when Fanny would arrive home to -supper, exhausted but cheerful. "What's the _use_? That's what I want -to know. Here we are at their mercy--can step over any time they like -and just take us." - -Nothing made Fanny so angry as this. It was all she could do to control -herself; nevertheless, control herself she did. - -"What about our Army?" she would say. "And the submarines? What about -Kitchener?" and later, "What about Haig?" - -"Haig!" sniffed Aggie. "Haig!" The air-raids finished Aggie. A bomb -was dropped quite close to their upper-part in Bloomsbury. Aggie was -ill for weeks--she recovered, but rose from her bed a soured, injured, -vindictive woman. It was exactly as though the whole of the war, and -especially the bomb-dropping part of it, had been arranged simply -for the annoyance of Aggie Close. She always said that she hated the -Germans, but to hear her talk you'd think that she hated the English a -great deal more. Our incompetence, our cowardice, our selfishness, our -wickedness in high places--such were her eternal topics. Fanny, sitting -in her hutch at Hortons, saw the evening waiting for her--the horrible -evening with their little stuffy, food-smelling, overcrowded room, -with the glazed and grinning sideboard, the pink-and-white wool mats, -the heavy lace curtains over the window, the hideous oleographs, the -large, staring photographs. Unlike most of her kind she knew that all -this was ugly, and in the midst of the ugliness was Aggie, Aggie with -her square, short, thick-set figure, her huge flat feet, her heavy, -freckled hands. She would have escaped to a place of entertainment had -there been anybody to take her--just now there was nobody. She could -not walk about the streets alone. - -At first she had tried to interest Aggie in the exciting events of her -day, in poor Mr. Jay, and magnificent Mr. Robsart, and funny, fussing -Mrs. Demaris, and the Hon. Clive. But Aggie had a marvellous way of -turning everything, however cheerful and bright it might seem, into -sin and sorrow and decay. If Fanny was happy, it was: "How can you -laugh when the world's in the state it's in?" If Fanny sighed, it was: -"I should have thought it was one's duty to be as cheerful as possible -just now. But some people think only of themselves." - -If Fanny argued against some too outrageous piece of pessimism, it was: -"Really, Fanny, it's such as you is losing us the war." - -"Oh! I hate Aggie!--I hate Aggie!" Fanny would sometimes cry to -herself in the heart of her hutch, but she could not summon to herself -sufficient resolution to go off and live by herself; she had a terror -of solitary evenings, all the terror of one who did not care for books, -who was soaked in superstition and loved lights and noise. - -During the first two years of the war she did not consider the end of -the war. She never doubted for a single moment but that the Allies -would win, and for the rest she had too much work to do to waste -time in idle speculations. But in the third year that little phrase -"after the war" began to drive itself in upon her. Everyone said it. -She perceived that people were bearing their trials and misfortunes -and losses because "after the war" everything would be all right -again--there would be plenty of food and money and rest "after the war." - -Her heart began to ache for all the troubles that she saw around her. -Mr. Nix lost his boy in France and was a changed man. For a month or -two it seemed as though he would lose all interest in Hortons. He was -listless and indifferent and suffered slackness to go unpunished. Then -he pulled himself together. Hortons was its old self again--and how -Fanny admired him for that! - -Then came the Armistice, and the world changed for Fanny. It changed -because, in a sudden devastating horrible flash of revelation, she -realised that the women would all have to go! The men would come -back.... And she? - -That night when she perceived this gave her one of her worst hours. She -had allowed herself--and she saw now how foolish she had been to do -so--to look upon the work at Hortons as the permanent occupation of her -life. How could she have done otherwise? It suited her so exactly; she -loved it, and everybody encouraged her to believe that she did it well. -Had not Mr. Nix himself told her that he could not have believed that -he could miss the magnificent James so little, and that no man could -have filled the blank as she had done? Moreover, in the third year of -the war James had been killed, and it would take a new man a long time -to learn all the ins-and-outs of the business as she had learnt them. -So she had encouraged herself to dream, and the dream and the business -had become one--she could not tear them apart. Well, now she must tear -them apart. Mr. Nix was dismissing all the women. - -With teeth set she faced her future. No use to think of getting another -job--everywhere the men were returning. For such work as she could do -there would be a hundred men waiting for every vacancy. No, she would -have to live always with Aggie. They would have enough to live on--just -enough. Their brother allowed them something, and an aunt had left them -a little legacy. Just enough with a perpetual sparing and scraping--no -more of the little luxuries that Fanny's pay from Hortons had allowed -them. Certainly not enough for either of them to live alone. Tied for -ever together, that's what they would be--chained! and Aggie growing -ever more and more bitter. - -Nevertheless she faced it. She went back to Hortons with a smile and -a laugh. Her gentlemen and ladies did not know that she was looking -upon them with eyes of farewell. Miss Lois Drake, for instance, that -daring and adventurous type of the modern girl about whose future -Fanny was always speculating with trembling excitement, she did not -notice anything at all. But then she thought of very little save -herself. "However she _can_ do the things she does!" was Fanny's -awed comment--and now, alas, she would never see the climax to her -daring--never, never, never! - -She said nothing to Aggie of her troubles, and Aggie said nothing to -her. The days passed. Then just before Christmas came the marvellous -news. - -By this time all the girl valets had been dismissed and men had taken -their places. They would congregate in the hall of a morning, coming on -approval, and Fanny would speculate about them. Mr. Nix even asked her -advice. "I like that one," she would say; "I wouldn't trust that man -a yard," she would decide. Then one day Albert Edward came. There was -no doubt about him at all. He was almost as good as the late lamented -James. Handsome, although short--but Fanny liked the "stocky" kind, -and with _such_ a laugh! Fanny delighted in his jet-black hair cut -tight about his head, his smiling black eyes, his round, rosy cheeks. -She admired him quite in the abstract. He was far too grand for any -personal feeling.... At once, when he had been in the place two days, -she allotted him to Mrs. Mellish's maid, Annette, _such_ a handsome -girl, so bold and clever! They were made for one another. - -Albert Edward was valet on the second floor; he shared that floor with -Bacon. Fanny did not like Bacon, the one mistake she thought that Mr. -Nix had made. - -Well, just before Christmas the wonderful hour arrived. - -"Fanny," said Mr. Nix one evening. "Do you realise that you're the only -woman left in a man's job?" - -"Yes," said Fanny, her heart beating horribly. - -"Well," said Mr. Nix, "you're going to continue to be the only woman -unless you've any objection." - -"Oh, Mr. Nix," said Fanny, "I'm sure I've always tried----" - -"Yes, I know," said Mr. Nix, "that's why I want you to stay--for ever -if you like--or at any rate so long as I'm here." - -"Oh, Mr. Nix," said Fanny again. Tears were in her eyes; the familiar -green staircase, the palm and the grandfather's clock swam before her -eyes. - -It was Aggie, of course, who killed her happiness almost as soon as it -was born. - -"And what about the demobilised men?" Aggie had asked with her cold, -acid smile. "I should have thought that if there were any jobs going a -patriotic girl like you would have been the first to stand aside." - -Fanny's heart seemed to leap into the air and then fall--stone dead at -her feet. Men! Demobilised men! She had not thought of that. But for -the moment th e only thing she could see was Aggie's spite--her old, -eternal spite.... She felt the tears rising. In a moment they would -break out. - -"You would like to spoil it if you could!" she cried. "Yes, you would. -It's what you've always done--spoilt everything. Yes, you have--since -we were children. Any little bit of happiness...." - -"Happiness!" interrupted Aggie; "that's what you call it? Selfishness! -cruel selfishness, that's what some would name it." - -"You don't care," cried Fanny, her words now choked with sobs. "You -don't care as long as I'm hurt and wounded--that's all you mind!... -always ... tried to hurt me ... always!" The tears had conquered her. -She rushed from the room. - -She escaped--but she was haunted. It was not because Aggie had said it -that she minded--no, she did not care for Aggie--it was because there -was truth in what Aggie had said. Fanny was precisely the girl to feel -such a charge, as Aggie well knew. All her life her conscience had been -her trouble, acute, vivid, lifting its voice when there was no need, -never satisfied with the prizes and splendours thrown it. In ordinary -times Fanny surrendered at once to its hideous demands--this time she -fought. - -Aggie herself helped in the fight. Having succeeded in making Fanny -miserable, it was by no means her intention that the silly child -should really surrender the job. That did not at all suit her own idle -selfishness. So she mocked at her for staying where she was, but made -it plain that having given her word, she must stick to it. "You've made -your bed and must lie on it," was her phrase. - -Fanny said nothing. The light had gone from her eyes, the colour -from her cheeks. She was fighting the sternest battle of her life. -Everywhere she saw, or fancied she saw, demobilised men. Every man in -the street with a little shining disc fastened to his coat was in her -eyes a demobilised man starving and hungry because she was so wicked. -And yet why should she give it up? She had proved her worth--shown that -she was _better_ than a man in that particular business. Would Mr. Nix -have kept her had she not been better? Kind though he was, he was not a -philanthropist.... And to give it up, to be tied for life to Aggie, to -be idle, to be unwanted, to see no more of Hortons, to see no more--of -Albert Edward. Yes, the secret was out. She loved Albert Edward. Not -with any thought of herself--dear me, no.... She knew that she was far -too plain, too dull. She need only compare herself for an instant with -Mrs. Mellish's Annette, and she could see where she stood. No, romance -was not for her. But she liked his company. He was so kind to her. He -would stand, again and again, in her little hutch and chatter, laughing -and making silly jokes. - -She amused him, and he admired her capacity for business. "You _are_ -a one!" was his way of putting it. "You'd be something like running a -restaurant--business side, you know." - -How proud she was when he said these things! After all, everybody had -something. Annette, for all her bows and ribbons, was probably poor at -business. - -However, she included Albert Edward in the general life of Hortons, and -refused to look any closer. So day and night the struggle continued. -She could not sleep, she could not eat, everyone told her that she -was looking ill and needed a holiday. She was most truly a haunted -woman, and her ghosts were on every side of her, pressing in upon her, -reproaching her with starving, dark-rimmed eyes. She struggled, she -fought, she clung with bleeding hands to the stones and rafters and -walls of Hortons. - -Conscience had her way--Fanny was beaten. The decision was taken one -night after a horrible dream--a dream in which she had been pursued by -a menacing, sinister procession of men, some without arms and legs, who -floated about her, beating her in the face with their soft boneless -hands.... - -She awoke screaming. Next morning she went to Mr. Nix. - -"I'm afraid I must give you my notice, Mr. Nix," she said. - -Of course he laughed at her when she offered her reason. But she was -firm. - -"You've been terribly good to me, Mr. Nix," she said, "but I must go." - -She was firm. It was all that she could do not to cry. He submitted, -saying that he would leave her a day or so to reconsider it. - -She went into her hut and stared in front of her, in stony -wretchedness. That was the worst day of her life. She felt like a dead -woman. Worst of all was the temptation to run back to Mr. Nix and tell -him that it was not true, that she _had_ reconsidered it.... - -All day she saw Aggie in her green stuff dress, her eyes close to the -paper, the room so close, so close.... - -In the afternoon, about five, she felt that she could bear it no longer. - -She would get the hall-boy to take her place and would go home. - -Albert Edward came in for a chat. She told him what she had done. - -"Well," he said, "that's fine." - -She stared at him. - -"I want you to marry me," he said; "I've been wanting it a long time. -I like you. You're just the companion for me, sense of humour and all -that. And a business head. I'm past the sentimental stuff. What I want -is a pal. What do you say to the little restaurant?" - -The grandfather's clock rose up and struck Fanny in the face. She could -have endured that had not the green and white staircase done the same. -So strange was the world that she was compelled to put her hand on -Albert Edward's arm. - -Behind the swimming, dazzling splendour of her happiness was the -knowledge that she had secured a job from which no man in the world -would have the right to oust her. - - - - -III - -THE HON. CLIVE TORBY - - -He was now the only son of old Lord Dronda; his elder brother had been -killed at Mons early in the war. He had been aware of his good looks -ever since he was a week old. Tom, the elder brother, had been fat -and plain; everyone had told him so. He did not mind now, being dead. -Clive was the happiest fellow possible, even though he had lost an -arm late in '17. He had not minded that. It was his left arm, and he -could already do almost everything quite well without it; women liked -him all the better for having lost it. He had always been perfectly -satisfied with himself, his looks, his home, his relations--everything. -His critics said that he was completely selfish, and had horrible -manners or no manners at all, but it wa s difficult to underline his -happy unconscious young innocence so heavily. Certainly if, in the days -before the war, you stayed with his people, you found his indifference -to your personal needs rather galling--but "Tom looked after all that," -although Tom often did not because he was absent-minded by nature -and fond of fishing. The fact is that poor Lady Dronda was to blame. -She had educated her children very badly, being so fond of them and -so proud of them that she gave in to them on every opportunity. She -was known amongst her friends as "Poor Lady Dronda" because, being a -sentimentalist and rather stupid, life was perpetually disappointing -her. People never came up to her expectations, so she put all her -future into the hands of her sons, who, it seemed, might in the end -also prove disappointing. The favourite word on her lips was, "Now -tell me the truth. The one thing I want to hear from my friends is the -truth." However, the truth was exactly what she never did get, because -it upset her so seriously and made her so angry with the person who -gave it her. Tom being dead, she transformed him into an angel, and -told sympathetic acquaintances so often that she never spoke of him -that his name was rarely off her lips. Nevertheless she was able to -devote a great deal of her time to Clive, who was now "All Her Life." - -The results of this were two: first, that Clive, although retaining all -his original simple charm, was more sure than ever before that he was -perfect; secondly, that he found his mother tiresome and, having been -brought up to think of nobody but himself, was naturally as little -home as possible. - -He took up his abode at Hortons, finding a little flat, No. 11, on the -second floor, that suited him exactly. Into it he put his "few sticks -of things," and the result was a charming confusion of soda-water -syphons and silver photograph frames. - -He very happily throughout the whole of 1918 resided there, receiving -innumerable young women to meals of different kinds, throwing the rooms -open to all his male acquaintances, and generally turning night into -day--with the caution that he must not annoy Mr. Nix, the manager, -for whom he had the very greatest respect. The odd thing was that -with all his conceit and bad manners, he was something of a hero. He -had received both the M.C. and the D.S.O., and was as good an officer -as the Guards could boast. This sounds conventional and in the good -old Ouida tradition, but his heroism lay rather in the fact that he -had positively loathed the war. He hated the dirt, the blood, the -confusion, the losing of friends, what he called "the general Hell." No -one was more amusing and amiable during his stay out there, and, to be -Ouidaesque again for a moment, he was adored by his men. - -Nevertheless it was perhaps the happiest moment of his life when he -knew he was to lose his arm. "No more going back to jolly old France -for me, old bean," he wrote to a friend. "Now I'm going to enjoy -myself." - -That was his rooted determination. He had not gone through all that and -been maimed for life for nothing. He was going to enjoy himself. Yes, -after the war he would show them.... - -He showed them mainly at present by dancing all hours of the day and -night. He had danced before the war like any other human being, and -had faithfully attended at Murray's and the Four Hundred and the -other places. But he did not know that he had very greatly enjoyed -it; he had gone in the main because Miss Poppy Darling, who had just -then caught his attention, commanded him to do so. Now it was quite -another matter--he went simply for the dance itself. He was not by -nature a very introspective young man, and he did not think of himself -as strange or odd or indeed as anything definite at all; but it was -perhaps a little strange that he, who had been so carefully brought up -by his fond mother, should surrender to a passion for tom-toms and tin -kettles more completely than he had ever surrendered to any woman. He -did not care with whom it was that he danced; a man would have done as -well. The point was that, when those harsh and jarring noises began -to beat and battle through the air, his body should move and gyrate -in sympathy just as at that very moment perhaps, somewhere in Central -Africa, a grim and glistening savage was turning monotonously beneath -the glories of a full moon. He danced all night and most of the day, -with the result that he had very little time for anything else. Lady -Dronda complained that he never wrote to her. "Dear Mother," he replied -on a postcard, "jolly busy. Ever so much to do. See you soon." - -Young men and young women came to luncheon and dinner. He was happy and -merry with them all. Even Fanny, the portress downstairs, adored him. -His smile was irresistible. - -The strangest fact of all, perhaps, was that the war had really taught -him nothing. He had for three years been face to face with Reality, -stared into her eyes, studied her features, seeing her for quite the -first time. - -And his vision of her had made no difference to him at all. He came -back into this false world to find it just exactly as he had left it. -Reality slipped away from him, and it was as though she had never been. -He was as sure as he had been four years before that the world was -made only for him and his--and not so much for his as for him. Had you -asked he would not have told you, because he was an Englishman and -didn't think it decent to boast--but you would have seen it in his eyes -that he really did believe that he was vastly superior to more than -three-quarters of the rest of humanity--and this although he had gone -to Eton and had received therefore no education, although he knew no -foreign language, knew nothing about the literature of his own or any -other country, was trained for no business and no profession, and could -only spell with a good deal of hit-and-miss result. - -Moreover, when you faced him and thought of these things, you -yourself were not sure whether, after all, he were not right. He was -so handsome, so self-confident, so fearless, so touching with his -youth and his armless sleeve, that you could not but wonder whether -the world, after all, was not made for such as he. The old world -perhaps--but the new one?... - -Meanwhile Clive danced. - -He flung himself into such an atmosphere of dancing that he seemed to -dance all his relations and acquaintances into it with him. He could -not believe that everyone was not spending the time in dancing. Albert -Edward, whose official name was Banks, assured him that he had no time -for dancing. - -"No time!" said Clive, greatly concerned. "Poor devil! I don't know how -you get along." - -Albert Edward, who approved of the Hon. Clive because of his pluck, his -birth, his good looks, and his generosity, only smiled. - -"Got to earn my living, sir," he said. - -"Really, must you?" Clive was concerned. "Well, it's a damned shame -after all you've done over there." - -"Someone's got to work still, I suppose, sir," said Albert Edward; "and -it's my belief that it's them that works hardest now will reap the -'arvest soonest--that's my belief." - -"Really!" said Clive in politely interested tone. "Well, Banks, if -you want to know my idea, it is that it's about time that some of us -enjoyed ourselves--after all we've been through. Let the old un's -who've stayed at home do the work." - -"Yes, sir," said Albert Edward. - -It did indeed seem a shame to Clive that anyone should have to work at -all--that nice girl Fanny, for instance, who was portress downstairs, -or that poor old decrepit-looking thing who was night-porter and opened -the door for Clive at four in the morning. - -He told Fanny what he thought. Fanny laughed. "I love my work, sir," -she said; "I wouldn't be without it for anything." - -"Wouldn't you really, now?" said Clive, staring at her. - -Dimly he perceived that these months after the Armistice and during the -early months of 1919 were a queer time--no one seemed to know what was -going to happen. The state of the world was very uncomfortable did one -look into it too closely; even into the chaste and decorous quarter -of St. James's rumours of impending revolution penetrated. People -were unhappy--had not enough to eat, had no roof over their heads, -always one thing or another. The papers were beastly, so Clive gave up -looking at them, save only the _Sporting Times_, and devoted his hours -that were saved from dancing to a little gentle betting, to wondering -whether Joe Beckett would beat Goddard, and when he had beaten him to -wondering whether he would beat Georges Carpentier, and to playing a -rubber or two of auction bridge at White's, and to entertaining the -ladies and gentlemen already mentioned. - -He was not, during this period, worrying at all about money. He very -seldom saw his old father, who never came up to town and never wrote -letters. Old Lord Dronda, who was now nearly seventy, stayed at the -place in Hertfordshire--he loved cows and pigs and horses, and Clive -imagined him perfectly happy in the midst of these animals. - -He had an ample allowance, but was compelled to reinforce it by writing -cheques on his mother's account. She had, when he lost his arm, given -him an open cheque-book on her bank. There was nothing too good for -such a hero. He did not naturally think about money, he did not like to -be bothered about it, but he was vaguely rather proud of himself for -keeping out of the money-lenders' hands and not gambling more deeply -at bridge. Luckily, dancing left one little time for that--"Keeps me -out of mischief, jazzing does," he told his friends. He had, in his -room, a photograph of his father--an old photograph, but like the old -man still. Lord Dronda was squarely built and had side-whiskers and -pepper-and-salt trousers. He looked like a prosperous farmer. His -thighs were thick, his nose square, and he wore a billycock a little -on one side of his head. Clive had not seen his father for so long a -time that it gave him quite a shock to come in one afternoon and find -the old man sitting under his photograph, a thick stick in his hand and -large gaiters above his enormous boots. He was looking about him with a -lost and bewildered air and sitting on the very edge of the sofa. His -grey bowler was on the back of his head. - -"Hullo, Guv'nor!" Clive cried. Clive was a little bewildered at the -sight of the old man. His plan had been a nap before dressing for -dinner. He had been dancing until six that morning, and was naturally -tired, but he was a kindly man, and therefore nice to his father. - -"I'm delighted to see you!" he said. "But whatever are you doing up -here?" - -The old man was not apparently greatly delighted to see Clive. He was -lost and bewildered, and seemed to have trouble in finding his words. -He stammered and looked helplessly about him. - -His son asked him whether he'd have any tea. No, he wouldn't have any -tea--no, nothing at all. - -"The fact is," he brought out at last, "that Dronda's to be sold, and I -thought you ought to know." - -Dronda to be sold! The words switched back before Clive's eyes that -figure of Reality that recently he had forgotten. Dronda to be sold! He -saw his own youth coloured with the green of the lawns, the silver of -the lake, the deep red brick of the old house. Dronda to be sold! - -"But that's impossible, father!" he cried. - -He found, however, that a great deal more than that was possible. He -had never possessed, as he had been used sometimes proudly to boast, a -very good head for figures, and the old man had not a great talent for -making things clear, but the final point was that the Income Tax and -the general increased expenses of living had made Dronda impossible. - -"Also, my boy," Lord Dronda added, "all the money you've been spending -lately--your mother only confessed to me last week. You'll have to get -some work and settle down at it. I'm sorry, but the old days are gone." - -I'm quite aware that this is not a very original story. On how many -occasions in how many novels has the young heir to the entails been -suddenly faced with poverty and been compelled to sit down and work? -Nine times out of ten most nobly has he done it, and ten times out of -ten he has won the girl of his heart by so doing. - -The only novelty here is the moment of the catastrophe. Here was the -very period towards which, through years and years of discomfort and -horror in France, young Clive had been looking. "After the war he would -have the time of his life"; "after the war" had arrived and Dronda -was to be sold! His first impulse was to abuse fate generally and his -father in particular. One glance at the old man checked that. How funny -he looked, sitting there on the edge of the sofa, his thick stick -between his knees, his hat tilted back, and that air of bewildered -perplexity on his round face as of a baby confronted with his first -thunder-storm. His thick-set, rather stout body, his side-whiskers, -his rough red hands--all seemed to remove him completely from the -smart, slim, dark young man who sat opposite him. Nevertheless Clive -felt the bond. He was suddenly in unison with his father as he had -never been, in all his life, with his mother. His father and he had -never had what one would call a "heart-to-heart" conversation in -their lives--they did not have one now. They would have been bitterly -distressed at such an idea. All Clive said was: - -"What a bore! I didn't know things were like that. You ought to have -told me." - -To which Dronda replied, his eyes wistfully on his son's empty sleeve: - -"I didn't think it would get so bad. You'll have to find some work. No -need for us to bother your mother about it." - -The old man got up to go. His eyes moved uncomfortably from one -photograph to another. He pulled at his high collar as though he felt -the room close. - -"Sure you won't have anything?" said Clive. - -"No, thanks," said his father. - -"Well, don't you worry. I'll get some work all right. I'll have to pull -my horns in a bit, though." - -And that was positively all that was said. Dronda went away, that -puzzled, bewildered look still hovering between his mouth and his eyes, -his grey bowler still a little to one side. - -After he was gone Clive considered the matter. Once the first shock was -over things were really not so bad. The loss of Dronda was horrible, -of course, and Clive thought of that as little as might be, but even -there the war had made a difference, having shaken everything, in its -tempestuous course, to the ground, so that one looked on nothing now -as permanent. As to work, Clive would not mind that at all. There was -quite a number of things that he would like to do. There were all these -new Ministries, for instance; he thought of various friends that he -had. He wrote down the names of one or two. Or there was the City. He -had often fancied that he would like to go into the City. You made -money there, he understood, in simply no time at all. And you needed no -education.... He thought of one or two City men whom he knew and wrote -down their names. - -One or two other things occurred to him. Before he went out to dine he -had written a dozen notes. He liked to think that he could be prompt -and business-like when there was need. - -During the next day or two he had quite a merry time with his friends -about the affair. He laughingly depicted himself as a serious man of -business, one of those men whom you see in the cinemas, men who sit -at enormous desks and have big fists and Rolls-Royces. He spent one -especially jolly evening, first at Claridge's, then "As you Were" at -the Pavilion (Sir Billion de Boost was what _he_ would shortly be, he -told his laughing companion), then dancing. Oh, a delightful evening! -"My last kick!" he called it; and looking back afterwards, he found -that he had spoken more truly than he knew. - -His friends answered his notes and asked him to go and see them. He -went. There then began a very strange period of discovery. First he -went to the Labour Ministry and saw his old friend Reggie Burr. - -Reggie looked most official in his room with his telephone and things. -Clive told him so. Reggie smiled, but said that he was pressed for time -and would Clive just mind telling him what it was he wanted. Clive -found it harder to tell him than he had expected. He was modest and -uneloquent about his time in France, and after that there really was -not very much to say. What had he done? What could he do?... Well, not -very much. He laughed. "I'm sure I'd fit into something," he said. - -"I'll let you know if there is anything," said Reggie Burr. - -And so it went on. It was _too_ strange how definite these men wanted -him to be! As the days passed Clive had the impression that the world -was getting larger and larger and emptier and emptier. It seemed as -though he could not touch boundaries nor horizons.... It was a new -world, and he had no place in it.... - -The dancing suddenly receded, or rather was pushed and huddled back, as -the nurse in old days took one's toys and crammed them into a corner. -Clive found it no longer amusing. He was puzzled, and dancing did not -help him to any discovery. He found that he had nothing to say to his -friends on these occasions. He was aware that they were saying behind -his back: "What's come to Clive Toby?... Dull as ditchwater." - -He went about with a bemused, blinded expression. He was seeing himself -for the first time. Hortons and everything in it had quite a new life -for him: Mr. Nix, Fanny, Albert Edward--all these people were earning -their living and earning it much more efficiently than he seemed to -be able to do. All the time behind them seemed to stand that wistful -figure of his father. "I'd like to do something for the old man," he -thought. - -Down in the City his experiences were very strange. The first three men -whom he saw were very polite and jolly, and said "they'd let him know -if anything turned up." They asked him what business experience he had -had, and then how much money he was prepared to put into a "concern"; -and when he had answered them with a jolly laugh and said that he had -had no experience, but had no doubt that he "would shake down all -right," and that he had no money, but "really would take his coat off -and work," they smiled, and said that "things were bad in the City just -now, but they would let him know." - -They all liked him, he felt, and he liked them, and that was as far as -it went. But his experience with his fourth friend was different. Sir -James Maradick, Bart., could scarcely be called a friend of his. He had -met him once at someone's house; Reggie Burr had given him a note to -him. He was a big broad man somewhere near sixty, and he was as nice to -Clive as possible, but he didn't mince matters. - -He had been given his Baronetcy for some fine organising work that he -had done in the war. Clive, who did not think much about men as a rule, -liked him better than any man he'd ever met. "This fellow would do for -me," he thought. - -The question, however, was whether Clive would do for Maradick. - -"What have you done?" Maradick asked. - -"H'm. Eton and Oxford.... And what kind of job are you looking for?" - -Clive modestly explained--somewhere about six hundred a year. He wanted -to help the governor through a stiff time. - -Maradick smiled. That was very nice. Would Clive mind Maradick speaking -quite plainly? Not at all. That was what Clive wanted. - -Maradick then said that it was like a fairy-tale. He had had, during -the last fortnight, four fellows who wanted jobs at anything from five -hundred to a thousand a year. All of them very modest. Hadn't had any -experience, but thought they could drop into it. All of them done -well in the war. All of them wanted to keep their parents ... very -creditable. - -But there was another side to the question. Did Clive know that there -were hundreds of men ready to come in at three hundred a year and less, -men who had been in the City since nine years old, men who had the -whole thing at their fingers' ends ... hundreds of them ...? - -"The world was made for you boys before the war. You won't think me -rude, will you? You went to Eton and Oxford and learnt nothing at -all, and then waited for things to tumble into your hands. That's why -commercial Germany beat us all round the world. Well, it won't be so -any longer. The new world isn't made for you boys. You've got to win -your way into it." - -"You're quite right," Clive blushed. "Thank you very much." - -Maradick looked at him, and his heart warmed to him. - -"Take my tip and do a working-man's job. What about house-painting, -for instance, or driving a taxi? They're getting big money. Just for a -bit--to try your hand." - -"Not a bad idea," said Clive. They shook hands in a most friendly -fashion. Maradick spoke to his partner (at lunch) about him. "Nice -boy," he said. "We'll have him in here later." - -Clive went back to Hortons and met there the temptation of his life in -the shape of his mother. - -She was looking lovely in grey silk, Parma violets, and a little -black hat. She was in one of her most sentimental moods. She cried a -good deal and asked Clive what he intended to do. When she asked him -that, what she really wanted was that he should say that he loved her. -This he did in a hurried fashion, because he wanted to tell her about -Maradick. She had, however, her own things that she wanted to say, and -these were, in the main, that he was "her all," that it was too awful -about Dronda, that John (Lord Dronda) had simply been losing thousands -over his stupid old agriculture, and, finally, that she had money of -her own on which dear Clive should live to the end of his days. All -this nonsense about his working, as though he hadn't done enough -already with his poor arm and everything. They should go away together -and have a lovely time. - -Clive was tempted. For ten minutes there raged a fierce battle. He -knew that what she said could be true enough. That they could go -away together and spend money together, and that she would give him -everything that she had, and only want him in return to say over and -over again that he loved her. They would wander about, and probably he -would find some rich girl who would marry him, and then he would live -on her.... - -While he thought this out, words poured from his mother's lips in -tattered confusion. No words used by his mother ever meant what she -intended them to mean. Nevertheless, the last question held the -substance of them all. "And you do really love me, Clive boy, don't -you?" - -The "Clive boy" really settled it, although I hope and believe that it -would have been settled without that. But he could not wander about -Europe as "Clive boy." ... - -So he said: "Thanks, mother. You're a brick, wantin' me to have -everything and all that. But I really won't. I'm going to settle down -and work." - -"Whatever at, you poor foolish darling?" asked his mother. - -"At anything I can get," he replied. - -She left him at last, having cried just enough to show her real emotion -without damaging her unreal complexion. Her Parma violets were also -intact. - -He was an unkind, ungrateful son, and her heart was broken, but at the -same time he was "her all," and would he lunch with her to-morrow at -Claridge's? - -This he said that he would do. "My last good meal," he murmured to -himself rather histrionically. - -His mother departed. - -He had a bad quarter of an hour after she had gone. The sacred -precincts of Hortons contained at least one honest soul that afternoon. -He saw himself exactly as he was--spoilt, useless, idle, and conceited. -He swore to himself that he would find work of some kind before the day -was done. - -He went out. It was a lovely afternoon early in May. Mr. Bottome, the -newsagent, had fine copies of _Colour_ showing in his window, the top -of Duke Street gazed straight into the huge naked-looking statue of a -horse in the courtyard of the Academy. Everything seemed to be having a -spring cleaning. - -He turned back and down into Jermyn Street. Next to the Hamman Baths -they were painting a house light green. A nice young fellow in overalls -stepped off a ladder as Clive passed. - -He smiled at Clive. Clive smiled back. - -"Is that an easy job?" Clive asked him. - -"Oh yes, sir," the young fellow answered. - -"Could you manage it with one arm?" Clive asked. - -"Why, yes," the man said. - -"Could I pick it up quickly?" - -"Lord, yes!" - -"Will you teach me?" - - * * * * * - -A week later Mr. Nix, in a hurry as usual, was pattering up Duke -Street. Bottome's paper shop was having a new coat of paint. A young -workman in yellow overalls perched on a ladder managed his brush -adroitly with one arm. - -"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Nix, a compassionate man always, but doubly so -now because he had lost his son in the war. "Left the other in France, -I suppose." - -The workman looked down, and revealed to the astonished countenance of -Mr. Nix the laughing eyes of his late tenant, the Hon. Clive Torby. - - - - -IV - -MISS MORGANHURST - - -It may be that in future years when critics and commentators look -back upon the European War, one of the aspects of it that will seem -to them strangest will be the attitude of complete indifference that -certain people assumed during the course of it. Indifference! That -is an inefficient word. It is not too strong to say that hundreds of -men and women in London during those horrible years were completely -unconscious, save on the rare occasions when rationing or air-raids -forced them to attend, that there was any war at all. There were men in -clubs, women in drawing-rooms ... old maids and old bachelors ... old -maids like Miss Morganhurst. - -How old Miss Morganhurst really was, for how long she had been raising -her lorgnette to gaze scornfully at Society, for how many years now she -had been sitting down to bridge on fine sunny afternoons with women -like Anne Carteledge and Mrs. Mellish and Mrs. Porter, for how many -more years she had lived in No. 30 flat at Hortons, she alone had the -secret--even Agatha, her sour and confidential maid, could not tell. - -No one knew whence she came; years ago some young wag had christened -her the "Morgue," led to that diminutive by the strange pallor of her -cheeks, the queer bone-cracking little body she had and her fashion -of dressing herself up in jewellery and bright colours that gave her -a certain sort of ghastliness. She had been for years an intimate of -all sorts of sets in London: no one could call her a snob--she went -just everywhere, and knew just everyone; she was after two things -in life--scandal and bridge--and whether it were the old Duchess of -Wrexe's drawing-room (without the Duchess of course) or the cheapest -sort of provincial tea-party, she was equally at home and satisfied. -She was like a ferret with her beady eyes--a dressed-up ferret. Yes, -and like the "Morgue" too, a sniff of corruption about her somewhere. - -People had said for many years that she was the best bridge-player in -London, and that she lived by her winnings. That was, I daresay, true -enough. Her pale face looked as though it fed on artificial light, and -her over-decorated back was always bent a little, as though she were -for ever stooping over a table. - -I've seen her play bridge, and it's not a sight one's likely to -forget--bent almost double, her hooky fingers of a dull yellow loaded -with rings pointing towards some card and her eyes literally flashing -fire. Lord! how these women played! Life and death to them truly ... -no gentle card-game for _them_. She was a woman who hated sentiment; -her voice was hard and dry, with a rasp in it like the movement of an -ill-fitting gate. She boasted that she cared for no human being alive, -she did not believe in human affection. Her maid, Agatha, she said, -would cut her throat for twopence; but, expecting to be left something -in the will, stayed on savagely hoping. - -It is hard, however, for even the dryest of human souls to be attached -to nothing. Miss Morganhurst had her attachment--to a canine, fragment -of skin and bone known as Tiny-Tee. Tiny-Tee was so small that it could -not have been said to exist had not its perpetual misery given it a -kind of spasmodic loveliness. It is the nature of these dogs to shiver -and shake and tremble, but nothing ever lived up to its nature more -thoroughly than Tiny-Tee. Miss Morganhurst (in her own fierce rasping -way) adored this creature. It never left her, and sat on her lap during -bridge shuddering and shivering amongst a multitude of little gold -chains and keys and purses that jangled and rattled with every shiver. - -Then came the war, and it shook the world to pieces. It did not shake -Miss Morganhurst. - -For one bad moment she fancied that bridge would be difficult and that -it might not be easy to provide Tiny-Tee with her proper biscuits. She -consulted with Mrs. Mellish and Mrs. Porter, and after looking at the -thing from every side they were of opinion that it would be possible -still to find a "four." She further summoned up Mr. Nix from the "vasty -deeps" of the chambers and endeavoured to probe his mind. This she did -easily, and Mr. Nix became quite confidential. He thoroughly approved -of Miss Morganhurst, partly because she knew such very grand people, -which was good for his chambers, and partly because Miss Morganhurst -had no kind of morals and you could say anything you liked. Mr. Nix was -a kindly little man and a diplomatic, and he suited himself to his -company; but he did like sometimes to be quite unbuttoned and not to -have "to think of every word." - -With Miss Morganhurst you needn't think of anything. She found his love -of gossip very agreeable indeed; she approved, too, of his honourable -code. You were safe with him. Not a thing would he ever give away about -any other inhabitant of Hortons. She asked him about the food for -Tiny-Tee, and he assured her that he would do his best. And the little -dinners for four?... She need not be anxious. - -After which she dismissed the war altogether from her mind. It would, -of course, emphasise its more unagreeable features in the paper. That -was unfortunate. But very soon the press cleverly discovered a kind -of camouflage of phrase which covered up reality completely. "The -honourable gentleman, speaking at Newcastle last night, said that we -would not sheathe the sword until----" "Over the top! those are the -words for which our brave lads are waiting----" "Our offensive in these -areas inflicted very heavy losses on the Germans and resulted in the -capture of important positions by the Allied troops." - -It seemed that Miss Morganhurst read these phrases for a week or two, -and easily persuaded herself that the war was non-existent. She was -happy that it was so. It appears incredible that anyone could have -dismissed the war so easily, but then Miss Morganhurst was surely -impenetrable. - -I have heard different explanations given by people, who knew her -well, of Miss Morganhurst's impenetrability. Some said that it was -a mask, assumed to cover and defeat feelings that were dangerous to -liberate; others, that she was so selfish and egoistic that she really -did not care about anybody. This is the interesting point about Miss -Morganhurst. Did she banish the war entirely from her consciousness and -give it no further consideration, or was she, in truth, desperately and -with ever-increasing terror aware of it and unable to resist it? - -She gave no sign until the very end; but the nature of that end leads -me to believe that the first of the two theories is the correct one. -People who knew her have said that her devotion to that wretched -little canine remnant proves that she had no heart, but only a fluent -sentimentality. I believe it to have proved exactly the opposite. -I believe her to have been the cynic she was because she had, at -some time or other, been deeply disappointed. She had, I imagine, no -illusions about herself, and saw that the only thing to be, if she were -to fight at all, was ruthless, harsh, money-grubbing, and, above all, -to bury herself in other people's scandal. She was, I rather fancy, -one of those women for whom life would have been completely changed, -had she been given beauty or even moderate good looks. As life had not -given her that, she would pay it back. And after all, life was stronger -than she knew.... - -She did not refuse to discuss the war, but she spoke of it as of -something remotely distant, playing itself out in the sands of the -Sahara, for instance. Nothing stirred her cynical humour more deeply -than the heroics on both sides. When politicians or kings or generals -got up and said before all the world how just their cause was and -how keen they were about honour and truth and self-sacrifice, and -how certain they were, after all, to win, Miss Morganhurst gave her -sinister villainous chuckle. - -She became something of a power during the bad years, when the -air-raids came and the casualties mounted higher and higher, and -Roumania came in only to break, and the Russian revolution led to the -sinister ghoulishness of Brest-Litovsk. People sought her company. -"We'll go and see the 'Morgue,'" they said; "she never mentions the -war." She never did; she refused absolutely to consider it. She would -not even discuss prices and raids and ration-books. Private history -was what she cared for, and that generally on the scabious side, if -possible. What she liked to know was who was sick of her, why so-and-so -had left such-and-such a place, whether X---- was really drinking, -and why Z---- had taken to cocaine. Her bridge got better and better, -and it used to be a real trial of strength to go and play with her in -the untidy, over-full, over-garish little flat. The arrival of the -Armistice was, I believe now, her first dangerous moment. She was -suddenly forced to pause and consider; it was not so easy to shut her -eyes and ears as it had been, and the things that she had, against -her will, seen and heard were now, in the new silence, insistent. -She suddenly, as I remember noticing about this time, got to look -incredibly old. - -Her nose seemed longer, her chin hookier, her hands bonier, and little -brown spots like sickly freckles appeared on her forehead. - -Her dress got brighter and brighter. She especially affected a kind of -purple silk, I remember. - -The Armistice seemed to disappoint her. It would have done us people -a lot of good to get a thorough trouncing, I remember her saying. -What would have happened to herself, and her bridge, had we had that -trouncing I don't think she reflected. So far as one could see, she -regarded herself as an inevitable permanency. I wonder whether she -really did. She developed, too, just about this time, an increased -passion for her wretched little dog. It was as though, now that the war -was really nearing its close, she was twice as frightened about that -animal's safety as she had been before. Of what was she afraid? Was -it some ghostly warning? Was it some sense that she had that fate was -surely going to get her somewhere, and that now that it had missed her -through air-raids it must try other means? Or was it simply that she -had more time now to spend over the animal's wants and desires? In any -case she would not let the dog out of her sight unless on some most -imperative occasion. She trusted Agatha, but no one would take so much -care as one would oneself. The dog itself seemed now to be restless and -alarmed as though it smelt already its approaching doom. It got, so -far as one could see, no pleasure from anything. There were no signs -that it loved its mistress, only it did perhaps have a sense that she -could protect it from outside disaster. Every step, every word, every -breath of wind seemed to drive its little soul to the very edge of -extinction--then, with shudderings and shiverings and tremblings, back -it came again. They were a grim pair, those two. - -Christmas came and passed, and the world began to shake itself together -again. That same shaking was a difficult business, attended with -strikes and revolutions and murder and despair; but out of the chaos -prophets might discern a form slowly rising, a shape that would stand -for a new world, for a better world, a kindlier, a cleaner, honester.... - -But Miss Morganhurst was no prophet. Her sallow eyes were intent on her -bridge-cards--so, at least, they appeared to be. - -After the catastrophe, I talked with only one person who seemed to have -expected what actually occurred. This was a funny old thing called Miss -Williams, one of Miss Morganhurst's more shabby friends--a gossip and a -sentimentalist--the last person in the world, as I would have supposed, -to see anything interesting. - -However, this old lady insisted that she had perceived, during this -period, that Miss Morganhurst was "keeping something back." - -"Keeping what back?" I asked. "A guilty secret?" - -"Oh, not at all," said Miss Williams. "Dear me, no. Dahlia wouldn't -have minded anything of that kind. No, it's my belief she was affected -by the war long before any of us supposed it, and that she wouldn't -think of it or look at it because she knew what would happen if she -did. She knew, too, that she was being haunted by it all the time, and -that it was all piling up, ready, waiting for the moment.... I do hope -you don't think me fantastical----" - -I didn't think her "fantastical" at all, but I must confess that when I -look back I can see in the Miss Morganhurst of these months nothing but -a colossal egotism and greed. - -However, I must not be cruel. It was towards the end of April that -fate, suddenly tired of waiting, took her in hand, and finished her off. - -One afternoon when, arrayed in a bright pink tea-gown, she was lying -on her sofa, taking some rest before dressing for dinner, Agatha came -in and said that her brother was there and would like to see her. Now -Miss Morganhurst had a very surprising brother--surprising, that is, -for her. He was a clergyman who had been for very many years the rector -of a little parish in Wiltshire. So little a parish was it that it -gave him little work and less pay, with the result that he was, at his -advanced age, shabby and moth-eaten and dim, like a poor old bird shut -up for many months in a blinded cage and let suddenly into the light. I -don't know what Miss Morganhurst's dealings with her brother had been, -whether she had been kind to him or unkind, selfish or unselfish; but -I suspect that she had not seen very much of him. Their ways had been -too different, their ambitions too separate. The old man had had one -passion in his life, his son, and the boy had died in a German prison -in the summer of 1918. He had been, it was gathered, in one of the more -unpleasant German prisons. Mr. Morganhurst was a widower, and this blow -had simply finished him--the thread that connected him with coherent -life snapped, and he lived in a world of dim visions and incoherent -dreams. - -He was not, in fact, quite right in his head. - -Agatha must have thought the couple a strange and depressing pair as -they stood together in that becoloured and becrowded room, if, that is -to say, she ever thought of anything but herself. Poor old Morganhurst -was wearing an overcoat really green with age, and his squashy black -hat was dusty and unbrushed. - -He wore large spectacles, and his chin was of the kind that seems -always to have two days' growth upon it. The bottoms of his trousers -were muddy, although it was a dry day. He stood there uneasily twisting -his hat round and round in his fingers and blinking at his sister. - -"Sit down, Frederick," said his sister. "What can I do for you?" - -It seemed that he had come simply to talk to her. He was going down to -Little Roseberry that evening, but he had an hour to spare. The fact -was that he was besieged, invaded, devastated by horrors of which he -could not rid himself. - -If he gave them to someone else might they not leave him? At any rate -he would share them--he would share them with his sister. It appeared -that an officer, liberated from Germany after the Armistice, had sought -him out and given him some last details about his son's death. - -These "details" were not nice. There are, as we all know, German -prisons and German prisons. Young Morganhurst seemed to have been -sent to one of the poorer sort. He had been rebellious and had been -punished; he had been starved, shut up for days in solitary darkness -... at the end he had found a knife somewhere and had killed himself. - -The old man's mind was like a haystack, and many details lost their way -in the general confusion. He told what he could to his sister. It must -have been a strange meeting: the shabby old man sitting in one of those -gaudy chairs trying to rid himself of his horror and terror and, above -all, of his loneliness. Here was the only relation, the only link, the -only hope of something human to comfort him in his darkness; and he did -not know her, could not see how to appeal to her or to touch her ... -she was as strange to him as a bird of paradise. She on her side, as I -now can see, had her own horror to fight. Here at last was the thing -that throughout the war she had struggled to keep away from her. She -knew, and she alone, how susceptible she was! But she could not turn -him away; he was her brother, and she hated him for coming--shabby old -man--but she must hear him out. - -She sat there, the dog clutched, shivering to her skinny breast. I -don't suppose that she said very much, but she listened. Against her -will she listened, and it must have been with her as it is with some -traveller when, in the distance, he hears the rushing of the avalanche -that threatens to overwhelm him. But she didn't close her ears. From -what she said afterwards one knows that she must have heard everything -that he said. - -He very quickly, I expect, forgot that he had an audience at all. The -words poured out. There was some German officer who had been described -to him and he had grown, in his mind, to be the very devil himself. He -was a brute, I daresay, but there are brutes in every country.... - -"He had done simply nothing--just spoken back when they insulted him. -They took his clothes off him--everything. He was quite naked. And -they mocked him like that, pricking him with their swords.... They put -him into darkness ... a filthy place, no sanitation, nothing.... They -twisted his arms. They made him imagine things, horrible things. When -he had dysentery they just left him.... They made him drink ... forced -it down his throat...." - -How much of it was true? Very little, I daresay. Even as the old man -told it details gathered and piled up. "He had always been such a good -boy. Very gentle and quiet--never any trouble at school.... I was -hoping that he would be ordained, as you know, Dahlia. He always loved -life ... one of the happiest boys. What did they do it for? He hadn't -done them any harm. They must have made him very angry for him to say -what he did--and he didn't say very much.... And he was all alone. -He hadn't any of his friends with him. And they kept his parcels and -letters from him. I'd just sent him one or two little things...." - -This, more than anything else, distressed the old man: that they'd kept -the letters from the boy. It was the loneliness that seemed to him the -most horrible of all. - -"He had always hated to be alone. Even as a very little boy he didn't -like to be left in the dark. He used to beg us.... Night-lights, we -always left night-lights in his room.... But what had he done? Nothing. -He had never been a bad boy. There was nothing to punish him for." - -The old man didn't cry. He sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the back of -his hand, and once he brought out a dirty handkerchief. The thing that -he couldn't understand was why this had happened to the boy at all. -Also he was persecuted by the thought that there was something still -that he could do. He didn't know what it might be, but there must be -something. He had no vindictiveness. He didn't want revenge. He didn't -blame the Germans. He didn't blame anybody. He only felt that he should -"make it up to his boy" somehow. "You know, Dahlia," he said, "there -were times when one was irritated by the boy. I haven't a very equable -temper. No, I never have had. I used to have my headaches, and he was -noisy sometimes. And I'm afraid I spoke sharply. I'm sorry enough for -it now--indeed, I am. Oh, yes! But, of course, one didn't know at the -time...." - -Then he went back to the horrors. They would not leave him, they buzzed -about his brain like flies. The darkness, the smell ... the smell, the -filth, the darkness. And then the end! He could not forget that. What -the boy must have suffered to come to that! Such a happy boy!... Why -had it happened? And what was to be done now? - -He stopped at last and said that he must go and catch his train. He was -glad to have talked about it. It had done him good. It was kindly of -Dahlia to listen to him. He hoped that Dahlia would come down one day -and see him at Little Roseberry. It wasn't much that he could offer -her. It was a quiet little place, and he was alone, but he would be -glad to see her. He kissed her, gave her a dim bewildered smile, and -went. - -Soon after his departure Mrs. Mellish arrived. It is significant of -Mrs. Mellish's general egotism and ignorance that she perceived nothing -odd in Miss Morganhurst! Just the same as she always was. They talked -bridge the next afternoon. Bridge. Four women. What about Norah Pope? -Poor player. That's the worst of it. Doesn't see properly and won't -wear glasses. Simply conceit. But still, who else is there? To-morrow -afternoon. Very difficult. Mrs. Mellish admits that on that particular -day she was preoccupied about a dress that she couldn't get back from -the dressmakers. These days. What has come to the working-classes? They -don't care. +They don't care.+ Money simply of no importance to them. -That's the strange thing. In the old days you could have done simply -everything by offering them a little more.... But not now. Oh, dear -no!... She admits that she was preoccupied about the dress, and wasn't -noticing Dahlia Morganhurst as she might have done. She saw nothing -odd. It's my belief that she'll see nothing odd at the last trump. She -went away. - -Agatha is the other witness. After Mrs. Mellish's departure she came in -to her mistress. The only thing that she remarked about her was that -"she was very quiet." Tired, I supposed, after talking to that Mrs. -Mellish. And then her old brother and all. Enough to upset anyone. - -Miss Morganhurst sat on the edge of her gaudy sofa looking in front of -her. When Agatha came in she said that she would not dress just yet. -Agatha had better take the dog out for a quarter of an hour. The maid -wondered at that because that was a thing that she was never allowed to -do. She hated the animal. However, she pushed its monstrous little head -inside its absurd little muzzle, put on her hat and went out. - -I don't know what Miss Morganhurst thought about during that quarter -of an hour, but when at the end of that time Agatha returned, scared -out of her life with the dog dead in her arms, the old lady was sitting -in the same spot as before. She can't have moved. She must have been -fighting, I fancy, against the last barrier--the last barrier that kept -all the wild beasts back from leaping on her imagination. - -Well, that slaughtered morsel of skin and bone finished it. The -slaughtering had been the most natural thing in the world. Agatha had -put the creature on the pavement for a moment and turned to look in a -shop window. Some dog from the other side of the street had enticed -the trembling object. It had started tottering across, uttering tiny -snorts of sensual excitement behind its absurd muzzle. A Rolls-Royce -had done the rest. It had suffered very little damage, and laid out -on Miss Morganhurst's red lacquer table, it really looked finer than -it had ever done. Agatha, of course, was terrified. She knew better -than anyone how deeply her mistress had loved the poor trembling -image. Sobbing, she explained. She was really touched, I think--quite -truly touched for half a minute. Then, when she saw how quietly Miss -Morganhurst took it, she regained her courage. Miss Morganhurst said -nothing but "Yes." Agatha regained, with her courage, her volubility. -Words poured forth. She could needs tell madame how deeply, deeply she -regretted her carelessness. She would kill herself for her carelessness -if madame preferred that. How she could! Madame might do with her what -she wished.... - -But all that Miss Morganhurst said was "Yes." - -Miss Morganhurst went into her bedroom to dress for dinner, and -Tiny-Tee was left, at full length in all her glory, trembling no -longer, upon the red lacquer table. - -Agatha went downstairs for something, spoke to Fanny, the portress, -and returned. Outside the bedroom door, which was ajar, she heard a -strange sound, like someone cracking nuts, she described it afterwards. -She went in. Miss Morganhurst, her thin grey hair about her neck, clad -only in her chemise, was sitting on her bed swinging her bare legs. -At sight of Agatha she screeched like a parrot. As Agatha approached -she sprang off the bed and advanced at her--her back bent, her fingers -bent talon-wise. A stream of words poured from her lips. Every horror, -every indecency, every violation of truth and honour that the war had -revealed through the press, through books, through letters, seemed to -have lodged in that brain. Every murder, every rape, every slaughter of -innocent children, every violation of girls and old women--they were -all there. She stopped close to Agatha and the words streamed out. At -the end of every sentence, with a little sigh, she whispered--"I was -there! I was there!... I've seen it." - -Agatha, frozen with horror, remained; then, action coming back to her, -she fled--Miss Morganhurst pursued her, her bare feet pattering on the -carpet. She called Agatha by the name of some obscure German captain. - -Agatha found a doctor. When they returned Miss Morganhurst was lying on -her face on the floor in the darkness, hiding from what she saw. "I was -there, you know," she whispered to the doctor as he put her to bed. - -She died next day. Perhaps, after all, many people have felt the war -more than one has supposed.... - - - - -V - -PETER WESTCOTT - - -Westcott's astonishment when Edmund Robsart offered to lend his -chambers rent free for two months was only equalled by his amazement -when he discovered himself accepting that offer. Had you told him a -week before that within seven days he would be sleeping in Robsart's -sumptuous bed closed in by the rich sanctities of Robsart's sumptuous -flat, he would have looked at you with that cool contempt that was -one of Westcott's worst features; for Westcott in those days was an -arrogant man--arrogant through disgust of himself and disgust of the -world--two very poor reasons for arrogance. - -This was the way of his accepting Robsart's offer. He had been -demobilised at the beginning of March and had realised, with a sudden -surprise that seemed only to confirm his arrogance, that he had no one -to go and see, no work to do, no place that needed him, no place that -he needed. He took a bedroom in a dirty little street off the Strand. -He knew that there were two men whom he should look up, Maradick and -Galleon. He swore to himself that he would die before he saw either of -them. Then, in the Strand, he met Lester, a man whom he had known in -his old literary days before the war. Twenty years ago Lester had been -a man of much promise, and his novel _To Paradise_ had been read by -everyone who wanted a short road to culture. Now the war had definitely -dated him and he seemed to belong to the _Yellow Book_ and the _Bodley -Head_ and all those days when names were so much more important than -performance, and a cover with a Beardsley drawing on it hid a multitude -of amateurs. - -Westcott did not mind whether or no Lester were dated; he was, for -the matter of that, himself dated. It was long indeed since anyone -had mentioned _Reuben Hallard_, or _The Vines_, or _The Stone House_. -It seemed many ages since he himself had thought of them. He liked -Lester, and being a man who, in spite of his loneliness and arrogance, -responded at once to kindliness, he accepted Lester's invitation to -dinner. He dug up an old dinner jacket that was tight and unduly -stretched across his broad shoulders and went to dinner in the Cromwell -Road. - -Days of failure and disappointment had not suited Mrs. Lester, who had -always lived for excitement and good society, and found neither in the -Cromwell Road. There was only one other guest beside Westcott, and that -was Edmund Robsart, the most successful of all modern novelists. For -many years Robsart's name had been a synonym for success. "It must be," -thought Westcott, looking at the man's red face and superb chest and -portly stomach, "at least thirty years since you published _The Prime -Minister's Daughter_ and hit the nail at the very first time. What a -loathsome fellow you are, what harm you've done to literature, and what -a gorgeous time you must have had!" - -And the very first thing that Robsart said was: "You don't mean to tell -me that you're Westcott, the author of _Reuben Hallard_!" - -"Now you're a fool to be touched by that," Westcott said to himself. -But he was astonished, nevertheless--touched, it seemed, not so much -for himself as in a kind of protective way for that poor little -firstling who had been both begotten and produced in a London -boarding-house and had held in his little hands so much promise, so -many hopes, so much pride and ambition. - -Westcott was touched; he did not resent Robsart's fatherly, patronising -air as of one who held always in his chubby, gouty fist the golden -keys to Paradise. He drank Lester's wine and laughed at Robsart's -anecdotes and was sympathetic to Mrs. Lester's complaints; he, Peter -Westcott, who throughout the war had been held to be cold, conceited, -overbearing, the most unpopular officer in his regiment. At the end of -the evening Robsart asked him to come to lunch. "I live in Duke Street, -Hortons. Everyone knows Hortons." He gave him his number. "Tuesday, -1.30. Glad to see you." - -Westcott cursed himself for a fool when he went back to his Strand -lodging. What did he want with men of Robsart's kidney? Had he not been -laughing and mocking at Robsart for years? Had he not taken Robsart's -success as a sign of the contemptible character of the British Public; -when men like Galleon and Lester had been barely able to live by their -pens and Robsart rolled in money--rolled in money earned by tawdry -fustian sentimentality like _The Kings of the Earth_ and _Love Laughs -at Locksmiths_. - -Nevertheless, he went and brushed his old blue suit and rolled up to -Duke Street, looking, as he always did, like an able-bodied seaman -on leave. Robsart's flat was very much what he had expected it to -be--quite sumptuous and quite lifeless. There was a little dining-room -off what Robsart called the Library. This little dining-room had -nothing in it save a round, shining gate-legged table with a glass top -to it, a red Persian rug that must have been priceless, a Rodin bust of -an evil-looking old woman who stuck her tongue out, and a Gauguin that -looked to Westcott like a red apple and a banana, but was, in reality, -a native woman by the seashore. In the Library there were wonderful -books, the walls being completely covered by them. - -"Most of them first or rare editions," said Robsart carelessly. Behind -glass near the window were the books that he had himself written, all -the different editions, the translations, the cheap "Shillings" and -"Two Shillings," the strange Swedish and Norwegian and Russian copies -with their paper backs, the row of "Tauchnitz," and then all the -American editions with their solemn, heavy bindings. Then there were -the manuscripts of the novels, all bound beautifully in red morocco, -and in the bottom shelf the books with all the newspaper cuttings -dating, as Westcott to his amazement saw, from 1884. Thirty-five years, -and all this sumptuousness as a result! Nevertheless the books round -the room looked dead, dead, dead. "Never touched," thought Peter, -"except to show them to poor humble failures like myself." - -Half an hour's conversation was quite enough to strip Peter of any -illusions he may have had about Robsart's natural simplicity of heart. -He had invited Westcott there because he wanted a little praise from -"the Younger Generation"--"needed" rather than "wanted" was perhaps -the right word. Westcott was hardly the ideal victim, because he was -over forty, and an undoubted failure; nevertheless, at Lester's he had -appeared amiable and kindly--a little encouragement and he would say -something pleasant. - -Then Robsart would have soothed that tiresome, biting, bitter -irritation that had beset him of late, born he knew not where, a -suggestion carried on the wind that "he was behind the times," that his -books "no longer sold," that no young man or woman "thought of him with -anything but contempt." These things had not been said directly to him; -he had not even read them in the papers. There were certain critical -journals that had, of course, since the beginning of his career given -him nothing but abuse if they noticed him at all. They now treated -him to silence. He did not expect them to alter. But his sales _were_ -falling; even the critics who had supported him through all weathers -were complaining a little now of monotony of subject, of repetition of -idea. "Damn it all, what _can_ you do but repeat after thirty books?" -Sometimes he wondered whether he would not stop and "rest on his -laurels." But that meant a diminution of income; he had always lived -well and spent every penny as it came along. Moreover, now was the -worst moment to choose, with the income-tax at what it was and food and -clothes and everything else at double its natural price! - -As a matter of truth, he had been looking forward during the last two -years to "after the war." ... That was the time when he was going -to start again. Get this war behind one and he would break out in -an entirely new place--"begin all over again"--show all those young -fellows that all their so-called modernity was nothing but a new trick -or two for covering up the same old thing. He could do it as well as -they. Write in suspensive dots and dashes, mention all the parts of the -human body in full, count every tick of the clock, and call your book -"Disintegration," or "Dead Moons," or "Green Queens." - -Robsart liked himself in these moods, and during luncheon he amiably -wandered along in this direction, plucking the flowers of his wit as he -went and flinging them into Westcott's lap. - -Peter grew ever more and more silent. He hated Robsart. That ghastly -preoccupation with his own little affairs, the self-patting and -self-applause over the little successes that he had won, above all, -that blending of all the horror and tragedy of that great nightmare -of a war to fit into the pattern of that mean, self-gratifying little -life--these things were horrible. But, strangely, with the ever-growing -disgust of Robsart and his slightly disturbed self-complacency came -an evil longing in Peter's breast for some of the comfort and luxury -that Robsart's life represented. Ever since that day, now so many years -ago, when his wife had run away with his best friend, he had known, -it seemed, no peace, no quiet, no tranquillity. It was not security -that he needed, but rather a pause in the battle of the spiritual -elements that seemed to be for ever beating at his ears and driving him -staggering from post to post. Had it not been for the war he had often -thought, he must have succumbed before now. Final defeat, at any rate, -meant rest. He had not succumbed. These years in Gallipoli and France -had saved him. But he, in those desolate, death-ridden places had again -and again said to himself, even as Robsart, safe in Hortons, had said: -"After the war.... After the war...." After the war Peter would build -up his life again. But first, even a month's rest--somewhere that was -not dirty and cheap and ill-smelling. Somewhere with good food and kind -looks.... Then he smiled as he thought of Maradick and Galleon, his -two friends, who could both give him those things. No, he wanted also -freedom. - -Thus, to his amazement, at the end of luncheon, when he was feeling as -though he could not bear the sound of Robsart's rich, self-satisfied -voice a moment longer, the man made his proposal. He was going to -Scotland for two months. Would Westcott like to take the flat, free of -rent, of course? It was at his disposal. He need not have meals there -unless he wished. - -Something in Westcott's spirit had attracted Robsart. Westcott had -not given him the praise he had needed; but now he seemed to have -forgotten that. The man who sat opposite to him with the thin face, -the black, closely cropped hair, thin above his forehead, grey above -the temples, with the broad shoulders, the hard, thick-set figure, the -grave eyes, the nervous, restless fingers, the man who, in spite of his -forty years, seemed still in some strange way a boy--that man had been -through fire and tribulation such as Robsart would never know. Robsart -was not a bad man, nor an unkindly; success had been the worst thing -that could have happened to his soul. He put his hand on Westcott's -shoulder: "You stay here and have a rest for a bit. Do just as you -like. Chuck my things about. Smash the Rodin if it amuses you." Peter -accepted. - -When he moved, with his few possessions, into the grand place, he found -it less alarming than he had expected. Hortons itself was anything but -alarming. In the first place, there was the nicest girl in the world, -Fanny, who was portress downstairs. She made one happy at once. Then -the valet, Albert, or Albert Edward, as he seemed to prefer to be -called, was the kind of man understood in a moment by Peter. They were -friends in three minutes. Albert Edward had his eye on Fanny, and was -going to propose one of these days. Wouldn't they make a jolly pair? - -Once or twice the great Mr. Nix himself, the manager of the flats, came -in to see how Peter was faring. He seemed to have an exalted idea of -Peter because he was "Robsart's friend." Robsart was a very great man -in Mr. Nix's eyes. - -"But I'm not his friend," Peter said. "You must have been," Mr. Nix -said, "for him to let you have his flat like that. I've never known him -to do that before." - -In three days Peter was happy; in another three days he began to be -strangled. There were too many things in the flat--beautiful things, -costly things. Little golden trifles, precious china, pictures worth a -fortune, first editions scattered about as though they were nothing. -"Too full, too full, too full." - -Peter couldn't sleep. He pushed on all the lights, and pushed them all -off again. He got up, and in his old, shabby, patched pyjamas walked -the length of the flat up and down, up and down. The Brahmin gods in -the gold temple stared at him impassively. The Rodin old woman leered. - -"Another two days and I'm done with this place," he thought. Then -Murdoch Temple came to see him. Westcott had known Temple before the -war; he had not seen him for five years. Temple had not altered: there -was the same slight, delicate body, pale, discontented face, jet-black -hair, long, nervous and conceited hands, shabby clothes too tight for -the body and most characteristic of all, a melancholy and supercilious -curl to his upper lip. Temple was supercilious by nature and -melancholy by profession. From the very beginning it had seemed that -he was destined to be a genius, and although after fifteen years of -anticipation the fulfilment of that destiny was still postponed, no one -could doubt, least of all Temple himself, that the day of recognition -was approaching. At Oxford it had seemed that there was nothing that -he could not do; in actual fact he had since then read much French and -some Russian (in translation, of course), edited two little papers, -strangled by an unsympathetic public almost at birth, produced a novel, -a poem, and a book of criticism. An unhappy chill had hung over all -these things. The war, in whose progress poor health had forbidden him -to take a very active part, had made of him a pessimist and pacifist; -but even here a certain temperamental weakness had forbidden him to be -too ardent. He was peevish rather than indignant, petulant rather than -angry, unkind rather than cruel, malicious rather than unjust, and, -undoubtedly, a little sycophantic. - -He had a brain, but he had always used it for the fostering of -discontent. He did care, with more warmth than one would have supposed -possible, for literature, but everything in it must be new, and -strange, and unsuccessful. Success was, to him, the most terrible of -all things, unless he himself were to attain it. - -That, as things now went, seemed unlikely. During the last two years he -and his friends had been anticipating all that they were going to do -"after the war...." There was to be a new literature, a new poetry, a -new novel, a new criticism; and all these were to be built up by Temple -and company. "Thank God, the war's saved us from the old mess we were -in. No more Robsarts and Manisbys for us! Now we shall see!" - -Peter had heard vague rumours of the things these young men were -going to do. He had not been greatly interested. He was outside their -generation, and his own ambitions were long deadened by his own -self-contempt. Nevertheless, on this particular morning, he was glad -to see Temple. There was no question but that he made as effective a -contrast with Robsart as one could find. - -Temple was extremely cordial. At the same time, he was frankly -surprised to find Peter there. - -"How did you track me?" asked Peter. - -"Robsart told Maradick in Edinburgh, Meredith was writing to me. How -are you after all this time?" - -"All right," said Peter, smiling. The conversation then was literary, -and Temple explained "how things were." Things were very bad. He used -the glories of Robsart's rooms as an illustration of his purpose. He -waved his hands about. "Look at these things," he seemed to say. "At -these temples of gold, this china of great price, these pictures, and -then look at me. Here is the contrast between true and false art." - -"We want to get rid," he explained to Peter, "of all these false -valuations. This wretched war has shown us at least one thing--the -difference between the true and the false. The world is in pieces. It -is for us to build it up again." - -"And how are you going to do it?" asked Peter. - -Well, it seemed that Temple's prospects were especially bright just -then. It happened that Mr. Dibden, the original inventor of "Dibden's -Blue Pills," was anxious to "dabble in art." He was ready to put quite -a little of his "blue pill" money behind a new critical paper, and the -editor of this paper was to be Temple. - -"Of course," said Temple. "I'm not going to agree to it unless he -guarantees us at least five years' run. A paper of the sort that I have -in mind always takes some time to make its impression. In five years -the world at least will be able to see what we are made of. I've no -fears." - -Peter, who was more ingenuous than he knew, was caught by the rather -wistful eagerness in Temple's voice. - -"This fellow really does care," he thought. - -"We want you to come in with us," said Temple. "Of course, we shall -have nothing to do with fellows like D---- and W---- and M----; men -who've simply made successes by rotten work. No! But I flatter myself -that there will be no one of our generation of any merit who won't join -us. You must be one." - -"I'm too old," said Peter, "for your young lot." - -"Too old!" cried Temple. "Rot! Of course, it's a long time since _The -Vineo_, but all the better. You'll be the fresher for the pause. Not -like M---- and W----, who turn out novels twice a year as though they -were sausages. Besides, you've been in the war. You've seen at first -hand what it is. None of these ghastly high spirits about you! You'll -have the right pessimistic outlook." - -"I don't know that I shall," said Peter, laughing. - -"Oh, yes, you will," said Temple confidently. "I'm delighted you'll -join us. And I'll be able to pay well, too. Old Dibden's ready to stump -up any amount." - -"That's a good thing," said Peter. - -He remembered that Temple had not, with the best wish in the world, -been always able in the past to fulfil all his promises. In short, -Peter was touched and even excited. It was so long since anyone had -come to him or wanted him. Then Temple had caught him at the right -moment. He was out of a job; Robsart's flat was suffocating him; he -himself was feeling something of this new air that was blowing through -the world. He wondered whether after all it might not be that Temple -and his friends would be given the power. They had youth, energy, a -freedom from tradition.... - -He promised Temple that he would come to tea next day, and see some of -his friends. - -"The paper's to be called the _Blue Moon_," said Temple. "To-morrow, -then, at five." - -Peter found himself at five next day in a small room off Chancery Lane. -Temple met him at the door, greeted him with that rather eager and -timid air that was especially his, introduced him to a young man on a -green sofa, and left him. - -Peter was rather amused at his own excitement. He looked about him -with eagerness. Here, at any rate, was a fine contrast to Robsart. -No gold gods and precious Rodins in this place. The room was bare to -shabbiness. The only picture on the ugly wall-paper was a copy of some -post-impressionist picture stuck on to the paper with a pin. - -It was a warm spring day, and the room was very close. Some half a -dozen men and two girls were present; very much bad tobacco was being -smoked. Somewhere near the untidy fire-place was a table with tea on -it. "Perhaps," thought Peter, "these _are_ the men who will make the -new world.... At any rate, no false prosperity here. These men mean -what they say." Looking about him, the first thing that he discovered -was a strange family likeness that there seemed to be amongst the men. -They all wore old, shabby, ill-fitting clothes. No hair was brushed, no -collars were clean, all boots were dusty. "That's all right," thought -Peter. "There's no time to waste thinking about clothes these days." - -All the same he _did_ like cleanliness, and what distressed him was -that all the young men looked unwell. One of them, indeed, was fat. -But it was an unhealthy stoutness, pale, blotchy, pimpled. Complexions -were sallow, bodies undeveloped and uncared-for. It was not that they -looked ill-fed--simply that they seemed to have been living in close -atmospheres and taking no exercise.... Listening then to the talk he -discovered that the tone of the voices was strangely the same. It was -as though one man were speaking, as though the different bodies were -vehicles for the same voice. The high, querulous, faint, scornful voice -ran on. It seemed as though, did it cease, the room would cease with -it--the room, the sofa, the wall-paper, the tea-table cease with it, -and vanish. One of the pale young men was on the sofa stroking a tiny, -ragged moustache with his rather dirty fingers. He raised sad, heavy -eyes to Peter's face, then, with a kind of spiritual shudder as though -he did not like what he had seen there, dropped them. - -"It's rather close in here, isn't it?" said Peter at last. - -"Maybe," said the young man.... - -One of the young women, directed apparently by Temple, came over to -Peter. She sat down on the sofa and began eagerly to talk to him. She -said how glad she was that he was going to join them. Although she -spoke eagerly, her voice was tired, with a kind of angry, defiant ring -in it. She spoke so rapidly that Peter had difficulty in following -her. He asked who the men in the room were. - -"That's Somers," she said, pointing to the stout man, "Hacket Somers. -Of course, you know his work? I've got his new poem here. Like to see -it? We shall have it in the first number of the _Blue Moon_." - -She handed Peter a page of typed manuscript. He read it eagerly. Here, -then, was the new literature. It was apparently a poem. It was headed -"Wild West--Remittance Man." - -The first three verses were as follows: - - "_Schlemihl no mother weep for - doomed for a certain time-- - - Rye whisky--a fungus - Works into each face--line-- - The Bond-street exterior-- - tears at his vitals-- - gravely the whisker droops - his eyes are cold. - - Immaculate meteor - Inside a thick ichos - outside a thick ether - quenched the bright music...._" - -Peter read these three verses; then a second time, then a third. The -young woman was talking fiercely as he read. She turned to him: - -"Aren't they splendid?" she said. "Hacket at his best. I was a little -doubtful of him, but now there's no question...." - -"Frankly," said Peter, "I don't understand them. It's about a drunkard, -isn't it? I see that, but...." - -"Don't understand it!" cried the young woman. "What don't you -understand?" - -"Well, for instance," said Peter, "'Immaculate meteor.' Is that the -world, or Bond Street, or the whisky?" He felt her contempt. - -She laughed. - -"Well, of course, Hacket's poems aren't for everybody," she said. - -She got up then, and left him. He knew the report that she would make -of him to Temple. He sat there bewildered. He began to feel lonely -and a little angry. After all it was not his fault that he had not -understood the poem. Or was it the heat of the room? He wished that -someone would offer him some tea, but everyone was talking, talking, -talking. He sat back and listened. The talk eddied about him, dazing -him, retreating, rolling back again. He listened. Every kind of topic -was there--men, women, the war, Germany, poetry, homo-sexuality, -divorce, adultery, Walt Whitman, Sapho, names, strange names, American -names, French names, Russian names, condemning Him, condemning Her, -condemning It, the war, Man ... Woman.... - -Once and again he caught popular names. How _they_ were condemned! The -scorn, the languid, insolent scorn. Then pacifism.... He gathered that -two of the men in the room had been forced to dig potatoes for the -Government because they didn't believe in war. Patriotism! The room -quivered with scorn. Patriots! It was as though you had said murderers -or adulterers! His anger grew. Robsart was better than this, far, far -better. At least Robsart tried to make something out of life. He was -not ashamed to be happy. He did not condemn. He was doubtful about -himself, too. He would not have asked Peter to lunch had he not been -doubtful.... And the arrogance here. The room was thick with it. The -self-applause mounted higher and higher. The fat man read one of his -poems. Only a few words reached Peter. "Buttock ... blood ... cobra ... -loins ... mud ... shrill ... bovine...." - -Suddenly he felt as though in another moment he would rush into their -midst, striking them apart, crying out against them, as condemnatory, -as arrogant as they. He got from his sofa and crept from the room. -No one noticed him. In the street the beautiful, cool, evening air -could not comfort him. He was wretched, lonely, angry, above all, most -bitterly disappointed. It seemed to him as he walked along slowly up -Fleet Street that life was really hopeless and useless. On the one -side, Robsart; on the other, these arrogant fools, and in the middle, -himself, no better than they--worse, indeed--for they at least stood -for something, and he for nothing, absolutely nothing. That absurd -poem had, at any rate, effort behind it, striving, ambition, hope. He -had cared all his life for intellectual things, had longed to achieve -some form of beauty, however tiny, however insignificant.... He had -achieved nothing. Well, that knowledge would not have beaten him down -had he felt the true spirit of greatness in these others. He realised -now how deeply he had hoped from that meeting. He had believed in the -new world of which they were all talking; he had believed that its -creation would be brought about by the forces of art, of brotherhood, -of kindliness, and charity, and nobility. And then to go and listen -to a meeting like Temple's? But what right had he to judge them, or -Robsart, or anyone? - -Only too ready to believe himself a failure, it seemed now that the -world too was a failure; that the worst things that the pessimists had -said during the war were now justified. Above all he detested his own -arrogance in judging these other men. - -He had come by now to Piccadilly Circus. He was held by the crowd for -a moment on the kerb outside Swan & Edgar's. The Circus was wrapped in -a pale, honey-coloured evening glow. The stir of the movement of the -traffic was dimmed as though it came through a half-open door. Peter -felt calm touch his bitter unhappiness as he stood there. He stayed as -though someone had a hand on his shoulder and was holding him there. He -was conscious for the second time that day of anticipation. Now, having -been cheated once, he tried to drive it away, but it would not leave -him, and he waited almost as though he were expecting some procession -to pass. The shops were closing, and many people were going home. As he -stood there Big Ben struck six o'clock, and was echoed from St. James's -and St. Martin's. People were coming in prepared for an evening's -amusement. The last shoppers were waiting for the omnibuses to take -them up Regent Street. - -Opposite Peter there were the Criterion posters _Our Mr. Hepplewhite_, -and opposite Mr. Hepplewhite Mlle. Delysia was swinging her name in -mid-air to entice the world into the Pavilion. Every kind of shop -crowded there round the Circus--barbers', and watch-makers', and -bag-makers', and hosiers', and jewellers', and tobacconists', and -restaurants, and tea-shops--there they all were; and the omnibuses, -like lumbering mastodons or ichthyosauri, came tottering and tumbling -into the centre, finding their heavy, thick-headed way out again as -though they were blinded by this dazzling, lighted world. - -He was struck, as he watched, by the caution, the hesitation, the -apparent helplessness of all the world. Londoners had always been -represented as so self-confident, self-assured, but if you watched -to-night, it seemed that everyone hesitated. Young men with their -girls, women with babies, men, boys; again and again Peter saw in faces -that same half-timid, half-friendly glance; felt on every side of him a -kindliness that was born of a little terror, a little dread. There was -some parallel to the scene in his mind. He could not catch it, his mind -strove back. Suddenly, with the big form of a policeman who stepped -in front of him to control the traffic, he knew of what it was that -he was thinking. Years ago, when he had first come up to London, he -had lived in a boarding-house, and there had been there a large family -of children with whom he had been very friendly. The parents of the -children had been poor, but their single living-room had been a nursery -of a happy, discordant kind. Every sort of toy had found its way in -there, and Peter could see the half-dozen children, now trembling, -fighting, laughing, crying, the mother watching them and guarding them. - -The Circus was a nursery. The blue evening sky was closed down, a -radiant roof. Everywhere were the toys. Now it seemed that balls were -danced in the air; now that someone sang or rang bells; now that some -new game was suddenly proposed and greeted with a shout of joy. The -children filled the Circus; the policemen were toy policemen, the -omnibuses toy omnibuses, the theatres toy theatres. - -On every side of him Peter felt the kindliness, the helplessness, the -pathos of his vision. They were children; he was a child; the world -was only a nursery, after all. The sense of his earlier indignation -had left him. It seemed now that anger and condemnation, whether -of Robsart, or Temple and his friends, or of himself, were absurd. -They were all children together, children in their ignorance, their -helplessness, children in their love for one another, their generosity, -and their hope. - -For the first time in his life that sense of disappointment that had -been for so long a stumbling-block to all his effort left him. He felt -as though, like Pilgrim, he had suddenly dropped his pack. Children -in the nursery--the lot of them. No place in this world for high -indignation, for bitterness, for denunciation. - -The injustice, the ill-humour, the passions of life were like the -quarrels in children's play; the wisest man alive knew just as much as -his nursery-walls could show him. - -He laughed and turned homewards. - -The new world? Perhaps. The progress of the world? Perhaps. Meanwhile, -there were nursery-tea, a game of pirates, and a fairy-tale by the -fire ... and after it all, that sound, dreamless sleep that only -children know. Would one wake in the morning and find that one was -leaving the nursery for school? Who could tell? No one returned with -any story.... - -Meanwhile, there was enough to do to help in keeping the nursery in -order, in seeing that the weaker babies were not trodden upon, in -making sure that no one cried himself to sleep. - -Anger and condemnation would never be possible again; no, nor would he -expect the Millennium. - - - - -VI - -LUCY MOON - - -Lucy Moon was the daughter of the Reverend Stephen Moon, Rector of -Little Hawkesworth in North Yorkshire. She was twenty-one years of age, -and pretty. She was so pretty indeed that she reminded one young man in -Hawkesworth of "a cornfield under a red moon," and the Reverend Simon -Laud, to whom she was engaged, thought of her privately as his "golden -goddess," from which it will be seen that she had yellow hair and a -peach-like complexion. - -She had lived always a very quiet and retired life, the nearest to -adventure being two or three expeditions to Scarborough. She did not -know, however, that her life was retired. She was never dull. She had -two younger brothers, and was devoted to her father and mother. She -never questioned their authority. She read the books that they advised, -and wished to read no others. The life that ebbed and flowed around -the rectory seemed to her a very exciting one, and it was not until -the Reverend Simon Laud, rector of a neighbouring parish, proposed to -her, and she found that she accepted him, although she did not love -him, that she began to wonder, a little uncertainly, with a little -bewilderment, about herself. She had accepted him because everyone had -agreed that it was so obviously the right thing for her to do. She -had known him ever since she could remember. He was older than she, -and kindly, although he had asthma and his knees cracked. He had been -rector of his parish for twenty years, and everyone said that he was -a very good man indeed. He had a sense of humour too, and his Penny -Readings were the best in all North Yorkshire. It was not until Simon -had kissed her that Lucy wondered whether she were doing right. She did -not like him to kiss her. His nose seemed so large when near to her, -and his lips tried to catch hers and hold them with a kind of sucking -motion that was quite distressing to her. She looked ridiculously young -when Mr. Laud proposed to her, with her fair gold hair piled up in -coils on the top of her head, her cheeks crimsoned with her natural -agitation, and her young, childish body, like a boy's, slender and -strong under her pink cotton gown. - -"My little girl!" Mr. Laud said, and kissed her again. She went up to -her room and cried for quite a long time. Then, when she saw how happy -her mother was, she was happy too. Perhaps he would not want to kiss -her after they were married. - -Then came the marvellous event. Her Aunt Harriet, Mrs. Comstock, her -mother's sister, and a rich widow, asked her to come and stay with her -for a month in London. Mrs. Comstock was a good-natured, chattering -widow, fond of food and bright attire; Mrs. Moon hesitated about -committing Lucy to her care, but she felt perhaps it would do the child -no harm to give her a peep at worldly ways, before the long black -arms of Simon Laud closed her in for ever. Lucy was terrified and -delighted both at once. It meant that she would see London, where she -had never in all her life been. Even the war had not altered her. She -had worked in the village institute, knitted and sewed, helped in the -village concerts. The war had seemed very remote to her. She had lost -no one whom she loved. She was vaguely distressed by it, as she might -have been by the news of an earthquake at Naples. The Moon household -believed in tranquillity. Mr. Moon was engaged in a series of village -addresses on "The Nativity." The war, after all, he felt, "is probably -a blessing in disguise!" - -So Lucy saw it. I think, as the day of her departure drew near, that -she had some slight premonition of future events. The village, the -fields, the lanes, the church, were touched suddenly by some new and -pathetic splendour. The spring came late to Yorkshire that year, and -the lanes were coloured with a faint shadow of purple behind the -green, so light and shining that it seemed to be glass in its texture. -The bright spaces of the moon were uncertain in their dim shadows, -and there were soft spongy marshes where the frost had released the -underground streams, and long stretches of upland grass, grey-white -beneath the pale spring skies. Space was infinite. The village, tucked -under the rim of the moor with its grey church, its wild, shaggy, tiny -graveyard, its spreading village street, was like a rough Yorkshire -child huddling for protection beneath its father's shoulder. This -had pathos and an appeal for love, and a cry of motherhood. The -clouds, carried by the fresh spring wind, raced above the church -steeple, swinging the young birds in their flight, throwing joyfully, -contemptuously, shadows across the long street, shadows coloured and -trembling like banners. - -Lucy had known these beauties all her life; now they appealed to her -with a new urgency. "When you come back," they seemed to say to her, -"we shall not be the same. Now you are free as we. When you come back -you will be a prisoner." - -It was strange to her, and horrible, that the thought of her -approaching marriage should haunt her as it did. There were things -about it that she had not realised. She had not understood that her -parents, the village, her relations would all make so momentous an -affair of it. When Mr. Laud had proposed to her, and she had accepted -him, it had seemed to her a matter simply between themselves. Now -everyone had a concern in it; everyone accepted it as so absolutely -settled. Did Lucy for a single instant contemplate the breaking of an -engagement she saw with an almost agonised terror the whole village -tumbling upon her head. The very church steeple would fall down and -crush her. She was beginning too, to see her father and mother now in -a new light. They had always been very sweet to her, and she had loved -them dearly, but they had been sweet to her, she could not help but -see, very largely because she had shown so absolute an obedience. Her -mind now would persistently return to certain occasions in her young -history when she had hinted ever so slightly at having an opinion of -her own. Had that opinion been given a moment's opportunity? Never. -Never once. - -Of her two parents, her father was perhaps the more resolute. His mild, -determined surprise at the expression of an individual opinion was a -terrible thing to witness. He did wish not to be dogmatic with her, -but, after all, things were as they were. How could bad be good or good -bad? There you were. A thing was either right, or it wasn't.... _There_ -you were. - -And so around Lucy and her Simon a huge temple was erected by the -willing hands of her parents, relations, and friends. There _she_ was -right inside with the doors locked and the windows closed, and Simon -with his long black arms, his large nose, and his damp red mouth -waiting for her. - -It was her own fault. There was nothing to be done. - -It must not be supposed, however, that she was unhappy when she set off -on her London visit. She was entirely resigned to the future; she loved -her mother and father and the village, and Mr. Laud had been assigned -to her by God. She would enjoy her month, and then make the best of it. -After all, he would not want always to kiss her. She knew enough about -married life to be sure of that. - -She went up to London with a neat black trunk, a new hat with roses on -it, and a little umbrella, green and white, that her mother gave her. - -Mrs. Comstock had a flat at Hortons, in Duke Street. - -To Lucy Duke Street meant nothing. Jermyn Street meant nothing. Even -Piccadilly did not mean very much. St. James's Palace, however, did -mean a good deal, and the first sight of that pearl-grey dignity and -beauty, with the round friendly clock, little clouds like white pillows -in the blue sky above, the sentry in his box, the grace and courtesy of -the Mall, these brought a sob into her throat, and made her eyes dry -and hot. - -That sight of the palace gave her the setting for the rest of the -wonderful new world. Had Mrs. Comstock allowed her, she would have -spent the whole of her time in those fascinating streets. Piccadilly -frightened her a little. The motor-omnibuses and cars rushed so -fiercely along, like pirates on a buccaneering expedition, and everyone -was so haughty, and the shops so grand. - -But it never ceased to be marvellously romantic to her that you could -so swiftly slip through an alley and be hushed at once with a lovely -tranquillity, no sound reaching you but the cry of the flower-man, -the distant honk of a taxicab, the bells of St. James's Church, the -distant boom of Westminster. All the shops in these streets round -Hortons seemed to her romantic fancy to be coloured a rich old walnut. -And against this background there was every kind of treasure--prints -of coaches stuck deep in snowdrifts, of huntsmen leaping over hedges, -of fishermen wading deep in tranquil rivers, of Oxford colleges and -Westminster Abbey--all these, printed in deep old rich colours, blue -and red and orange, colours so deep and rich that they seemed to sink -far down into the page. There were also the jewels and china and -boxes--old Toby jugs and delicate cups and saucers, and amber-bead -necklaces, and Chinese gods, and cabinets of rich red lacquer. She had -a permanent picture of these treasures in the old dark shops, and -from the house's bachelors, young and old, plain and handsome, but -all beautifully dressed, stepping in and out, going, she supposed, -to their clubs and dinners and games, carrying with them everywhere -that atmosphere of expensive cigars and perfectly-pressed clothes and -innumerable baths. - -She gathered all this in the first day or two of her stay, and it was -as delightful and personal to her, as though she herself had been God, -and had created it all. - -Hortons, in its own turn, was delighted with _her_. It had never seen -anything so fresh and charming in all its long life. It had often -received beautiful women into its capacious heart, and it had known -some very handsome men, but Lucy was lovely. Mr. Nix, who could be on -occasions a poet, said of her that she made him think of "strawberries -and junket and his own self at twenty." He did not say this to Mrs. Nix. - -To Lucy, the only thing that was wrong with Hortons was her aunt. She -disliked Mrs. Comstock from the very first moment. She did not like -the way that she was over-dressed, the way that she talked without -looking at you, the way that she spoke so crossly to her maid, the way -that she loved her food, the way that she at once implied that it was -wonderfully fortunate for Lucy to have her to come to. - -She discovered at once that her aunt was on the side of her parents -with regard to Mr. Simon Laud. Mrs. Comstock's opinion was that Lucy -might consider herself very fortunate to have been selected by so good -a man, that she must do her best to deserve her good fortune, because -girls nowadays don't find it easy to pick up men. Men know too much! - -"To pick up men!" What a horrible phrase! And Lucy had not picked up -Simon Laud. She had been picked up--really against her will. Lucy then -discovered that her Aunt Harriet--that is, Mrs. Comstock--had invited -her to London for this month in order to have a companion. She had a -paid companion--Miss Flagstaff--but that unfortunate woman had at last -been allowed a holiday. Here was a whole month, then, and what was -poor Mrs. Comstock to do? Why, of course, there was that niece up in -Yorkshire. The very thing. She would do admirably. - -Lucy found that her first duty was to read every morning the society -papers. There was the _Tatler_ with Eve's letter. There was the _Queen_ -and the _Lady's Pictorial_, and several other smaller ones. These -papers appeared once a week, and it was Lucy's duty to see that they -stretched out, two hours every morning, from Saturday to Saturday. - -Aunt Harriet had society at her fingers' ends, and the swiftly -succeeding marriages of Miss Elizabeth Asquith, Miss Violet Keppel, -and Lady Diana Manners just about this time gave her a great deal to -do. She had a scrap-book into which she pasted photographs and society -clippings. She labelled this "Our leaders," and Lucy's morning labours -were firmly linked to this scrap-book. Once she pasted an impressionist -portrait of Miss Keppel upside-down into the book, and saw for a full -five minutes what Aunt Harriet was like when she was really angry. - -"I'd better go back to Hawkesworth!" Lucy cried, more defiant than she -would ever have suspected she could be. However, this was not at all -what Aunt Harriet wanted; Lucy was making herself extremely useful. -Lucy did not want it either. So peace was made. One result of this -snipping up of society was that Lucy began to be strangely conscious of -the world that was beating up around her. - -A strange, queer, confused, dramatic world! For positively the first -time she was aware of some of the things that the war had done, of -what it had meant to many people, of the chasms that it had made in -relationships, the ruins in homes, and also of the heroisms that it had -emphasised--and, beyond all these individual things, she had a sense of -a new world rising painfully and slowly from the chaos of the old--but -rising! Yes, even through these ridiculous papers of her aunt's, she -could feel the first stirrings, the first trumpetings to battle, voices -sounding, only a little distance from her, wonderful new messages of -hope and ambition. - -This affected her; she began to wonder how she could, through all these -four years of war, have stayed so quietly in her remote Hawkesworth. -She began to despise herself because she had stayed. - -This excitement developed quickly into the same kind of premonition -that she had had before leaving Hawkesworth. Something was about -to happen to her! What would it be? She awoke every morning with a -strange, burning excitement in her throat, a confused, thick beating of -the heart. - -Meanwhile, her month was drawing to its close, the days speeding on -through a glittering pageant of wonderful May weather, when the town -sparkled and quivered like a heap of quartz. - -Simon Laud wrote that he was coming up to London to fetch her, to take -her back with him to Hawkesworth--"that he could not wait any longer -without seeing his pet." - -When Lucy read those words she was strangely tranquillised. She did not -know what it was that, during these days, she had been wanting. What so -strangely had she been expecting? Whom?... - -Her inexperience cried out to Simon Laud to come and defend her. She -had a time of true terror, frightened by Aunt Harriet, by London, by -strikes and wars and turbulences, above all, by her own self, and by -the discontents and longings and desires to which some influence seemed -to be urging her. - -She wrote her first loving letter to Simon. She told him that she -hoped that they would be married very soon, and that indeed he was to -come and fetch her. It would be lovely to go back to Hawkesworth with -him. And when she had posted her letter, she sat on her bed in her -little room in Hortons with her face in her hands and cried bitterly, -desperately--why, she did not know. Mrs. Comstock saw that she had -been crying, and was moved by the child-like simplicity and innocence -of "poor stupid Lucy," as she called her to herself. She was moved to -unusual generosity, and suggested that they should go that night to a -symphony concert at the Queen's Hall--"Although they are going to play -Brahms, which I can't say that I approve of, because he was surely a -German, if anyone ever was, and haven't we got plenty of good music of -our own, I wonder? Anyway, you needn't listen to the Brahms, Lucy, if -you don't want to. You won't understand him, anyway. I expect he's one -of the most difficult of the composers, although he _is_ dead." - -Lucy paid small attention. She had been out only twice with her aunt in -the evening during her London stay, once to a lecture on "Y.M.C.A. Work -at the Front," and once to a musical play, _Monsieur Beaucaire_. She -had liked the lecture, but she had adored _Beaucaire_, and she thought -that perhaps the Queen's Hall would be something of the same kind. - -She had never in all her life been to a "Symphony Concert." - -Aunt Harriet, armour-plated with jewellery, made an exciting contrast -with Lucy, whose blazing red-gold hair, large, rather puzzled eyes, and -plain white dress, needed exotic surroundings to emphasise their true -colour. - -"You look very pretty, dear," said Aunt Harriet, who had made -that evening a little money on the Stock Exchange, and was happy -accordingly, "and quite excited, just as though you were expecting to -see your Simon." - -"I wish he could have arrived to-night instead of to-morrow," said Lucy. - -But did she? As they drove through the streets scattered with -star-dust, watched by a crimson moon, she sighed with that strange -confusion of happiness and unhappiness that seemed always to be hers -now. What was going to happen? Who was coming?... Only Simon? - -She felt a return of her earlier breathless excitement as they pushed -their way through the crowd in the lobby. "Stalls this way.... -Downstairs to the stalls." "To your right, madam. Second on your -right!" "Tickets, please ... tickets, please!" - -Mrs. Comstock was a redoubtable general on these occasions, and pushed -people aside with her sharp elbows, and flashed indignant glances with -her fine eyes, and spread back her shoulders, and sparkled her rings.... - -Lucy wished that her aunt would not figure so prominently. She had -perhaps never before disliked her so thoroughly as she did to-night. -Then, out of the confusion and noise, there came peace. They were -settling down into their seats, and on every side of them were space -and light and colour, and a whispering murmur like the distant echo -of the sea on Scarborough beach. Lucy was suddenly happy. Her eyes -sparkled, her heart beat high. She looked about her and was pleasantly -stirred by the size of the building. "Not so large as the Albert Hall," -she had heard someone say. Why, then, how truly enormous the Albert -Hall must be--and she thought suddenly, with a little kindly contempt, -of Simon, and how very small he would seem placed in the middle of the -stalls all by himself. - -The musicians began to file into their seats; the lights turned up; the -strangest discordances, like the voices of spirits in a lost world, -filled the air; everywhere clumps of empty seats vanished ... people, -people from the ceiling to the floor.... A little man stepped forward, -stood upon his platform, bowed to the applause, held with uplifted -baton a moment's silence, then released upon the air the accustomed -harmonies of _Ruy Blas_. - -To Lucy, who knew so little of life, that flooding melody of sound was -the loveliest discovery. She sat back very straight, eyes staring, -drinking it in, forgetting at once the lighted hall, her aunt, -everything. Only Simon Laud persisted with her. It seemed as though -to-night his figure refused to leave her. - -He did not--oh! how instantly she knew it--fit in at all with the -music. It was as though he were trying to draw her away from it, trying -to persuade her that she did not really like it. He was interfering -with her happiness, buzzing at her ear like an insect. She shook her -head as though to drive this something away, and, even as she did so, -she was aware that something else was happening to her. - -Someone was looking at her. She felt a truly desperate impatience at -this second interruption. Someone was trying to force her to turn her -head--yes, to the right. She was looking straight in front of her, -down to where the hard, thick back of the little conductor seemed -to centralise into itself, and again to distribute all the separate -streams of the music. Lucy was staring at that back as though her -maintaining her connection with it was her only link with the music. -How tiresome that she should not be allowed to concentrate on her -happiness! She violently dismissed the shadowy Simon; but he was -there, just behind her left shoulder. Then, with another effort of -will, she forced away from her that attraction on the right. She -_would_ not look! In all probability, it was imagination. She had known -in Hawkesworth, in church, at the Penny Readings, that sensation that -people were staring at her; simply her self-consciousness. She drove -it off; it came closer to her. It was as though a voice were saying in -her ear: "You _shall_ look to the right.... You _shall_ look to the -right...." - -"I won't!... I won't!" she replied, setting her teeth. Then, to her -own pain and distress, she began to blush. She had always detested her -inevitable blushing, despised herself for her weakness; she could not -fight it; it was stronger than she. Surely all the hall was looking at -her. She felt as though soon she would be forced to run away and hide -in the comforting darkness of the street. - -The music ceased; the little man was bowing; the tension was lifted; -everywhere a buzz of talk rose, as though everyone for the last ten -minutes had been hidden beneath a glass cover that was suddenly raised. -Late comers, with anxious glances, peered about for their seats. Lucy -turned around. - -She saw at once that indeed it was true that someone had been staring -at her. Someone was staring at her now. She stared in return. She knew -that she should not. Her mother had always taught her that to stare at -a stranger was almost the worst thing that you could do. Nevertheless, -Lucy glanced. She could not help herself. He was looking at her as -though he knew her. When she looked in her turn the start that he -gave, the way that a half-smile hovered about his lips, was almost an -acknowledgment of recognition. And had she not known him before? He -seemed so familiar to her--and yet, of course, he could not be. The -conviction that she had been staring suddenly overwhelmed her with -shame, and she turned away. But now he was impressed upon her brain -as though she were looking at a picture of him--his large, rather -ugly, but extremely good-humoured face, his fair, rather untidy hair, -his fair eyebrows, his short, closely-clipped moustache, his black -dinner-jacket, and black bow tie--above all, that charming, doubtful, -half-questioning smile. - -But why, if they had never met before, did he stare like that? Why did -...? - -The applause had broken out again. A tall man holding a violin was -bowing. The Brahms violin concerto began. - -She sat there in a puzzled and bewildered state. What had happened to -her? Who had come to her, lifting her, it seemed, out of her own body, -transforming her into some other creature? Was she feeling this merely -because a man had stared at her? She felt, as she sat there, the blush -still tingling in her cheeks, as though some precious part of her that -had left her many years ago had now suddenly returned to her. - -She was Lucy Moon, the whole, complete Lucy Moon, for the first time.... - -The first movement of the symphony ended. She looked at once to her -right. His eyes were resting on her. She smiled. - -How could she? Did she not know, had she not been told ever since -she could remember, that the most terrible thing that a girl could -do was to smile at a stranger? But he was _not_ a stranger. She knew -everything about him. She knew, although she had never heard him speak, -just what the tone of his voice would be, rough, a little Scotch, and -north country mixed ... not many words; he would be shy and would -stammer a little. At the end of the second movement she smiled again. -He smiled back and raised his eyebrows in a laughing question. - -At the end of the symphony the air crackled with applause. The -violinist returned again and again, bowing. He seemed so small, and his -magnificent evening dress did not suit him. Evening dress, did not suit -Simon either. The applause died away. The orchestra disappeared through -the back of the hall. - -"So hot," said Aunt Comstock, whom, until now, Lucy had utterly -forgotten. "A breath of air outside...." - -They went into the passage. People were walking up and down. They -halted beside a swaying door. Mrs. Comstock stood there, her purple -bosom heaving up and down. "No air.... Can't think why they don't...." - -Her fine eyes flashed. She had seen Mrs. Norris. Are not those things -arranged by God? Mrs. Norris, whom she had not seen for so many months. -Are not these things arranged by God? Lucy's friend was at her elbow. -He was as she had known that he would be; kind-eyed, clumsy perhaps, -his voice rough and hesitating.... He was alone. He stood turned a -little away from her, and she, as though she had been practising these -arts all her life, looked at the pea-green Mrs. Norris, and the pearls -that danced on her bony neck. The voices crept towards one another. No -one would have known that Lucy's mouth moved at all. - -"Can't we get away somewhere?" - -"I'm with my aunt." - -"I _must_ see you." - -"Yes." - -"I _must_." - -"I'm with my----" - -"I know." - -"Perhaps at the end----" - -"No, give me somewhere to write to." - -"It's----" - -Aunt Comstock's voice came sailing like a pirate's ship. - -"Amy, this is my niece, Lucy." - -"How do you do? Are you enjoying London, dear?" - -He was gone. Oh, he was _gone_! And no address. - -She could have slain those two women, one so fat, and one so -thin--willingly, stabbed them. Perhaps she would lose him now. - -They returned. "Something of Bizet's. He was French, Lucy. French or a -Spaniard.... Fancy Amy Norris--lost her looks, poor dear. Ah! I shall -like this. Better than that German." - -Lucy heard no more music. Her heart beat in her throat, choking it. -Life had rushed towards her and filled her, or was it that she had -entered into life? She did not know. She only felt intensely proud, -like a queen entering her capital for the first time.... The concert -was over. Her aunt was a long time putting on her cloak; people stood -in their way, stupid, heavy, idiotic people. When they came into the -hall he was not there.... Yes ... he was close to them. For a moment, -in the thick crowd, he caught her hand. At the touch of his fingers, -rough and strong, upon hers, she seemed to soar above the crowd and to -look down upon them all with scornful happiness. He said something that -she could not catch, and then Aunt Comstock had hatefully enveloped -her. They were in a taxi, and all the world that had been roaring -around her was suddenly hushed. They reached Hortons. Lucy drank her -hot milk. Her aunt said: - -"I do hope you enjoyed your concert, darling.... The Bizet was best." - -She had undressed, and was lying on her bed, flat on her back, staring -up at the white ceiling, upon whose surface circles, flung from the -lights beyond the window, ran and quivered. She watched the circles, -but she was not thinking at all. She seemed to be lapped about by a sea -of warm happiness. She floated on this; she neither slept nor thought. -Early in the morning she sank into dreamless slumber. - -She came down to breakfast tired with happy weariness. She found Simon -Laud waiting for her. She stared at him at first as though she had -never seen him before. He was not looking his best. He explained that -he had caught the night train at York. He was afraid that he had not -shaved nor washed, but that Mrs. Comstock had kindly said: "Have your -breakfast first ... with us. Lucy has just been longing for you." - -Lucy took all this in at last. She saw the bright little room with the -sun pouring in, the breakfast things with the silver tea-pot and the -porridge, and Aunt Comstock in her pink tea-gown. She saw these things, -and then Simon Laud took a step towards her. - -"Dear Lucy!" he said. That step showed her that there was no time to be -lost. Simon Laud must never touch her again. Never! - -"Simon, I wasn't expecting you. But it's just as well, really. It will -get it over more quickly. I must tell you at once that I can't marry -you!" - -Her first feeling after her little speech, which seemed in a strange -way not to have been made by herself at all, was that it was a great -shame to say such a thing to him when he was looking so dirty and so -unwashed. She broke out with a little cry: - -"Oh, Simon, I'm sorry!" - -"Lucy!" she heard Aunt Comstock exclaim. - -Mr. Laud had no words. He looked truly pitiful as his long, rather -dirty fingers sought the tablecloth. Then he laughed. - -"Why, Lucy, dear," he said. "What _do_ you mean?" - -"I mean just what I've said," she answered. "We mustn't marry. It -would be wicked, because I don't love you. I knew from the first that -I didn't, but I had had no experience. I thought you must all know -better. I don't love you, and I never, never will." - -"Lucy!" Aunt Comstock had risen. Lucy had the odd feeling that her -aunt had known that this moment would come, and had been waiting with -eager anticipation for it. "Do you know what you've said? But you -_can't_ know. You're out of your mind, you wicked girl. Here's Mr. Laud -come all the way from Yorkshire, by night too, just to be with you for -a day or two, and you receive him like this. Why, it was only last -night that you told me that you wished he would come--and now! You must -be out of your mind!" - -"I'm not out of my mind," said Lucy, "and I'm sure Simon wouldn't wish -me to marry him if I didn't love him." - -"Did she really say that last night, Mrs. Comstock?" said Mr. Laud. - -"Indeed she did." - -"Only last night?" - -"Only last night." - -"Ah well, then," he heaved a sigh of relief, "it's all right! I -surprised her this morning. I was too sudden. I frightened you, Lucy -darling. Have some breakfast, and you'll feel quite differently." - -"She'd _better_ feel differently," said Mrs. Comstock, now trembling -with happy temper. "I don't know what she's said this mad thing for, -I'm sure, Mr. Laud, considering how she's been talking about you and -wanting you all this month; but a little consideration will soon teach -her." - -"Do you know, Lucy, what they say of girls who try to behave as you're -behaving? Do you know the name the world has for what you're doing? -Have you thought for a moment of your father and mother, and what -they'll say?" - -"No, I haven't," said Lucy. "But no thinking will make any difference. -Nothing will." - -Nevertheless, there did flash through her mind then a picture of what -would happen at Hawkesworth. She had not thought of Hawkesworth; she -saw now the straggling street, the church, the high downs; she saw the -people who had known her since she was a baby, she saw her parents and -relations. Yes, there would be a bad time to go through. And for what? -Because for a moment a man whom she did not know, a man whom she would -never see again, had taken her hand in his! Perhaps she _was_ mad. She -did not know. She only knew that she would never marry Simon Laud. - -"Oh, Simon, I'm so sorry! I know I'm behaving very badly. But it's -better to behave like that now than for us to be unhappy always." - -He smiled at her with confidence. - -"It's quite all right, Lucy, dear. I understand perfectly. You'll feel -quite differently very soon. I surprised you. I shouldn't have done it, -but I was so anxious to see you--a lover's privilege." - -"Now," he ended with that happy optimistic air that he had developed so -happily in the pulpit, "let us all have breakfast, shall we?" - -Lucy shook her head, and then turned and went back to her room. - -A strange day followed. She sat there until luncheon, alone, hearing -the soft buzz of the traffic below her window, interrupted once by the -maid, who, after her permission had been given, moved softly about -the room, setting it to rights. It was not quite true, that she was -thinking during that time--it could scarcely be called thought--it -was rather that a succession of pictures passed before her brain--her -parents in every attitude of alarm and remonstrance and command, the -village and its gossips, long long imprisonment beneath those high -downs, and finally her parents again. How strange it was that last -night's little incident should have illuminated everything in her life, -and nothing more surely than her father and mother! How queer that a -strange young man, with whom in all her life she had exchanged only one -or two words, should have told her more of her own people than all her -living with them could! - -She faced her people for the first time--she knew them to be hard, -narrow, provincial, selfish, intolerant. She loved them just as she had -done before, because with those other qualities, they were also tender, -compassionate, loving, unselfish. - -But she saw now quite clearly what living with them would be. - -She intended to ruin the peace and prosperity of her future life -because she had met a stranger (for a second) whom she would never see -again! That was the truth.... She accepted it without a tremor. - -It was also true that that stranger, by meeting her, had made her live -for the first time. - -Better live uncomfortably than merely pretend to live, or to think you -loved when you did not. Why, now she thought of it, nearly everyone in -the world was dead! - -She was summoned to luncheon. It amused, and at the same time touched -her, to see how Aunt Comstock and Simon covered up the morning's -mistake with a cheerful pretence that it had never occurred. - -Luncheon was all chatter--musical chatter, clerical chatter ... hearty -laughter. Lucy submitted to everything. She submitted to an afternoon -drive. - -It was during the drive that she learned that on the very next morning, -by the 10:15 train, Simon would lead her back to Hawkesworth. When -she heard that her heart gave a wild leap of rebellion. She looked -desperately about her. Could she not escape from the carriage, run -and run until the distant streets hid her? She had no money; she had -nothing. If only she could remain a few days longer in London she -felt that she would be sure to meet her friend again. Maddening to be -so near and then to miss! She thought of bursting out into some wild -protest--one glance at their faces showed her how hopeless that would -be! Hawkesworth! Prison! - -Then she felt her new life and vitality glow and sparkle in her veins. -After all, Hawkesworth was not the end. The end! No, the beginning.... - -That night they were, oh! so kind to her!--laughing, granting her -anything that she might ask--oh! so tactful! - -"Poor Lucy," she could hear them say, "she had a fit of hysteria this -morning. This London has been bad for her. She mustn't come here -again--never again!" - -In the morning the taxi was there, the bags were packed. - -In the pretty green and white hall with the grandfather's clock, -when Lucy tipped Fanny, the Portress, she whispered to her, "I'm -coming back. They don't think I am--but I know I am. And if -anyone--anyone--should ask for me, describe me, you know, so that you -are sure it's me, write to me at this address." - -Fanny smiled and nodded. "Now, Lucy, dear," cried Aunt Comstock, "the -cab's waiting." - -She was sitting in it opposite to Simon, who looked clean, but -ridiculous on one of these uncomfortable third-party seats. They -started up Duke Street, and turned into Piccadilly. - -"I do hope you'll have a nice journey, Lucy. It's a fine day, and I've -got some chocolate...." - -Are not these things arranged by God? - -The cab was stopped by traffic just close to St. James's Church. Lucy, -truly captured now like a mouse in a trap, glanced with a last wild -look through the windows. A moment later she had tumbled over Simon's -knees and burst open the door. She was in the street. As she ran she -was conscious of whistles sounding, boys calling, the green trees of -St. James's blowing. She had touched him on the arm. - -"I saw you.... I couldn't help it.... I had to speak...." She was out -of breath. When he turned and the light of recognition flamed into -his eyes, she could have died with happiness. He caught her hand. He -stammered with joy. - -"Everywhere," he said, "I've been looking ... hoping ... I've walked -about.... I've never thought of anything else...." - -"Quick," she said. "I've no time. They're in the cab there. It's our -last chance. Can you remember this without writing it down?" - -"Yes." - -"Well--Lucy Moon, The Rectory, Hawkesworth, N. Yorkshire. KES ... -Yes.... Write at once...." - -Even in her agitation she noticed the strength and confidence of his -smile. - -"I'll write to-day," he assured her. "You're not married?" - -"No. It's Miss." - -"I'm not either." He caught her hand. "I'll find you before the week's -out." - -She fled. She was in the cab. Aunt Comstock and Simon regarded her with -terrified eyes. - -"Lucy, dear--How _could_ you? What were you about? The train...." - -"Oh, it was a friend! I had to say good-bye. He didn't know I was going -so soon." - -She felt that her happiness would stifle her. She flung open the other -window. She looked at them both and felt the tenderest pity because -they seemed so old, so cross, so dead. - -She bent over and kissed her aunt. - -"Here we are," said that lady, with an air of intense relief. "Now -you'll be all right, Lucy darling. You'll just have Mr. Laud to look -after you." - -"Yes!" cried Lucy. "Now I'm all right.... Come along, Simon, or we'll -miss the train." - - - - -VII - -MRS. PORTER AND MISS ALLEN - - -One of the largest flats on the fourth floor of Hortons was taken in -March, 1919, by a Mrs. Porter, a widow. The flat was seen, and all -business in connection with it was done, by a Miss Allen, her lady -companion. Mr. Nix, who considered himself a sound and trenchant -judge of human nature, liked Miss Allen from the first; and then -when he saw Mrs. Porter he liked her too. These were just the -tenants for Hortons--modest, gentle ladies with ample means and no -extravagant demands on human nature. Mrs. Porter was one of those -old ladies, now, alas, in our turbulent times, less and less easy to -discover--"something straight out of a book," Mr. Nix called her. She -was little and fragile, dressed in silver grey, forehead puckered a -little with a sort of anticipation of being a trial to others, her -voice cultured, soft, a little remote like the chime of a distant -clock. She moved with gestures a little deprecatory, a little resigned, -extremely modest--she would not disturb anyone for the world.... - -Miss Allen was, of course, another type--a woman of perhaps forty years -of age, refined, quiet, efficient, her dark hair, turning now a little -grey, waved decorously from her high white forehead, pince-nez, eyes -of a grave, considering brown, a woman resigned, after, it might be, -abandoning young ambitions for a place of modest and decent labour in -the world--one might still see, in the rather humorous smile that she -bestowed once and again upon men and things, the hint of defiance at -the necessity that forced abnegation. - -Miss Allen had not been in Mrs. Porter's service for very long. Wearied -with the exactions of a family of children whose idle and uninspiring -intelligences she was attempting to governess, she answered, at the end -of 1918, an advertisement in the "Agony" column of _The Times_, that -led her to Mrs. Porter. She loved Mrs. Porter at first sight. - -"Why, she's a dear old lady," she exclaimed to her ironic spirit--"dear -old ladies" being in those days as rare as crinolines. She was of the -kind for which Miss Allen had unconsciously been looking: generous, -gentle, refined, and intelligent. Moreover, she had, within the last -six months, been left quite alone in the world--Mr. Porter had died of -apoplexy in August, 1918. He had left her very wealthy, and Miss Allen -discovered quickly in the old lady a rather surprising desire to see -and enjoy life--surprising, because old ladies of seventy-one years of -age and of Mrs. Porter's gentle appearance do not, as a rule, care for -noise and bustle and the buzz of youthful energy. - -"I want to be in the very middle of things, dear Miss Allen," said Mrs. -Porter, "right in the very middle. We lived at Wimbledon long enough, -Henry and I--it wasn't good for either of us. Find me somewhere within -two minutes of all the best theatres." - -Miss Allen found Hortons, which is, as everyone knows, in Duke Street, -just behind Piccadilly and Fortnum and Mason's, and Hatchard's and the -Hammam Turkish Baths and the Royal Academy and Scott's hat-shop and -Jackson's Jams--how could you be more perfectly in the centre of London? - -Then Miss Allen discovered a curious thing--namely, that Mrs. -Porter did not wish to keep a single piece, fragment, or vestige of -her Wimbledon effects. She insisted on an auction--everything was -sold. Miss Allen attempted a remonstrance--some of the things in -the Wimbledon house were very fine, handsome, solid mid-Victorian -sideboards and cupboards, and chairs and tables. - -"You really have no idea, Mrs. Porter," said Miss Allen, "of the cost -of furniture these days. It is quite terrible; you will naturally get a -wonderful price for your things, but the difficulty of buying----" - -Mrs. Porter was determined. She nodded her bright bird-like head, -tapped with her delicate fingers on the table and smiled at Miss Allen. - -"If you don't mind, dear. I know it's tiresome for you, but I have my -reasons." It was not tiresome at all for Miss Allen; she loved to buy -pretty new things at someone else's expense, but it was now, for the -first time, that she began to wonder how dearly Mrs. Porter had loved -her husband. - -Through the following weeks this became her principal -preoccupation--Mr. Henry Porter. She could not have explained to -herself why this was. She was not, by nature, an inquisitive and -scandal-loving woman, nor was she unusually imaginative. People -did not, as a rule, occur to her as existing unless she saw them -physically there in front of her. Nevertheless she spent a good deal of -her time in considering Mr. Porter. - -She was able to make the Horton flat very agreeable. Mrs. Porter -wanted "life and colour," so the sitting-room had curtains with pink -roses and a bright yellow cage with two canaries, and several pretty -water-colours, and a handsome fire-screen with golden peacocks, and a -deep Turkish carpet, soft and luxurious to the feet. Not one thing from -the Wimbledon house was there, not any single picture of Mr. Porter. -The next thing that Miss Allen discovered was that Mrs. Porter was -nervous. - -Although Hortons sheltered many human beings within its boundaries, it -was, owing to the thickness of its walls and the beautiful training -of Mr. Nix's servants, a very quiet place. It had been even called -in its day "cloistral." It simply shared with London that amazing -and never-to-be-overlauded gift of being able to offer, in the very -centre of the traffic of the world, little green spots of quiet and -tranquillity. It seemed, after a week or two, that it was almost too -quiet for Mrs. Porter. - -"Open a window, Lucy dear, won't you," she said. "I like to hear the -omnibuses." - -It was a chill evening in early April, but Miss Allen threw up the -window. They sat there listening. There was no sound, only suddenly, as -though to accentuate the silence, St. James's Church clock struck the -quarter. Then an omnibus rumbled, rattled, and was gone. The room was -more silent than before. - -"Shall I read to you?" said Miss Allen. - -"Yes, dear, do." And they settled down to _Martin Chuzzlewit_. - -Mrs. Porter's apprehensiveness became more and more evident. She was -so dear an old lady, and had won so completely Miss Allen's heart, -that that kindly woman could not bear to see her suffer. For the first -time in her life she wanted to ask questions. It seemed to her that -there must be some very strange reason for Mrs. Porter's silences. She -was not by nature a silent old lady; she talked continually, seemed, -indeed, positively to detest the urgency of silence. She especially -loved to tell Miss Allen about her early days. She had grown up as -a girl in Plymouth, and she could remember all the events of that -time--the balls, the walks on the Hoe, the shops, the summer visits -into Glebeshire, the old dark house with the high garden walls, the -cuckoo clock and the pictures of the strange old ships in which her -father, who was a retired sea-captain, had sailed. She could not tell -Miss Allen enough about these things, but so soon as she arrived at her -engagement to Mr. Porter there was silence. London shrouded her married -life with its thick, grey pall. She hated that Miss Allen should leave -her. She was very generous about Miss Allen's freedom, always begging -her to take an afternoon or evening and amuse herself with her own -friends; but Miss Allen had very few friends, and on her return from -an expedition she always found the old lady miserable, frightened, and -bewildered. She found that she loved her, that she cared for her as she -had cared for no human being for many years, so she stayed with her -and read to her and talked to her, and saw less and less of the outside -world. - -The two ladies made occasionally an expedition to a theatre or a -concert, but these adventures, although they were anticipated with -eagerness and pleasure, were always in the event disappointing. -Mrs. Porter loved the theatre--especially did she adore plays of -sentiment--plays where young people were happily united--where old -people sat cosily together reminiscing over a blazing fire, where -surly guardians were suddenly generous, and poor orphan girls were -unexpectedly given fortunes. - -Mrs. Porter started her evening with eager excitement. She dressed -for the occasion, putting on her best lace cap, her cameo brooch, her -smartest shoes. A taxi came for them, and they always had the best -stalls, near the front, so that the old lady should not miss a word. -Miss Allen noticed, however, that very quickly Mrs. Porter began to -be disturbed. She would glance around the theatre and soon her colour -would fade, her hands begin to tremble; then, perhaps at the end of the -first act, perhaps later, a little hand would press Miss Allen's arm: - -"I think, dear, if you don't mind--I'm tired--shall we not go?" - -After a little while Miss Allen suggested the Cinema. Mrs. Porter -received the idea with eagerness. They went to the West-End house, and -the first occasion was a triumphant success. How Mrs. Porter loved it! -Just the kind of a story for her--Mary Pickford in _Daddy Long Legs_. -To tell the truth, Mrs. Porter cried her eyes out. She swore that she -had never in her life enjoyed anything so much. And the music! How -beautiful! How restful! They would go every week.... - -The second occasion was, unfortunately, disastrous. The story was -one of modern life, a woman persecuted by her husband, driven by his -brutality into the arms of her lover. The husband was the customary -cinema villain--broad, stout, sneering, and over-dressed. Mrs. Porter -fainted and had to be carried out by two attendants. A doctor came -to see her, said that she was suffering from nervous exhaustion and -must be protected from all excitement.... The two ladies sat now every -evening in their pretty sitting-room, and Miss Allen read aloud the -novels of Dickens one after the other. - -More and more persistently, in spite of herself, did curiosity about -the late Mr. Porter drive itself in upon Miss Allen. She told herself -that curiosity itself was vulgar and unworthy of the philosophy that -she had created for herself out of life. Nevertheless it persisted. -Soon she felt that, after all, it was justified. Were she to help this -poor old lady to whom she was now most deeply attached, she must know -more. She could not give her any real help unless she might gauge more -accurately her trouble--but she was a shy woman, shy, especially, of -forcing personal confidences. She hesitated; then she was aware that a -barrier was being created between them. The evening had many silences, -and Miss Allen detected many strange, surreptitious glances thrown at -her by the old lady. The situation was impossible. One night she asked -her a question. - -"Dear Mrs. Porter," she said, her heart beating strangely as she spoke, -"I do hope that you will not think me impertinent, but you have been -so good to me that you have made me love you. You are suffering, and I -cannot bear to see you unhappy. I want, oh, so eagerly, to help you! Is -there nothing I can do?" - -Mrs. Porter said nothing. Her hands quivered; then a tear stole down -her cheek. Miss Allen went over to her, sat down beside her and took -her hand. - -"You must let me help you," she said. "Dismiss me if I am asking you -questions that I should not. But I would rather leave you altogether, -happy though I am with you, than see you so miserable. Tell me what I -can do." - -"You can do nothing, Lucy dear," said the old lady. - -"But I must be able to do something. You are keeping from me some -secret----" - -Mrs. Porter shook her head.... - -It was one evening in early May that Miss Allen was suddenly conscious -that there was something wrong with the pretty little sitting-room, -and it was shortly after her first consciousness of this that poor old -Mrs. Porter revealed her secret. Miss Allen, looking up for a moment, -fancied that the little white marble clock on the mantelpiece had -ceased to tick. - -She looked across the room, and for a strange moment fancied that she -could see neither the clock nor the mantelpiece--a grey dimness filled -her sight. She shook herself, glanced down at her hands, looked up for -reassurance, and found Mrs. Porter, with wide, terrified eyes, staring -at her, her hands trembling against the wood of the table. - -"What is it, Lucy?" - -"Nothing, Mrs. Porter." - -"Did you see something?" - -"No, dear." - -"Oh, I thought ... I thought...." Suddenly the old lady, with a fierce -impetuous movement, pushed the table away from her. She got up, -staggered for a moment on her feet, then tumbled to the pink sofa, -cowering there, huddled, her sharp, fingers pressing against her face. - -"Oh, I can't bear it.... I can't bear it.... I can't bear it any more! -He's coming. He's coming. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" - -Miss Allen, feeling nothing but love and affection for her friend, but -realising strangely too the dim and muted attention of the room, knelt -down beside the sofa and put her strong arms around the trembling, -fragile body. - -"What is it? Dear, dear Mrs. Porter. What is it? Who is coming? Of whom -are you afraid?" - -"Henry's coming! Henry, who hated me. He's coming to carry me away!" - -"But Mr. Porter's dead!" - -"Yes...." The little voice was now the merest whisper. "But he'll come -all the same.... He always does what he says!" - -The two women waited, listening. Miss Allen could hear the old lady's -heart thumping and leaping close to her own. Through the opened -windows came the sibilant rumble of the motor-buses. Then Mrs. Porter -gently pushed Miss Allen away. "Sit on a chair, Lucy dear. I must tell -you everything. I must share this with someone." - -She seemed to have regained some of her calmness. She sat straight up -upon the sofa, patting her lace cap with her hands, feeling for the -cameo brooch at her breast. Miss Allen drew a chair close to the sofa; -turning again towards the mantelpiece, she saw that it stood out boldly -and clearly; the tick of the clock came across to her with almost -startling urgency. - -"Now, dear Mrs. Porter, what is it that is alarming you?" she said. - -Mrs. Porter cleared her throat. "You know, Lucy, that I was married a -great many years ago. I was only a very young girl at the time, very -ignorant of course, and you can understand, my dear, that my father -and mother influenced me very deeply. They liked Mr. Porter. They -thought that he would make me a good husband and that I should be very -happy.... I was not happy, Lucy dear, never from the very first moment!" - -Here Mrs. Porter put out her hand and took Miss Allen's strong one. -"I am very willing to believe that much of the unhappiness was due to -myself. I was a young, foolish girl; I was disturbed from the very -first by the stories that Mr. Porter told me, and the pictures he -showed me. I was foolish about those things. He saw that they shocked -me, and I think that that amused him. From the first it delighted him -to tease me. Then--soon--he tired of me. He had mistresses. He brought -them to our house. He insulted me in every way possible. I had years of -that misery. God only knows how I lived through it. It became a habit -with him to frighten and shock me. It was a game that he loved to play. -I think he wanted to see how far I would go. But I was patient through -all those many years. Oh! so patient! It was weak, perhaps, but there -seemed nothing else for me to be." - -"The last twenty years of our married life he hated me most bitterly. -He said that I had scorned him, that I had not given him children, -that I had wasted his money--a thousand different things! He tortured -me, frightened me, disgusted me, but it never seemed to be enough for -him, for the vengeance he felt I deserved. Then one day he discovered -that he had a weak heart--a doctor frightened him. He saw perhaps for -a moment in my eyes my consciousness of my possible freedom. He took -my arm and shook me, bent his face close to mine, and said: 'Ah, you -think that after I'm dead you will be free. You are wrong. I will leave -you everything that I possess, and then--just as you begin to enjoy -it--I will come and fetch you!' What a thing to say, Lucy, dear! He was -mad, and so was I to listen to him. All those years of married life -together had perhaps turned both our brains. Six months later he fell -down in the street dead. They brought him home, and all that summer -afternoon, my dear, I sat beside him in the bedroom, he all dressed in -his best clothes and his patent leather shoes, and the band playing in -the Square outside. Oh! he was dead, Lucy dear, he was indeed. For -a week or two I thought that he was gone altogether. I was happy and -free. Then--oh, I don't know--I began to imagine ... to fancy.... I -moved from Wimbledon. I advertised for someone, and you came. We moved -here.... It ought to be ... it is ... it _must_ be all right, Lucy -dear; hold me, hold me tight! Don't let me go! He _can't_ come back! He -can't, he can't!" - -She broke into passionate sobbing, cowering back on to the sofa as she -had done before. The two women sat there, comforting one another. Miss -Allen gathered the frail, trembling little body into her arms, and like -a mother with her child, soothed it. - -But, as she sat there, she realised with a chill shudder of alarm that -moment, a quarter of an hour before, when the room had been dimmed -and the clock stilled. Had that been fancy? Had some of Mrs. Porter's -terror seized her in sympathy? Were they simply two lonely women whose -nerves were jagged by the quiet monotony and seclusion of their lives? -Why was it that from the first she, so unimaginative and definite, -should have been disturbed by the thought of Mr. Porter? Why was it -that even now she longed to know more surely about him, his face, his -clothes, his height ... everything. - -"You must go to bed, dear. You are tired out. Your nerves have never -recovered from the time of Mr. Porter's death. That's what it is.... -You must go to bed, dear." - -Mrs. Porter went. She seemed to be relieved by her outburst. She felt -perhaps now less lonely. It seemed, too, that she had less to fear now -that she had betrayed her ghost into sunlight. She slept better that -night than she had done for a long time past. Miss Allen sat beside the -bed staring into the darkness, thinking.... - -For a week after this they were happy. Mrs. Porter was in high spirits. -They went to the Coliseum and heard Miss Florence Smithson sing "Roses -of Picardy," and in the Cinema they were delighted with the charm and -simplicity of Alma Taylor. Mrs. Porter lost her heart to Alma Taylor. -"That's a _sweet_ girl," she said. "I would like to meet her. I'm sure -she's _good_." "I'm sure she is," said Miss Allen. Mrs. Porter made -friends in the flat. Mr. Nix met them one day at the bottom of the -lift and talked to them so pleasantly. "_What_ a gentleman!" said Mrs. -Porter afterwards as she took off her bonnet. - -Then one evening Miss Allen came into the sitting-room and stopped -dead, frozen rigid on the threshold. Someone was in the room. She did -not at first think of Mr. Porter. She was only sure that someone was -there. Mrs. Porter was in her bedroom changing her dress. - -Miss Allen said, "Who's there?" She walked forward. The dim evening -saffron light powdered the walls with trembling colour. The canaries -twittered, the clock ticked; no one was there. After that instant of -horror she was to know no relief. It was as though that spoken "Who's -there?" had admitted her into the open acceptance of a fact that she -ought for ever to have denied. - -She was a woman of common sense, of rational thought, scornful of -superstition and sentiment. She realised now that there was something -quite definite for her to fight, something as definite as disease, as -pain, as poverty and hunger. She realised too that she was there to -protect Mrs. Porter from everything--yes, from everything and everybody! - -Her first thought was to escape from the flat, and especially from -everything in the flat--from the pink sofa, the gate-legged table, the -bird-cage and the clock. She saw then that, if she yielded to this -desire, they would be driven, the two of them, into perpetual flight, -and that the very necessity of escaping would only admit the more the -conviction of defeat. No, they must stay where they were; that place -was their battle-ground. - -She determined, too, that Mr. Porter's name should not be mentioned -between them again. Mrs. Porter must be assured that she had forgotten -his very existence. - -Soon she arrived at an exact knowledge of the arrival of these -"attacks," as she called them. That month of May gave them wonderful -weather. The evenings were so beautiful that they sat always with -the windows open behind them, and the dim colour of the night-glow -softened the lamplight and brought with it scents and breezes and a -happy murmurous undertone. She received again and again in these May -evenings that earlier impression of someone's entrance into the room. -It came to her, as she sat with her back to the fireplace, with the -conviction that a pair of eyes were staring at her. Those eyes willed -her to him, and she would not; but soon she seemed to know them, cold, -hard, and separated from her, she fancied, by glasses. They seemed, -too, to bend down upon her from a height. She was desperately conscious -at these moments of Mrs. Porter. Was the old lady also aware? She could -not tell. Mrs. Porter still cast at her those odd, furtive glances, as -though to see whether she suspected anything, but she never looked at -the fireplace nor started as though the door was suddenly opened. - -There were times when Miss Allen, relaxing her self-control, admitted -without hesitation that someone was in the room. He was tall, wore -spectacles behind which he scornfully peered. She challenged him to -pass her guard and even felt the stiff pride of a victorious battle. -They were fighting for the old lady, and she was winning.... - -At all other moments she scorned herself for this weakness. Mrs. -Porter's nerves had affected her own. She had not believed that she -could be so weak. Then, suddenly, one evening Mrs. Porter dropped her -cards, crumpled down into her chair, screamed, "No, no ... Lucy!... -Lucy! He's here!..." - -She was strangely, at the moment of that cry, aware of no presence in -the room. It was only when she had gathered her friend into her arms, -persuading her that there was nothing, loving her, petting her, that -she was conscious of the dimming of the light, the stealthy withdrawal -of sound. She was facing the fireplace; before the mantelpiece there -seemed to her to hover a shadow, something so tenuous that it resembled -a film of dust against the glow of electric light. She faced it with -steady eyes and a fearless heart. - -But against her will her soul admitted that confrontation. From that -moment Mrs. Porter abandoned disguise. Her terror was now so persistent -that soon, of itself, it would kill her. There was no remedy; doctors -could not help, nor change of scene. Only if Miss Allen still saw and -felt nothing could the old lady still hope. Miss Allen lied and lied -again and again. - -"You saw nothing, Lucy?" - -"Nothing." - -"Not there by the fireplace?" - -"Nothing, dear.... Of course, nothing!" - -Events from then moved quickly, and they moved for Miss Allen quite -definitely in the hardening of the sinister shadow. She led now a -triple existence: one life was Mrs. Porter's, devoted to her, delivered -over to her, helping her, protecting her; the second life was her own, -her rational, practical self, scornful of shadow and of the terror of -death; the third was the struggle with Henry Porter, a struggle now as -definite and concrete as though he were a blackmailer confining her -liberty. - -She could never tell when he would come, and with every visit that -he paid he seemed to advance in her realisation of him. It appeared -that he was always behind her, staring at her through those glasses -that had, she was convinced, large gold rims and thin gold wires. -She fancied that she had before her a dim outline of his face--pale, -the chin sharp and pointed, the ears large and protuberant, the head -dome-shaped and bald. It was now that, with all her life and soul in -the struggle for her friend, she realised that she did not love her -enough. The intense love of her life had been already in earlier years -given. Mrs. Porter was a sweet old lady, and Miss Allen would give her -life for her--but her soul was atrophied a little, tired a little, -exhausted perhaps in the struggle so sharp and persistent for her own -existence. - -"Oh, if I were younger I could drive him away!" came back to her -again and again. She found too that her own fear impeded her own -self-sacrifice. She hated this shadow as something strong, evil, -like mildew on stone, chilling breath. "I'm not brave enough.... I'm -not good enough.... I'm not young enough!" Incessantly she tried to -determine how real her sensations were. Was she simply influenced by -Mrs. Porter's fear? Was it the blindest imagination? Was it bred simply -of the close, confined life that they were leading? - -She could not tell. They had resumed their conspiracy of silence, of -false animation and ease of mind. They led their daily lives as though -there was nothing between them. But with every day Mrs. Porter's -strength was failing; the look of horrified anticipation in her eyes -was now permanent. At night they slept together, and the little frail -body trembled like a leaf in Miss Allen's arms. - -The appearances were now regularised. Always when they were in the -middle of their second game of "Patience" Miss Allen felt that impulse -to turn, that singing in her ears, the force of his ironical gaze. He -was now almost complete to her, standing in front of the Japanese -screen, his thin legs apart, his hostile, conceited face bent towards -them, his pale, thin hands extended as though to catch a warmth that -was not there. - -A Sunday evening came. Earlier than usual they sat down to their cards. -Through the open window shivered the jangled chimes of the bells of St. -James's. - -"Well, he won't come yet ..." was Miss Allen's thought. Then with that -her nightly resolve: "When he comes I must not turn--I must not look. -She must not know that I know." - -Suddenly he was with them, and with a dominant force, a cruelty, a -determination that was beyond anything that had been before. - -"Four, five, six...." The cards trembled in Mrs. Porter's hand. "And -there's the spade, Lucy dear." - -He came closer. He was nearer to her than he had ever been. She -summoned all that she had--her loyalty, her love, her honesty, her -self-discipline. It was not enough. - -She turned. He was there as she had always known that she would see -him, his cruel, evil, supercilious face, conscious of its triumph, bent -toward them, his grey clothes hanging loosely about his thin body, his -hands spread out. He was like an animal about to spring. - -"God help me! God help me!" she cried. With those words she knew that -she had failed. She stood as though she would protect with her body her -friend. She was too late. - -Mrs. Porter's agonised cry, "You see him, Lucy!... You see him, Lucy!" -warned her. - -"No, no," she answered. She felt something like a cold breath of -stagnant water pass her. She turned back to see the old woman tumble -across the table, scattering the little cards. - -The room was emptied. They two were alone; she knew, without moving, -horror and self-shame holding her there, that her poor friend was dead. - - - - -VIII - -LOIS DRAKE - - -Miss Lois Drake lived in one of the attics at the top of Hortons. That -sounds poverty-struck and democratic, but as a matter of fact it was -precisely the opposite. - -The so-called "attics" at Hortons are amongst the very handsomest flats -in London, their windows command some of the very best views, and the -sloping roof that gives them their name does not slope enough to make -them inconvenient, only enough to make them quaint. - -Miss Drake was lucky, and asked Mr. Nix whether he had any flats to -let on the very day that one of the attics was vacated. But then, Miss -Drake was always lucky, as you could see quite well if you looked at -her. She was a tall, slim girl, with dark brown hair, an imperious -brow, and what her friends called a "bossy" mouth. It was, indeed, -her character to be "bossy." Her father, that noted traveller and -big-game hunter, had encouraged her to be "bossy"; the Drakes and the -Bosanquets and the Mumpuses, all the good old county families with -whom she was connected, encouraged her to be "bossy." Finally, the war -had encouraged her to be "bossy." She had become in the early days -of 1915 an officer in the "W.A.A.C." and since then she had risen to -every kind of distinction. She had done magnificently in France; had -won medals and honours. No wonder she believed in herself. She was -born to command other women; she had just that contempt for her sex -and approval of herself necessary for command. She believed that women -were greatly inferior to men; nevertheless, she was always indignant -did men not fall down instantly and abase themselves before the women -of whom she approved. "She bore herself as a queen," so her adoring -friends said; quite frankly she considered herself one. The "W.A.A.C." -uniform suited her; she liked stiff collars and short skirts and tight -belts. She was full-breasted, had fine athletic limbs, her cheeks were -flushed with health. Then the Armistice came, and somewhere in March -she found herself demobilised. It was then that she took her attic at -Hortons. Her father had died of dysentery in Egypt in 1915, and had -left her amply provided for. Her mother, who was of no account, being -only a Chipping-Basset and retiring by nature, lived at Dolles Hall, in -Wiltshire, and troubled no one. Lois was the only child. - -She could, then, spend her life as she pleased, and she soon discovered -that there was plenty to do. Her nature had never been either modest -or retiring; she had from the earliest possible age read everything -that came her way, and five years at Morton House School, one year in -Germany, and four months in East Africa with her father had left her, -as she herself said, "with nothing about men that _she_ didn't know." - -The war took away her last reserves. She was a modern woman, and saw -life steadily and saw it whole. She also saw it entirely to her own -advantage. The strongest element in her nature was, perhaps, her -assured self-confidence in her management of human beings. She had, she -would boast, never been known to fail with men or women. Her success in -the war had been largely due to the fact that she had applied certain -simple rules of her own to everybody alike, refusing to believe in -individualities. "Men and women fall into two or three classes. You -can tell in five minutes the class you're dealing with; then you act -accordingly." Her chief theory about men was that "they liked to be -treated as men." "They want you to be one of themselves." She adopted -with them a masculine attitude that fitted her less naturally than she -knew. She drank with them, smoked with them, told them rather "tall" -stories, was never shocked by anything that they said, "gave them as -good as they gave her." - -After her demobilisation she danced a good deal, dined alone at -restaurants with men whom she scarcely knew, went back to men's rooms -after the theatre and had a "last whiskey," walked home alone after -midnight and let herself into her "attic" with great satisfaction. She -had the most complete contempt for girls who "could not look after -themselves." "If girls got into trouble it was their own rotten fault." - -She had developed during her time in France a masculine fashion of -standing, sitting, talking, laughing. Nothing made her more indignant -than that a man should offer her his seat in a Tube. How her haughty -glance scorned him as she refused him! "It's an insult to our sex," -she would say. How she rejoiced in her freedom! "At last," she said, -"there is sex equality. We can do what we like." - -She was, however, not _quite_ free. The war had left her a legacy in -the person of an adoring girl friend, Margery Scales. Margery was an -exact opposite to herself in every way--plump and soft and rosy and -appealing and entirely feminine. She had been "under" Lois in France; -from the first she had desperately adored her. It was an adoration -without qualification. Lois was perfect, a queen, a goddess. Margery -would die for her instantly if called upon; not that she wanted to die. -She loved life, being pretty and healthy, and allowed by loving parents -a great deal of freedom. - -But what was life without Lois? Lois would tell you, if you asked her, -that she had _made_ Margery. "Margery owed her everything." Others, who -did not like Lois, said that she had ruined Margery. Margery herself -felt that life had simply not begun in those years before Lois had -appeared. - -Lois had determined that "after the war" she would finish the Margery -affair. It unsettled her, disturbed her, refused to fall into line -with all the straightforward arrangements that were as easy to manage -as "putting your clothes on." The truth was, that Lois was fonder of -Margery than she wanted to be. She quarrelled with her, scolded her, -laughed at her, scorned her, and at the end of it all had absurdly soft -and tender feelings for her that were not at all "sensible." - -Margery's very helplessness--a quality that infuriated Lois in -others--attracted and held her. She had too much to do to bother about -people's feelings; nevertheless, were Margery distressed and unhappy, -Lois was uncomfortable and ill at ease. "After the war I'll break it -off.... It's sentimental." - -Nevertheless, here she was, four months, five months, six months after -the Armistice, and it was not broken off. She would dismiss Margery -with scorn, tell her that she could not be bothered with her scenes and -tears and repentances, and then five minutes after she had expelled her -she would want to know where she was, what she was doing. - -She would not confess to herself the joy that she felt when Margery -suddenly reappeared. Then, as the weeks went by, she began to wonder -whether Margery were as completely under her control as she used to be. -The girl seemed at times to criticise her. She said quite frankly that -she hated some of the men whom Lois gathered round her in the attic. - -"Well, you needn't come," said Lois; "I don't want you." Then, of -course, Margery cried. - -There was one occasion when Mr. Nix, the manager of the flat, very -politely, and with the urbanity for which he was famous, warned her -that there must not be so much noise at her evening parties. Lois was -indignant. "I'll pack up and go. You'd think Nix was Queen Victoria." -Nevertheless she did not pack up and go. She knew when she was -comfortable. But deep down in her heart something warned her. Did she -like all the men who now surrounded her? Was there not something in -what Margery said? In France there had been work, heaps of it. Her -organising gifts, which were very real, had had full play there. The -sense of the position that she had had unsettled her. She wanted to -fill her life, to be still of importance, to be admired and sought -after and talked of. Yet the men with whom she spent her time were not -quite the right men, and sometimes that little voice of warning told -her that they went too far, said things to her that they had no right -to say, told stories.... - -But did she not encourage them? Was not that what she wanted? Perfect -equality now; no false prudery: the new world in which men and women -stood shoulder to shoulder with no false reserves, no silly modesties. -If Margery didn't like it, she could go.... - -But she did not want Margery to go. - -Then "Tubby" Grenfell came and the world was changed. Grenfell was -nicknamed "Tubby" by his friends because he was round and plump and -rosy-faced. Lois did not know it, but she liked him at once because -of his resemblance to Margery. He was only a boy, twenty-one years of -age, and the apple of his mother's eye. He had done magnificently in -France, and now he had gone on to the Stock Exchange, where his uncle -was a man of importance and power. He had the same rather helpless -appealing innocence that Margery had had. He took life very seriously, -but enjoyed it too, laughing a great deal and wanting to see and do -everything. His _naivete_ touched Lois. She told him that she was -going to be his elder brother. From the very first he had thought Lois -perfectly wonderful, just as Margery had done. He received her dicta -about life with the utmost gravity. He came and went just as she told -him. He "ate out of her hand," his friends told him. - -"Well, I'm proud to," he said. - -Unfortunately he and Margery disliked one another from the very -beginning. That made difficulties for Lois, and she did not like -difficulties. - -"What you can see in him," said Margery, "I can't think. He's just the -sort of man you despise. Of course he's been brave; but anyone can be -brave. The other men laugh at him." - -He had a good-natured contempt for Margery. - -"It's jolly good of you to look after a girl like that," he said to -Lois. "It's just your kindness. I don't know how you can bother." - -Lois laughed at both of them, and arranged that they should meet as -seldom as possible. - -Hortons was soon haunted by "Tubby" Grenfell's presence. - -"Peace Day" came and went, and Lois really felt that it was time that -she "settled her life." Here was the summer before her; there were a -number of places to which she might go and she could not make up her -mind. - -Firstly, she knew that some of the time must be spent with her mother -in Wiltshire, and she was dreading this. Her mother never criticised -her, never asked her questions, never made any demands, and Lois had -rather enjoyed spending days of her "leave" in that silly old-fashioned -company. But now? Could it be that Lois was two quite different people -and that one half of her was jealous of the other half? - -Moreover, there was now a complication about Scotland. "Tubby" had -begged her to go to a certain house in Northumberland; nice people; -people she knew enough to want to know them more. He begged her to -go there during the very month that she had planned to go away with -Margery. She knew quite well that if she tried to break the Scottish -holiday that would be the end--Margery would leave her and never -return. Well, was not that exactly what she had been desiring? Was -she not feeling this animosity between "Tubby" and Margery a great -nuisance? And yet--and yet---- She could not make up her mind to lose -Margery; no, not yet. Her hatred of this individual (she had never been -undecided in France; she had always known exactly what she intended -to do) flung her, precipitately, into that final quarrel with Margery -that, in reality, she wanted to avoid. It took place one morning in -"the attic." It was a short and stormy scene. Lois began by suggesting -that they should take their holiday during part of September instead -of August, and that perhaps they would not go so far as Scotland.... -What about the South Coast? Margery listened, the colour coming into -her cheeks, her eyes filling with tears as they always did when she was -excited. - -"But we'd arranged----" she said in a kind of awe-struck whisper. -"Months ago--we fixed----" - -"I know, my dear," said Lois, with a carelessness that she by no means -felt. "But what does it matter? September's as good as August, and I -hate Scotland." - -"You said you loved it before," said Margery slowly, staring as though -she were a stranger who had brought dramatic news. "I believe," she -went on, "it's because you want to stay with Mr. Grenfell." - -"If you want to know," cried Lois, suddenly urged on partly by her -irritation at being judged, but still more by her anger at herself for -feeling Margery's distress, "it is. You're impossible, Margery. You're -so selfish. It can't make any difference to you, putting our holiday -off. You're selfish. That's what it is." - -Then a remarkable thing occurred. Margery did not burst into tears. -Only all the colour drained from her face and her eyes fell. - -"No, I don't think I'm selfish," said Margery; "I want you to enjoy -yourself. You're tired of me, and I don't blame you. But I won't hang -on to you. That _would_ be selfish if I did. I think I'll go now. -Besides," she added, "I think you're in love with Mr. Grenfell." - -Suddenly, as Margery said the words, Lois knew that it was true. She -was in love, and for the first time in her life. A great exultation and -happiness filled her; for the first time for many months she was simple -and natural and good. Her masculinity fell from her, leaving her her -true self. - -She came over to Margery, knelt down by her side, put her arms around -her and kissed her. Margery returned the kiss, but did not surrender -herself. Her body was stiff and unyielding. She withdrew herself from -Lois and got up. - -"I'm glad," she said, her voice trembling a little. "I hope you'll be -very happy." - -Lois looked at her with anxious eyes. - -"But this doesn't make any difference to us," she said. "We can be the -same friends as before--more than we were. You'll like 'Tubby,' Margery -darling, when you know him. We'll have a great time--we three." - -"No," said Margery, "this doesn't make any difference. That's quite -true. The difference was made before." - -"What do you mean?" asked Lois, standing up, her agitation strangely -returning. - -"You've been different," said Margery. "Since we came back from France, -you've been changing all the time. It seemed right out there, your -ordering everybody about. I admired it. You were fine. But now in -London--I've no right to say so. But you're trying to do all the things -men do; and it's--it's--beastly, somehow. It doesn't suit you. It isn't -natural. I don't believe the men like it either, or at any rate not the -nice men. I suppose it's silly, but I don't admire you any more, and -if I don't admire you, I can't love you." With that last word she was -gone, and Lois knew quite well that she would never come back again. - -Lois stayed in the "attic" that morning in an odd confusion of mind. -Margery was jealous, of course; that was what had made her say those -things. Her discovery of her love for Grenfell filled her with joy, so -that she could scarcely realise Margery; moreover the uncertainty that -had been troubling her for months was over, but behind these feelings -was a curious new sense of loss, a sense that she refused to face. Life -without Margery--what would it be? But she turned from that and, with -joyful anticipation, thought of her new career. - -She decided at once to dismiss Margery from her thoughts--not only -partially, but altogether, so that no fragment of her should be left. -That was her only way to be comfortable. She had on earlier occasions -been forced to dismiss people thus absolutely; she had not found it -difficult, and she had enjoyed in the doing of it a certain sense that -she was finishing them, and that they would be sorry now for what -they had done. But with Margery she saw that that would be difficult. -Margery had been with her so long, had given her so much praise and -encouragement, was associated in so many ways with so many places. She -would return again and again, an obstinate ghost, slipping into scenes -and thoughts where she should not be. Lois discovered herself watching -the post, listening to the telephone, her heart beating at the sudden -opening and shutting of a door ... but Margery did not return. - -She centred herself then absolutely around young Grenfell. She demanded -of him twice what she had demanded before because Margery was gone. -There was something feverish now in her possession of him. She was not -contented and easy as she had been, but must have him absolutely. She -was anxious that he should propose to her soon and end this period of -doubt and discomfort. She knew, of course, that he would propose--it -was merely a question of time--but there was something old-fashioned -about him: a sort of _naivete_ which hindered him perhaps from coming -forward too quickly. - -She was not alone with him very much, because she thought it was good -for him to see how other men admired her. She gathered around her more -than before the men with whom she might be on thoroughly equal terms, -as though in defiance of Margery's final taunt to her. It was as though -she said to that perpetually interfering ghost: "Well, if you will come -back and remind me, you shall see that you were wrong in what you said. -Men do like me for the very things of which you disapproved ... and -they shall like me more and more." - -She thought Grenfell understood that it was because of him that Margery -had gone. - -"She was jealous of you," she said, laughing. "I'm sure I don't know -why she should have been.... You never liked one another, did you? Poor -Margery! She's old-fashioned. She ought to have lived fifty years ago." - -She was surprised when he said, "Did she dislike me? Of course we used -to fight, but I didn't think it meant anything; I didn't dislike her. -I'm so sorry you've quarrelled." - -He seemed really concerned about it. One day he amazed her by saying -that he'd seen Margery. They had met somewhere and had a talk. Lois's -heart leapt. - -"I'm ready to forgive her," she said, "for what she did. But of course -things can never be quite the same again." - -"Oh, she won't come back!" Grenfell said. "I begged her, but she said, -'No.' You weren't as you used to be." - -At this Lois felt an unhappiness that surprised her by its vehemence. -Then she put that away and was angry. "I don't want her back," she -cried. "If she came and begged me I wouldn't have her." - -But she felt that Grenfell had not reported truly. He was jealous of -Margery, and did not want her to return. He seemed now at times to -be a little restive under her domination; that only made her more -dominating. She had scenes with him, all of them worked up by her. She -arranged them because he was so sweet to her when they were reconciled. -He was truly in despair if she were unhappy, and would do anything to -make her comfortable again. Once they were engaged, she told herself, -she would have no more scenes. She would be sure of him then. She was -in a strange state of excitement and uncertainty; but then, these -were uncertain and exciting times. No one seemed to know quite where -they were, with strikes and dances and all the "classes" upside down. -Although Lois believed that women should be just as men she resented it -when Fanny, the portress, was rude to her. She had got into the way of -giving Fanny little things to do; sending her messages, asking her to -stamp letters, to wrap up parcels. Fanny was so willing that she would -do anything for anybody; but the day came when Fanny frankly told her -that she had not the time to carry messages. Her place was in the hall. -She was very sorry.... Lois was indignant. What was the girl there -for? She appealed to Grenfell. But he, in the charming, hesitating, -courteous way that he had, was inclined to agree with Fanny. After -all, the girl had her work to do. She had to be in her place. At this -little sign of rebellion Lois redoubled her efforts. - -He must propose to her soon. She wished that he were not quite so -diffident. She found here that this masculinity of hers hindered a -little the opportunities of courtship. If you behaved just like a man, -swore like a man, drank like a man, discussed any moral question like a -man, scenes with sentiment and emotion were difficult. When you told a -man a hundred times a day that you wanted him to treat you as he would -a pal, it was perhaps irrational of you to expect him to kiss you. Men -did not kiss men, nor did they bother to explain if they were rude or -casual. - -She had, however, a terrible shock one night when Conrad Hawke, a man -whom she never liked, seeing her back to the "attic" after the theatre, -tried to kiss her. She smacked his face. He was deeply indignant. -"Why, you've been asking for it!" he cried. This horrified her, and -she decided that Grenfell must propose to her immediately. This was -the more necessary, because during the last week or two he had been -less often to see her--and had been less at his ease with her.... She -decided that he wanted to propose but had not the courage. - -She planned then that on a certain evening the event should take place. -There was to be a great boxing match at Olympia. Beckett was to fight -Goddard for the heavyweight championship of Great Britain. She had -never seen a boxing match. Grenfell should take her to this one. - -When she suggested it he hesitated. - -"I'd love us to go together, of course," he said. "All the same, I -don't think I approve of women going to boxing matches." - -"My dear 'Tubby,'" she cried; "what age do you think you're living in?" - -"Well, I don't know," he said, looking at her doubtfully. - -"If that isn't too absurd!" she cried. "Has there been a war or has -there not? And have I been in France doing every kind of dirty work or -not? Really, 'Tubby,' you might be Mother." - -His chubby face coloured. His eyes were full of perplexity. - -"Oh, of course, if you want to go, I'll take you," he said. "All the -same, I'd rather not." - -She insisted. The tickets were taken. She was determined that that -night he should propose to her. - -The great evening had arrived, and they had a little dinner at -the Carlton Grill. Lois was wearing a dress of the very latest -fashion--that is, a dress that showed all her back, that was cut very -low in front, and that left her arms and shoulders quite bare. She -seemed, as she sat at the table, to have almost nothing on at all. -This, unfortunately, did not suit her. Her figure was magnificent, -but the rough life in France had helped neither her skin nor her -complexion. The upper part of her chest and her neck were sunburnt. Her -arms were brown. She had taken much trouble with her hair, but it would -not obey her now as it had done in the old days. - -"I'm a fright," she had thought as she looked at herself in the glass. -For a moment she thought she would wear one of her old less-revealing -evening frocks. But no; she was worrying absurdly. All the women wore -these dresses now. She would look a frump in that old dress. In colour -the frock was a bright mauve. She was aware that all eyes followed -her as she came into the grill room. She carried herself superbly, -remembering how many girls--yes, and men too--had called her a queen. -She saw at once that "Tubby" Grenfell was uneasy, and not his cheerful, -innocent self. He seemed to have something that dragged his thoughts -away from her. They both drank a good deal; soon they were laughing -uproariously.... - -They started off in a taxi for Olympia. The wine that she had drunk, -the sense of the crisis that this night must bring to her, the -beautiful air of this May evening, through which in their open taxi -they were gliding, the whisper and the murmur of the Knightsbridge -crowd--all these things excited her as she had never in all her life -been excited before. Had she looked at herself she would have realised, -from this excitement, the child that she really was. - -She put her hand on "Tubby's" broad knee and drew a little closer to -him. He talked to her eagerly, himself excited by the great event. He -explained something of the fighting to her. - -"There'll be a lot of 'in-fighting,'" he said; "there always is -nowadays, they've caught it from America. You'll find that rather -boring. But it isn't boring really. There's heaps of science in it; -more than there used to be in the old boxing. They say that that's -where Beckett will be beaten--that he can't in-fight. I don't believe -they're right, but we'll see.... That's what makes to-night so -exciting. No one knows really what Beckett can do. He knocked out Wells -too quickly, and he's improved so much that he's hardly the same man as -he was before." - -He chattered on, apparently now quite happy. What a dear he was! What -a boy! How natural and good and simple! She felt maternal to him, -as though he were her child. How happy they would be when they were -married! how happy she would make him! - -They drew near to Olympia. They were now in a great stream of cars -and taxis. Crowds thronged the road. They got out and pushed their -way along. The presence of the crowd thrilled Lois so that her eyes -shone and her heart hammered. She clung to "Tubby's" strong arm. Soon -they were through the gates, pushing up the Olympia steps, passing -the turn-stiles. What strange faces there were on all sides of her! -She could not see another woman anywhere. She gathered her cloak more -closely about her. They passed into the arena. For a moment she was -dazzled by the light. The tiers of seats rose on every side of her, -higher and higher. She followed "Tubby" meekly, feeling very small -and insignificant. Soon they were seated close to the ring. Already -men were boxing, but no one seemed to look at them. Everyone hurried -to and fro; people were finding their seats. Around her, above her, -beyond her, was a curious electrical hum of excitement, like the buzz -of swarming bees. She herself felt so deeply moved that she was not far -from tears. She grew more accustomed to the place. She sat back in her -chair, throwing her cloak behind her. "Tubby" talked to her in a low -voice, explaining where everything was, who various celebrities were. -There was Cochran; that was Eugene Corri; there was a famous actor; and -so on. She began to be confident. She knew that men were looking at -her. She liked them to look at her. She asked "Tubby" for a cigarette. -Her eyes moved to the ring; she watched the boxing. She felt a renewed -thrill at the sight of the men's splendid condition; and then, as she -looked about her and saw the black cloud of men rising above and around -her on every side, she could have clapped her hands with joy. Soon she -was impatient of the boxing. She wanted the great event of the evening -to begin. She felt as though she could not wait any longer, as though -she must get up in her seat and call to them to come. She was aware -then that "Tubby" was again uncomfortable. Was he distressed because -men looked at her? Why should they not? Perhaps he did not think that -she should smoke. Well, she _would_ smoke. He was not her keeper. - -The heat, the smoke, the stir, confused and bewildered her, but she -liked the bewilderment. She was drunk with it--only this intense -impatience for Beckett and Goddard to come was more than she could -bear. "Oh, I do _wish_ they'd come.... I do _wish_ they'd come!" she -sighed. Then, turning to "Tubby," she said: "Cheer up! What's the -matter?" - -"Oh, I'm all right." He moved uneasily. She fancied that he glanced -with anger at a fat, black-haired, be-ringed man near him who, as she -already noticed, stared at her. - -"Oh, I _do_ wish they'd come!" she cried, speaking more loudly than she -had intended. Some man near her heard her and laughed. - -They came at last. The tall fellow was Goddard. The shorter man in -the dull-coloured dressing-gown was Beckett. They walked about inside -the ring; then they sat down and were hidden by a cloud of men with -towels. A little man walked about the ring shouting something through a -megaphone. - -Lois could not hear what he said because of her own excitement. The -ring was cleared; the fight had begun. The breathless silence that -followed was almost more than she could bear. From the first moment -she wanted Beckett to win. His grim seriousness fascinated her. The -way that he stood crouching forward, his magnificent condition, the -brown healthiness of his skin, appealed to her desperately. "I want him -to win! I want him to win!" she repeated again and again to herself. -He seemed to be having the best of it. Men shouted his name. The -first round was over. In the pause of the interval she realised for a -moment, as though she had come down from a great height, that the men -near her were looking at her and smiling. She did not care; if only -Beckett would win she cared for nothing. "The first round's Beckett's -on points, anyway," she heard a man say near her. The ring was cleared -again, the men moved cautiously, watching one another. Suddenly Beckett -had sprung in. Before she could account to herself for what was -happening Goddard was on the floor. Men rose in their seats, shouting. -The referee could be seen counting the seconds. Goddard was up. Then -Beckett was in to him again--right, left, tuned like a piece of music. -Goddard was down again, and this time he lay his full length without -moving. The vast building seemed to rise like the personification of -one exultant man and shout. Lois herself had risen; she was crying -she knew not what, waving her programme. A man had leaped forward and -kissed Beckett. Goddard was dragged by his seconds like a sack to his -chair. The roar continued; men shouted and yelled and cheered. Lois sat -down. It was over; Beckett had won. She had had her desire. She felt -as though she had walked for miles and miles through thick, difficult -country. - -She could only see, over and over again those quick blows--right, left, -like a piece of music.... - -They sat there quietly for a little; then she said, "Let's go. I don't -want to see any more after that." - -Grenfell agreed. - -Outside there was a strange peace and quiet. A large crowd waited, but -it was silent. It was watching for Beckett. - -The street was deliciously cool, and in the broad space beyond Olympia -there was only a rumbling sibilant rustle that threaded the dusky -trees. The stars shone in a sky of velvet. They found a taxi. - -"I'll see you to your door," "Tubby" said. - -During the drive very few words were spoken. Lois was concentrating now -all her effort on the scene that was to come. She was quite certain of -her victory; she felt strong and sure with the confidence that the -thrill of the fight had just given her. Above all, she loved Grenfell. -It was the first time in her life that she had known love, and now that -it had come she was wrapped in the wonder of it, stripped of all her -artifices and conceits, as simply and naturally caught by it as any -ignorant girl of her grandmother's day. - -They were in Duke Street; the car stopped before Hortons. - -Grenfell got out. - -"Good-night," he said. "I'm so awfully glad you enjoyed it." - -"No, you've got to come in. You have, really, 'Tubby.' It's very -early--not ten yet. I'll make you some coffee." - -He looked for a moment as though he would refuse. Then he nodded his -head. - -"All right," he said; "just for a bit." They went up in the lift -superintended by young William, one of the Hortons officials, in age -about fourteen, but dressed, with his oiled hair, high collar, and -uniform, to be anything over twenty. - -"Oh, sir, who won the fight?" he asked in a husky voice when he heard -Lois make some allusion to Olympia. - -"Beckett," said Grenfell. - -"Gawd bless Joe," said young William piously. - -The "attic" looked very comfortable and cosy. Grenfell sank into the -long sofa. Lois made the coffee. It was as though Beckett's victory had -also been hers. She felt as though she could not be defeated. When -she saw him sitting there so comfortably she felt as though they were -already married. - -She knew that there was something on his mind. She had seen, ever since -they left Olympia, that there was something that he wanted to say to -her. She could not doubt what it was.... She stood there smiling at -him as he drank his coffee. How she loved him! Every hair of his round -bullet-shaped head, his rosy cheeks, his strength and cleanliness, his -shyness and honesty. - -"Oh, I've just loved to-night!" - -"I'm so glad you have," he answered. - -Another long silence followed. He smoked, blowing rings and then -breaking them with his finger. At last she spoke, smiling: - -"'Tubby,' you want to say something to me." - -"Well----" - -"Yes, you do, and I know what it is." - -"You know?" He stared at her, confused and shy. - -"Yes," she laughed. "Of course I do. I've known for weeks." - -"For weeks? But you can't----" - -"Oh, you think you can hide things--you can't!" She suddenly came over -to him, knelt down by the sofa, putting her hand on his arm. - -"You ridiculous baby! You're shy. You're afraid to tell me. But, thank -Heaven, all that old-fashioned nonsense is over. I can tell you what -you want to say without either of us being ashamed ... 'Tubby,' darling -... I know. I've known for weeks, and it's all right. I'll marry you -to-morrow if you want me. I've loved you since first I set eyes on -you. Oh, 'Tubby,' we'll be so happy! We----" - -But she was stopped by the look in his eyes. He had moved away; his -face was crimson; his eyes wide with dismay. She knew at once that -she had made a horrible mistake. He didn't love her. She rose; shame, -misery, anger, self-contempt, all struggling together in her heart. She -would have liked to speak. No words would come. - -"Lois!" he said at last. "I'm awfully sorry. I didn't know you were -going to say that, or I'd have stopped you. We're the greatest pals in -the world, of course, but----" - -"You don't want to marry me," Lois interrupted. "Of course. It's quite -natural. I've made a bit of a fool of myself, 'Tubby.' You'd better say -good-night and go." - -He got up. - -"Oh, Lois, I'm so sorry.... But I couldn't tell. I've had something -else on my mind all these weeks--something that for the last three days -I've been trying to tell you. Margery and I are engaged to be married." - -That took the colour from her face. She stepped back, putting one hand -on the mantelpiece to steady herself. - -"Margery!... You! That stupid little idiot!" - -There she made a mistake. He took her retort as a dog takes a douse of -water, shaking his head resentfully. - -"You mustn't say that, Lois. And after all, it was you that brought us -together." - -"I!" Her indignation as she turned on him was red-hot. - -"Yes. I was sorry for her when you turned her off. I went to see her. -We agreed about you from the beginning, and that was a bond." - -"Agreed about me?" - -"Yes. We thought it was such a pity that you went about with all these -men. She told me how splendid you were in France. She had thought -that I was in love with you, but I told her of course that I'd always -thought of you as a man almost. Love was a different sort of thing.... -Although to-night at the boxing you weren't a man, either. Anyway----" - -She cut short his halting, confused explanation with contempt. - -"You'd better go. You and Margery have treated me pretty badly between -you. Good-night." - -He tried to say something, but the sight of her furious eyes checked -him. Without another word he went. The door closed; the room was -suddenly intensely silent, as though it were waiting to hear the echo -of his step. - -She stood, fury, contempt, working in her face. Suddenly her eyes -flooded with tears. Her brow puckered. She flung herself down on the -floor beside the sofa, and burying her face in it cried, with complete -abandonment, from her breaking heart. - - - - -IX - -MR. NIX - - -Mr. Nix, the manager of Hortons, had never been an analyser of the -human character: it startled him, therefore, considerably, somewhere -about March or April of 1919, to find himself deep in introspection. - -What is deep to one may not be deep to another, and Mr. Nix's -introspection amounted to little more than that he felt, as he found -himself confiding to a friend one evening, as though he "were nothing -more or less than a blooming juggler--one of those fellows, Joe, that -tosses eight or ten balls in the air at a time. That's what I'm doing, -positively." - -"If you ask me," said his friend, "what you're doing, Sam, is thinking -too much about yourself--being morbidly introspective, that's what -you're being. I should drop it. That kind of thing grows." - -"No, am I really?" said Mr. Nix, anxiously. "Upon my word, Joe, I -believe you're right." - -What Mr. Nix meant, however, when he said that he felt like a trick -juggler, was literally true. He not only felt like it, he dreamt it. -This dream was recurrent; he saw himself, dressed in purple tights, -one foot on a rope, the other in mid-air, and tossing a dozen golden -balls. Beneath him, far, far beneath him, was the sawdust ring, tiers -of people rising to either side of it. The balls glittered and winked -and tumbled in the fierce electric light. Always they returned to him -as though drawn towards his stomach by a magnet, but always present -with him was the desperate fear lest one should avoid and escape -him. The sweat stood in beads on his forehead; the leg upon which -everything depended began to tremble. The balls seemed to develop a -wild individuality of their own: they winked at him, they sniggered. -They danced and mocked and dazzled. He missed one, he missed two, three -... the crowd beneath him began to shout ... he swerved, he jolted, he -was over, he was falling, the balls swinging in laughing derision about -him ... falling, falling.... He was awake. - -This dream came to him so often that he consulted a doctor. The doctor -consoled him, telling him that everyone was having bad dreams just now, -that it was the natural reaction after the four years of stress and -turmoil through which we have passed. "You yourself, Mr. Nix, have had -your troubles I don't doubt?" - -Yes, Mr. Nix had lost his only son. - -"Ah, well, that is quite enough to account for it. Don't eat a heavy -meal at night. Sleep lightly covered ... plenty of fresh air." - -This interview only confirmed Mr. Nix in his already deep conviction -that all doctors were humbugs. - -"The matter with me," he said to himself, "is just this, that I've got -too much to do." - -Nineteen hundred and nineteen was a very difficult year for anyone -engaged in such business as Hortons. - -That spontaneous hour or two of mirth and happiness on the morning -of the Armistice had its origin in the general human belief that the -troubles of those nightmare years were now over. At once, as though the -Fairy Firkin had waved her wand, the world would be changed. The world -_was_ changed, but only because a new set of difficulties and problems -had taken the place of the old ones, and these new troubles were in -many ways harder to fight. That was a year of bafflement, bewilderment, -disappointment, suspicion. Quite rightly so--but the justice of it -could not be seen by the actors in it. - -Mr. Nix was making a brave fight of it, just as throughout the war he -had made a brave fight. He was a little man with a buoyant temperament, -and no touch of morbidity. His boy's death had shocked him as an -incredible event, but he had forbidden it to change the course of his -life, and it remained deep down, unseen, a wound that never healed and -was never examined. - -His embarrassments--the balls with which he was forever -a-juggling--were in the main four. First, the Directors in whose power -the fate of Hortons and several other service flats lay. Secondly, -Hortons itself, its servants, its tenants, the furniture, its food, its -finances, its marriages, births, and deaths. Thirdly, his own private -speculations, his little private business enterprises, his pals, his -games, his vices, and his ambitions. Fourth, his wife, Nancy. - -Those four "elements" had all been complicated enough before the war; -it would take a man all his time, he used to say, to deal with the -Board--nice enough men, but peremptory in many ways, not understanding, -and always in a hurry. - -He had spent the best years of his life in persuading those men that -Hortons was the best service flat in London; they did at length believe -that; they were satisfied; but having brought them to such a height -they must be maintained there. The war brought discontent, of course. -Only the old men were active on the board, and the old men had always -been the trying ones to deal with. The war, as it dragged its weary -coils along, brought nerves and melodrama with it. Only Mr. Nix, -it seemed, in all the world, was allowed to be neither nervous nor -melodramatic. He must never show anger nor disappointment nor a sense -of injustice ... there were days he honestly confessed to Nancy, his -wife, when he longed to pull some of those old white beards.... - -But worse than those old men were the tenants of Hortons themselves. -Here was a golden ball of truly stupendous heaviness and eccentricity. -The things they had demanded, the wild, unnatural, impossible things! -And the things that Hortons itself demanded! To Hortons the war was -as nothing. It must be fed, clothed, cleaned, just as it had always -been! You might shout to it about the prices, the laziness of workmen, -the heaviness of taxation. It did not care. The spirit of Hortons must -be maintained: it might as well not exist as be less than the fine -creation it had always been. - -As to the third of Mr. Nix's "elements," his private life, that had -dwindled until it was scarcely visible. He had no private life. He did -not want to have one now that his son, who had been so deeply connected -with it, was gone. Everything that he had done he had done for his son: -that was his future. He did not look to the future now, but worked for -the day, and rather to his own surprise, for Hortons, which had become -a concrete figure, gay, debonair, autocratic.... - -His personal life dropped. He saw little of his friends, never passed -the doors of his club, sat at home in the evenings, reading first the -_Times_, then the _Morning Post_, then the _Daily News_. He liked to -have an all-round view of the situation. - -It was his sense of Fair Play. - -In this way the third wheel of his life infringed upon and influenced -the fourth, his wife. - -Mrs. Nix, whose maiden name had been Nancy Rolls, was "about" forty -years of age. Even Mr. Nix was not quite sure how old she was: it -was her way to exclaim, with her hearty, cheerful laugh: "We're all -getting on, you know. There was a time when to be thirty seemed to be -as good as dead.... Now that I'm over thirty...." She was round, plump, -red-faced, brown-haired, with beseeching eyes, and a little brown mole -on the middle of her left cheek. She dressed just a little too smartly, -with a little too much colour. Mr. Nix, himself attached to colour, did -not notice this. He liked to see her gay. "Nancy's a real sport," was -his favourite exclamation about her. He had married her when she was a -"baby" seventeen years of age. They had been great "pals" ever since. -Sentiment had perhaps gone a little out of their relationship. They -were both deeply sentimental people, but for some reason sentiment was -the last thing that they evoked from one another. The death of their -boy Lancelot should have brought them together emotionally, but their -attitude had been, for so long, that of an almost masculine good cheer -and good humour, that they bore their great sorrow individually. They -had forgotten the language of emotion. - -Mr. Nix, in the deep recesses of his soul, pondered over this. He -wanted now to get closer to Nancy. He was sure that she felt "our -Lance's" death quite desperately, but after the shock of the first -month she put on her bright clothes again, and went about to the -theatre and entertained her friends. "There's enough misery in the -world without my trying to add to it," she would say. "I know some -people think it's bad of me to wear these clothes, but it is what Lance -would have liked." - -As they sat in their cosy little flat, perched high on the top floor of -Hortons, evening after evening, Mr. Nix with the paper, Mrs. Nix with a -novel, they were both perhaps conscious that the boy's death had made a -barrier, and as they lay side by side in their bed at night they were -still more conscious of this. The darkness seemed to strip from them -that lively exterior life that they had developed. Mr. Nix would lie -there and think about Nancy for hours.... - -In the daytime indeed, his hands were full. The servants alone were -problem enough for anybody. First, the men all went away to the war, -and he had to have women--women for everything, women for the kitchen, -women for the hall, women valets. And then, just as he was getting used -to them, the men began to come back--or rather, he had to get new men, -men who must be taught their jobs, and learn his rules, and fall in -with his ways. - -Fortunately he was blessed with a wonderful portress, Fanny. Fanny, -on whom, after a time, the whole great establishment seemed to hang. -But what did Fanny do but become restless after the Armistice, fall a -victim to a conscience which persuaded her that she was, by remaining, -keeping a man out of his proper job, and, when he had persuaded her -over that difficulty, what should she do then but become engaged to -one of the valets, whom she presently married. Then the tenants of the -flats were disturbed and agitated by the general unrest. Poor old Mr. -Jay was so deeply agitated by the new world that he died of the shock -of it, and as though that were not enough, old Miss Morganhurst went -out of her mind, and died in a fit. - -It became more and more difficult to secure the right kind of tenants. -Hortons had always been a very expensive place, and only wealthy people -could afford to live there. But how strange now the people who had -money! A young man like the Hon. Clive Torby, representative of one of -the finest families in England, found suddenly that he had not a penny -in the world, and gaily took to house-painting, while on the other side -of the shield there were people like the Boddingtons, who simply did -not know how to behave, who, wealthy though they were, should never -have been in Hortons at all. - -Then again, Mr. Nix was most seriously disturbed by the strange new -interchanging of the sexes that seemed to have sprung up in this -post-war England. "Positively," he said to his wife one evening, "all -the men seem to be turning into women, and all the women into men." He -read an article in some paper that lamented the rapidity with which -women were abandoning all the mysteries that had made them once so -charming. How thoroughly Mr. Nix agreed with the writer of the article! -He read it all through to Mrs. Nix, who was entirely in accord with -every word of it. - -"The girls are nothing better than baggages," she declared; "that's my -belief." - -Hortons, its dignity, its traditions, its morality, was in danger. -"I'll save it if I have to die for it," Nix declared. - -As the weeks advanced his troubles extended. One strike followed -another--coal, food, labour, clothes, all faltered, died, were revived -again. Mr. Robsart, the famous novelist, his most eminent tenant, awoke -early one morning to find a pipe leaking. His dining-room wall-paper--a -very beautiful and exclusive one--developed bright pink and purple -spots. It was weeks before anything could be done. Mr. Robsart, who -had been led by an excited female public to believe his personality to -be one upon which the sun never set, said what he thought about this. -The balls faltered in the air, their glittering surfaces menacing and -threatening. - -The tight-rope trembled; the crowd roared like angry beasts.... This -dream was ruining Mr. Nix. - -And through it all, like a refrain that set rhythm and measure to the -rest, was the sense that he ought to do "something" for Mrs. Nix, that -she was unhappy, but would not tell him about her unhappiness, that he -should come closer to her, and did not know how. - -Into this new troubled confusion of Mr. Nix's life came a figure. One -day a young man who had known Lancelot in France came to see them. His -name was Harry Harper. He was little more than a boy, was in the London -Joint City and Midland Bank, and was as fresh and charming a lad as -you would be likely to find anywhere. Mr. Nix liked him at once. In -the first place, he had many new things to tell about Lance, and he -told them in just the right way, with sentiment, but not too much, with -humour a little, and with real appreciation of Lance's bravery, and his -popularity with his men, and his charm with everyone. - -Mrs. Nix sat there, on her bright red sofa, whilst young Harper told -his tale, and her face was as red as the furniture. The tears glittered -in her eyes, but they did not fall. Her plump hands were locked lightly -on her lap. She stared before her as though she were seeing straight -through into the horrors of that terrible No Man's Land, where her boy -had faced the best and the worst and made his choice. - -"He was always a good boy," she said at last. "You will understand, Mr. -Harper, I'm sure. From his very cradle he was good. He never cried like -other babies and made a fuss. Of course, as he grew older he had a -little of the devil in him, as one might say. I'm sure no mother would -have it otherwise. But--Oh! he _was_ a good boy!" - -"There, there, mother," said Mr. Nix, patting her soft shoulder. "I'm -sure it's very good of you, Mr. Harper, to come and tell us all this. -You can understand that we appreciate it." - -Young Harper took it all the right way. His tact was wonderful for a -boy of his years. Mr. Nix, who, like most Englishmen, was a deep-dyed -sentimentalist without knowing it, loved the boy. - -"You come and see us whenever you like. We're in most evenings. You'll -always be welcome." Harper availed himself of the invitation and came -very often. He was leading, it seemed, a lonely life. His parents lived -in Newcastle and they had many children. His lodgings were far away in -Pimlico, and he had few friends in London. Before a month had passed he -was occupying a little spare bedroom in the Nix quarters--a very little -bedroom, but wonderful for him, he declared, being so marvellously in -the centre of London. "You've given me a home," he cried; "can't thank -you enough. You don't know what Pimlico can be for a fellow!" - -As the days passed Mr. Nix was more and more delighted with the -arrangement. Mrs. Nix had a way of going to bed early and Mr. Nix and -Harry would sit up talking. Mr. Nix looked forward to those evenings. -He had, he discovered, been wanting someone with whom he might talk, -and clear his ideas a bit. Harry, although he was so young, had really -thought very deeply. Mr. Nix, whose thinking was rather of an amateur -kind, very quickly forgot the difference between their years. Harry and -he talked as man to man. If anything, Harry was perhaps the older of -the two.... - -Mr. Nix found that it helped him very much when Harry talked. He did -not seem to be balancing so many balls in mid-air when Harry was -sharing his difficulties. - -The boy had, too, a charm. His air of asking Mr. Nix's advice, as a man -of the world. That was what Mr. Nix liked to be considered, and he told -Harry many sensible things, especially about women. - -"Don't let them catch you," was the burden of his opinion. "They are -the devil for getting hold of a man before he knows where he is. Play -with them, but don't take them seriously, until the right one comes -along. You'll know it as soon as she does. So much wiser to wait. But -they're clever ... damned clever...." - -"You're right, sir," said Harry. "Ab-so-lute-ly: I remember a girl -once----" - -He plunged into reminiscence. Finally, however, he declared that he -didn't care very much about women. He meant to lead his life apart from -them. He'd watched other fellows and he knew the mess they could get -into.... Especially married women.... - -"Ah! married women!" repeated Mr. Nix with a sigh. There wasn't much -that he didn't know about married women. It was terrible the way that -they were kicking over the traces these days. Really stopped at -nothing. Why, he remembered a married woman.... - -Then Harry remembered a married woman.... - -Then Mr. Nix remembered still another married woman. - -This led quite naturally to certain disclosures about Mrs. Nix. Mr. -Nix had indeed reasons to be thankful. _There_ was a woman who was -corrupted by none of these modern ideas. - -She was no prude, she knew her world, but she believed in the good old -rules--"One man for one woman." - -"It's been a bit lonely for her," Mr. Nix continued, "since Lancelot -went, and it's a bit difficult to make her happy. I'm so busy all day, -you see. Takes the whole of a man's time to run a place like this -nowadays, I can tell you. Be nice to her, Harry. See as much of her as -you can. She likes you." - -"Indeed, I will," said Harry fervently. "You two are the first real -friends I've ever had. I'm grateful, I can tell you." - -Now, strangely enough, the more Mr. Nix thought of his wife, the more -seriously and earnestly he puzzled as to the right way to bring her -close to him, and make her happy, the less he seemed to realise her. -There comes, perhaps, that moment in most married lives when the -intimacy of years has thickened the personalities of man and wife so -deeply with custom and habit that the real individualities can no -longer be discerned. Something of the kind came now to Mr. Nix. The -more he attempted to draw closer to Nancy, the more he realised that he -was hearing a voice, watching a physical form, having physical contact, -but dealing with shadows. He knew so precisely her every movement, her -laugh, the way that she caught her breath when she was agitated, the -touch of her step on the carpet, that she was no longer a person at -all. She was part of himself, perhaps, but a part of himself that he -could not treat with his imagination. He had not known before that he -had an imagination. The war had given it birth and now it was growing, -demanding food, living, thrusting, experiencing, leading its master -into many queer places--but neglecting altogether Mrs. Nix. - -He found himself, as he sat in his little office downstairs, positively -trying to force himself to realise what his wife was like. She had -bright yellow hair, a rosy face, a plump figure; she wore two rings, -one with a ruby stone, another a pearl. She was marvellously young for -her age.... She.... - -Then, when with a start of surprise he realised what he was doing, he -wondered positively whether he were not going mad. He buried himself -more and more in the work of the place, of the office, fighting to keep -everything straight and proper, realising, although he was frightened -to admit it, that Hortons was more vivid to him than anything or -anybody else. - -Except Harry! "Thank God that boy's here," he thought. "I don't know -what we'd do without him. That was a piece of luck for us." - -He lay on his bed staring up into the dark ceiling; he heard his -wife's regular breathing at his side, and he saw, there in the -living dusk above him, the golden balls dancing, rising and falling, -multiplying, diminishing, tumbling faster and faster and faster. - -Then, with the months of June and July, Mr. Nix was given very little -more time in which to speculate about life, women, and his wife. -Everything in his business affairs became so complicated that his life -extended into a real struggle for existence. He had the sense that -Hortons, which had hitherto shown him a kindly, friendly face, was -suddenly hostile, as though it said to him: "Well, I've stood your -hanky-panky long enough. I'll have no more of it. I'm finished with -your management of me!" - -Strange how a building suddenly decides to fall to pieces! Hortons -so decided. Every window, every door, every pipe, every chimney -misbehaved; tenants appeared from all sides bitterly complaining. -Servants rioted; the discontent that was already flooding the world -poured through the arteries of the building, sweeping it, deluging. - -Mr. Nix showed them the character that he had. He took off his coat and -set to work. He was no longer the round ball-like little man with the -cherubic countenance and the amiable smile. He was stern, autocratic, -unbending. He argued, persuaded, advised. He wrote, to his own -surprise, a very stiff letter to the Board of Directors, telling them -that they must understand that times were difficult. Rome wasn't built -in a day, and that if they were dissatisfied with him they must find -someone else in his place. To his amazement, he received a very polite -letter from the Secretary of the Board, saying that the Directors were -thoroughly satisfied with him and had no complaints. - -He went on during that month from struggle to struggle. He forgot -Harry; he puzzled no longer about Mrs. Nix. He was so tired when night -came that he slept the sleep of a drugged man. He no longer saw the -dancing balls. He was invigorated, uplifted, desperately excited. -He found in himself a capacity for organisation that he had never -suspected. He discovered that it delighted him to meet and to conquer -his servants. He saw in their eyes, and he was delighted to see it, -their own astonishment at this new character that he was developing. -He browbeat them, told them to go, showed them that they had better -stay, held them together and forced them to content. They were afraid -of him. By Jove!--They were afraid of him! He looked at himself in the -glass. He blessed the crisis that had shown him in his true colours. He -contemplated the life of Napoleon.... - -He went out, and with his own right arm fetched in sulky and -wage-demanding workmen. He talked to them and found that there was a -great deal to be said on their side. - -He began to discover that strange truth that almost everyone was -discovering just at this time--namely, that when you read the papers or -thought of your fellow human beings in the mass, you hated and despised -them, but that, if you talked to any individual, man or woman, you -liked and understood them. - -Pride grew in his heart, and happiness and contentment. - -By the middle of July Hortons was itself again. The crisis was over. -Prices were impossible, labour rebellious, the world topsy-turvy, but -Hortons was at peace. He sighed, put back his shoulders, patted his -little stomach appreciatively, loved all the world and, once again, -considered Mrs. Nix. - -He would give her now all his time. He would take her out; make her -presents; they should have a splendid new life together. - -He came back one evening after a successful meeting with the Board, -opened his little hall door, hung up his coat, whistling to himself, -opened his drawing-room door, saw Mrs. Nix on the red sofa, enveloped -in the arms of Harry, who was kissing her ears, her eyes, her mouth. - -He saw this, and then he saw the neat little sitting-room sway and -heave. A bright blue vase, holding yellow sprays of some dried flower, -raced towards him across the mantelpiece, and he stepped back, putting -his hand on to a chair behind him to avoid its contact. The room -steadied itself and he realised that he felt sick. He put up his hand -to his mouth. Then every sensation was swallowed up by a mad, violent -anger, an anger that seemed to increase with every wild beat of his -heart, as though that heart were, of its own purpose, pounding him on -to some desperate act. - -Behind his anger he saw the two faces. Nancy was sitting square on the -sofa, her hands spread out, plunging deep into the red stuff of the -sofa. Harry was standing, his face white, his eyes bewildered and -defiant. - -"You might at least have locked the door," Mr. Nix said, whispering. - -His knees trembled so that he suddenly sat down and stared across at -them. - -"Why didn't you lock the door?" he repeated. "You knew I'd be coming -back." - -"Look here ..." Harry began. He stopped, took a pull at himself, -straightened his back, stood instinctively as though he were obeying -orders--"I love your wife. I've loved her for weeks. Of course, it's -all my fault. She doesn't care for me in that way. She's just lonely, -that's all." - -"Lonely!" said Mr. Nix. - -"Yes--lonely! You don't know that you've been neglecting her all -this time, do you? But you have! And it's your own fault, all this. -Nothing's happened. She'd never deceive you. She's too good for that. -But it would be your own fault if she did.... Not that I'm not a cad. -Of course I am, coming in and your being such a friend to me and then -behaving like this. I'm a cad all right, but you're to blame too. She's -the only one who hasn't done any wrong." - -Where had Mr. Nix heard all this before? He'd seen it on the stage. -Just like this. Exactly. Nevertheless, his anger mounted. He saw the -room coloured crimson. He suddenly bounded from his chair and rushed -at Harry. He tried to hit him in the face. There was a most ludicrous -struggle. The two hot faces were suddenly close to one another. Then a -chair fell with a crash, and, as though the noise made both men feel -the absurdity of their situation, they withdrew from one another and -stood there glaring.... - -Mr. Nix hated that he should be trembling as he was. Every part of him -was shaking, and he was so conscious of this that he wanted to escape -and return only when he was calmer. - -"Very well ..." he said. "Of course, I know what to do. I hope that I -shall never see either of you again." - -"One moment." It was his wife's voice, and he turned round surprised -that it should sound just as it had always sounded. - -That was pathetic, and there was an impulse in him, that he instantly -fiercely defeated, to go to her and take her hand. - -"One moment," she repeated. "I've got something to say to this." She -rose and stood, her hands moving nervously against her dress, her eyes -staring straight into her husband's face. "It's quite right that I was -kissing Harry, but it isn't right that I love him. I don't love him -a bit. I don't love anybody. I'm just sick of men. I've been sick of -them a long time. It was just because I didn't feel Harry was a man at -all that I let him kiss me. A dog or a baby would have done just as -well.... I don't care what you do. You can turn me out. I want to be -turned out. I want to be free, I want to be with women, and work on my -own, and do sensible things, and have my own life with no men in it.... -No men in it anywhere. I've been wanting this for years; ever since -the war started. The world's just run for men and you think you're so -important that you're _everything_. But you're not. Not to a woman of -my age who's been through it all, and hasn't children. What have I been -sitting at home for, waiting for you, seeing after your food, keeping -you in a good temper, looking after you? Why should I? I'm myself--not -half of you. And Harry too. He was a nice boy at first. But suddenly he -wants me to love him, to belong to him, to follow him. Why should I, a -boy like that? I want to be with other women, women who understand me, -women who know how I feel, women who have their own world and their own -life, and are independent of men altogether.... I've wanted to go for -months--and now I'm going." - -She moved towards the door. The absurdity of what she had said kept him -standing there in front of her. She wanted only women! Oh, of course, -that was only bluff, put up to carry off a difficult situation. - -People did not _want_ their own sex--a man for a woman, a woman for a -man. That was the way the world went, and it was right that it should -be so. - -Nevertheless, her words had had behind them a strange ring of -conviction. He stared at her in his round, puzzled, solid way. He did -not move from where he was, and she could not reach the door without -brushing against him, so she also stayed. - -Another mood came to her. "Oh! I'm so sorry ..." she said. "I've done -very wrong to hurt you. You've always done your very best, but it was -over--you and I--so long ago. Long, long before Lance was killed!" - -"Over?" he repeated. - -"Yes, over--men never know unless it's worth some woman's while to tell -them." - -Harry's voice broke in. - -"I'd better go.... I ought to ... I mustn't...." He murmured something -more, but they neither of them noticed him. They were intent upon one -another. He left the room. - -Mr. Nix stared desolately around him. "I don't know what to do," he -repeated to himself. "I don't know what to do." - -She sighed as she might have done with a child who was trying her. - -"We've both got to think it out," she said. "I'm glad now that it's -happened. It ends all that falseness. I'll talk it over with you as -long as you like." - -She moved forward; he stood aside and she left the room. He sat down -on the red sofa and stayed there, until late into the night, trying -to puzzle out his position. Sometimes, in his distress, he spoke to -himself aloud. - -"That's what it is ... the world's changed. Entirely changed. Women -don't want men any more. But that's awful! They can't get on alone. -Nancy can't get on alone. She thinks she can, but she can't. She gets -taken in by the first silly boy that comes along. I believe she cares -for Harry more than she said.... She must.... She wouldn't have let him -kiss her...." - -And that was the first thing that he found in the voyage of mental -discovery that he was now making--namely, that he couldn't be jealous -of Harry if he tried. His anger had left him. There was nothing in -that. He knew it absolutely. Nancy had spoken the truth when she had -said that she didn't care for that boy any more than for a dog or a -baby. No, he felt no jealousy, and now, oddly enough, no anger. - -But he did not know how he felt. He did not know what to do. Again he -saw the golden balls tossing in the air above him, and there was she, -alluring, glittering, tumbling, escaping. - -He thought, with a smile of contempt, of his conquest of Hortons. That -was no achievement. But this, this new woman, this new Nancy, here was -something. - -He slept that night on the sofa, taking off his coat and wrapping a rug -around him. He slept the slumber of the dead. - -Next day they had only one talk together, and that a very little one. -Suddenly after breakfast she turned round upon him. - -"Well," she said, "what are you going to do?" - -"I don't know," he answered, and then because he felt that she would -despise him for being so indeterminate, he went on, "It doesn't -matter about Harry. I was only angry for a moment seeing you together -like that. I know that you don't care for him. It was what you said -afterwards--about not caring for me any more. Did you mean that?" - -"Why no," she answered, "I never said that. Of course I care for you. -How could it be otherwise after all these years? But I don't want to -give up my whole life to you any more. I don't love you. I haven't -loved you for years. I think Lance took all the love I had after he -was born. And so I don't want to be always with you. Why should I be? -Men when they are friends aren't always together. I want to be free, -to do some of the things independent women are doing. There are so -many things women can do now. I see no reason for our staying always -together. I don't want to stay with anyone always." - -"Then you don't love me any more?" - -"No, of course I don't--and you don't love me. You know that. For ever -so long now you haven't felt anything about me at all. You've pretended -to because you thought it was right, but I've been a shadow to you." - -She was so right that he could only stare dumbly at her wisdom. - -"You're not a shadow any longer," he said. - -She laughed. - -"That's only because we've just had a scene. I shall be a shadow again -in a day or two." - -They waited. At last he said, "Well, you won't go at once, will you? -Please, promise me that. Stay until we've straightened everything out. -Promise me." - -She shook her head. - -"No, I'll promise nothing any more. I should only break my promises. -But I'll tell you before I'm going." - -There began then for him the strangest time. Slowly an entirely new -woman stole into his life, a woman whom he did not know at all, a -creation as strange and novel as though he had but now met her for the -first time. Every evening, when he returned to the flat, it was with -the expectation of finding her gone. He questioned her about nothing. -She continued as she had done before to look after the flat and his -clothes and his food. He did not touch her; he did not kiss her. They -sat in the evening in their little sitting-room reading. They discussed -the events of the day. - -Soon he realised that it was beginning to be a passionate determination -with him that he must keep her. He did not know how to set about it. -He found that he was beginning to woo her again, to woo her as he had -never wooed anybody before. He did not let her see it. He fancied that -he was the last word in tact. One evening he brought her some roses. -He tried to speak casually about it. His voice trembled. One night he -kissed her, but very indifferently as though he were thinking of other -things. - -And how mysterious she was becoming to him! Not in the old way. He -could not believe that there had ever been a time when he had known her -so well that he could not see her. He saw her continually now, through -all his work, through every moment of the day. His heart beat when he -thought of her. He would wait for a moment outside the door in the -evening, his hands trembling with the thought that he might look inside -and find her gone. - -He never questioned her now as to where she went, but he was forced -to admit that she did not go out any more than she had done in the old -days. It was strange when you came to think of it, that she had not -followed up more completely her fine declaration of independence. - -They went one evening to a theatre, together. They sat close to one -another in the dark, and he longed to take her hand, but did not dare. -He felt like a boy again, and she was surely young too--younger than he -had ever known her. - -There were times when he fancied that after all she was quite contented -with her domesticity. But he did not dare to believe that. If he once -caught the golden ball and held it, what would happen? - -There came at last an evening when imprudence overcame him. He caught -her in his arms and kissed her--kissed her as he had not done for -years. The first wonderful thing that he knew was that she responded, -responded with all the passion of their first days of courtship. - -He heard her murmur: - -"Poor old Sam--you poor, blind, silly old Sam." - -A moment later she was out of his arms and across the floor. - -"But don't imagine," she cried, "that I'm sure that I'm going to stay. -I may be off at any minute. This very night perhaps!" - -He was alone staring at the closed door. The golden balls were still -dancing. He wanted to follow her. He got up. He stopped. He had a -moment of intense disappointment. - -Then--"By Jove, I believe I'm glad. I don't want to be sure of her. I -hope I'll never be sure of her again!" - -And on that flash of self-realisation he began his new life. - - - - -X - -LIZZIE RAND - - -Lizzie RAND was just forty-six years of age when old Mrs. Roughton -McKenzie died leaving her all her money. Months later she had not -thoroughly realised what had happened to her. - -Until that day of Mrs. McKenzie's death she had never had any money. -She had spent her life, her energies, her pluck and her humour in the -service of one human being after another, and generally in the service -of women. It seemed to her to be really funny that the one who had -during her life begrudged her most should in the end be the one who -had given her everything; but no one had ever understood old Mrs. -McKenzie, and as likely as not she had left her money to Lizzie Rand -just to spite her numerous relations. Lizzie had expected nothing. She -never did expect anything, which was as well perhaps, because no one -ever gave her anything. She was not a person to whom one naturally gave -things; she had a pride, a reserve, an assertion of her own private -liberty that kept people away and forbade intimacy. That had not always -been so. In the long ago days when she had been Adela Beaminster's -secretary she had given herself. She had loved a man who had not loved -her, and out of the shock of that she had won a friendship with -another woman, which was still perhaps the most precious thing that she -had. But that same shock had been enough for her. She guarded, with an -almost bitter ferocity, the purity and liberty of her soul. - -All the women whose secretaries she had afterwards been had felt -this in her, and most of them had resented it. Old Mrs. McKenzie -had resented it more than any of them. She was a selfish, painted, -over-decorated old creature, a widow with no children and only nephews -and nieces to sigh after her wealth. One of Lizzie's chief duties had -been to keep these nephews and nieces from the door, and this she had -done with a certain grim austerity, finding that none of them cared -for the aunt and all for the money. The outraged relations decided, -of course, at once that she was a plotting, despicable creature; it -is doing her less than justice to say that the idea that the money -would be left to her never for a single instant entered her head. Mrs. -McKenzie taunted her once for expecting it. - -"Of course you're waiting," she said, "like all of them, to pick the -bones of the corpse." - -Lizzie Rand laughed. - -"Now is that like me?" she asked. "And, more important, is it like you?" - -Mrs. McKenzie sniggered her tinkling, wheezy snigger. There was a -certain honesty between them. They had certain things in common. - -"I don't like you," she said. "I don't see how anyone could. You're too -self-sufficient--but you certainly have a sense of humour." - -There had been a time once when many people liked Lizzie, and she -reflected now, with a little shudder, that perhaps only one person in -the world, Rachel Seddon, the woman friend before-mentioned, liked and -understood her. Why had she shut herself off? Why presented so stiff, -so immaculate, so cold a personality to the world? She was not stiff, -not cold, not immaculate. It was, perhaps, simply that she felt that it -was in that way only that she could get her work done, and to do her -work thoroughly seemed to her now to be the job best worth while in -life. - -During the war she had almost broken from her secretaryship and gone -forth to do Red Cross work or anything that would help. A kind of -timidity that had grown upon her with the years, a sense of her age and -of her loneliness, held her back. Twenty years ago she would have gone -with the first. Now she stayed with Mrs. McKenzie. - -Mrs. McKenzie died on the day of the Armistice, November 11, 1918. -Her illness had not been severe. Lizzie had had, at the most, only a -week's nursing; it had been obvious from the first that nothing could -save the old lady. Mrs. McKenzie had not looked as though she were -especially anxious that anything should save her. She had lain there in -scornful silence, asking for nothing, complaining of nothing, despising -everything. Lizzie admitted that the old woman died game. - -There had followed then that hard, bewildering period that Lizzie knew -by now so well where she must pull herself, so reluctantly, so heavily -towards the business of finding a new engagement. She did not, of -course, expect Mrs. McKenzie to leave her a single penny. She stayed -for a week or two with her friend Rachel Seddon. But Rachel, a widow -with an only son, was so tumultuously glad at the return of her boy, -safe and whole, from the war, that it was difficult for her just then -to take any other human being into her heart. She loved Lizzie, and -would do anything in the world for her; she was indeed for ever urging -her to give up these sterile companionships and secretaryships and come -and make her home with her. But Lizzie, this time, felt her isolation -as she had never done before. - -"I'm getting old," she thought. "And I'm drifting off ... soon I shall -be utterly alone." The thought sent little shivering ghosts climbing -about her body. She saw in the gay, happy, careless, kindly eyes of -young Tom Seddon how old she was to the new generation. - -He called her "Aunt Liz," took her to the theatre, and was an angel ... -nevertheless an angel happily, almost boastfully, secure in another, -warmer planet than hers. - -Then came the shock. Mrs. McKenzie had left her everything--the -equivalent of about eight thousand pounds a year. - -At first her sense was one of an urgent need of rest. She sank back -amongst the cushions and pillows of Rachel's house and refused to -think ... refused to think at all.... She considered for a moment the -infuriated faces of the McKenzie relations. Then they, too, passed from -her consciousness. - -When she faced the world again, she faced it with the old common sense -that had always been her most prominent characteristic. She had eight -thousand a year. Well, she would do the very best with it that she -could. Rachel, who had appeared to be more deeply excited than she over -the event, had various suggestions to offer, but Lizzie had her own -ideas. She could not remember the time when she had not planned what -she would do when somebody left her money. - -She took one of the most charming flats in Hortons, bought beautiful -things for it, etchings by D. T. Cameron, one Nevinson, and a John -drawing, some Japanese prints; she had books and soft carpets and -flowers and a piano; and had the prettiest spare room for a friend. -Then she stopped and looked about her. There were certain charities -in which she had been always deeply interested, especially one for -Poor Gentlewomen. There was a home, too, for illegitimate babies. She -remembered, with a happy irony, the occasion when she had tried to -persuade Mrs. McKenzie to give something to these charities and had -failed.... Well, Mrs. McKenzie was giving now all right. Lizzie hoped -that she knew it. - -There accumulated around her all the business that clusters about an -independent woman with means. She was on committees; many people who -would not have looked twice at her before liked her now and asked her -to their houses. - -Again she stopped and looked about her. - -Still there was something that she needed. What was it? Companionship? -More than that. Affection, a centre to her life; someone who needed -her, someone to whom she was of more importance than anyone else in the -world. Even a dog.... - -She was forty-six. Without being plain she was too slight, too -hard-drawn, too masculine, above all too old to be attractive to -men. An old maid of forty-six. She faced the truth. She gave little -dinner-parties, and felt more lonely than ever. Even it seemed there -was nobody who wanted to make her a confidante. People wanted her -money, but herself not at all. She was not good conversationally. She -said sharp sarcastic things that frightened people. People did not want -the truth; they wanted things to be wrapped up first, as her mother and -sister had wanted them years ago. - -She was a failure socially, in spite of her money. She could not be -genial, and yet her heart ached for love. - -At this moment Mr. Edmund Lapsley appeared. Lizzie met him at a party -given by Mrs. Philip Mark in Bryanston Square. Mrs. Mark was an old -friend of Rachel's, a kindly and clever woman with an ambitious husband -who would never get very far. - -Her parties were always formed by a strange mixture dictated first -by her kind heart and second her desire to have people in her house -who might possibly help her husband. Edmund Lapsley originated in the -former of these impulses. He was not much to look at--long, lanky, with -a high bony head, a prominent Roman nose and large, cracking fingers. -He was shabbily dressed, awkward in his manner, and apprehensive. -It was his eyes that first attracted Lizzie's attention. They were -beautiful large brown eyes, with the expression of a lost and lonely -dog seated deep in their pupils. He sat with Lizzie in a corner of the -crowded drawing-room to arrange his long legs so that they should not -be in the way, cracked his long fingers together and endeavoured to be -interested in the people whom Lizzie pointed out to him. - -"That's Henry Trenchard," Lizzie said, "that wild-looking boy with the -untidy hair.... He's very clever. Going to be our great novelist.... -That's his sister, Millie. Mrs. Mark's sister, too. Isn't she pretty? -She's the loveliest of the family. That stout clergyman is a Trenchard -cousin. They all hang together in the most wonderful way, you know. His -wife ran away and never came back again. I don't think I wonder; he -looks heavy...." And so on. - -Lizzie wondered to herself why she bothered. It was not her habit to -gossip, and Mr. Lapsley was obviously not at all interested. - -"I beg your pardon," she said; "you don't want to know who these people -are." - -"No," he said in a strange, sudden, desperate whisper. "I don't. I lost -my wife only three months ago. I'm trying to go out into the world -again. I can't. It doesn't do any good." He gripped his knee with one -of his large bony hands. - -"I'm so sorry," Lizzie said. "I didn't know. How tiresome of me to have -gone on chattering like that! You should have stopped me." - -He seemed himself to be surprised at the confession that he had made. -He stared at her in a bewildered fashion like an owl suddenly flashed -into light. He stared, saying nothing. Suddenly in the same hurried, -husky whisper he went on: "Do you mind my talking to you? I want to -talk to somebody. I'd like to tell you about her." - -"Please," said Lizzie, looking into his eyes, they were tender and -beautiful, so unlike his ugly body, and full of unhappiness. - -He talked; the words tumbled out in an urgent, tremulous confusion. - -They had been married, it appeared, ten years, ten wonderful happy -years. "How she can have cared for me, that's what I never understood, -Miss--Miss----" - -"Rand," said Lizzie. - -"I beg your pardon. Difficult to catch ... when you are introduced.... -Never understood. I was years older than she. I'm fifty now--forty -when I married her, and she was only twenty. Thirty when she--when she -died. In childbirth it was. The child, a boy, was born dead. Everyone -prophesied disaster. They all told her not to marry me, she was so -pretty, and so young, and so brilliant. She sang, Miss Rand, just like -a lark. She did, indeed. She was trained in Paris. I oughtn't to have -proposed to her, I suppose. That's what I tell myself now, but I was -carried off my feet, completely off my feet. I couldn't help myself -at all. I loved her from the first moment that I saw her. You know -how those things are, Miss Rand. And, in any case, I don't know. Ten -perfect years, that's a good deal for anyone to have, isn't it? And -she was as happy as I was. It may seem strange to you, looking at -me, but it was really so. She thought I was so much cleverer than I -was--and better too. It used to make me very nervous sometimes lest she -should find me out, you know, and leave me. I always expected that to -happen. But she was so charitable to everyone. Never could see the bad -side of people, and they were always better with her than with anyone -else. We'd always hoped for a child, and then, as the years went on, we -gave it up. Edmund, she said to me, we must make it up to one another. -And then she told me it was going to be all right. You wouldn't have -believed two ordinary people could be so happy as we were when we knew -about it. We made many plans, of course. I was a little apprehensive -that I'd be rather old to bring up a child, but she was so young that -made it all right--so wonderfully young.... Then she died. It was -incredible, of course. I didn't believe it ... I don't believe it now. -She's not dead. That's absurd. You'd feel the same if you'd seen her, -Miss Rand. So full of life, and then suddenly ... nothing at all. It's -impossible. Nature isn't like that. Things gradually die, don't they, -and change into something else. Not suddenly...." - -He broke off. He was clutching his knees and staring in front of him. -"I don't know why I talk to you like this, Miss Rand ... I hope you'll -forgive me. I shouldn't have bothered you." - -"I'm pleased that you have, Mr. Lapsley." She got up. She felt that -he would be glad now to escape. "Won't you come and see me? I have a -flat in Hortons Chambers in Duke Street, No. 42.... Do come. Just -telephone." - -He looked up at her, not rising from his seat. Then he got up. - -"I will," he said. "Thank you." - -He was still staring at her, and she knew that he had something further -to say. She could see it struggling in his eyes. But she did not -want him to confess any more. He would be the kind of man to regret -afterwards what he had done. She would not burden his conscience. And -yet she had the knowledge that it was something very serious that he -wanted to tell her, something that had been, in reality, at the back of -all his earlier confession. - -She refused the appeal in his eyes, said good-night, took his hand for -a moment and turned away. - -Afterwards she was talking to Katherine Mark. - -"I see you were kind to poor Mr. Lapsley," Katherine said. - -"How sad about his wife!" Lizzie answered. - -"Yes. And she really was young and beautiful. No one understood why she -married him, but I've never seen anything more successful.... I didn't -think he'd come to-night, but I'm fond of him. Philip doesn't care -for him much, but he reminds me of a cousin of ours, John Trenchard, -who was killed in Russia in the second year of the war. But John was -unhappier than Mr. Lapsley. He never had his perfect years." - -"Yes, that's something," Lizzie acknowledged. - -It was strange to her afterwards that Edmund Lapsley should persist -so vividly in her mind. She saw him with absolute clarity almost as -though he were with her in her flat. She thought of him a good deal. He -needed someone to comfort him, and she needed someone to comfort. She -hoped he would come and see her. - -He did come, one afternoon, quite unexpectedly and without telephoning -first. Fortunately she was there, alone, and wanting someone to talk -to. At first he was shy and self-conscious. They talked stiffly about -London, and the weather, and the approaching Peace, and whether there -would ever be a League of Nations, and how high prices were, and how -impossible it was to get servants and when they got them they went.... -Lizzie broke ruthlessly in upon this. "It isn't the least little -good, Mr. Lapsley," she said, "our talking like this. It's mere waste -of time. We both know plenty of people to whom we can chatter this -nonsense. Either we are friends, or we are not. If we are friends, we -must go a little further. Are we friends?" - -He seemed to be at a loss. He blinked at her. - -"Yes," he said. - -"Well, then," she looked at him and smiled. "I don't want to force your -confidence, but there was something that you were anxious to tell me -about the other night, some way in which I could help you. I stopped -you then, but I don't want to stop you now. I'll be honoured indeed if -there's anything I can do." - -He gulped, stammered, then out it came. At the first hint of his -trouble it was all that Lizzie could do to repress an impatient -gesture. His trouble was--spiritualism. - -Of all the tiresome things, of all the things about which she had no -patience at all, of all the idiotic, money-wasting imbecilities! He -poured it all out. He had read books, at last a friend had taken him -... a Dr. Orloff, a very wonderful medium, a very trustworthy man, a -man about whom there could be no question. - -On the first occasion the results had been poor--on the second occasion -his Margaret had spoken to him, actually spoken to him. Oh! but there -could be no doubt! Her very voice.... His own voice shook as he spoke -of it. - -Since then he had been, he was forced to admit, a number of -times--almost every day ... every day ... every afternoon. He talked to -Margaret every day now for half an hour or more. - -He was sure it was right, he was doing nobody any harm ... they two -together ... it could not be wrong, but.... He stopped. Lizzie gave -him no help. She sat there looking in front of her. She despised him; -she was conscious of a deep and bitter disappointment. She did not -know how he could betray his weakness, his softness, his gullibility. -She had thought him.... She looked up suddenly, knowing that his voice -had stopped. He was gazing at her in despair, his eyes wide with an -unhappiness that struck deep to his heart. - -"You despise me!" he said. - -"Yes," she answered. "I do." But she was aware at the same time that -she could have gone across to him and put her hand on his head and -comforted him. "That's all false! You know it is. You're only deluding -yourself because you want to persuade yourself--it's weak of you. Your -wife can't come to you that way." - -"Don't take it from me!" His voice was an agonised cry. "It's all I -have. It's true. It's true. It must be true!" - -They were suddenly in contact ... she felt a warm sense of protection -and pity, a longing to comfort and help so strong that she -instinctively put her hand to her heart as though she would restrain it. - -"Oh, I didn't mean," she cried, "that I'd take anything away from you. -No, no--never that. If you thought that I meant that, you're wrong. -Keep anything you've got. Perhaps I'm mistaken. The mediums I've known -have been charlatans. That's prejudiced me. Then I don't think I want -my friends to come back to me in quite that way.... If it's true, it -seems to be forcing them, against their will, as it were. Oh! I know a -great many people now are finding it all true and good. I don't know -anything about it. I shouldn't have said what I did. And then you see -I've never lost anyone whom I loved very much." - -"Never?" Mr. Lapsley asked, staring at her with wide-open eyes. - -"No, never, I think." - -He got up and came across to her, standing near to her, looking down -upon her. She saw that she had aroused his interest, that she had -suddenly switched his attention upon herself. - -She had aroused him in the only way that he could be aroused, by -stirring his pity for her. She knew exactly how suddenly he saw her--as -a lonely, unhappy, deserted old maid. She did not mind; that the -attention of any one single human being should be centred upon her for -herself was a very wonderful, touching thing. - -Silence fell between them; the pretty room, grey and silver in the -half-light, gathered intimately around them. When at last he went away -it seemed that the last ten minutes had added years to their knowledge -of one another. - -A strange time for Lizzie followed. Edmund Lapsley had rushed into her -life with a precipitate urgency that showed how empty before it had -been. But there was more than their mere contact in the affair. She -was fighting a battle; all her energies were in it; she was ruthless, -savage, tooth-and-nail; he should be snatched from this spiritualism. - -It was a silent battle. He never spoke to her again of it. He did not -say whether he went or not, and she did not ask him. But soon they -were meeting almost every day, and she felt with a strange, almost -savage pleasure that her influence over him grew with every meeting. -She discovered many things about his character. He was weak, undecided, -almost subservient, a man whom she would have despised perhaps had it -not been for the real sweetness that lay at the roots of him. She very -quickly understood how this girl, Margaret, although so young and so -ignorant of the world, must have dominated him. "Any woman could!" she -thought almost angrily to herself, and yet there was a kind of pride -behind her anger. - -She would not confess to herself that what she was really fighting -was the memory of the dead girl, or, if she confessed at all, it was -to console herself with the thought that it was right for him now to -"cheer up a little." - -Cheer up he did; it was curious to watch the rapidity with which he -responded to Lizzie's energy and humour and vitality. - -At last she challenged him: - -"Well, what about Dr. Orloff?" she asked. - -He looked at her with a sudden startled glance, then almost under his -breath he said: "I don't go any more; I thought you didn't want me to." - -So sudden a confession of her power took her breath away. She asked her -next question. - -"But Margaret?" she said. He answered that as though he were arguing -some long-debated question with himself: - -"I don't know," he replied slowly. "You were right. That wasn't the -proper way to bring her back, even though it were genuine. I must tell -you, Miss Rand," he said suddenly flinging up his head and looking -across at her, "you've shown me so many things since we first met. I -was getting into a very bad way, indulging myself in my grief. Margaret -wouldn't have liked that either, but it wasn't until I knew you that I -saw what I was doing. Thank you." - -"Oh, you mustn't!" She shook her head. "You mustn't take me for Gospel -like that Mr. Lapsley. You make me frightened for my responsibility. -We are friends, and we must help one another, but we must keep our -independence." - -He shook his head, smiling. - -"There's always been somebody who's taken my independence away," he -said. "And I like it." - -After he had gone she had the tussle of her life. She ate dinner alone, -then sat far into the night fighting. Why should she fight at all? Here -was the charge given straight into her hand, the gift for which she had -longed and longed, the very man for her, the man whom she could care -for as she would her child. Care for and protect and guide and govern. -Govern! Like a torch flaring between dark walls that word lit her soul -for her. Govern! That was what she wanted; all her life she had wanted -it. - -She wanted to feel her power, to dominate, to command. And all for -his good. She loved him, she loved his sweetness and his goodness and -his simplicity. She could make him happy and contented and at ease -for the rest of his days. He should never have another anxiety, never -another responsibility. Why fight then? Wasn't it obviously the best -thing in the world, both for him and for her? She needed him. He her. -She abandoned herself then to happy, tender thoughts of their life -together. What it would be! What they could do with old Mrs. McKenzie's -money! She sat there trying to lose herself in that golden future. She -could not quite lose herself. Threading it was again and again the -warning that something was not right with it, that she was pursuing -some course that she should not. The clock struck half-past eleven. -She gave a little shiver. The room was cold. She knew then, with that -little shiver, of what she had been thinking. Margaret Lapsley.... - -Why should she be thinking of her? She was dead. She could not -complain. And if she were still consciously with them, surely she would -rather that he should be cared for and loved and guarded than pursue a -lonely life full of regrets and melancholy. What kind of girl had she -been? Had she loved him as he had loved her? How young she had died! -How young and fresh and happy!... Lizzie shivered again. Ah! She was -old. Fifty and old--old in thoughts and hopes and dreams. Pervaded by a -damp mist of unhappiness, she went to bed and lay there, looking into -the dark. - -With the morning her scruples had vanished. She saw Margaret Lapsley -no more. She was her own sane, matter-of-fact mistress. A delightful -fortnight followed. All her life afterwards Lizzie looked back to those -fourteen days as the happiest of her time. They were together now every -afternoon. Very often in the evening too they went to the theatre or -music. He was her faithful dog. He agreed with all her suggestions, -eagerly, implicitly. Mentally, he was not stupid; he knew many things -that she did not, and he was not so submissive that he would not -argue. He argued hotly, growing excited, calling out protests in a -high treble, then suddenly laughing like a child. For those days she -abandoned herself utterly. She allowed herself to be surrounded, to be -hemmed in, by the companionship, the care, the affection.... Oh, it was -wonderful for her! Only those who had known her years and years of -loneliness could appreciate what it was to her now to have this. She -warmed her hands at the fire of it and let the flames fan their heat -upon her cheeks. - -Once she said to him: - -"Isn't it strange that we should have made friends so quickly? It isn't -generally my way. I'm a shy character, you know." - -"So am I," he answered her. "I never would have talked to you as I have -if you hadn't helped me. You have helped me. Wonderfully, marvellously. -I only wish that Margaret could have known you. You would have helped -her too." - -He talked to her now continually of Margaret, but very happily, with -great contentment. - -"Margaret would have loved you," he liked to say. Lizzie was not so -sure. - -Then suddenly came the afternoon, for days past now inevitable, when he -asked her to marry him. - -They were sitting together in the Horton flat. It was a day of intense -heat. All the windows were wide open, the blinds down, and into the -dim, grey shadowy air there struck shafts and lines of heat, bringing -with them a smell of dust and pavements. The roses in a large yellow -bowl on the centre table flung their thick scent across the dusky -mote-threaded light. The hot town lay below them like a still sea -basking at the foot of their rock. - -"I want you to marry me, Lizzie," he said. "It may seem very soon after -Margaret's death, but it's what she would have wished, I know. Please, -please don't refuse me. I don't know how I have the impertinence to -ask, but I must. I can't help myself----" - -At his words the happiness that had filled her heart during the last -fortnight suddenly left her, as water ebbs out of a pool. She felt -guilty, wicked, ashamed. She had never before been so aware of his -helplessness and also of some strange, reproaching voice that blamed -her. Why should she be blamed? She looked at him and longed to take his -head in her hands and kiss him and keep him beside her and never let -him go again. - -At last she told him that she would give him her answer the next day. - -When at last he left her, she was miserable, weighted with a sense -of some horrible crime. And yet why? What was there against such a -marriage? She was pursued that evening, that night. Next day she would -not see him, but sent down word that she was unwell and would he come -to-morrow? All that day, keeping alone in her flat, feeling the waves -of heat beat about her, tired, exhausted, driven, the whole of her life -stole past her. - -"Why should I not marry him? Why _must_ I not marry him?" - -The consciousness that she was fighting somebody or something grew with -her through the day. Towards evening, when the heat faded and dusk -swallowed the colours and patterns of her room, she seemed to hear a -voice: "You are not the wife for him. He will have no freedom. He will -lose his character. He will become a shadow." - -And her answer was almost spoken to the still and empty room. "But -he will be happy. I will give him everything. Why may I not think of -myself at last after all these years? I've waited and waited, and -worked and worked...." - -And the answer came back: "You're old. You're old. You're old." She -_was_ old. She felt that night eighty, a hundred. - -She went to bed at last; closed her eyes and slept. - -She woke suddenly; the room swam in moonlight. She had forgotten to -draw her blinds. The high, blue expanse of heaven flashing with fiery -stars broke the grey spaces of her room with splendour. - -She lay in bed watching the stars. She was suddenly aware that a figure -stood there between her bed and the thin shadowy pane. She gazed at it -with no fear, but rather as though she had known it before. - -It was the figure of a young girl in a white dress. Her hair was black, -her face very, very young, her eyes deep and innocent, full of light. -Her hands were lovely, thin and pale, shell-coloured against the starry -sky. - -The women looked at one another. A little unspoken dialogue fell -between them. - -"You are Margaret?" - -"Yes." - -"You have come to tell me to leave him alone?" - -"Yes." - -"Why?" - -"Oh, don't you see? He won't be happy. He won't grow. His soul -won't grow with you. You are not the woman for him. Someone -else--perhaps--later-- but oh! let me have him a little longer just -now. I love him so! Don't take him from me!" - -Lizzie smiled. - -"You beautiful dear!... How young you are! How lovely!" - -"Leave him to me! Leave him to me!" - -The moon fell into fleecy clouds. The room was filled with shadow. - - * * * * * - -With the morning nothing had been dimmed. Lizzie was happy with a -strange sense of companionship and comfort. - -When Edmund came she saw at once that he was greatly troubled. - -"Well?" he asked her. - -"You've seen Margaret!" she cried. "Last night!" He nodded his head. - -"It may have been a dream...." - -"You don't want to marry me...." - -"Oh, yes! Don't think I would go back...." She put her hands on his -shoulders. - -"It's all right, Edmund. I'm not going to marry you. I'm too old. We're -friends for always, but nothing more. Margaret was right." - -"Margaret!" He stared at her. "But you didn't know her!" - -"I know her now," she answered. Then, laughing, "I've got two friends -instead of one husband! Who knows that I'm not the richer?" - -As she spoke she seemed to feel on her cheek the soft, gentle kiss of a -young girl. - - - - -XI - -NOBODY - - -The only one of them all who perceived anything like the truth was -young Claribel. - -Claribel (how she hated the absurd name!) had a splendid opportunity -for observing everything in life, simply because she was so universally -neglected. The Matchams and the Dorsets and the Duddons (all the -relations, in fact) simply considered her of no importance at all. - -She did not mind this: she took it entirely for granted, as she did her -plainness, her slowness of speech, her shyness in company, her tendency -to heat spots, her bad figure, and all the other things with which an -undoubtedly all-wise God had seen fit to endow her. It was only that -having all these things, Claribel was additionally an unfortunate name; -but then, most of them called her Carrie, and the boys "Fetch and -Carry" often enough. - -She was taken with the others to parties and teas, in order, as she -very well knew, that critical friends and neighbors should not say that -"the Dorsets always neglected that plain child of theirs, poor thing." - -She sat in a corner and was neglected, but that she did not mind in -the least. She liked it. It gave her, all the more, the opportunity of -watching people, the game that she liked best in all the world. She -played it without any sense at all that she had unusual powers. It was -much later than this that she was to realise her gifts. - -It was this sitting in a corner in the Horton flat that enabled her to -perceive what it was that had happened to her Cousin Tom. Of course, -she knew from the public standpoint well enough what had happened to -him--simply that he had been wounded three times, once in Gallipoli and -twice in France; that he had received the D.S.O. and been made a Major. -But it was something other than that that she meant. She knew that all -the brothers and the sisters, the cousins, the uncles and the aunts -proclaimed gleefully that there was nothing the matter with him at all. -"It's quite wonderful," they all said, "to see the way that dear Tom -has come back from the war just as he went into it. His same jolly, -generous self. Everyone's friend. Not at all conceited. How wonderful -that is, when he's done so well and has all that money!" - -That was, Claribel knew, the thing that everyone said. Tom had always -been her own favourite. He had not considered her the least little bit -more than he had considered everyone else. He always was kind. But he -gave her a smile and a nod and a pat, and she was grateful. - -Then he had always seemed to her a miraculous creature; his whole -history in the war had only increased that adoration. She loved to look -at him, and certainly he must, in anyone's eyes, have been handsome, -with his light, shining hair, his fine, open brow, his slim, straight -body, his breeding and distinction and nobility. - -To all of this was suddenly added wealth--his uncle, the head of the -biggest biscuit factory in England, dying and leaving him everything. -His mother and he had already been sufficiently provided for at his -father's death; but he was now, through Uncle Bob's love for him, an -immensely rich man. This had fallen to him in the last year of the -war, when he was recovering from his third wound. After the Armistice, -freed from the hospital, he had taken a delightful flat in Hortons -(his mother preferred the country, and was cosy with dogs, a parrot, -a butler, and bees in Wiltshire), and it was here that he gave his -delightful parties. It was here that Claribel, watching from her -corner, made her great discovery about him. - -Her discovery quite simply was that he did not exist; that he was dead, -that "there was nobody there." - -She did not know what it was that caused her just to be aware of her -ghostly surprise. She had in the beginning been taken in as they all -had been. He had seemed on his first return from the hospital to be the -same old Tom whom they had always known. For some weeks he had used a -crutch, and his cheeks were pale, his eyes were sunk like bright jewels -into dark pouches of shadow. - -He had said very little about his experiences in France; that was -natural, none of the men who had returned from there wished to speak -of it. He had thrown himself with apparent eagerness into the dancing, -the theatres, the house-parties, the shooting, the flirting--all the -hectic, eager life that seemed to be pushed by everyone's hands into -the dark, ominous silence that the announcement of the Armistice had -created. - -Then how they all had crowded about him! Claribel, seated in her dark -little corner, had summoned them one by one--Mrs. Freddie Matcham -with her high, bright colour and wonderful hair, her two daughters, -Claribel's cousins, Lucy and Amy, so pretty and so stupid, the -voluminous Dorsets, with all their Beaminster connections, Hattie -Dorset, Dollie Pym-Dorset, Rose and Emily; then the men--young Harwood -Dorset, who was no good at anything, but danced so well, Henry Matcham, -capable and intelligent would he only work, Pelham Duddon, ambitious -and grasping; then her own family, her elder sisters, Morgraunt (what -a name!), who married Rex Beaminster, and they hadn't a penny, and -Lucile, unmarried, pretty and silly, and Dora, serious and plain and -a miser--Oh! Claribel knew them all! She wondered, as she sat there, -how she _could_ know them all as she did, and, after that, how they -could be so unaware that she _did_ know them! She did not feel herself -preternaturally sharp--only that they were unobservant or simply, -perhaps, that they had better things to observe. - -The thing, of course, that they were all just then observing was Tom -and his money. The two things were synonymous, and if they couldn't -have the money without Tom, they must have him with it. Not that -they minded having Tom--he was exactly what they felt a man should -be--beautiful to look at, easy and happy and casual, a splendid -sportsman, completely free of that tiresome "analysis" stuff that some -of the would-be clever ones thought so essential. - -They liked Tom and approved of him, and oh! how they wanted his money! -There was not one of them not in need of it! Claribel could see all -their dazzling, shining eyes fixed upon those great piles of gold, -their beautiful fingers crooked out towards it. Claribel did not -herself want money. What she wanted, more than she allowed herself to -think, was companionship and friendship and affection.... And that she -was inclined to think she was fated never to obtain. - -The day when she first noticed the thing that was the matter with Tom, -was one wet, stormy afternoon in March; they were all gathered together -in Tom's lovely sitting-room in Hortons. - -Tom, without being exactly clever about beautiful things, had a fine -sense of the way that he wished to be served, and the result of this -was that his flat was neat and ordered, everything always in perfect -array. His man, Sheraton, was an ideal man; he had been Tom's servant -before the war, and now, released from his duties, was back again; -there was no reason why he should ever now depart from them, he having, -as he once told Claribel, a contemptuous opinion of women. Under -Sheraton's care, that long, low-ceilinged room, lined with bookcases -(Tom loved fine bindings), with its gleaming, polished floor, some -old family portraits and rich curtains of a gleaming dark purple--to -Claribel this place was heaven. It would not, of course, have been -so heavenly had Tom not been so perfect a figure moving against the -old gold frames, the curtains, the leaping fire, looking so exactly, -Claribel thought "the younger image of old Theophilus Duddon, stiff and -grand up there on the wall in his white stock and velvet coat, Tom's -great-grandfather." - -On this particular day, Claribel's sister, Morgraunt Beaminster and -Lucile, Mrs. Matcham, Hattie Dorset, and some men were present. Tom was -sitting over the rim of a big leather chair near the fire, his head -tossed back laughing at one of Lucile's silly jokes. Mrs. Matcham was -at the table, "pouring out," and Sheraton, rather stout but otherwise -a fine example of the Admirable Crichton, handed around the food. They -were laughing, as they always did, at nothing at all, Lucile's shrill, -barking laugh above the rest. From the babel Claribel caught phrases -like "Dear old Tom!" "But he didn't--he hadn't got the intelligence." -"Tom, you're a pet...." "Oh, but of _course_ not. What stuff! Why, -Harriet herself ...!" Through it all Sheraton moved with his head back, -his indulgent indifference, his supremely brushed hair. It was just -then Claribel caught the flash from Mrs. Matcham's beautiful eyes. -Everyone had their tea; there was nothing left for her to do. She sat -there, her lovely hands crossed on the table in front of her, her eyes -lost, apparently, in dim abstraction. Claribel saw that they were not -lost at all, but were bent, obliquely, with a concentrated and almost -passionate interest, upon Tom. Mrs. Matcham wanted something, and she -was determined this afternoon to ask for it. What was it? Money? Her -debts were notorious. Jewels? She was insatiable there ... Freddie -Matcham couldn't give her things. Old Lord Ferris wanted to, but wasn't -allowed to.... Claribel knew all this, young though she was. There -remained, then, as always, Tom. - -Thrilled by this discovery of Mrs. Matcham's eyes, Claribel pursued her -discoveries further, and the next thing that she saw was that Lucile -also was intent upon some prize. Her silly, bright little eyes were -tightened for some very definite purpose. They fastened upon Tom like -little scissors. Claribel knew that Lucile had developed recently a -passion for bridge and, being stupid.... Yes, Lucile wanted money. -Claribel allowed herself a little shudder of disgust. She was only -seventeen and wore spectacles, and was plain, but at that moment she -felt herself to be infinitely superior to the whole lot of them. She -had her own private comfortable arrogances. - -It was then, while she was despising them, that she made her discovery -about Tom. She looked across at him wondering whether he had noticed -any of the things that had struck her. She at the same time sighed, -seeing that she had made, as she always did, a nasty sloppy mess in her -saucer, and knowing that Morgraunt (the watchdog of the family) would -be certain to notice and scold her for it. - -She looked across at Tom and discovered suddenly that he wasn't there. -The shell of him was there, the dark clothes, the black tie with the -pearl pin, the white shirt, the faintly-coloured clear-cut mask with -the shining hair, the white throat, the heavy eye-lashes--the shell, -the mask, nothing else. She could never remember afterwards exactly -what it was that made her certain that nobody was there. Lucile was -talking to him, eagerly, repeating, as she always did, her words over -and over again. He was, apparently, looking up at her, a smile on his -lips. Morgraunt, so smart with the teasing blue feather in her hat, -was looking across at them intent upon what Lucile was saying. He was -apparently looking at Lucile, and yet his eyes were dead, sightless, -like the eyes of a statue. In his hand he apparently held a cigarette, -and yet his hand was of marble, no life ran through the veins. Claribel -even fancied, so deeply excited had she become, that you could see the -glitter of the fire through his dark body as he sat carefully balanced -on the edge of the chair. - -There was Nobody there, and then, as she began to reflect, there -never had been anybody since the Armistice. Tom had never returned -from France; only a framework with clothes hung upon it, a doll, an -automaton, did Tom's work and fulfilled his place. Tom's soul had -remained in France. He did not really hear what Lucile was saying. -He did not care what any of them were doing, and that, of course, -accounted for the wonderful way that, during these past weeks, he had -acquiesced in every one of their proposals. They had many of them -commented on Tom's extraordinary good nature now that he had returned. -"You really could do anything with him that you pleased," Claribel had -heard Morgraunt triumphantly exclaim. Well, so you can with a corpse!... - -As she stared at him and realised the dramatic import of her -discovery, she was suddenly filled with pity. Poor Tom! How terrible -that time in France must have been to have killed him like that, and -nobody had known. They had thought that he had taken it so easily, he -had laughed and jested with the others, had always returned to France -gaily.... How terrified he must have been--before he died! - -As she watched him, he got up from the chair and stood before the fire, -his legs spread out. The others had gathered in a corner of the room, -busied around Hattie, who was trying some new Jazz tunes on the piano. -Mrs. Matcham got up from her table and went over to Tom and began -eagerly to talk to him. Her hands were clasped behind her beautiful -back, and Claribel could see how the fingers twisted and untwisted -again and again over the urgency of her request. - -Claribel saw Tom's face. The mask was the lovelier now because she knew -that there was no life behind it. She saw the lips smile, the eyes -shine, the head bend. It was to her as though someone were turning an -electric button behind there in the middle of his back.... - -He nodded. Mrs. Matcham laughed. "Oh, you darling!" Claribel heard her -cry. "If you only knew what you've done for me!" - -The party was over. They all began to go. - -Claribel was right. There was Nobody there. - -When everybody had gone that evening and the body of Tom was alone, it -surveyed the beautiful room. - -Tom's body (which may for the moment be conveniently but falsely -called Tom) looked about and felt a wave of miserable, impotent -uselessness. - -Tom summoned Sheraton. - -"Clear all these things away," he said. - -"Yes, sir." - -"I'm going out." - -"Yes, sir." "Dinner jacket to-night, sir?" - -"No, I'm not dressing." He went to the door, then turned round. -"Sheraton!" - -"Yes sir!" - -"What's the matter with me?" - -"I beg your pardon, sir!" - -"What's the matter with me? You know what I mean as well as I do. Ever -since I came back.... I can't take an interest in anything--not in -anything nor in anybody. To-day, for instance, I didn't hear a word -that they were saying, not one of them, and they made enough noise, -too! I don't care for anything, I don't want anything, I don't like -anything, I don't hate anything. It's as though I were asleep--and yet -I'm not asleep either. What's the matter with me, Sheraton?" - -Sheraton's eyes, that had been so insistently veiled by decent society, -as expressionless as a pair of marbles, were suddenly human; Sheraton's -voice, which had been something like the shadow of a real voice, was -suddenly full of feeling. - -"Why, sir, of course I've noticed ... being with you before the war and -all, and being fond of you, if you'll forgive my saying so, so that I -always hoped that I'd come back to you. Why, if you ask me, sir, it's -just the bloody war--that's all it is. I've felt something of the same -kind myself. I'm getting over it a bit. It'll pass, sir. The war leaves -you kind o' dead. People don't seem real any more. If you could get -fond of some young lady, Mr. Duddon, I'm sure...." - -"Thanks, Sheraton. I dare say you're right." He went out. - -It was a horrible night. The March wind was tearing down Duke Street, -hurling itself at the windows, plucking with its fingers at the doors, -screaming and laughing down the chimneys. The decorous decencies of -that staid bachelor St. James's world seemed to be nothing to its mood -of wilful bad temper. Through the clamour of banging doors and creaking -windows the bells of St. James's Church could be heard striking seven -o'clock. - -The rain was intermittent, and fell in sudden little gusts, like the -subsiding agonies of a weeping child. Every once and again a thin wet -wisp of a moon showed dimly grey through heavy piles of driving cloud. -Tom found Bond Street almost deserted of foot passengers. - -Buttoning his high blue collar up about his neck, he set himself to -face the storm. The drive of the rain against his cheeks gave him some -sort of dim satisfaction after the close warm comfort of his flat. - -Somewhere, far, far away in him, a voice was questioning him as to why -he had given Mrs. Matcham that money. The voice reminded him of what -indeed he very well knew, that it was exactly like throwing water down -a well, that it would do Millie Matcham no good, that it was wasted -money.... Well, he didn't care. The voice was too far away, and -altogether had too little concern with him to disturb him very deeply. -Nothing disturbed him, damn it--nothing, nothing, nothing! - -When he was almost upon Grosvenor Street, a sudden gust of wind -drove at him so furiously that, almost without knowing what he was -doing, instinctively he stepped back to take shelter beneath a wooden -boarding. Here a street lamp gave a pale yellow colour to the dark -shadows, and from its cover the street shot like a gleaming track of -steel into the clustered lights of Oxford Street. - -Tom was aware that two people had taken shelter in the same refuge. He -peered at their dim figures. He saw at once that they were old--an old -man and an old woman. - -He did not know what it was that persuaded him to stare at them as -though they could be of any importance to him. Nothing could be of any -importance to him, and he was attracted, perhaps, rather by a kind of -snivelling, sniffling noise that one of them made. The old lady--she -had a terrible cold. She sneezed violently, and the old man uttered a -scornful "chut-chut" like an angry, battered bird. Then he peered up at -Tom and said in a complaining, whining voice: - -"What a night!" - -"Yes, it is," said Tom. "You'd better get home." - -His eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, he saw the pair distinctly. -The old man was wearing a high hat, battered and set rakishly on the -side of his head. The collar of a threadbare overcoat was turned up -high over his skinny neck. He wore shabby black gloves. The old lady, -sheltering behind the old man, was less easily discerned. She was a -humped and disconcerted shadow, with a feather in her hat and a sharp -nose. - -"You'd better be getting home," Tom repeated, wondering to himself that -he stayed. - -The old man peered up at him. - -"You're out for no good, I reckon," he mumbled. "Waiting like this on a -night like this." There was a note in his voice of scornful patronage. - -"I'm not out for anything particular," said Tom. "Simply taking a -walk." The old lady sneezed again. "You'd really better be going home. -Your wife's got a terrible cold." - -"She's not my wife," said the old man. "She's my sister, if you want to -know." - -"I don't want to know especially," said Tom. "Well, good-night: I see -the rain's dropped." - -He stepped out into Bond Street, and then (on looking back he could -never define precisely the impulse that drove him) he hurried back to -them. - -"You'd better let me get you a cab or something," he said. "You really -ought to go home." - -The old man snarled at him. "You let us alone," he said. "We haven't -done you any harm." - -The impulse persisted. - -"I'm going to get you a cab," he said. "Whether you like it or no." - -"None of your bloody philanthropy," said the old man. "I know you. -M'rier and me's all right." - -It was Maria then who took the next step in the affair. Tom, although -he was afterwards to have a very considerable knowledge of that old -lady, could never definitely determine as to whether the step that she -took was honest or no. What she did was to collapse into the sodden -pavement in a black and grimy heap. The feather stood out from the -collapse with a jaunty, ironical gesture. - -"'Ere, M'rier," said the old man, very much as though he were -addressing a recalcitrant horse, "you get hup." - -No sound came from the heap. Tom bent down. He touched her soiled -velvet coat, lifted an arm, felt the weight sink beneath him. "Well," -he said, almost defiantly, to the old man, "what are you going to do -now?" - -"She's always doing it," he answered, "and at the most aggravating -moments." Then with something that looked suspiciously like a kick, he -repeated: "You get hup, M'rier." - -"Look here, you can't do that," Tom cried. "What an old devil you are! -We've got to get her out of this." - -A voice addressed them from the street: "Anything the matter?" it said. - -Tom turned and found that the driver of a taxi had pulled up his -machine and was peering into the shadow. - -"Yes. There's been an accident," Tom said. "This lady's fainted. We'd -better get her home." - -"Where's she going to?" said the driver suspiciously. - -"What business is that of yours?" cried the old man furiously. "You -just leave us alone." - -"No, you couldn't do that," Tom answered. "There'll be a policeman -here in a moment, and he'll have you home whether you want it or not. -You never can lift her yourself, and you can't leave her there. You'd -better help me get her into the cab!" - -The old man began to gargle strangely in his throat. - -"Policeman!" he seemed to say. "If I 'ad my way----" - -"Well, for once you haven't," said Tom shortly. "Here, driver, help me -lift her in." - -"Where's she going?" he repeated. - -"If you don't help me at once I'll see that a policeman is here. I've -got your number. You'll hear from me in the morning." - -The man got off his box, cursing. He hesitated a moment, then came -across. Together he and Tom lifted the inert mass, pushed it through -the door of the cab and settled it in the seat. - -"Makin' my cab dirty and all," growled the driver. - -"Well," said Tom to the old man, "are you going to see your sister -home? If not, I shall take her to the nearest hospital." - -For a moment the old man remained perched up against the wall, his top -hat flaunting defiance to the whole world. Suddenly, as though he had -been pushed, he came across to the driver. - -"Eleven D Porker's Buildings, Victoria," he said. - -"B?" asked the driver. - -"D, you damned fool," the old man almost shouted. - -"Thought you said B," remarked the driver very amiably. - -The old man got in. He was on one side of the motionless Maria, Tom on -the other. - -That was a remarkable and even romantic ride. The roads were slippery, -and the driver, it appeared, a little drunk. The cab rocked like a -drunken boat, and the watery moon, now triumphant over the clouds, -the gleaming pavement, the houses, gaunt in the uncertain moonlight, -and thin as though they had been cut from black paper, seemed to be -inebriated too. Maria shared in the general irresponsibility, lurching -from side to side, and revealing, now that her hat was on Tom's lap, -an ancient peeked face with as many lines on it as an Indian's, and -grey, untidy hair. She seemed a lifeless thing enough, and yet Tom had -a strange notion that one eye was open, and not only watching, but -winking as well. - -It would have been the natural thing to have opened her dress and given -her air, to have poured whisky or brandy down her throat, to have -tickled her with feathers! Tom did none of these things: afterwards he -imagined that his inaction was due to the fact that he knew all the -time that she had not really fainted. - -Not a word was exchanged during the journey. They drove down Victoria -Street, turned off on the right of Westminster Cathedral, and drew up -in a narrow, dirty street. - -A high block had "Porker's Buildings" printed in large, ugly letters on -the fanlight near the door. - -"You'd better help me lift her in," Tom said to the driver. "The old -man's not good for anything." - -The driver grunted, but helped Maria into the street. The fresh night -air seemed to refresh her. She sighed and then sneezed. - -"Maybe she can walk herself," said the driver. - -The door opened of itself, and Tom was in a dark, dingy hall with a -faint gas-jet like a ghostly eye to guide him. The old man started up -the stairs. - -"Can you walk a bit?" Tom asked the old lady. - -She nodded. Tom paid the driver and the door closed behind him. It was -a hard fight to conquer the stairs, and Maria clung like a heavy bag -round her deliverer's neck; but on the third floor the old man unlocked -a door, walked in before them and lighted a candle. He then sat himself -down with his back to them, pulled a grimy piece of newspaper out of -his pocket, and was apparently at once absorbed in reading. - -The room was a wretched enough place. One of the windows was stuffed -with brown paper; a ragged strip of carpet covered only a section of -the cracked and dirty boards. There was a grimy bed; the fireplace was -filled with rubbish. - -Tom helped Maria on to the bed and looked about him. Then in a sudden -fit of irritation he went up to the old man and shook him by the -shoulder. - -"Look here," he said. "This won't do. You've got to do something for -her. She may die in the night, or anything. I'll fetch a doctor, if -that's what you want, or get something from the chemist's----" - -"Oh! go to hell!" said the old man without turning. - -An impulse of rage seized Tom, and he caught the old man by the collar, -swung him out of the chair, shook him until he was breathless and -coughing, then said: - -"Now be civil." - -The old man collapsed on the bed near his sister, struggled for breath, -then screamed: - -"You damned aristocrat! I'll have you up before the courts for this; -invading a man's peaceable 'ome----" - -Then Maria unexpectedly interfered. She sat up, smoothing her hair -with her old trembling fingers. "I'm sure," she said, in a mincing, -apologetic voice, "that we ought to be grateful to the gentleman, -Andrew. If it 'adn't been for him, I'm sure I don't know where we'd -'ave been. It's your wicked temper you're always losing. I've told you -of it again and again--I'm much better now, thank you, sir, and I'm -sure I'm properly grateful." - -Tom looked around him, then back at the two old people. - -"What a filthy place," he said. "Haven't you got anybody to look after -you?" - -"Me daughter run away with a musical gentleman," said Maria. "Me -'usband died of D.T.'s three years back. Andrew and meself's alone now. -We get the Old Age Pension, and manage very nicely, thank you." - -"Well, I'm coming back to-morrow," said Tom fiercely, turning on the -old man. "Do you hear that?" - -"If yer do," said Andrew, "I'll 'ave the perlice after you." - -"Oh, no 'e won't," said Maria. "That's only 'is little way. I'm sure -we'll be pleased to see you." - -Tom put some money on the bed and left. - -Out in the street he paused. What was the matter with him? He stood in -the street looking up at the Westminster Cathedral Tower and the thin -sheeting of sky now clear--a pale, boundless sea in which two or three -little stars were remotely sailing. What was the matter with him? - -He felt a strange stirring and trembling about him. He had some of -the pain and hurt that a man feels when he is first revived from some -drowning adventure. But it was a pain and hurt of the soul, not of -the body. His heart beat expectantly, as though around the corner of -the lonely street a wonderful stranger might suddenly be expected to -appear. He even strained his eyes against the shadows, piercing them -and finding only more shadows behind them. - -He even felt tired and exhausted, as though he had but now passed -through a great emotional experience. - -And all these sensations were clear and precious to him. He treasured -them, standing there, breathing deeply, as though he were in new air -of some high altitude. The boom of Big Ben came suddenly across the -silence like a summoning voice across waste, deserted country, and he -went home.... - -When he awoke next morning he was aware that something had happened to -him, and he did not know what it was. He lay there definitely beating -back an impulse to spring out of bed, hurry through his bath, dress, -and have breakfast, and then--what? He had not felt such an impulse -since his return from France, and it could not be that he felt it now -simply because he had, last night, met two dirty, bedraggled old -people and helped them home. - -He laughed. Sheraton, hanging his shirt on the back of a chair, turned. - -"Well, you're feeling better this morning, sir," he said. - -"Yes, I am," said Tom, "and I'm damned if I know why." Nevertheless, -although he did not know why, before the morning was out he found -himself once more behind Victoria Street and climbing the stairs of -Porker's Buildings. He had strange experiences that morning. To many -they would have been disappointing. The old man was silent: not a word -would he say. His attitude was one of haughty, autocratic superiority. -Maria disgusted Tom. She was polite, cringing even, and as poisonous -as a snake. She stated her wants quite modestly: had it not been for -her age you would have thought her a typical image of the down-trodden, -subjected poor. Her eyes glittered. - -"Well, you _are_ a nasty old creature." Tom turned from her and shook -Andrew by the shoulder. - -"Well?" said Andrew. - -"There's nothing now I can do?" asked Tom. - -"Except get out," said Andrew. - -Another old woman came in--then a young man. A fine specimen this -last--a local prize-fighter, it appeared--chest like a wall, thick, -stumpy thighs, face of a beetroot colour, nose twisted, ears like -saucers. The old woman, Maria's friend, was voluble. She explained a -great deal to Tom. She was used, it seemed, to speaking in public. They -could afford, she explained, to be indifferent to the "Quality" now, -because a time was very shortly coming when they would have everything, -and the Quality nothing. It had happened far away in Russia, and it -was about to happen here. A good thing too.... At last the poor people -could appear as they really were, hold their heads up. Only a month or -two.... - -"You're a Bolshevist," said Tom. - -Long words did not distress the old lady. "A fine time's coming," she -said. - -Maria did not refuse the food and the finery and the money. "You -think," said Tom, as a final word to her old lady friend, "that I'm -doing this because I'm charitable, because I love you, or some nonsense -of that kind. Not at all. I'm doing it because I'm interested, and I -haven't been interested in anything for months." - -He arranged with the pugilist to be present at his next encounter, -somewhere in Blackfriars, next Monday night. - -"It's against the Bermondsey Chick," Battling Bill explained huskily. -"I've got one on him. Your money's safe enough...." - -Tom gave Maria a parting smile. - -"I don't like you," he said, "and I can see that you positively hate -me, but we're getting along very nicely...." - - * * * * * - -It is at this point that Claribel again takes up the narrative. It was, -of course, not many days before, in Tom's own world, "What's happened -to Tom?" was on everyone's lips. - -Claribel was interested as anyone, and she had, of course, her own -theories. These theories changed from day to day, but the fact, patent -to the world and beyond argument, was that Tom was "Nobody" no longer. -Life had come back to him; he was eagerly, passionately "out" upon some -secret quest. - -It amused Claribel to watch her friends and relations as they set -forth, determined to lay bare Tom's mystery. Mrs. Matcham, who had her -own very definite reasons for not allowing Tom to escape, declared that -of course it was a "woman." But this did not elucidate the puzzle. -Had it been some married woman, Tom would not have been so perfectly -"open" about his disappearances. He never denied for a moment that he -disappeared; he rather liked them to know that he did. It was plainly -nothing of which he was ashamed. He had been seen at no restaurants -with anyone--no chorus-girl, no girl at all, in fact. Dollie -Pym-Dorset, who was a little sharper than the others, simply because -she was more determinedly predatory, declared that Tom was learning a -trade. - -"He will turn up suddenly one day," she said, "as a chauffeur, or an -engineer, or a bootblack. He's trying to find something to fill up his -day." - -"He's found it," Lucile cried with her shrill laugh. "Whatever it is, -it keeps him going. He's never in; Sheraton declares he doesn't know -where he goes. It's disgusting...." - -Old Lord Ferris, who took an indulgent interest in all the Duddon -developments because of his paternal regard for Mrs. Matcham, declared -that it was one of these new religions. "They're simply all over the -place; a feller catches 'em as he would the measles. Why, I know a -chap...." - -But no. Tom didn't look as though he had found a new religion. He had -made no new resolutions, dropped no profanities, lost in no way his -sense of humour. No, it didn't look like a religion. - -Claribel's convictions about it were not very positive. She was simply -so glad that he had become "Somebody" again, and she had perhaps a -malicious pleasure in the disappointment of "the set." It amused her to -see the golden purse slipping out of their eager fingers, and they so -determined to stay it. - -The pursuit continued for weeks. Everyone was drawn into it. Even old -Lord John Beaminster, who was beset with debts and gout, stirred up his -sister Adela to see whether she couldn't "discover" something.... - -It was Henry Matcham who finally achieved the revelation. He came -bursting in upon them all. The secret was out. Tom had turned "pi----" -He was working down in the East End to save souls. - -The news was greeted with incredulity. "Tom soul-saving? Impossible! -Tom the cynic, the irreligious, the despiser of dogma, the arbitrator -of indifference--Incredible." - -But Matcham knew. There could be no doubt. A man he knew in Brooks's -had a brother, a parson in an East-End Settlement. The parson knew Tom -well, said he was always down there, in the men's clubs and about the -streets. - -They looked at one another in dismay. Claribel laughed to see them. -What was to be done? Tom must be saved, of course; but how? No plan -could be evoked. "Well, the first thing we must do," said Mrs. Matcham, -"is to get a plain statement from himself about it." - -They sent Claribel as their ambassador, realising, suddenly, that "she -had some sense," and that Tom liked her. - -She told him, with a twinkle in her eye, what they wanted. - -"They're all very much upset by what you're doing, Tom. They don't -want to lose you, you see. They're fond of you. And they don't think -it _can_ be good for you being all the time with Bolsheviks and dirty -foreigners. You'll only be taken in by them, they think, and robbed; -and that they can't bear. Especially they think that now after the war -everyone ought to stand together, shoulder to shoulder, you know, class -by class. That's the way Henry Matcham puts it. - -"Of course, they admire you very much, what you're doing--they think -it very noble. But all this slumming seems to them ... what did Dollie -call it?... Oh, yes, _vieux jeu_ ... the sort of thing young men did -in the nineties, centuries ago. Oxford House, and all that. It seems -rather stupid to them to go back to it now, especially when the war's -shown the danger of Bolshevism." - -Tom laughed. "Why, Carrie," he said, "how well you know them!" - -She laughed too. "Anyway," she said, "I know you better than they do." - -Tom agreed that it would be a very good thing for them all to meet. - -"They've got what's happened just a trifle wrong," he said. "It's only -fair to clear things up." - -They all appeared on the appointed day--Mrs. Matcham, as president, in -a lovely rose-coloured tulle for which she was just a little too old, -Hattie, Dollie, Harwood Dorset, Henry Matcham, Pelham Duddon, Morgraunt -and Lucile, Dora, and of course Claribel. The event had the appearance -of one of the dear old parties. - -The flat was just as beautiful, the tea as sumptuous, Sheraton as -perfect. They hung around the same chairs, the same table, in all their -finery and beauty and expense. They were as sure of conquest as they -had ever been. - -Tom sat on the red leather top of the fire-guard and faced them. - -Mrs. Matcham led the attack. - -"Now, dear old Tom," she said, in that cooing and persuasive voice of -hers, so well known and so well liked; "you know that we all love you." - -"Yes, I know you do," said Tom, grinning. - -"We do. All of us. You've just been a hero, and we're all proud to -death of you. It's only our pride and our love for you that allows us -to interfere. We don't _want_ to interfere, but we do want to know -what's happening. Henry has heard that you're working down in the East -End, doing splendidly, and it's just like your dear old noble self, -but is it wise? Are you taking advice? Won't those people down there -do you in, so to speak? I know that this is a time, of course, when -we've all got to study social conditions. No thinking man or woman can -possibly look round and _not_ see that there is a great deal ... a -whole lot ... well, anyway, you know what I mean, Tom. But is it right, -without consulting any of us, to go down to all those queer people? -They can't like you really, you know. It's only for what they can get -out of you, and all that. After all, your _own_ people _are your own -people_, aren't they, Tom dear?" - -"I don't know." Tom looked up at her smiling. "But I don't think that's -exactly the point. They may be or they may not.... Look here. You've -got one or two wrong ideas about this. I want you to have the truth, -and then we won't have to bother one another any more. You talk about -my working and being noble, and so on. That's the most awful Tommy-rot. -I'll tell you exactly what happened. I came back from France. At least, -no, I didn't come back; but my body came back, if you know what I -mean. I stayed over there. At least, I suppose that is what happened. -I didn't know myself what it was. I just know that I didn't exist. -You all used to come to tea here and be awfully nice and so on, but I -didn't hear a word any of you said. I hope that doesn't sound rude, -but I'm trying to tell exactly what occurred. I didn't know what was -the matter with me--I wasn't anybody at all. I was Nobody. I didn't -exist; and I asked Sheraton, and he didn't know either. And then, one -night----" - -Tom paused. The dramatic moment had come. He knew the kind of thing -that they were expecting, and when he thought of the reality he laughed. - -"One night--well, you won't believe me, I suppose, if I tell you I was -very unhappy--no, unhappy is too strong--I was just nothing at all. -You'd all been here to tea, and I went out for a walk down Bond Street -to clear my head. It was raining and I found two old things taking -shelter under a wooden standing. The old lady fainted while I was -talking to them, and I saw them home--And--well, that's all!" - -"That's all!" cried Millie Matcham. "Do you mean, Tom, that you fell in -love with the old woman!" - -Her laugh was shrill and anxious. - -He laughed back. "Fell in love! That's just like you, Millie. You think -that love must be in it every time. There isn't any love in this--and -there isn't any devotion, or religion, or high-mindedness, or trying to -improve them, or any of the things you imagine. On the contrary, _they_ -hate _me_, and I don't think that I'm very fond of _them_--except that -I suppose one has a sort of affection for anybody who's brought one -back to life again--when one didn't want to die!" - -Henry Matcham broke in: "Tom, look here--upon my word, I don't believe -that one of us has the least idea _what_ you're talking about." - -Tom looked around at them all and, in spite of himself, he was -surprised at the change in their faces. The surprise was a shock. They -were no longer regarding him with a gaze of tender, almost proprietary, -interest. The eyes that stared at his were almost hostile, at any rate -suspicious, alarmed. Alarmed about what? Possibly his sanity--possibly -the misgiving that in a moment he was going to do or say something that -would shock them all. - -He realised as he looked at them that he had come, quite unexpectedly, -upon the crisis of his life. They could understand it were he -philanthropic, religious, sentimental. They were prepared for those -things; they had read novels, they knew that such moods did occur. What -they were not prepared for, what they most certainly would not stand, -was exactly the explanation that he was about to give them. That would -insult them, assault the very temple of their most sacred assurances. -As he looked he knew that if he now spoke the truth he would for ever -cut himself off from them. They would regard his case as hopeless. It -would be in the future "Poor Tom." - -He hated that--and for what was he giving them up? For the world that -distrusted him, disbelieved in him, and would kill him if it could.... - -The Rubicon was before him. He looked at its swirling waters, then, -without any further hesitation, he crossed it. He was never to return -again.... - -"I'm sorry to disappoint you all," he said. "There's no sentimental -motive behind my action--no desire to make any people better, nothing -fine at all. It simply is, as I've said already, that those two people -brought me back to life again. I don't know what, except that I was -suddenly interested in them. I didn't like them, and they _hated_ me. -Now I've become interested in their friends and relations. I don't -want to _improve_ them. They wouldn't let me if I did. I came back -from France nobody at all. What happened there had simply killed all -my interest in life. And--I'm awfully sorry to say it--but none of you -brought my interest back. I think the centre of interests changed. -It's as though there were some animal under the floor, and the part of -the room that he's under is the part that you look at, because he's -restless and it quivers. Well, he's shifted his position, that's all. -You aren't on the interesting part of the floor any longer. I do hate -to be rude and personal--but you have driven me to it. All of you are -getting back to exactly what you were before the war: there's almost no -change at all! And you're none of you interesting. I'm just as bad--but -I want to go where the interesting human beings are, and there are more -in the dirty streets than the clean ones. In books like _Marcella_, -years ago people went out of their own class because they wanted to do -'good.' I don't want to do good to anyone, but I do want to keep alive -now that I've come back to life again. And--that's all there is to it," -he ended lamely. - -He had done as he had expected. He had offended them all mortally. He -was arrogant, proud, supercilious, and a little mad. And they saw, -finally, that they had lost him. No more money for any of them. - -"Well," said Henry Matcham at last, "if you want to know, Tom, I think -that's about the rottenest explanation I've ever heard. Of course, -you're covering something up. But I'm sure we don't want to penetrate -your secret if you don't like us to." - -"There _isn't_ any secret." Tom was beginning to be angry. "I tell you -for the hundredth time I'm not going to start soup kitchens, or found -mission rooms, or anything like that, but I don't want any more of -these silly tea-parties or perpetual revues, or--or----" - -"Or any of us," Dollie, her cheeks flushed with angry colour, broke in. -"All Tom's been trying to explain to us is that he thinks we're a dull -lot, and the Bolsheviks in the slums are more lively----" - -"No," Tom broke in; "Dollie, that isn't fair. I don't want to pick and -choose according to class any more. I don't want to be anything ever -again with a name to it--like a Patriot, or a Democrat, or a Bolshevik, -or an Anti-Bolshevik, or a Capitalist. I'm going by Individuals -wherever they are. I--Oh, forgive me," he broke off, "I'm preaching; I -didn't mean to. It's a thing I hate. But it's so strange--you none of -you know how strange it is--being dead, so that you felt nothing, and -minded nothing, and thought nothing, and then suddenly waking----" - -But they had had enough. Tommy was trying to teach them. Teach _them_! -And _Tommy_!... - -They "must be going"--sadly, angrily, indignantly they melted away. Tom -was very sorry: there was nothing to be done. - -Only Claribel, taking his hand for a moment, whispered: - -"It's all right. They'll all come back later. They'll be wanting -things." - -They were gone--all of them. He was alone in his room. He drew back the -curtains and looked down over the grey misty stream of Duke Street -scattered with the marigolds of the evening lights. - -He threw open a window, and the roar of London came up to him like the -rattle-rattle-rattle of a weaver's shuttle. - -He laughed. He was happier than he had ever been before. The whole -world seemed to be at his feet, and he no longer wished to judge it, to -improve it, to dictate to it, to dogmatise it, to expect great things -of it, to be disappointed in it.... - -He would never do any of those things again. - -He addressed it: - -"I did passionately wish you to be improved," he said, "but I didn't -love you. Now I know you will never be improved, but I love you -dearly--all of you, not a bit of you. Life simply isn't long enough for -all I'm going to see!" - - - - -XII - -BOMBASTES FURIOSO - - -That year, Nineteen-Nineteen, threw up to the surface, because of -the storm and disorder of its successive tidal waves, many strange -fish; and of all that I encountered, the strangest, most attractive, -and, I venture to think, the most typical of our times and their -uncertainties, was my friend Bombastes Furioso--otherwise Benedick -Jones. - -I should certainly never have met him had it not been for Peter -Westcott. Westcott, somewhere in the spring of Nineteen-Nineteen, took -for a time the very handsome rooms of Robsart, the novelist, at Hortons -in Duke Street, St. James's. It was strange to see Peter in those -over-grand, over-lavish rooms. I had known him first in the old days -when his _Reuben Hallard_ and _Stone House_ had taken London by storm, -and when everything seemed "set fair" for his future. Then everything -crumbled: his child died, his wife ran away with his best friend, and -his books failed. I didn't hear of him again until Nineteen-Fifteen, -when somebody saw him in France. His name was mentioned on several -occasions through the terrible years, but nobody seemed to know him -well. He kept away, apparently, from everybody. Then on the very day -that the Armistice was signed, I met him in the crowd about Whitehall, -looking just the same as in the old days--a little older, a little -stouter, stocky and resolved and aloof and observant, in a world, as it -had always seemed, to which he only half belonged, a sailor on leave in -a country strange, dangerous, and interesting. - -But this story is not about Westcott. To cut this prologue short, then, -he asked me to come and see him, and I went to the magnificent Horton -rooms, not once, not twice, but many times. I had loved Peter in the -old days. I loved him much more now. The story of those years of his -life that immediately followed the war is a wonderful story. I hope -that one day he will give it to the world; whether he does or no, I saw -in those summer months the beginning of the events that were to lead -him back to life again, to give him happiness and self-confidence and -optimism once more, to make him the man he now is. - -In the story of that recovery, Benedick Jones has his share; but, I -must repeat, this is Benedick Jones's story and not Westcott's. - -The first day that I saw Jones was one lovely evening in April -when Peter's (or rather, Robsart's) sitting-room was lit with a -saffron-purple glow, and the clouds beyond the window were like crimson -waves rolling right down upon us across the pale, glassy sky. In the -middle of this splendour Jones stood, a whisky-and-soda in one hand, -and a large meerschaum pipe in the other. He was, of course, orating -about something. The first thing that struck me was his size. It was -not only that he was well over six feet and broad in proportion, but -there seemed to be in his large mouth, his great head with its untidy -mop of yellow hair, his big, red hands, a spiritual size as well. He -gave one always the impression of having more fire within his soul than -he could possibly manage.... - -He was fat, but not unpleasantly so. His clothes were comfortably -loose, but not disorderly. His stomach was too prominent, but the -breadth of his chest saved him from unsightliness. His face was a full -moon, red, freckled, light yellow eyebrows, light yellow, rather ragged -moustache. He was always laughing--sometimes when he was astonished or -indignant. - -He was forever in the middle of the room orating somebody or something, -and his favourite attitude was to stand with his legs wide apart, a -pipe or a glass or a book in his extended hand, his body swaying a -little with the rhythm of his eager talk. - -On this afternoon, I remember, he really seemed to fill the room--words -were pouring from his mouth in a torrent, and I stood, stopped by -this flood, at the door. Westcott, lying back in a leather chair, -smoking, listened, a smile on his generally grave face, something of -the indulgent look in his eyes that one might give to a favoured and -excited child. - -"Hullo, Lester!" he cried, jumping up. "Come along--This is Captain -Jones. Bomb, let me introduce you to Mr. Lester. I told you to read _To -Paradise_ years ago in France, but of course you never have." - -"No, I never have," cried Jones, turning round upon me very suddenly, -seizing my hand and shaking it up and down like the handle of a pump. -"How do you do! How do you do! I'm just delighted to see you. I don't -read much, you know. Better for me if I read more. But I've got to take -exercise. I'm getting fat." Then he wheeled round again. "But, Peter," -he went on, suddenly taking a great draught from his glass, "it was the -most extraordinary thing--I swear it was just as I'm telling you--the -girl gave the man a look, spat at him, and ran for her life. There were -three men after her then, one a vicious-looking little devil----" - -I sat down in the chair nearest to me and listened. I heard a most -astonishing story. I'm afraid that I cannot remember at this distance -of time all the details of it: it had murder in it, and rape and arson -and every sort of miraculous escape, and apparently, so far as I could -make it out, Jones had been a spectator of all that he described. -There were discrepancies in his narrative, I remember, about which I -should have liked to question him, but the words came out so fast, and -the narrator's own personal conviction in the reality of his story -was so absolute, that questions seemed an impertinence. He stopped at -last, wiped his brow, collapsed upon a chair, finished his whisky with -a great sucking smack of approval, dug his fingers into the bowl of -his pipe, struck matches that were, one by one, ineffective, and lay -scattered about him on the floor, and then smiled at me with a beaming -countenance. - -"That's a very good story, Bomb," said Peter. - -"Story!" cried Captain Jones, contemptuously. "That ain't no story. -That's God's own truth--every word of it." He looked at me smiling all -over his face. - -"I've had some very remarkable experiences," he said. - -"You must have had," I answered. - -He did not, I think, on this occasion, stay very long. - -When he had departed I looked at Westcott interrogatively. - -"That's a prince of a man," said Peter enthusiastically. "I don't know -where I'd have been without him in France. Everyone loved him there, -and they were right." - -"What an experience he must have had there," I said, a little -breathless. - -"Oh, that!" said Peter laughing. "That was all lies from beginning to -end." - -"Lies!" I exclaimed. - -"Yes," said Westcott. "He's known among his friends as Bombastes -Furioso. That's an unfair name, really, to give him, because he's -gentle as any suckling dove, and all his wonderful stories are about -somebody else's great deeds, never about his own. Young Harper was -saying the other day that if only he would tell of some of his stories -about himself, his lies wouldn't be so tremendous, but his natural -modesty prevents him. He's a dear fellow, and the biggest liar in -Europe." - -"Well, of course," I said, rather doubtfully, "if he _always_ tells -lies it isn't so bad. You know that you need never believe him. It's -the half-and-half liars that are so tiresome----" - -"No," Peter interrupted. "That isn't quite fair. Lies isn't the true -word. He's all imagination--far more imagination than either you or I -will ever have, Lester. He simply can't write it down. If he could he -would be the greatest novelist of our time. I used to tell him to try, -but I've given that up now. He can't string three sentences together. -He can't write an ordinary letter without misspelling every other word. -He never reads anything--that's why his imagination is so untrammelled. -And it isn't all untrue either. He has been all the world over--South -Seas, Africa, China, South America, Russia, anywhere you like. All -sorts of wonderful things have happened to him, but it isn't the real -things he cares to tell of." - -"Does he know he's lying?" I asked. - -"Not the least in the world," Peter answered, laughing. "And I fancy -he'd be most indignant if you accused him of it. And the really strange -thing is that no one ever does accuse him. I can't remember that a -single man in France ever challenged his stories, and they'd pull -anyone else up in a moment. You see, he never does any harm. He's the -most generous soul alive, thinks the best of everybody, and all his -stories go to prove that people are better than they ever possibly -could be. I confess, Lester, I have him here deliberately because he -feeds my imagination. I'm beginning to feel that I may get back to -writing again, and if I do it will be Bomb that will be responsible." - -"How did he do in France?" I asked. - -"Very well," Peter said. "But he never got the jobs that he ought to -have had. Fellows distrusted him for responsible duty. They needn't -have: he is as efficient as he can be. His inventive fancy only works -over ground that he's never covered. In his own job he's an absolute -realist." - -"Is he married?" I asked. - -"No. I don't think that women have much use for him. He doesn't appeal -to them. They like to have the story-telling field to themselves. He's -a man's man absolutely. He had a pal in France to whom he was entirely -devoted, and when the boy was killed I think something cracked in him -that's not been mended since. He's a colossal sentimentalist: cynicism -and irony make him sick. He thinks I'm a desperate cynic--so I am, -perhaps...." - -Well, I saw a lot of Bomb Jones. He loved Westcott more than I did, -and admired him frantically. He knew, too, something about Westcott's -many troubles, and the maternal spirit that is in every Englishman and -Scotchman came out beautifully in his attitude to him. His stories soon -became part of the pattern of one's life, and by no means the least -interesting part. I quickly understood why it was that his friends -allowed him to pursue his wild, untrammelled way without rudely pulling -him up. In the first place, truth and fiction were curiously mingled. -He had lived in San Francisco for a number of years, and many of his -tales were drawn from that romantic city. He had obviously known well -such men as Frank Norris and Jack London, and he had been in the place -during the earthquake and fire. His picture of Caruso running out -of his hotel in his night-shirt was a masterly one. He knew Russia -well, had had tea with Witte, in the old days, and had once dined -with Rasputin. He had shared in the Boxer rising, run for his life in -Constantinople, and helped a revolution in Guatemala; and so on, and so -on.... - -But as I have said, about his actual experiences he had very little to -say. It was his fairy stories, his fantastic, fabricated romances, that -gave him his remarkable quality--and it was about London that these -were mostly invented. I say invented--but were they invented or no? - -There will, I think, be more men and women than anyone now supposes who -will look back to that year Nineteen-Nineteen in London as a strangely -fantastic one. You might say with some justice that the years during -the war, with their air-raids and alarms and excursions, newspaper -rumours, and train-loads of wounded and dying at Charing Cross station, -must have been infinitely more moving--I think not. In those years, -at any rate the stage was set for a play in which we must all, as we -knew, act our parts. That year that followed the Armistice was uncanny, -uncertain, unaccountable. Many reports there were about cities during -war time--none at all, so far as we knew, about cities just after war. -London, contrary to all prophesy, was just twice as full after the war -as it had been before it; there was nowhere to live, little place even -for sleeping. Everyone who had had money had lost it--many who had been -notoriously penniless now were rich. London was moving uncertainly into -some new life whose forlorn form no one could foretell, and we were all -conscious of this, and all, perhaps, frightened of it. - -It was just this upon which Bomb Jones unwittingly seized. I say -"unwittingly," because he was the least self-conscious of men, and the -things that came to him arrived without any deliberate agency on his -part--his stories and anecdotes rising to his lips as naturally and -inevitably as the sun rises above the hill. He did not, I think, care -for me very greatly: I was dried up, desiccated with a humour that he -could only find morbid and cynical. - -He had too fine and open a nature to suffer greatly from jealousy, but -I fancy that he very much preferred to be alone with Peter, and sighed -a little when I made an appearance. - -He very soon found himself most happily at home with all the staff -of Hortons. Even Mr. Nix, the sacred and rubicund head of the -establishment, liked him, and listened, wide-eyed, to his stories. Mr. -Nix had met so many strange characters in London and seen so many odd -sights that a story less or more did not affect him very deeply. - -Certainly Captain Jones flung his net with greater success than was -the general rule; never a day passed but he returned with some strange -prize. - -It was amusing to see them together in the green hall downstairs, with -the grandfather clock ticking away at them sarcastically. The little -man, round as a ball, neat and dapper, efficient, his bowler hat a -little on one side of his head; Jones, his great legs apart, his red -face ablaze with excitement, his large hands gesticulating. They were -great friends. - -In spite of his withdrawal from me, he continued to tell me his -stories. I began to find it an amusing game to divide the true from -the false. This was a difficult task, because he had a great love of -circumstantial detail. He would begin--"Lester, what do you think of -this? An hour ago I was going down John Street, Adelphi. You know the -place behind the Strand there where the Little Theatre used to be. -You know there's an alley there cutting up into the Strand. They sell -fruit there. Well, I was just climbing the steps when I heard a woman's -voice cry out for help. I looked back; there was not a soul there--the -street was as empty as your hand. I heard the cry again, and there was -a woman's face at the open window. As I looked she vanished. I ran back -to the door of the house----" - -Now this may appear somewhat commonplace. How many stories in how many -magazines have begun with just such an incident? This, you would say, -is the cheapest invention. Not quite. Jones had always some unexpected -circumstantial detail that clamped his tale down as his own. I think -that he was, in reality, on certain occasions involved in fights and -quarrels that were actual enough. I have seen him with a black eye, and -again with a long scratch down his cheek, and once with a torn hand. -But what he did was to create behind him a completely new vision of -the London scene. One could not listen to his stories for long without -seeing London coloured, blazing with light, sinister with calculated -darkness, ringed about with gigantic buildings that capped the clouds, -inhabited by beings half human, half magical, half angel, half beast. - -I remember when I was young and credulous, getting something of this -impression from _The New Arabian Nights_, but for me, at any rate, -Stevenson never quite joined the flats. I was never finally taken in -by his invention, but felt to the last that he was having a game -with me. Bomb Jones's eloquence had the advantage over the written -word of being direct and personal. Although you might be sure that -what he was telling you was not true, nevertheless you felt that -behind his stories some facts must be lying. I know that soon I began -to discover that London was changing under my eyes. My own drab and -dull flat in Kensington took a romantic glow. I would look from my -window down the long street to the far distance filled by the solemn -blocks of the museum, and would imagine that the figures that crossed -the grey spaces were busied on errands about which fates of empires -might hang--ludicrous for a man of my age who might be said to have -experienced all the disillusionment of life. Well, ludicrous or no, I -walked the streets with a new observation, a new expectation, a new -pleasure, and to Bomb Jones I owed it. - -However, it is not of his effect on myself that I want to speak. I was -too far gone for any very permanent revival. It was Jones's effect -on Peter that was the important thing. I saw that a new life, a new -interest, a new eagerness was coming into Peter's life. He laughed at -Jones, but he liked him and listened to him. Gradually, slowly, as -stealthily as, after the rains, the water creeps back over the dry bed -of the sun-baked river, so did Peter's desire for life come back to him. - -"I know that Bomb's stories are all nonsense," he said to me. "A -hundred times a day I'm tempted to break out and ask him how he dares -to put such stuff over on us, but, after all, there may be something -in it. Do you know, Lester, I can't go through Leicester Square -without wondering whether a murderer isn't coming out of the Turkish -Baths, an Eastern Prince out of 'Thurston's,' or the Queen of the Genii -peeping at me from a window of the Alhambra! I've tried several times -to get back into things here. I tried the Vers Librists, and I tried -the drunkards down in Adelphi, and I've tried the Solemn Ones up in -Hampstead, and the good commonplace ones in Kensington, and it was -all no use until Bomb came along. I hope to Heaven he won't stop his -stories for another month or two. There's a book beginning to move in -my head--again, after ten years! Just think of it, Lester! Dead for -ten years--I never thought it would come back, and now Bomb and his -stories----" - -"It's all right," I said. "He'll never stop till he dies." - -But I'd reckoned without one thing--something that had never entered my -poor brain, and, as always happens in life, it was the one thing that -occurred--Bomb fell in love. - -It is, of course, a commonplace that you can never discover the reasons -that drive human beings towards one another--even the good old law -of the universal attraction of opposite for opposite does not always -hold good, but I may say that both Peter and I had the surprise of -our lives when we discovered that Bomb Jones cared for Helen Cather. -Helen was a friend of Bobby Galleon's, who was a friend of Peter's. -Alice Galleon, Bobby's wife, had been with her on some War Committee, -and the orderliness of her mind, her quiet when the other women -were pushing and quarrelling, her clean serenity upon which nothing, -however violent, seemed to make the slightest stain, appealed to Alice. -She took Helen home to dinner, and discovered that she was a very -well-read, politically-minded, balanced woman. "Too blamed balanced -for me," said Bobby, who believed in spontaneity and rash mistakes and -good red blood. He thought, however, that she would be good for Peter, -so he took her to see him. Helen and Peter made friends, and this in -itself was odd, because Helen at once asserted that all Peter's ideas -about modern literature were wrong. She said that Peter was a Romantic, -and that to be a Romantic in these days was worse than being dead. -She talked in her calm, incisive, clear-cut way about the Novel, and -said that the only thing for any novelist to do to-day was to tell the -truth; and when Peter asked her whether invention and imagination were -to go for nothing, she said that they went for very little, because -we'd got past them and grown too old for them; and Peter said thank -God he hadn't and never would, and he talked about Stevenson and Dumas -until Helen was sick. - -She dug up Peter's poor old novels, and disembowelled their corpses -and praised Miss Somebody or other Smith's who wrote only about what -it felt like to be out of a job on a wet day when you had only enough -money in your pocket to eat a boiled egg in an _A.B.C._ shop. - -"You're sentimental, Westcott," she said, "and you're sloppy and worst -of all, you're sprightly. You've no artistic conscience at all." - -Peter laughed at her and liked her, and she liked him. I don't think -that I was at all taken with my first view of her. She was thin and -pale, with pince-nez and a very faint moustache on her upper lip. Her -best feature was her eyes, which were good, grey, steady, kindly, and -even at times they twinkled. She was neatness and tidiness itself, and -she sat in her chair, quite still, her hands folded on her lap, and her -neat little shoes crossed obstinately in front of her. - -I shall never, of course, forget the day when she first met Bomb. It -was one evening in Peter's flat. A number of people sat about talking, -smoking and drinking. The Galleons were there, Maradick, large and -red-faced, an old friend of Peter's, Robin Trojan and his wife, and so -on. Bomb was late. He burst into the room, large, untidy and, as usual, -excited. - -"I say," he began at once. "I've just come from Penter's. There's been -a fellow there who's the most remarkable man I've ever seen. He's going -round England with a circus, and three of his elephants escaped this -afternoon and were found examining Cleopatra's Needle half an hour ago -and being fed with buns by a lot of street boys. This chap wasn't a bit -alarmed, and said they'd be sure to turn up at Howarton or somewhere -where he's got his circus, if he gave them time. He says that one of -the elephants is the most intelligent----" - -Now this story happened, as we discovered in the morning, to be quite, -or almost, true, but you can fancy how Helen Cather was struck with it. - -"Elephants!" she said, turning round upon him. - -"Oh, you don't know one another," said Peter, hastily. "Bomb, this is -Miss Cather. Miss Cather--Captain Jones." - -Bomb has since declared that he fell in love with his Helen at first -sight. Why? I can't conceive. There was nothing romantic about her. She -certainly looked upon him on that first occasion with eyes of extreme -disapproval. Everything about him must have seemed dreadful to her. -"A red-hot liar," she described him to Alice Galleon afterwards. I -remember on that very evening wishing that he had stopped for a moment -before he came into the room and tidied himself up a little. His hair -wasn't brushed, his face was hot and perspiring, his waistcoat was -minus a button, and his boots were soiled. He didn't care, of course, -but sat down quite close to Miss Cather, smiled upon her, and poured -into her ears all that evening a remarkable series of narratives, each -one more tremendous than the last. - -Peter was amused. Next day he said: "Wasn't it fun seeing Helen Cather -and Bomb together? Fire and water. She thought he'd drunk too much, I -presume. She can look chilly when she likes, too." - -It was not more than three days after this eventful meeting that the -great surprise was sprung upon me. - -I had been given two tickets for the first night of Arnold Bennett's -_Judith_. We arrived late, and it was not until the first interval that -Peter could deliver to me his astounding news. - -"What do you think has happened?" he cried. "I give you three guesses, -but you may as well resign at once. If I gave you a hundred, you'd -never guess." - -"What is it?" I asked. - -"Bomb is in love with Helen Cather." - -I was, of course, incredulous. - -"But that's absurd," I answered; "that's worse than any of Bomb's best -stories." - -"It's true, all the same," he assured me. "He came in this afternoon. -He can think of nothing else. His stories have for the moment all -deserted him. He told me that he's been awake three nights thinking of -her. He says that he loved her the first moment he saw her. He says -that he's never loved a woman before, which is, I expect, true enough, -and that he's going to marry her." - -"Well, that last isn't true, anyway," I answered. "Miss Cather hated -him at first sight." - -My impression that night was that this was simply one of Bomb's -exuberant, romantic fancies, and that it would pass away from his heart -and brain as quickly as many of his stories had done. I was, of course, -completely wrong. - -He said very little about it to me, because he didn't like me, and -was less naturally himself with me, I think, than with anyone. But he -talked to everyone else, and to Peter he never ceased pouring out his -soul. - -A week later he proposed to her. She refused him, of course. He was not -in the least disturbed. He would propose to her again very shortly, and -then again and again to the end of time.... - -I fancied, however, that that first refusal would be the end of it. - -He would see in a little how absurd his pursuit was, and would abandon -it. I must confess that I looked forward to that abandonment. This -sudden passion had not from my point of view, improved him. It made him -a little absurd, and it had checked absolutely for the moment the flow -of his stories. I was surprised to find how seriously I missed them. - -Then one morning my telephone rang, and, answering it, I recognised -Miss Cather's voice. - -"May I come and have tea with you this afternoon?" she asked. - -"Why, of course," I answered. "I'll be delighted. Whom shall I invite?" - -"Nobody," she answered. "I want to talk to you." - -I was flattered and pleased. Any widower of over fifty is pleased when -any woman wants to come and have tea with him alone. Besides, I liked -Miss Cather--liked her surprisingly. In the first place, she liked -me, found my mind "truly realistic" and my brain well balanced. But -in reality I liked her, I think, because I was beginning to discover -in her a certain freshness and childishness and even _naivete_ of -soul which I had certainly not expected at first. But seriousness -and balance and austerity of manner did not go nearly as deep as it -pretended. She knew not nearly as much about life as she herself -fancied. - -When she came she had some difficulty in beginning. At last it was out. -Captain Jones had proposed to her. Of course, it was quite absurd, and -of course, she had refused him. He didn't know her at all, and she -knew quite enough about _him_ to be sure that they would never get -on. Nevertheless--nevertheless--What did I--did I know?--At least, -what she meant was that she liked Captain Jones, had liked him from -the beginning, but there were certain things about him that puzzled -her--Now I knew him well. Would I tell her? - -"I don't know him well," I interrupted her. "That's a mistake--we're -not intimate at all, but I do know him well enough to be sure that he's -a good man. He's a splendid man!" I ended with perhaps a little more -enthusiasm than I had myself expected. - -She talked a little more, and then I challenged her. - -"The fact of the matter is, Miss Cather," I said, "that you're in love -with him and intend to marry him." - -At this she shook her head indignantly. No, that was not true at all. -She did not love him--of course she did not. But there was something -about him--difficult for her to describe--his childishness, his -simplicity--he needed looking after--Oh, he _did_ need looking after! - -As she said that the whole of the sweetness that was in her nature -shone in her eyes and made her austere, unyielding, almost plain as she -was, for the moment divine. - -"Of course you're going to marry him," I repeated. She shook her head, -but this time less surely. - -Then, looking me full in the face, and speaking with great solemnity as -though she were uttering a profound and supremely important truth, she -remarked: - -"Any woman who did marry him would have to stop that lying." - -"Lying!" I repeated feebly. - -"Yes, lying--the stories he tells." - -"But they aren't lies," I said. "At least, not exactly." - -She emptied then all the vials of her wrath upon my head. Not lies? And -what were they then? _What_ were those romances if they were not lies? -Was I trying to defend lies in general or only Captain Jones's lies in -particular? Did I not realise the harm that he did with his stories? -What had we all been about that we had not pulled him up long ago? - -"Can't you conceive it as possible, Miss Cather," I asked her, "that -lies should occasionally do good rather than harm? I don't mean -really _bad_ lies, of course--lies told to hurt people--but gorgeous -lies, magnificent lies; lies that keep your sense of fantasy, your -imagination alive; lies that paint your house a fairy palace and your -wife a goddess?" - -"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Lester," she answered me. -"I must confess I'm disappointed in you, but I suppose one never knows -with a novelist--But never mind--thank you for your tea--I can only -assure you that any woman who marries Captain Jones will have to reform -him first. Good-night." - -Even after this I did not realise the situation that was upon us. I saw -now what I had not seen before, that she did, in truth, care for Bomb -Jones--that that same affection would affect all our lives I had not -yet perceived. Then, two days later, came the next development. - -I was sitting in Peter's flat waiting for his return, when Bomb burst -in. He was a creature transfigured, whether by triumph or rage I could -not immediately tell. He stood there, out of breath, swelling out his -chest, struggling for words, panting. At last they came. - -"Where's Peter? Oh, _where's_ Peter? Not back. But he must be back. -It's always his time to be here just now. He must be here! Lester, I'm -dumbfounded. I've no strength left in me. I'm finished. What do you -think? Oh, but you'll never guess--you couldn't----" - -"Miss Cather's accepted you," I interrupted. - -"How did you know? How the devil----" He stared at me as though his -eyes were struggling with an unaccustomed light--"Well, she has, if you -want to know, and that's remarkable enough, but that's not the only -thing--She--she----" - -He paused, then flung it at me with the strangest burst of mingled -rage, incredulity, bewilderment, and wonder--"She says I'm a liar!" - -He looked at me, waiting. - -"A liar?" I feebly repeated. - -"A liar! She says she'll only marry me on one condition--that I stop my -lying. When she first said it I thought she was laughing at me, then I -suddenly saw that she was in the deadliest earnest. I asked her what -she meant. She said that she couldn't conceive that I didn't know, -that I _must_ know, how wicked it was to tell the untruthful stories -that I did, the harm that they worked and so on. I! A liar! I!--Why, -you might say it about some fellows, but about me!... Why, Lester, she -simply didn't believe that I'd had any of the fun, been to any of the -places, seen anything.... Of course, I see what it is. She's never been -anywhere, seen anything herself. Everything's strange to her. But to -say that everyone _knew_ I was a liar.... Lester, tell me. You've been -about. You know I'm not a liar, don't you?" - -His astonishment was the most genuine thing I'd ever faced. I admit -that I was staggered by it. I had not, of course, supposed that he had -deliberately said to himself: "Now to-day I'm going to tell a lie so -as to astonish those fellows," but I _had_ imagined that he knew quite -well it had not all been true. - -But here, in the face of his most ingenuous astonishment, what was I to -say? - -"No, Jones, of course not--lies is the wrong word altogether, but I do -think that sometimes you've exaggerated." - -He stared at me. - -"Do they all think that?" - -"Well, yes, they do----" - -He resembled then nothing so much as a balloon from which the air has -suddenly been withdrawn. He sat down. - -"My God," he said, suddenly dropping his head between his great red -hands. "It's true then." - -It was at that moment that I saw the catastrophe that was upon us. I -saw what Bomb would be without his tales: he would be dull, ordinary, -colourless--nothing. The salient thing, the life, the salt, the savour -would be withdrawn from him. And not only Bomb, but all of us--myself, -Peter, young Gale, Alice Galleon, even Maradick. I saw, by my own -experience, how we should suffer. I saw slipping away from under my -very nose the whole of that magical world that Bomb had created; and -above all, that magical London, the fairy palaces, the streets paved -with gold, the walls of amethyst; the dark, shuttered windows opened -for an instant to betray the gleaming, anxious eyes; the bearded -foreigner conveying his sacred charge through the traffic of Trafalgar -Square; the secrets and mysteries of the Bond Street jewellers.... I -saw all that and more. But, after all, that was not the heart of the -matter. We could get on without our entertainment; even Peter had been -brought to life again whether Bomb went on with him or no. The tragedy -was in Bomb's own soul; Helen Cather was slaying him as surely as -though she stuck a dagger into his heart. And she did not know it--She -did not know that she was probably marrying him for that very energy -of imagination that she was bent upon destroying. Only, months after -she had married him, she would discover, with a heavy and lifeless Bomb -upon her hands, what it was that she had done. - -"Look here, Jones," I said. "Don't take it too seriously. Miss Cather -didn't know what she was saying. Don't you promise her anything. She'll -forget----" - -"Don't promise her!" He looked up at me wildly. "I have promised her! -Of course I have--Don't I love her? Didn't I love her the first moment -that I saw her? I'm never going to tell anyone about anything again." - -Well, all my worst anticipations were at once fulfilled. You may think -that this story is about a very small affair, but I ask you to take -some friend of yours and be aware that he is in process, before your -eyes, of dying from some slow poison skilfully administered by someone. -You may not in the beginning have cared very greatly for the man, but -the poignancy of the drama is such that before long you are drawn into -the very heart of it; it is like a familiar nightmare; you are held -there paralysed, longing to rush in and prevent the murder and unable -to move. - -In no time at all I had developed quite an affection for Jones, so -pathetic a figure was he. - -Beneath the stern gaze of his beloved Helen ("not quite of Troy," -as someone said of her) he became a commonplace, dull, negligible -creature, duller, save for the pathos of his position, than human. -Very quickly we lost any sense of chagrin or disappointment at our own -penalties in the absorption of "longing to do something for Bomb." -Again and again we discussed the affair. Bomb's soul must be saved; but -how? Before our eyes a tragedy was developing. In another month they -would be married; Helen Cather would marry the greatest bore in Europe, -and about six months after marriage would discover that she had done so. - -Bomb was already miserable, sitting there silent and morose, his -tongue-tied, adoring Helen, but saying nothing to her lest he should be -accused of "romancing." - -At last Peter insisted that I should speak to her--she liked me better -than she did the others--she would listen to me. Needless to say, she -did not. Not only did she not listen, but turned on me ferociously. - -"I'm proud of Benedick!" she cried. "I've cured him of the only fault -he had. If you think I'm going to turn him back into a liar again, Mr. -Lester, just for the entertainment of yourself and your friends, you're -greatly mistaken. You have a strange notion of morality." - -She was proud, but she was uneasy. She realised that he was not happy, -that, in one way or another, the spring had gone out of him--yes, thank -God, she was uneasy. - -Well, there was the situation. There was apparently nothing to be done, -no way out. This is simply the story, after all, of our blindness. Just -as we had not seen the influence that was to check our Bomb, so we did -not see the influence that would make his fancy flow again. It's a -wonderful world, thank God! - -About a week before the wedding Peter Westcott said to me: - -"Lester, don't you think that Bomb's reviving a little again?" I -fancied I had seen something. Bomb was a little brighter, a little less -heavy ... yes, I _had_ noticed. - -"His fancy is being fed again somewhere," said Peter again. "Where? He -tells _us_ no stories." - -No, he certainly did not. His determination to achieve perfect accuracy -was painful. It was a case of---- - -"Where have you been, Bomb?" - -"Oh, just down to the bank to cash a cheque. The Joint Stock branch -in Wigmore Street. I took a bus up Regent Street and got off at the -Circus----" and so on, and so on. - -Nevertheless, he was reviving. The Old Man was being blown back into -him just as surely as one prick of Helen Cather's determination had let -it out. Where was he feeding his imagination? How had he got round his -Helen's autocracy without her knowing it? Because she did not know. She -was completely satisfied--she was even more than satisfied, she was---- -I watched her. Something was happening to her, too. She was dressing -differently. Her austerity was dropping from her. She did her hair -in a new way, no longer pulling it back, harsh and austere, from her -forehead, but letting it have freedom and colour. She had very pretty -hair.... - -She was wearing bright colours and pretty hats.... - -What was happening? - -The day came when the problem was solved. Bomb's old mother came up to -town, a dear old lady of nearly eighty, who adored Bomb and thought -him perfection. She came up for the wedding. She was to see Helen for -the first time. It was agreed that the meeting should be at Hortons, a -nice, central spot. We were gathered there waiting--old Mrs. Jones with -her lace cap and bright pink cheeks, Peter, Bomb, and myself. Helen was -late. - -"You know, Benedick," said the old lady in a voice like a withering -canary, "you've told me very little about Helen. I've no real idea of -her at all." - -A moment's pause, and Bomb had sprung to his feet. Peter and I, -spiritually, so to speak, rushed towards one another. This was the old -attitude. We had not seen Bomb stand like this, his legs spread apart, -his chest out, his eyes flashing, for weeks. The old attitude, the old -voice, the old Bomb. - -"Helen, mother!" he cried, and he was off. - -The picture that he drew! It was about as much like the real Helen -Cather as the Venus de Milo is like Miss Mary Pickford in the pictures; -but it was a glorious picture, the portrait of a goddess, a genius, a -Sappho. The phrases tumbled from his lips in the good old way--it was -all the old times come back again. And how his imagination worked! How -magnificently he flung his colours about, with what abandon he splashed -and sprawled! For a breathless ten minutes we listened. - -"Dear me," said old Mrs. Jones, "I do hope she's a good girl as well." - -For myself I sat there entranced. The old Bomb was not lost. He had -found, or Fate had found him, a safe outlet after all. He could see -Helen as before he had seen the whole world, and it would do for him as -well. His soul was saved. - -The one question that now remained was how would Helen take this -glorification of herself? Would she not resent it as deeply as she had -resented the earlier "lies"? - -On the answer to that question hung the whole of the future of their -married life. - -I was soon to have my answer. Helen came in. I did not perceive that -old Mrs. Jones felt very deeply the contrast between reality and her -son's picture. Her son was all that she saw. - -He took her home. I walked away with Helen. Before we parted she turned -to me. Happiness was burning in her face. - -"Mr. Lester," she said, "you've been a good friend to both of us. You -were all wrong about Benedick, but I know that you meant it well." She -hesitated a little. "I'm terribly happy, almost too happy to be safe. -Of course, I know that Benedick is a little absurd about me, has rather -an exaggerated idea of me. But that's good for me, really it is. Nobody -ever has before, you know, and it's only Benedick who's seen what I -really am. I knew that I had all sorts of things in me that ought to -come out, but no one encouraged them. Everyone laughed at them. But -Benedick has seen them, and I'm going to be what he sees me. I feel -free! Free for the first time in my life! You don't know how wonderful -that is!" - -She pulled the bright purple scarf more closely over her shoulders. - -"We've done something for one another, he and I, really, haven't we? -He's freed me, and I--well, I've stopped those terrible untruths of -his in spite of you all. I don't believe he'll ever tell a lie again! -Good-night. We'll see lots of you after we're married, won't we? Oh, -we're going to be so happy----" - -"Yes--_now_ I believe you are," I answered. - -"What do you mean, _now_?" she asked. "Didn't you always think so?" - -"There was a moment when I wasn't sure," I said. "But I was wrong. -You're going to be splendidly happy." - -And so they are.... - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber's note: - -A few obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected. -All other text has been retained. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS*** - - -******* This file should be named 60278.txt or 60278.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/0/2/7/60278 - - -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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