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| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-05-11 22:51:56 -0700 |
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| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-05-11 22:51:56 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78662-0.txt b/78662-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b503a79 --- /dev/null +++ b/78662-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5434 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78662 *** + + [Cover Illustration] + + + + + THE + TYPE-WRITER GIRL + + BY + OLIVE PRATT RAYNER + + LONDON + + C. ARTHUR PEARSON LIMITED + + HENRIETTA STREET W.C. + + 1897 + + + + + TO + THEODORE RAYNER + + AND + + OLIVER WENDELL PRATT, + + A WIFE’S HOMAGE, + + A SISTER’S LOVE. + + + + + CONTENTS + + CHAP. PAGE + I. —INTRODUCES A LATTER-DAY HEROINE 9 + II. —THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE 18 + III. —ENVIRONMENT WINS 29 + IV. —THE CHOICE OF A PATRON 41 + V. —VIVE L’ANARCHIE! 47 + VI. —THE INNER BROTHERHOOD 60 + VII. —A MUTINOUS MUTINEER 68 + VIII. —CALLED “OF ACCIDENTS” 83 + IX. —I PLAY CARMEN 95 + X. —SIC ME SERVAVIT APOLLO! 104 + XI. —A SAIL ON THE HORIZON 114 + XII. —A CAVALIER MAKES ADVANCES 131 + XIII. —CONCERNING ROMEO 137 + XIV. —“NOW BARABBAS WAS A PUBLISHER” 145 + XV. —FRESH LIGHT ON ROMEO 155 + XVI. —I TRY LITERATURE 165 + XVII. —A DRAWN BATTLE 176 + XVIII. —AN AUTUMN HOLIDAY 194 + XIX. —“O ROMEO, ROMEO!” 203 + XX. —“WHEREFORE ART THOU ROMEO?” 223 + XXI. —ENVOY PLENIPOTENTIARY 242 + XXII. —I CLING TO THE RIGGING 253 + + + + + NEW 3s. 6d. BOOKS. + + (TO APPEAR SHORTLY.) + + _____ + + =The Invisible Man.= + By H. G. WELLS. + _____ + + =Fortune’s Footballs.= + By G. B. BURGIN. + _____ + + =The Skipper’s Wooing.= + By W. W. JACOBS. + _____ + + =John of Strathbourne.= + By R. D. CHETWODE. + + + + + THE TYPE-WRITER GIRL. + + + CHAPTER I. + INTRODUCES A LATTER-DAY HEROINE. + +I was twenty-two, and without employment. + +I would not say by this that I was without occupation. In the world in +which we live, set with daisies and kingfishers and undeciphered faces +of men and women, I doubt I could be at a loss for something to occupy +me. A swallow’s back, as he turns in the sunshine, is so full of +meaning. If you dwell in the country, you need but pin on a hat and slip +out into a meadow, and there, in some bight of the hedgerow, you shall +see spring buds untwisting, sulphur butterflies coquetting; hear +nightingales sing as they sang to Keats, and streamlets make madrigal as +they wimpled for Marlowe. Nay, even here in London, where life is rarer, +how can I cruise down the Strand without encountering strange +barks—mysterious argosies that attract and intrigue me? That living +stream is so marvellous! Whence come they, these shadows, and whither do +they go?—innumerable, silent, each wrapped in his own thought, yet each +real to himself as I to my heart. To me, they are shooting stars, +phantoms that flash athwart the orbit of my life one second, and then +vanish. But to themselves they are the centre of a world—of _the_ +world; and I am but one of the meteors that dart across their horizon. + +I cannot choose but wonder who each is, and why he is here. For one +after another I invent a story. It may not be the true story, but at +least it amuses me. Every morning I see them stream in from the Unknown, +by the early trains, and disperse like sparks that twinkle on the thin +soot of the chimney-back—men with small black bags, bound for +mysterious offices. What happens in those offices I have no idea: they +may lend money, or buy shares, or promote Christian knowledge. I only +know I see them come in the morning and flit again at night, sometimes +the same figures, recognisably identical. They rush back, absorbed, to +catch the train to the Unknown, as they rushed up from it earlier. So, +day after day, the tide sets and ebbs; while I stand on the shore of the +vast sea of London like a child that watches. And Commissioner Lin +guards me. + +I have always been grateful to Mr. Samuel Butler for his eccentric +theory that a woman wrote the Odyssey. I do not say that I agree with +him; if I did, I am not aware that any critic would attach the least +importance to my opinion. But it is a soothing theory for us latter-day +women. Without thinking it true, I love to believe it. The Odyssey, you +will grant, is the epic of the imagination. It is the epic of mystery. +In the Iliad, which is the epic of fact, everything is clear-cut, +distinct, commonplace. I do not conceive that a woman could have written +the Iliad. Its theme would fail to interest her. That hard handplay of +battle counts for nought to our sex. Clang of bronze sword on ringing +shield rouses no echo in our heart or brain. It is a masculine poem. How +practical it is, how cold, how everyday, how mannish! Considering its +august age, how little it gleams with the glamour of antiquity! Ulysses +in the Iliad is just a shifty politician, an adroit public speaker. +Achilles is just a petulant, ill-disciplined young warrior—I have met +him in London, fresh home from the Transvaal. The whole mighty saga is a +saga of men’s ideas, so sharp is it in its outlines, so historical, so +definite. But the Odyssey! + +Yes, I read in it clearly the fine hand of a woman. It has the +vagueness, the elusiveness, the melting, hazy charm of feminine craft. +It thrills with mystery; and woman is the mystic. Look at its glorious +dimness. You descry its geography in veiled outline only, as one beholds +the Paps of Jura on a day of sea-fog through swaying sheets of white +cloud from a fisherman’s boat on the Bay of Oban. It is a Celtic +dreamland. From morning to night, in that enchanted poem, on and on we +sail, past uncertain isles or dubious blue headlands, begirt with +fantastic forms, and in perils of the sea more awesome than the real. +Architects have reconstructed Priam’s palace, I believe, from the +description in the Iliad. That is man’s way of describing. But who could +reconstruct, from the rapt words of the Odyssey, Circe’s island or the +gardens of Alcinous? Peering and prying Schliemann found in the +battle-epic a whole plan of the Troad; or, at least, read one into it: +fancy even imagining you could construct a chart of the Mediterranean to +show the homeward maze of the much-travelled wanderer from Ilion to +Ithaca! The bare idea would indicate a misconception of the Odyssey. For +those are the seas and islands that never were; they live but in the +ghost-geography of poets and women. + +As arguments, indeed, the proofs adduced seem to me preposterous. It is +nonsense to say that in the Odyssey the chief _rôle_ is played by women. +Do women’s books deal exclusively, or even mainly, with their own sex? +Is not the Titan man, the strong, sardonic, woman-quelling hero, a +recognised commonplace of women’s fancy? I do not believe an Ithacan +lady wrote the Odyssey _because_ of the relative importance of Penelope +and Nausicaa. Surely even a man might have set Penelope at her web, or +Nausicaa at her tennis. In that I see nothing occult or esoterically +feminine. Men must be aware that every Circe has the power of turning +men into swine. They ought to know; they have seen it done daily. No, +those are not the reasons that weigh with me. It is the wonder, the +magic, the purple mystery, of the Odyssey that tells to my mind in +favour of its female authorship. And though I know Mr. Samuel Butler’s +theory is not true, I thank God I am woman enough none the less to +embrace it. + +But what has all this to do with my story—the story I am setting out in +my own fashion to tell you? A great deal; and besides, unless you let me +tell it in my own wayward way, I can never get through with it. In that +respect also I hold myself true woman. And this is the connection. “If +only we could have lived in those days!” people say. I answer, “You +_are_ living in them.” It is not the days, not the places, not the +things that change, but we who see them otherwise. Consider, the +Mediterranean is the same sea to-day as when the Ithacan lady who wrote +the Odyssey looked out upon its blue zones to behold it peopled with +strange forms and wizard shadows. For that nameless Sappho, that +prehistoric Charlotte Brontë, that inchoate Elizabeth Barrett Browning, +the Ionian main swarmed alive with Gorgons and Harpies as Loch Fyne with +herrings. Sirens sang on every rock to lure the seaman; promontories +glowed red at set of sun with the forges of the Cyclops. You may steam +down the prosaic Adriatic to-day in an Austrian Lloyd steamer—a +fearsome Behemoth, bellowing, snorting, flame-breathing—and identify +those charmed shores of Hellenic fancy, as laid down, with soundings, in +the Admiralty surveys. But that is your blindness. Scylla and Charybdis +are there as of old: ’tis you who turn them into the Straits of Messina. +Polyphemus still haunts his seaward cave: ’tis you who transform him +into a custom-house officer. Adventures are to the adventurous. Go +through the world in search of Calypso, and you will surely find her. Be +modern, and you will find only Willesden Junction. That may suffice for +you. I live in “those days,” as all lovers of the mystical have always +lived in them. + +And I will go forth into the world in search of adventures. They are +sure to come to me; for faith moves mountains. In every age, when the +Princess Cleodolind is sent out from the city as a prey for the dragon, +some youthful St. George, in celestial armour, rides by in the nick of +time, on his snow-white steed, and draws his trusty blade, and fights +for her, and rescues her from the loathly thing. Else what were the use +of faith and of poetry? In every age we fashion the story anew in our +passing manner, dressing it up in our own clothes, and fitting it to our +particular modes and morals. But ’tis the same to the end through all +disguises. The Greeks told it as the tale of Perseus and Andromeda; they +made their hero purely Greek, a triumphant young son of immortal Zeus, +who rescues a beautiful princess, with fair nude limbs like Parian +marble, from the devouring sea-monster. Mediæval Italy made the sign of +the cross, turned the son of Danaë into a Christian martyr, and clad the +beautiful nude maiden in clinging silk robes, as it would fain have clad +Melian Aphrodite herself when it converted her image into a crowned +Madonna. The Renaissance came, and Cellini unclothed her again, in his +revived paganism, to set her polished bronze limbs, where every eye +might see and stare, in the Piazza at Florence. Our modern novelists +dress her up afresh in the princess robe of the day (sage green or +crushed strawberry), and turn her loose on that slimy old dragon the +world, till Prince Charming comes by, as a baronet in a tennis suit, to +lay at her feet ten thousand a year and the title of My Lady. But ’tis +the old tale still, and who lists to tell it may trick it out once more +in his own heart’s fashion. For though there be nothing new under the +sun, the old wonder is there, as marvellous as ever, if you choose to +marvel at it. Each spring brings it back, a perpetual miracle. + +So I set forth into the world, a Princess Cleodolind of the nineteenth +century, ready to face the dragons that, as I well know, abound in it, +and full of faith in the St. George who will come to rescue me. I mean +to sail away on my Odyssey, unabashed, touching at such shores as may +chance to beckon, yet hopeful of reaching at last the realms of +Alcinous. + +From all which you may guess that I am a Girton girl. + + + CHAPTER II. + THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. + +You may guess it, I say; for it is no part of my plan to tell you. Being +a woman, I throw out this hint to pique your curiosity. + +Let us return to the point that I was twenty-two, and had no employment. +Commissioner Lin and I were alone and friendless. + +Four months earlier I had suffered a great loss. How great a loss I am +not careful to assure you. It is far from my desire to make capital out +of my inmost heart. I cannot spin phrases about my dead father. But by +this time the first fierce numbness of my sorrow had worn away; I was no +longer a stone; I was beginning to smile, and to feel the sunshine. A +certain quicksilver light-heartedness in the veins of my race helps to +conceal a background of feeling. Besides, I had my livelihood to earn. +That is a great resource. The need for bread served to edge out my +grief. My first four months had been assured me beforehand in the +Settlement; for we paid in advance, half-yearly, our Warden being a +prudent soul who disliked bad debts, and preferred the safe side. But +when the four months of my deepest mourning were over, it was absolutely +necessary for me to find employment. + +How it all came about I need not inform you: the bank that broke, the +electric light that failed: I was told the details in terms so crabbed +that if I tried to repeat them I could but show my ignorance. + +It was not hard for me to be poor; for in the Settlement we lived as the +other East-Enders live, and I had learned from my match-girls how to be +hungry and merry. But my poverty hitherto had been that of the amateur; +I had now to learn professional indigence. When I shook hands with +Sister Phyllis and Sister Agatha at the door of the guild, leaving +Commissioner Lin in their charge for the moment, and went forth into the +world to earn my living, I had six and elevenpence as available assets. +I was a capitalist in my way. That formed my capital. + +“Under these circumstances,” I said to myself, “the first thing for a +prudent girl to do is to look out for lunch; the second thing is to look +out for a situation.” + +I do not pretend to prevision; on the contrary, I was born to take no +heed for the morrow. I belong to the tribe of the grasshopper, not that +of the ant. But I had been so deeply impressed by Sister Phyllis’s +exhortations during my last four months in the guild that I had taken +pains to learn shorthand and type-writing. I did not then know that +every girl in London can write shorthand, and that type-writing as an +accomplishment is as diffused as the piano; else I might have turned my +hand to some honest trade instead, such as millinery or cake-making. +However, a type-writer I was, and a type-writer I must remain. So I set +forth on my Odyssey by walking down the phantom-haunted channel of the +Strand, and cast anchor for my first halt in an aërated bread shop. + +Luxury, we are told, demoralises this age, and (while I remain a +type-writer) I am absolute to set my face against it. But a cup of +coffee and a slice of seed-cake (not too luxuriously sweetened) lay well +within the compass of my capital. I am a poor arithmetician, but I +arrive by finger-lore at the net result that fourpence from six and +elevenpence leaves six and seven. I took up an evening paper, which some +recklessly extravagant customer had bequeathed to his successors, and my +eye scanned the advertisements. Hands that waved a signal seemed to +catch my glance. “A sail on the horizon!” I cried to myself. And this is +what I read— + +“Shorthand and Type-writer wanted (female). Legal work.—Apply Flor and +Fingelman, 27B, Southampton Row.” + +I felt myself already on the road to fortune. A glance at the date: it +was to-day’s paper! In matters of business, promptitude is everything. I +would be the first to apply. I tossed off my hot coffee with unbecoming +haste, and, deeply impressed with the fact that in this age the struggle +for existence has become one of the rights of woman, I hurried with all +speed to Flor and Fingelman’s. + +I was a Shorthand and Type-writer (female); and I was fully prepared to +be as legal as they desired of me. + +I do not say that “female” is a poetical description. I have never heard +it applied to Heloise or to Ophelia—not even by the grave-digger; +though Touchstone, to be sure, uses it once of Audrey. But the +nineteenth century has a chivalry all its own, which I scruple to +depreciate. If it speaks of us as females, it has given us the bicycle, +and it almost admits that we are as fit for the franchise as the +forty-shilling lodger. It puts us a little lower than the navvies. I +call that magnanimity. + +I had made haste to run up Charing Cross Road, and when I reached +Southampton Row, impressed by the importance of the Struggle for +Existence, I believe I was absolute winner in the race against time for +the position of Shorthand and Type-writer (female). + +Up two pair of stairs, where a notice led, I entered the Outer Office. +Its keynote was fustiness. Three clerks (male), in seedy black coats, +the eldest with hair the colour of a fox’s, went on chaffing one another +for two minutes after I closed the door, with ostentatious +unconsciousness of my insignificant presence. + +No doubt they inferred that I was a candidate for the post of Shorthand +and Type-writer (female), and they treated me as such persons may look +to be treated. Their talk turned upon that noble animal, the horse. + +They spoke also of the turf; by which I understood them to allude, not +so much to the greensward of the downs, as to the imperceptible moral +turf of Fleet Street. The two younger were indeterminate young men, with +straight black hair, and features modelled on an oyster’s. As they +appeared to be loftily unaware of my intrusion, I signified my presence +by coughing slightly. It was the apologetic cough that stands for “I beg +your pardon, but will you kindly attend to me?” They did not permit even +the cough, however, to hurry them unduly. The youngest of the three, a +pulpy youth, adjusted his cuffs, and completed some deep remarks upon +two-year-old form before he turned to stare at me. I suppose he was kind +enough to be satisfied with my personal appearance, for after a while he +wheeled round on his high stool, and broke out with the chivalry of his +age and class, “Well, what’s your business?” + +My voice trembled a little, but I mustered up courage and spoke. “I have +called about your advertisement for a Shorthand and Type-writer +(female).” + +He eyed me up and down. I am slender, and, I will venture to say, if not +pretty, at least interesting-looking. + +“How many words a minute?” he asked after a long pause. + +I stretched truth as far as its elasticity would permit. “One +ninety-seven,” I answered with an affectation of the precisest accuracy. +To say “Two hundred” were commonplace. + +The pulpy youth ran his eyes over me as if I were a horse for sale. I +was conscious of my little black dress and hat; conscious also of a +fiery patch in the centre of my cheek; but if you struggle for life you +must expect these episodes. “That’s good enough,” he said slowly, with a +side-glance at his fellow-clerks. I had a painful suspicion that the +words were intended rather for them than for me, and that they bore +reference more to my face and figure than to my real or imagined pace +per minute. + +The eldest clerk, with the foxy head, wheeled round, and took his turn +to stare. He had hairy hands and large goggle eyes. + +“Got your own machine?” he asked. + +“Yes.” + +“What sort?” + +“A Barlock.” + +“That’ll do,” he said, eyeing the rest. And again I detected an +undercurrent of double meaning. He seemed to be expressing modified +satisfaction at my outer personality. + +They questioned me for some minutes with equal grace and charm. Then the +eldest rose slowly. “I’ll tell the governor,” he murmured, and +disappeared through a dingy door marked in large letters “Mr. +Fingelman.” + +In a short time he came back and beckoned me mysteriously. I followed +him, trembling. He waved his hairy hand towards me as if to show me off +to the man at the table. I felt disagreeably like Esther in the presence +of Ahasuerus—a fat and oily Ahasuerus of fifty. “This is the young +person,” he said, by way of introduction. + +Ahasuerus—otherwise Mr. Fingelman—inspected me in turn. I quailed +before his glance; he was a commissioner for oaths, and wore large round +spectacles. “Had experience?” he asked at last. In person he was rotund +and obviously wealthy, though ’twas a third-rate solicitor’s. + +“A little,” I replied. I had made up my mind to say “Lots” beforehand; +but when it came to the pinch, the ingrained bad habit of speaking the +truth reasserted itself partially. + +Ahasuerus stared. “What name?” he asked, after a long stony gaze. + +I stammered out “Juliet Appleton.” + +“Age?” + +“Twenty-two.” + +He perused me up and down with his small pig’s eyes, as if he were +buying a horse, scrutinising my face, my figure, my hands, my feet. I +felt like a Circassian in an Arab slave-market. I thought he would next +proceed to examine my teeth. But he did not. Having satisfied himself as +to externals, he went on to put me through my paces. + +“Sit down there,” he said, pointing to a seat. “Have you pen and +note-book?” I produced my stylograph. + +He grunted approbation, and dictated for a few minutes a short +business-letter. Then he waved me to the type-writer. “Transcribe,” he +said curtly. I sat down and transcribed. + +The chief clerk meanwhile stood by, with his hairy hands crossed in a +curved attitude of ostentatious servility, which contrasted strangely +with his Outer Office manner. When I had finished, he peered at my work, +nodded, and handed it over to Ahasuerus. Ahasuerus ran his eye up and +down, grunting again. “She’ll do?” he said interrogatively. + +The chief clerk signed _yes_. + +“She’s the first we’ve seen,” Ahasuerus interposed, with caution in his +tone. + +“Saves trouble,” said the chief clerk. I was aware with a rush of hot +blood that the chief clerk approved of me, and that to his lordly +approbation (as of the Sultan’s Vizier) I owed my appointment. + +The Oriental monarch waved his pen towards the door. “Very well,” he +answered. “Settle terms with her outside. You know what I give. Bother +me no more with it.” And wheeling round his swivel-chair, he buried +himself in his writing. + +The terms the Vizier proposed were not wholly superior to the dreams of +avarice; but they were a modest starvation; and after my East-End +experiences, I looked for no more. I accepted them without demur, and +went forth into Southampton Row an engaged type-writer. + +I have a mercurial temperament. My spirits rise and fall as if they were +consols. This success exalted me. I walked down Charing Cross Road (by +no means, as a rule, an exhilarating thoroughfare) in the seventh +heaven. I had justified myself before the impartial tribunal of +political economy. I could earn my own bread—butter doubtful. In the +Struggle for Life I had obtained a footing. This magnificent post of +Shorthand and Type-writer (female) had been thrown open by advertisement +to public competition. In that competition I had won the day. My energy, +my promptitude, the rapid resolution with which I had gulped down my +coffee, burnt my tongue, and rushed off to Southampton Row, had secured +for me the prize of a modest starvation. I had proved myself fittest by +the mere fact of survival. Matthew Arnold had taught me, indeed, with +much sweet reasonableness, that there was not any proper reason for my +existing; but I like to exist. The sole remaining question was, Could I +adapt myself to my environment? If so, I had fulfilled the whole gospel +of Darwinism. + + + CHAPTER III. + ENVIRONMENT WINS. + +It was a wrench to tear myself away from my old men and women in the +Isle of Dogs, for I truly loved them. The operation left a scar that was +slow to heal. I felt I did them good: my visits cheered them, unlike the +curate’s; my whimsical talk broke the monotony of old age and the +East-End. But doing good is a luxury, and I was now face to face with +the strict necessity of earning my livelihood. Yet hope lies still at +the bottom of Pandora’s box. Though I had but six and sevenpence in the +world, and starvation wages, I started blithely to my work at Flor and +Fingelman’s. + +I had found a room meanwhile to which my purse consented. The normal +difficulties of lodging-hunting had been aggravated in my case by the +need for finding a house where I should not be separated from +Commissioner Lin; which made a back-yard a necessity: but I succeeded in +surmounting them. Commissioner Lin, I may say, to allay your fears, is +my mongrel Chinese bull-pup. Like Ulysses, I have a dog; he is ugly, but +_a beauty_, and, oh, such a dear! I may starve, but the Commissioner +shares my last crust. + +Geographically, my post was in the Outer Office. Early each morning I +went in to the inner recess of Shushan the palace to receive Ahasuerus’s +instructions, and to take down from his royal lips my shorthand notes, +which I afterwards expanded on the type-writer in the anteroom. +Ahasuerus was graciously pleased to like me. I found favour, also, in +the eyes of the Grand Vizier; he was good enough to say my work was +intelligent. I had doubts in my own mind as to the Vizier’s competence +to form an opinion on this head; but was he not a man—a vote-wielding +citizen, empowered to take his share (vicariously) in the counsels of +the nation? and was not I but a Shorthand and Type-writer (female)? I +bowed to the wisdom of the superior sex, and answered with a modest +blush that I rejoiced to have earned his approval. + +The morning and afternoon were taken up in expanding letters and copying +drafts of documents. Their style was execrable. The principal verb +adroitly concealed itself: the principal adjective was usually +“aforesaid.” Now, regarded as an epithet, I find “aforesaid” colourless. +Its monotony bored me. I suggested to Ahasuerus that his prose might be +enriched by a greater variety of graphic adjectives such as +“amethystine,” “prismatic,” “opalescent,” “empyrean,” or even +“colossal;” but he stared at me coldly, and replied in a curt voice that +legal phraseology was necessarily limited. The Grand Vizier, also, +cavalierly rejected my mild suggestions for an enlarged vocabulary. He +contended that I should model my composition on _Chitty on Contract_. He +was right, of course; but I found the iteration of “provided always” in +that well of legal English intensely irksome. + +The anteroom where I clicked was shared by the Grand Vizier and the two +other clerks. They talked incessantly; I was forced to continue my +transcription without interruption, in spite of their voices. I will +admit that their discourse, as such, by no means distracted me, in +virtue either of its intrinsic attractiveness or of the nature of its +subjects. It circled chiefly round the noble quadruped, with divergences +on Rugby and Association football. I did not gather that the Vizier and +his satellites knew much at first hand about the breed of race-horses, +nor could they have distinguished with ease between a fetlock and a +cannon-bone. They loved sport from afar: they were platonically horsey. +But they were diligent students of a daily journal in the interest of +manly pastimes: and they extracted from its pages many charming +speculations as to the numerical chance of first and second favourites. +They also spoke freely of the ladies of the music-hall. As their tongues +rippled on, with peculiar London variants on the vowels of our native +language, my type-writer continued to go click, click, click, till I was +grateful for its sound as a counter-irritant to their inanity. + +That click, click, click became to me like music—if only because it +drowned the details of the Lewes Spring Meeting. I saw in it all a trail +of Ibsenesque atavism. The horse was the sacred beast of the English in +the days of Woden, and, in spite of St. Augustine and John Wesley, his +worship still survives, its festivals attracting thousands of pilgrims +each year to the centres of the cult at Epsom and Newmarket. Devotees +may be known by their badge, a pink paper, which blushes itself, and is +a cause of blushing in others. + +Another peculiarity of the Outer Office was its richness in dust—the +dust specific to a solicitor’s premises. I think, in this age of +sanitation, I have kept my head tolerably unprejudiced on the subject of +germs; I do not speak evil of bacteria with the reckless extravagance of +the world at large; I am prepared to live and let live; nor do I deny to +the bacilli of typhoid fever the common right to the struggle for +existence. But the bacilli at Flor and Fingelman’s, I must admit, were +obtrusively aggressive. They carried the war into Africa. They flew +about me visibly whenever I lifted a book; they settled in myriads on my +poor black dress; they invaded my hair, and required to be daily +dislodged by violent hostilities. The three clerks seemed to me to +disregard them altogether; and when I ventured timidly to suggest a +duster, they were almost as horrified as when I proposed to vary the +bald language of a writ by the introduction of a few graceful chromatic +adjectives. Fustiness and mustiness are part of the profession, it +seems; you must no more attempt to sweep the Augean stables than to +carry out that other Herculean task—the simplifying and codification of +the law of England. + +For three mornings and three afternoons I endured Flor and Fingelman’s. +It was a question of self _versus_ environment. I am a unit of the +proletariat, and dear Sister Agatha had impressed upon me often, with +her sad, sweet smile, the fundamental truth that beggars must not be +choosers. So I continued to click, click, click, like a machine that I +was, and to listen as little as possible to the calculated odds upon +King Arthur for the Ascot Cup, till I was tired of the subject. On the +fourth day, however, the rebel in my blood awoke. Not for nothing had my +fathers fought at Lexington. I felt I must strike one blow for freedom. +The aforesaid office failed to respond to the needs of the party of the +first part. I went out to lunch, half resolved in the whirligig I call +my mind never to go back again. + +It was not the Grand Vizier, with his hairy hands, his goggle eyes, and +his false diamonds; though a certain insolent condescension in the +creature’s manner made me shrink from his presence. It was not the +junior clerks; though the tone of voice with which they addressed me as +“Miss” reminded me of the accent in which I had often heard men of their +type bespeak a defenceless barmaid; while their demeanour varied from +the haughty to the condescending. It was Ahasuerus himself whose +Oriental leer drove me from the office. I felt sure Ahasuerus considered +his manner killing—a three-tailed bashaw, with a natural gift of +captivating Circassians. His smile was the smile that knows itself +irresistible. He had not as yet ventured anything rude to me; but I +scented prospective rudeness in the way he watched me come in and +out—the way he beamed on me benignly, with his small pig’s eyes, as who +should say, “See how bland and how pleasant I am; you must rejoice, mere +female, to have secured the favour of so genial a gentleman, who revels +in semi-detached affluence at Balham.” I fled from his oily face, +assured that the law was not my proper sphere. I would diverge into +paths of more commonplace business. + +All this time I had been living upon Capital. If you judge such conduct +imprudent, remember that I could hardly have lived upon its interest. My +six and sevenpence was almost spent. I owed my landlady (at the single +room I had taken) for bread and rent. I had nothing left for my own food +or for Mr. Commissioner. The outlook was serious. Dimly aware of failure +in the Struggle for Life—inability to succeed in Adaptation to the +Environment—I retired for lunch to a little shop close by, whose merits +the Grand Vizier had from the first impressed upon me. + +At the table by my side sat two middle-aged men. They were talking +earnestly. I detected at once in the mellow tone of the better-looking +of the two that he was a Cambridge man and a political economist. The +Moral Sciences Tripos has its special aroma. After the rippling +tittle-tattle of the noble quadruped I was glad to listen even to the +voice of economics. I strained my ears. It was pleasant to hear educated +men speak again. And their talk was full of interest. + +“You have been to see them?” the first voice said. + +“Yes,” the Cambridge man answered. “It is an interesting experiment, +though foredoomed to failure. They say they want to try anarchy in +practice. They have bought ten acres of wild land very cheap; they are +getting it into tillage; and they mean to manage it upon Kropotkine’s +system of intensive culture.” + +Intensive culture! I saw at once what that meant. What a capital plan! +Till the land to the utmost, so as to make the largest possible amount +of food or roses come out of it. And anarchists, too! Why, I was born an +anarchist. Never could I endure being ordered about by anyone. After +Flor and Fingelman’s—click, click, click, all day—what a vista of +Eden! I sat a postulant at the gate of that Paradise. Just to go out +into the fields and till them anarchically! + +“And have they no organisation?” + +“None at all. He told me it was a band of brothers. I asked him by what +rule they worked. He said each man or woman laboured when he or she +chose! If he didn’t feel inclined he left off for that day and sat in +the sun, basking. They cultivate in common; each member of the community +receives food and clothes; and at the end of the week, if any surplus +remain, they divide it between them by way of pocket-money.” + +“Then it acts, so far.” + +“Yes, apparently. But ’tis new. They look healthy enough, though pallid, +and they are certainly enthusiastic. I asked Rothenburg how he liked it; +he said it was delightful—ten thousand times better than being a tailor +in Paris.” + +I could no longer restrain myself. A caprice seized me. I leaned across +the table. “Pardon me,” I said, “but may I venture to ask, as an +anarchist in the grain, where shall I find this Utopia, this Eldorado of +anarchy?” + +The Cambridge man smiled. + +“Near Horsham,” he answered. “But—excuse curiosity—are you _really_ an +anarchist?” + +“I will join them!” I cried, clasping my hands. “I have every +qualification. I am alone in the world, and penniless—splendid material +for anarchy. Such idyllic anarchy, too! Do they receive mere women?” + +“I think,” the Cambridge man replied, “they would be charmed to take +you. But remember, they are uncultivated—the raw material of a state, +rough working men and women. Go down and see them by all means. But when +you have inspected their home I venture to hazard a guess that you will +decide it is not meant for ladies.” + +“I am young,” I answered; “I have tolerable strength and abundant +energy. Misfortunes are nothing if one takes them in the spirit of +camping out. Hardships cease to be hardships when you talk of them as +roughing it. After all, it is only what we voluntarily do at a picnic up +the river. At least, I will go down and interview your anarchists.” + +He scribbled their precise address on the back of an envelope, with a +smile for my enthusiasm. I went home to my solitary room at once, and +sat down to my private and particular Barlock—the same on which I am +inditing these present memoirs—to write out my resignation to Flor and +Fingelman. + + “GENTLEMEN, + + “WHEREAS I, the undersigned, have worked for three days + and upwards, be the same more or less, to my great discomfort, + in your dingy, stingy, musty, and fusty office; and WHEREAS I + have found the post of Shorthand and Type-writer (female) which + you have deigned to bestow upon me, in the aforesaid office, + highly disagreeable to my mind and brain, owing as well to the + impurity of the air as to the dulness and monotony of the terms + employed in it; and WHEREAS I am now desirous of seeking other + and more congenial employment elsewhere than in the aforesaid + dinginess, stinginess, mustiness, and fustiness, as herein + designated, NOW THEREFORE, This Indenture Witnesseth and know + all men by these presents, that I have made up my mind not to + return to your messuage or tenement this afternoon, nor on any + subsequent date, but to relinquish entirely the aforesaid post + of Shorthand and Type-writer (female) with all and sundry the + emoluments or salaries thereto pertaining, and to say good-bye + to you, the aforesaid Flor and Fingelman, and to your Grand + Vizier and other faithful satellites. In witness whereof I have + hereto set my hand and seal, this twenty-first day of May, in + the year of our Lord, &c., &c. + + “JULIET APPLETON.” + +I put it into an envelope and dropped it into the post; then I turned +again on my way, a Free Woman. + +Free, but penniless. + +Hurrah for anarchy! flowery, bowery anarchy, in a careless-ordered +garden, run wild with eglantine! Could a Peri hope to storm that Eden? + + + CHAPTER IV. + THE CHOICE OF A PATRON. + +I prowled along the Strand, in quest of an inspiration. You will readily +conceive that the situation was serious. I had disbursed my last coin +for lunch that morning. True, I had still my bicycle; and by its aid I +might set off to join my unknown brothers, the anarchists, near Horsham. +But my heart smote me, for I had not wherewith to pay my landlady. Had I +worked out my week with Ahasuerus, no doubt I might have settled her +bill, and gone on my way honestly. But I could not leave her in the +lurch; nor, indeed, could I set out without the contents of my modest +portmanteau. My effects must go with me. Thus the position teemed with +difficulties. I had an aunt in London, of course; I suppose not even the +most destitute are ever wholly deprived of the solace of a maiden aunt +in London. Conscience suggested that in such a crisis I ought to consult +her. But fortunately I belong to a generation which has analysed +conscience away. “Go to the aunt,” said Duty. “Stop away,” said +Inclination. And Inclination, as usual, won in a canter—I might almost +say, Inclination walked over. If you doubt that these metaphors are +becoming on a woman’s lips, you must recollect that my style had been +suffering for three days from the enforced proximity of the Grand +Vizier, his satraps, and the noble quadruped. + +I _could_ not go to the aunt. She was the average woman of the small +fixed income; prosaic, stagnant, serenely literal; a placid pool that +reflects its surroundings. It was her fixed belief that everything I did +was in equal parts foolish and wicked. No doubt she was right; but her +arguments vexed me. “It is quite impossible for a young lady to do so,” +she said about many actions which I knew from experience to be not only +possible but actual. So I avoided the aunt, and set my face toward the +shop-windows for light and guidance. I found it, of course. Faith is +always rewarded, or I like to think so. At a corner shop, devoted to the +sale of more or less genuine _bric-à-brac_, I saw in the window a +charming little Fra Angelico, almost a replica of a miniature I +remembered to have noted at the Vatican. Whether it was authentic or not +I do not presume to decide; who am I that I should give myself the airs +of a Morelli? But its _naïveté_, its grace, its frank purity of colour, +were obvious at once, even to the eye of a woman. The picture +represented what is called in art the Charity of St. Nicholas. Through +an open door you see into the home of a poor nobleman. ’Tis a dainty +interior, of the age when drab had not wholly ousted the primary hues. +In the background his three starving daughters lie snugly in bed—a trio +of innocent maidens, with pretty blonde heads of infantile +guilelessness, laid on white pillows, between dimity curtains. In the +foreground the nobleman their father is seated, the picture of despair, +in a long vermilion robe and a brown study; without, by a grated window, +the dear young saint himself, in Florentine hose, with a sleeveless +jerkin, stands timidly on tip-toe, in the very act of dropping three +purses of gold as dowries for the maidens through the open casement. The +story is told with the pellucid simplicity of early Tuscan art; no airs +and graces, but just the bare outline of facts which it behoves you to +know;—these girls are poor; their father is at his wits’ end; and +yonder amiable young gentleman, in crimson and puce, has come to their +rescue, like a gallant Christian, with purses of gold very fat and +opulent. + +I stood long and looked at it. It was so archly engaging. The clear-cut +outlines, the translucent hues, the sweet old-world directness, the +story-telling faculty, each charmed and beguiled me. “After all,” I said +to myself, “St. Nicholas, not St. George, is the saint for me. My dragon +is poverty. St. George for princesses; St. Nicholas for the poor and +portionless maiden!” I gazed at him long, with affectionate eyes; then I +went on my way towards the National Gallery, strengthened and comforted. + +Have you found out the true use of the National Gallery, I wonder? On +three days in the week the British nation throws those stately rooms +open, free, to any woman who chooses to enter them. I use them as my +drawing-room. You get a comfortable chair to sit upon for nothing; you +get pictures to look at; and in winter the gallery is heated by flues, +over which you can stand and warm your feet gratis. I went in on this +critical afternoon of my history, not only for rest, but in search of +St. Nicholas—St. Nicholas of Myra—St. Nicholas of Bari—St. Nicholas, +the giver of dowries to damsels. My dear father had been a lover of +Italian art, and had taught me betimes the legends of the saints, +without which Fra Angelico and Benozzo Gozzoli talk a strange tongue to +you. I was certain now that St. Nicholas, not St. George, was my +predestined patron. He was so good to the poor, and especially to +maidens. In many pictures on those walls I beheld him as of old, in his +bishop’s robes, benign and benevolent, a model of suavity, holding the +three golden balls which typify the three fat purses of gold he threw in +at the window to the starving daughters of the nobleman of Myra. He was +the saint of the oppressed, the enslaved, the suffering. If knighthood +had its St. George, serfdom had its St. Nicholas. I saw him again, with +his three spheres of gold, traced by the hand of Raphael in the Blenheim +Madonna; a courteous old gentleman here, bland and mild, and very sweet +of feature. I saw him in many other less famous pictures, a friend in +need, ever gentle and helpful, the patron of children, of the +distressed, of the storm-tossed. I saw him in many guises, painted for +the most part in what, in default of exact knowledge, I will call a +chasuble, but always as the deliverer. My heart went forth to him. “Holy +Nicholas,” I murmured, “you were my father’s friend; be my friend as +well! Stand by me, and protect me!” + +I issued once more into the phantom-crowded Strand. Below, the streaming +street was full of those hurrying, scurrying men with black bags, bound +as ever for the Unknown. But above—I lifted my eyes, and there, clear +against the sky, I beheld—the three golden balls of St. Nicholas. + + + CHAPTER V. + _VIVE L’ANARCHIE!_ + +I drew a deep breath. He was the poor man’s saint; his symbol has +descended to the poor man’s banker. + +Yet my confidence after all was not all misplaced. St. Nicholas, at a +pinch, would provide my dowry. + +It flashed across me at a stroke what those golden balls meant. Never +before had I divined their meaning—their intimate connection with my +newly-chosen patron. I caught at it now clearly. Nicholas, I knew, was +the saint of the people—the saint of the labourer who toils for daily +bread, of the fisherman who struggles with the stormy sea, of the +orphan, of the slave, of the child, the captive, the prisoner, the +unfortunate. No wonder, then, that his golden balls have survived as the +badge of that generous profession which freely lends to all the poor who +leave a pledge behind. + +I accepted the omen. Tempest-tossed as I was, my precious type-writer +might save me for the day from the present distresses. I hurried back to +my attic in a street off Soho, packed it up in its case, and carried it +with difficulty in my own small arms to the shrine of St. Nicholas. + +My errand, I grant, was new, and repugnant. But necessity, like our +magistrates, knows no law. I will not pretend that I passed those +dubious portals without a flush of shame. Still, I passed them bravely. + +“How much?” asked the acolyte. + +I was inexperienced in the ritual of the sordid temple. “Three pounds?” +I queried tentatively. + +He cut me short with a gesture of contempt. “We could do thirty +shillings.” + +“I _paid_ twenty pounds for it,” I murmured. + +He shrugged his shoulders. “An error of judgment, I should say. Thirty +shillings. Do you take it?” + +I was anxious to escape from the squalid place. Bundles of shabby +clothes in square pigeon-holes daunted me. “I accept,” I said, gasping. +He counted out the money, and handed me a ticket. + +I fled, like one followed by a roaring wild beast. No quicker flies the +Arimaspian whom the gryphon pursues. Nor did I pause or halt till I +reached my own bower. Safe back in that stronghold, I bolted and locked +the door, and washed the pollution off me in an orgy of cold water. + +Then the dignity of womanhood reasserted itself. I sat back in the one +arm-chair, and reflected. A freak is dear to my soul. I would pay my +weekly bill before starting, carry my knapsack with me, and engage the +room for another week in advance, in case the anarchists should chance +to prove too anarchic for my taste. And after that, who dare call me +imprudent? ’Tis the habit of twenty-two to burn its boats. When it takes +measures for preserving them, you should give it credit for singular +forethought. + +I had still my faithful bicycle. I rose betimes next morning, and endued +myself in my cycling costume, which, like all else about me (I trust), +is rational. The Commissioner and I stole silently down the stairs. +Before London was well awake we had left Westminster Bridge behind us in +the haze, and were off on the open road, on our way towards Horsham, two +palmers bent for the Holy Land of Anarchy. + +How light and free I felt! When man first set woman on two wheels with a +pair of pedals, did he know, I wonder, that he had rent the veil of the +harem in twain? I doubt it; but so it was. A woman on a bicycle has all +the world before her where to choose; she can go where she will, no man +hindering. I felt it that brisk May morning as I span down the road, +with a Tam o’ Shanter on my head, and my loose hair travelling after me +like a Skye terrier. + +“This,” thought I to myself, “is truly my Odyssey. To play at being a +latter-day Ulysses in London, among those crowded streets, is like a +child’s game—too much make-believe. But mounted here on the ship of the +high-road, scudding gaily down hill, or luffing against head-winds on a +steep upward slope, I feel myself the heroine of a modern sea epic. As I +coast by narrow straits of hedge-bordered lane, round some lumbering +cart, I steer with care betwixt headland and whirlpool. Siren inns hang +out signs to beckon me into port; piratical carts, buccaneering drays, +skidding fast down long slopes, strive to crush me as they pass like +living Symplegades. In perils oft, I yet feel the fresh wind in my +teeth, and see the foam of May break over hawthorn promontories. Troy +lies behind; in front of me beckons the peaceful Ithaca of my anarchist +settlement.” + +The road, indeed, was a pleasant one. Lying at first among suburban +quarters, pink with blossom at that perfect moment of the year, and +heavy with lilac, it grew greener by degrees as it stretched out to the +rising plain of Surrey and then swelled up slowly into the great breaker +of the chalk downs. That huge wave of land rises in a long curve on the +side towards London, but curls over abruptly by Box Hill and Dorking, +like a billow that has hardened in the act of breaking. My way led me +through a deep gorge that cuts the slope of this ridge at right angles, +beside a wandering stream, as though one stroke of some great magician’s +wand had cleft a way for it through the barrier. The ravine is bordered +to the left by a cliff-like edge, overgrown with juniper bushes. They +call it the Vale of Mickleham. Spring had put on her best frock for my +visit. I rode at a good pace. Commissioner Lin toiled behind, with his +tongue out. Then we broke into the open, where a steeple showed the way, +and through a billowy common, crest after trough alternately, dotted +thick with holly-trees, across the Weald of Sussex. A still, pearly-pale +sky hung over the misty level. Despondent donkeys munched furze-tops and +mused pessimism. Trains dashed under bridges with long streamers of +steam, as I rode over them unabashed—huge monsters of burnished brass, +snorting death from their throats, such as would have terrified the +timid Achæan sailors. But I took no heed of them—I, the braver daughter +of an iron age, trained to disregard dragons of that mechanical sort, +and to fear only those against whom St. Nicholas is potent—I had seen +one but yesterday on Margaritone’s panel. The horses that passed over by +my side reared and quivered at the ungainly monster; but my undaunted +steel palfrey, himself a scion of the iron age, showed no sign of +weakness. Or if he trembled at all, ’twas something wrong in the +gearing. + +A mile or two from Horsham I diverged, as directed, down a cross-road to +the left. ’Twas a level lane in champaign country, bordered by a low +hedge of close-clipped maple. The fields were of leaden clay—so much I +saw where they were ploughed—muddy, and all but impassable in wet +weather, to meet which state of morass every cottage was approached by a +small paved causeway of flags, giving a singularly distinctive note to +the district. Many such I passed, each built of pale red brick, each +tiled with mossy tiles, and each approached through a square of front +garden by its town-like pavement. The lanes were a maze, running +aimlessly hither and thither. One after another, as I tried it, led me +back by circumvolutions to a rustic Clapham Junction, the centre of +Nowhere. Judge if I was nonplussed. + +At one of the cottages I reined up at last, and, leaning from my saddle, +called out to a boy who was weeding the front patch: “Can you tell me +where I shall find the anarchist settlement?” + +The boy looked up, taken aback. It was clear that the rationality of my +dress astonished him. And, indeed, ’tis so rare to be rational in this +world that I was not surprised at his surprise. He stared at me with a +frank provincial stare; I am not sure that he did not design heaving +half a brick at me, in recognition of my originality. But he contented +himself with a few contumelious epithets, which did not hurt me. I flung +him a penny; this softened his heart. He answered, after a pause, “I +guess you mean them furriners.” + +The American blood in me was flattered by that “I guess.” Thus my +ancestors must have spoken here in Sussex long ago, before they went +over in the _Mayflower_, to fight in due time at Lexington. It is a +point of honour with all Massachusetts folk to have gone over in the +_Mayflower_. She was a sloop of 180 tons, and must have carried +thousands of steerage passengers. I am not sure about the tonnage, but +there can be no doubt as to the passengers. + +“They are probably foreigners,” I replied, coming back to this century. +“At any rate, they are new-comers. And I was told they had settled down +somewhere near Pinfold.” + +He waved his hand vaguely towards the quarter of the sunrise, and gave +me directions of complicated topography. But he added, after a moment +for internal reflection, “They bain’t the sort o’ folk for the likes o’ +you to visit.” + +“Thank you,” I answered, “I am an anarchist myself.” And I spurred on my +mount, round the corner where he directed me. + +The day, which was brisk when I started, had become by this time hot and +windless, and the sun beat mercilessly. After various intricate twists +and turns, ill-deciphered from uncertain instructions, I found myself at +last by the side of a pond which formed the one fixed point in my +guide’s geography. He had called it “a horse-pond.” It was a pretty +little pool: tall glossy weeds grew lush by its edge; a grey-leaved +willow drooped into it; Naiads lurked among the broad green disks of the +water-lilies at its farther end. I was glad it was so taking. I accepted +it as an omen of success in my wild-goose chase. From the first I was +not without misgivings of my own wisdom in thus seeking to fraternise +with unknown anarchist brethren. But I knew how often fortune brings in +some boats that are not steered; and I took the beauty of this +“horse-pond” as a foretaste of what I should find in the anarchist +settlement. + +An old woman, with sleeves tucked up and the parboiled arms of a +laundress, stood near the door of a new brick cottage hard by. “Can you +tell me,” I called out, “where I can find Rothenburg?” + +I omitted the Mr., as my Cambridge friend had warned me that that +harmless prefix acted on your anarchist like the picador’s dart on the +bulls of Andalusia. + +“Rottenborough?” the old woman answered, transforming his name, as is +the wont of her class, into something significant in her own language. +“He’s down yonder by the new glass-house.” And she pointed with her hand +towards a deep clay field just behind her cottage. + +I dismounted, and led my bicycle gently through the mud. There was no +eglantine. At the far end of the field, under shelter of a hedge which +backed it to the north, I saw a slender, pale-faced young man in a blue +Continental blouse, digging a trench with a pick, to whose use he was +evidently but little accustomed. + +“Are you Rothenburg?” I asked, in French. + +He looked up and smiled. My costume took his fancy. “I am,” he answered +in the same language, but with a marked Alsatian accent. “What do you +want with me, comrade?” + +“I am an anarchist,” I said, simply, rushing straight to the point. “I +wish to join your community.” + +He laid down his pick, and came up out of the trench. I could see him +better now—a pallid, anæmic young man, with a high narrow forehead, +watery restless eyes, thin yellow hair, and twitching hands that played +nervously all the time with a shadowy moustache. I judged him at sight +the very type of an eager-hearted ineffectual enthusiast—a man born to +failure as the sparks fly upward. + +He looked me over, all surprised. “We are a party of working men,” he +objected, at last; “artisans, sempstresses, labourers. We do not desire +or court the aid of the _bourgeois_.” + +Now, I can endure most things, but not to be called a _bourgeoise_. I +coloured a little, I suppose; at any rate, I answered, “I am an +_ouvrière_ myself. I have nothing to do with the _bourgeoisie_. I have +ridden down from London to link my fate with yours. Are you the head of +this colony?” + +He flushed somewhat in turn—or rather, faint streaks of pink stole over +that bloodless face. “We have no head,” he answered. “We are +thorough-going anarchists. Equality is our aim. Since when do you belong +to our party?” + +“Since I was born,” I retorted, boldly. “I am anarchic by nature. +Wherever there is a government, I am always against it. Let me join your +band—and I promise disobedience.” + +He eyed me suspiciously. This confession of faith seemed rather to +disturb than to reassure him. He paused a moment. “How did you hear of +us?” + +“Casually, in an eating-house in London, from a Cambridge economist who +had been here to see you. When he spoke of you, I thought to myself, +‘These are the people I want. I recognise my kind. I must go and join +them.’” + +“Ha! He was a co-operator. A voluntary co-operator. But he had not the +whole truth. If he sent you here, you may be wrong—you are perhaps a +Marxian?” + +I perceived that there was an orthodoxy and a heterodoxy of anarchism; +in which case, of course, I should be on the heterodox side. “You will +find me sound,” I said, seeking to temporise, “in my uncompromisingly +anarchic anarchism of anarchy.” I thought I could hardly be more +mutinous than that. If ’twas rebellion they wanted, I was honestly +prepared to rebel against the rebels. + +He drew out a cheap gun-metal watch. “It is dinner-time,” he said, +temporising in return. “The comrades will have assembled. Come up and +discuss. We will see whether they are content to accept you as a +companion.” + +I confess I was disappointed. This seemed painfully close to a +legislative assembly—at the very least to a folk-moot or parish +council. Did they mean to decide things by base show of hands? And if +so, wherein did your anarchist differ from the ordinary coercive +governmental authority? + +In the Utopia I had framed for myself, every man (or woman) did that +which was right in his own eyes—without prejudice to his equal freedom +to do that which was wrong, if he chanced to be so minded. Here, I saw +just a common joint-stock company—Anarchy, Limited. + + + CHAPTER VI. + THE INNER BROTHERHOOD. + +We assembled in the large room of the first cottage I had seen—a sort +of bare, bald dining-hall, big enough to feed some twenty or thirty +souls, and ugly enough to take away their appetite for ever. Its +architect’s name, I would conjecture, was Jeremiah. + +“A new comrade,” Rothenburg said, waving his hand towards me not +ungracefully. “Let us dine first, and consider her afterward.” + +This was an awkward introduction. I sat down to eat and drink, painfully +conscious that the eyes of anarchic Europe were upon me. My long +unbroken ride had given me a keen edge for food; still, apart from their +scrutiny, I confess I eat with an undercurrent of disgust. The meat and +bread were wholesome; but I suspected their cleanliness. The napery, +too, was coarse and cried for the laundress. However, if one chooses to +herd with anarchists, one must not be too particular on matters of diet. +I eat a hearty dinner, in spite of my doubts, and even drank some sour +red wine; for they were not English enough yet to relish our beer, of +which I was not sorry. + +Replenished by dinner, they drew apart, discussing me in low tones and +in cosmopolitan languages. I fancy I detected the ring both of Czech and +Yiddish—tongues of which I do not profess an intimate knowledge, though +my East-End experiences had given me a distant nodding acquaintance with +either. Most of them were Austrians (assorted) or else subjects of the +Tsar, living here for their health, because they preferred England as a +place of residence to that part of the Russian territory which is called +Siberia. From time to time they appealed to me on some point of my +history—where was I born, of what nationality, why did I wish to join +them? I answered as best I might, though the ordeal was severe. It was +bad enough to stand as Esther before Ahasuerus, but I realised now that +I was set to perform the part of Vashti before a whole court of critical +anarchists. + +At last Rothenburg, still fumbling with his moustache, had the happy +thought to ask me my name. When I said “Juliet Appleton” I saw that it +moved them. The fact that I was a Juliet gave food to their fancy. Each +man drew himself up and stroked his chin with the very air of a Romeo. +Even the women smiled—for there were women among them, some four or +five, with pretty curly-haired children. Then they began to instruct me +in the doctrines of their sect. I was sworn to eternal friendship with +all and sundry. The intricate Eleusinian mysteries of anarchy were +explained to me, as catechumen, in Alsatian French and Bohemian German. +I answered in such dialects of either tongue as I had at command. My +profession of faith appeared to give satisfaction, especially when, +prompted by Rothenburg, I renounced Karl Marx and all his ways, and +embraced with fervour the true faith of Bakunin. Who or what Bakunin was +I had not an idea: but I made up in zeal what I lacked in understanding. + +It began to dawn on me that sectarianism is of the nature of man, and +that all things tend to fall into my doxy and your doxy. + +At last Rothenburg arrived at what he evidently considered a crucial +point in his catechism. “You understand, of course, that you must not +form an idolatrous attachment to any one of the comrades, to the +exclusion of the others?” + +I glanced around me at the dozen sorry specimens of the male of my +species there ranged before me, and felt convinced at sight I could +safely engage not to idolise excessively any one among them. And I said +so. + +This assurance appeared to give the community boundless satisfaction. +They turned next to my bicycle, which was a nice little machine—the +nicest in England, indeed, like everyone else’s. One or two of them were +kind enough to accept my full membership at once by trying to ride it. I +am tolerably tall for a woman, while the comrades, as I learned to call +them, were for the most part undersized town-bred working men, of the +skimpy order. Thus my machine just fitted them; they did not even +require to shift the pedals. I showed them how to stick on, correcting +the excessive line of grace in their initial curves: this obviously +pleased them, and I think they formed a high idea of the new comrade +herself and more especially of the property she brought into the +Community. They had not an equal opinion of Mr. Commissioner. + +So I settled down at once as a full-fledged anarchist. + +Figure to yourself a group of naked cottages, with bald slate roofs +untempered by the years—no moss, no house-leeks—dropped down at random +in a sticky clay cabbage-field—and you see our colony. + +My first business was to behold where I was to abide. The rotund old +lady whom I had found at the door of the first messuage or tenement took +me round to my cubicle; for they had a nomenclature of their own, suited +to the ways of anarchists. ’Twas in a brand-new building of pale pink +brick—a sort of anæmic brick, which bore the same relation to healthy +red brickiness that Rothenburg’s complexion bore to normal humanity. It +was vastly modern, like the views of its builders; it also betrayed the +same painful lack of æsthetic tendencies. It cried for creepers. In +front of it stretched a patch of utilitarian potato-ground. I would have +preferred hollyhocks. There was no hall or passage: the door opened +abruptly into a small parlour; behind lay three bedrooms of the minutest +dimensions. Mine was tiny. However, I have always inculcated kindness to +animals, and am not conscious of the faintest desire to swing a cat; so +it sufficed very well for me. The bath entailed difficulties, no other +anarchist being a slave to the habit: but a wooden water-tub and economy +of space speedily overcame them. I unpacked my knapsack, put my room to +rights, dusted the window-panes, and sallied forth to see what work the +Community demanded of me. + +The Community was ranged outside my cottage door as one man. It seemed +that, unable to resist the combined attractions of the bicycle and a new +comrade, they had decreed a half-holiday by universal suffrage, and were +waiting without to let me teach them the use of the machine. But the +Commissioner, who was an unregenerate monopolist as to private property, +effectually prevented its premature appropriation by a mute white +protest. + +I trembled as I saw how many awkward youths desired to ride my precious +cycle. But if you go in for Communism you must expect it to cut both +ways. I had eaten their dinner, they must share my bicycle. For so it is +written in the lawless law of anarchy. + +Most of these young men were good fellows in their way—very +simple-hearted anarchists. I do not credit it that they could have blown +up a Tsar, or even dropped a bomb into a suburban letter-box. They +confined themselves to cabbages and passionate denunciation of the +oppressors. But the ringleader in the attempt to borrow my bicycle from +an absent comrade was an exception to the rule. He was a +villainous-looking creature—the Caliban of our island. His name was +Léon. I think he must have been built after designs by Mr. Aubrey +Beardsley. He had rufous hair, a nose without a bridge, and thick +protruding lips. Those lips were a nightmare. I set him down as a +judicious cross between a Swiss _crétin_ and an albino negro. To make +matters worse, like many other repulsive people, he had the habit when +he spoke to you of coming up very close and breathing in your face, so +that his protruding lips almost seemed to touch you. I had an +irresistible impulse to say to him, “Take, oh take those lips away!” +only, I knew if I did he would not understand; or if he understood he +would misunderstand me. + +I felt from the outset that I might have trouble with Léon. + +That first night, for some time, I was kept awake by a continuous +concert, which sorely puzzled me. It could not be nightingales—the note +was not varied enough; nor was it the Six Great Powers of Europe—the +chorus was far too concordant. It reminded me most of the serenade made +by the small green southern tree-frogs; but here, in Sussex! I lay awake +and racked my brain. Next day solved the mystery. The hollow beyond our +plot of intensive culture was marshy and weedy, it teemed with +natterjacks. I will own that till I came to Pinfold I wist not even that +the natterjack existed. I had rolled him into one with his cousin the +toad. But our only British brother, a leather-dresser from Bermondsey, +and a born naturalist, soon showed me the difference. Ever since I have +met the natterjack in society everywhere. He is the gentleman and the +artist in his own family. Frogs croak, toads purr, but the natterjack +sings. You will admire his clear high note, trilled with a delicate +tremolo. + +At last I fell asleep, a very wearied anarchist. + + + CHAPTER VII. + A MUTINOUS MUTINEER. + +I respected Rothenburg; he was a man of ideas. Of course, they were +wrong; but, according to his rush-lights, he acted them out. He seemed +to me to have a shallow brain, in a constant state of feverish +agitation. He was a flamboyant rhetorician, a crisp denunciator. It did +one’s soul good to hear him declaim red-hot against kings, priests, and +the intolerable tyranny of public opinion. The rest were shadows. +Rothenburg by comparison was an intellectual Titan. + +Even old Mrs. Pritchard, of the parboiled arms, who lived in the +Community cottage with the bare, bald hall, recognised his superiority. +“That there Rottenborough,” she would say, with her arms akimbo, “why +he’s worth the whole lot of ’em.” She was a study in her way, Mrs. +Pritchard—globular and emotional. Rothenburg’s eloquence filled her +eyes with tears. _Why_ she was an anarchist I failed to perceive. She +seemed as much out of place in that cosmopolite crew as a Free Kirk +elder in a chorus of Mænads. She told me they had “convinced” her. If +so, she must have had a mind singularly open to conviction. I gather +rather that she took to anarchy as she might have taken to Primitive +Methodism, the Salvation Army, or any other variety of dithyrambic +religion. There chanced to be no Shakers or Mormons in the field at the +moment, so Mrs. Pritchard fell back upon the allurements of Communism. +She washed for the comrades, a post, you may guess, which almost +amounted to a lady-like sinecure. + +When I joined the Community I did so in dead earnest. You may think I +jest, but I assure you seriously that my first intention was to live and +die in the bosom of anarchy. Even the first sight of the ten acres, with +its fringe of natterjacks and its total lack of eglantine, did not damp +my ardour; nor did the dinner at the outset. I reflected that I had +taught a cookery class at the Guild, and that I could find an outlet for +my energies in radical reform of the Communal kitchen. It certainly +afforded a noble chance for the reformer. Meanwhile I said nothing, +though I eat every meal with an increasing undercurrent of distrust as +to its cleanliness. + +At night we gathered in the Community hall and decided the future of +Europe. Within, as without, it had anæmic brick walls, slightly inclined +towards jaundice, and under its roof we listened drearily while +Rothenburg settled the map of the twentieth century in unofficial +harangues. Save for his torrent of eloquence I found the hall +depressing. Our Community shared the common mania of the sectary for +placarding its sentiments. Only here “The Lord is my Shepherd” and “God +Bless our Home” gave place to “_Solidarité de la Race Humaine_,” “No +King, no Laws, no Taxes,” “_Das Land für das Volk_,” “_Ubi bene, ibi +Patria_,” and “Free Thought, Free Affection.” I read these legends over +and over till they palled. In another respect also my comrades resembled +the universal schismatic—their interests were confined to a single +range. They were great on altruism; but one saw their eyes glaze over +the moment one diverged from the beaten path of anarchic platitude. + +Rothenburg asked me the first day if I knew anything of gardening. +Anything of gardening! I could have told them at a glance that their +cauliflowers were planted three inches too close, while their views on +spring carrots were absurdly elementary. I had been reared in the +country. But I reflected that, even among anarchists, modesty befits a +woman, and I answered that I hoped so. + +They wished to set me at first upon light work in the glass-houses; even +those rough working men, I could see (notable mainly for the whiteness +of their faces and the redness of their politics), paid some homage to +my gentility; though they would have denied it themselves, they were +anxious to spare me as much as possible of manual labour. But I would +have none of that. If I joined their clan at all I must join on equal +terms. I am all for the absolute equation of the sexes. I wished to bear +my part in the burdens of the Community. + +So I devoted myself with a single mind to intensive culture. I may be +dense, but after close inspection my impression is that intensive +culture, were it not for its name, might readily be confused with +ordinary gardening. + +Rothenburg was working on the foundations of a new glass-house. To avoid +Léon, whose province was potatoes, I took a pick and worked by the +Alsatian’s side. He seldom spoke; when he did he left off delving—his +shallow brain had room but for one occupation at a time. It was curious +to see him pause, push his crush-hat from his brow, wipe his narrow +forehead with his shirt-sleeve, stroke the thin yellow hair, and then +give vent to some deep philosophical speculation, which a child of ten +might have considered profound. + +On the second day of my task at the trench a sudden thought struck me. +“Rothenburg,” I said, wielding my pick somewhat viciously, “you have +bought this land; how do you manage to hold it?” + +He struck work, as usual, and turned the watery blue eyes upon me. + +“We hold it, Juliet,” he said—I was officially known to all the +comrades as Juliet—“we hold it”—he paused as if I were drawing a +tooth—“we hold it by trustees. No other way is possible.” + +“The English law compels you?” + +“My faith, yes; we cannot own it as a Community.” + +“And suppose some comrade were to refuse to work, and yet stick to his +rooms. What could you do to get rid of him?” + +That was a problem for Rothenburg. He fondled the thin yellow hair till +I thought it would come out; he fingered the shadowy moustache with that +nervous hand till he made me frightened. + +“I imagine,” he said at last, after due deliberation, in a very slow +tone, “we would be compelled to call in . . . . the State . . . . to +eject him.” He uttered that hated word with visible effort. + +Appello Cæsarem! I dug my pick into the ground more viciously than ever. +But I said nothing. Coercive practices! I saw I was back with my old +friends Aforesaid and This Indenture Witnesseth. + +Yet I will do the anarchists the justice to say that none of them seemed +anxious to afford their pet bugbear, the State, the opportunity of +trying this test case. They toiled hard, and inefficiently. In the sweat +of their brow they did very little. None of them could be called a +specialist in gardening. Rothenburg himself had worked as a lady’s +tailor in Paris, he told me, and had flung up a post of fifty francs a +week—“Not bad wages for a working man,” he observed, preening himself, +with the complacency of a willing martyr—to till the soil with +intensive culture. I believe he was really a good tailor spoiled to make +an indifferent gardener. Still, one could not help respecting his +enthusiasm. When I pressed him further on this head, he admitted with +regret that in the present state of the world only a chosen few—“like +you and me, Juliet”—were fit for anarchy. (I felt half inclined to +retort with the last of the Sandemanians, that I was “no that sure of +Juliet.”) However, he thought it was well to begin the experiment; after +all, one should live up to one’s highest ideal. + +I glanced around at the sodden field, the bald brick cottages, and had +doubts in my mind whether they did really fulfil my highest ideal. + +I worked hard with the rest. A certain sense of honour made me work my +hardest. _Noblesse oblige_; and precisely in proportion as I saw the +comrades would be content to let me shirk some share of my task out of +regard for my gentility, did I feel it incumbent upon me to do my utmost +possible. I wore my cycling suit in the fields, and laboured like a man. +I am not muscularly strong, but I have been well trained, and I honestly +believe I was the most efficient workman in all that little group of +incompetent town toilers. + +In my spare time I set about reforming the kitchen. The vegetarian +dishes I had learned at the Guild delighted the souls of the simple +anarchists. My barley cutlets with tomato sauce were voted “heavenly” in +best lip-licking Teutonic; my vermicelli shape received the praise of +“bravissima” from our Neapolitan Luigi. This skill in cookery much +increased my vogue among the men of the Community; while the women were +not sorry to have their task lightened by a little amateur assistance. + +If I have not said much here of the women and children ’tis not for want +of appreciation: they were the salt of the settlement. There was no +nonsense of high principles about them: they had followed their husbands +and fathers and brothers to this outland spot as women will do; and they +would have shouted “Vive l’Empereur” as heartily to-morrow as they +shouted “Vive l’Anarchie” when asked to-day. But they loved to applaud +Rothenburg on the war-path of peace, and would have scalped anyone who +doubted the truth of the shibboleths of fraternity. + +With the children I made great friends. Dear rough-and-tumble little +things, they oozed with merriment. My rational dress delighted them: so +did Mr. Commissioner, with his white teeth, as soon as they had got over +the first formalities. He suffered them to pull his tail like a lamb. We +played games together at night, in the intervals of reorganising +European affairs and abolishing the capitalist. We romped like tomboys. +My attempts to tell them “Cinderella” and “The Three Bears,” in bad +German, translated by the more knowing into Czech and Yiddish, were not +a complete success; but neither were they a failure, for at any rate +they resulted in happy laughter. Besides I taught them cat’s-cradle, and +cat’s-cradle at least has escaped the curse of Babel. + +Still, rocks lay ahead. My Odyssey was not so quickly to bring me into +port. By the end of the week a cloud took shape: I foresaw storms +brewing. + +All the comrades were devoted in equal parts to myself and my bicycle. +In the evenings, when work was done, and we had watered the cabbages, I +gave them lessons in turn on the mysterious monster. From the beginning +it occurred to me that most of them were anxious to entice me away from +the common field towards remoter lanes where occasions for private talk +were more easily obtained. But, mindful of my promise not to form +idolatrous attachments, I resisted the temptations of the polyglot +Fausts who would fain have discoursed to me the words of love in many +uncouth languages. It was my policy to keep close to the cottages and +the other women, backed up by that round mountain of Britannic +matronhood, the guileless Mrs. Pritchard. Besides, in the Commissioner, +I had an efficient bodyguard. + +On Saturday came the weekly division of profits. We had done well that +week, having sent consignments of early roses and asparagus to Guildford +and London. We declared a dividend, a splendid communal dividend, at the +rate of four shillings per head for adults, and two shillings for +children. I thought this profit magnificent. But just before the +distribution of cash, Rothenburg strolled up to me, as I was dandling a +mottle-armed anarchist. His fingers twitched on the imperceptible +moustache more tremulously than ever. “Juliet,” he said, briefly, “I +want to speak to you.” + +He said it in the voice with which our Principal at College was wont to +summon us to her study for the discipline of exhortation. Free anarchist +though I was, I listened and trembled. + +“Well, Rothenburg?” I murmured, laying down the baby. + +“The question is, do you mean to remain with us?” + +“Why, certainly,” I cried, astonished. “Did we not swear eternal +friendship?” + +“But—the comrades complain that you take no notice of them.” + +“No notice! Absurd! Why, I have taught them how to bicycle.” + +“Yes; but that is not everything. Friends should show friendliness. You +hold them at arm’s length. You keep yourself aloof. You have no +_camaraderie_.” + +I looked him hard in the face. He blinked his watery eyes. I knew he was +sincere—a good, honest anarchist; but he expected too much of me. +“Rothenburg,” I said firmly, “I call this coercion.” + +“No, no; not coercion; but comrades ought to be sociable.” + +“’Tis intolerable!” I exclaimed. “What is anarchy for, if we are each to +be forced into talking to one another against our wills? I have done my +week’s work; I have cooked you good food; I have lent you my bicycle; +and still you complain of me. The Banded Despots”—which was our +technical phrase, to wit, for the British Government—“could not do +worse than that, nor as bad as that either. They do not insist that one +should make oneself agreeable. They are amply satisfied if man pays +man’s taxes.” + +He twirled the non-existent moustache till he put a visible point on it. +His fingers twitched painfully. “I only tell you what the comrades are +saying,” he replied, in a deprecatory way. “They find that you do not +behave to them like a sister. In one word, they think that you give +yourself the airs of a superior person. You pose as an _aristo_. They +believed when you came that you would amalgamate freely with us. We want +no women who decline to fraternise.” + +This was too much for my temper. I broke into open mutiny. “I shall +resign,” I cried. “You are bringing to bear against me the intolerable +tyranny of public opinion. I shall go back to the freedom and comfort of +the Despots.” + +His jaw dropped at this resolve. His eye glanced feelingly sideways +towards the bicycle. For a moment I feared Commissioner Lin would pin +him. “No, no,” he cried. “You must not do that. We all like and respect +you. We wish you to remain. But we wish you to be a sister. Give me time +to consider—to communicate with the comrades.” + +“Not one moment,” I answered, hardly liking this turn. “Hand me over my +money, and let me go! I have worked for a week, and the labourer is +worthy at least of his travelling expenses. I return to London.” + +He hurried back to the group who hung about the door of the Community +cottage, and spoke to them in low tones. Then he came again as envoy. +“All the comrades say, if you will reconsider your decision, they will +no longer insist upon your altering your demeanour.” + +“I will _not_ reconsider it,” I replied, growing really frightened, for +I caught Léon’s eye. “I go at once. Give me my money, and let me return +to the world I came from.” + +They debated again. Commissioner Lin watched the case in my interest. +Then one of the others approached. It was Léon—Caliban—the man with +the protruding lips. I had my hand on my bicycle, and was ready to mount +it. + +“This machine is ours,” he said calmly, putting his face close to mine. +“Whatever any comrade brings into the Community is common property. We +will give you your dividend and let you go; but this you must leave with +us.” + +My blood was up. The old Eve within me was roused. The American eagle in +my heart flapped its wings. I remembered how my fathers had fought at +Lexington (they were quite a property to me). “Sir,” I exclaimed, in my +most commanding voice, “you shall not touch my machine. If you venture +to detain it”—I tried to remember the worst phrases I had learnt at +Flor and Fingelman’s—“I will move for a mandamus to compel you to show +cause why you should escape the penalties of præmunire.” What it all +meant I do not know; but I am sure the effect upon Caliban’s mind was +most salutary. I have ever since had a vastly increased respect for the +law of England. + +They conferred again for a few minutes, with one eye on the +Commissioner. Then Rothenburg came forward once more as spokesman. “Will +you try it again for one week?” he asked in a really grieved voice. “We +shall be sorry to lose you.” + +“Not for one day!” I answered, a furtive gleam in Commissioner Lin’s eye +lending me courage. “Give me what I have earned, and let me go!” I asked +for it with the greater confidence because I felt sure in my own mind I +had done more effective work in the week than any of them. + +They paid me, murmuring. I retired to my cubicle, packed my knapsack in +haste, returned to my machine, and laid my hand on it firmly. But within +I was trembling like an Italian greyhound. Then I jumped into the +saddle, and waved my hand to my sworn brothers, with an affectation of +courage. “Messieurs,” I said—and to call them “messieurs” was to +excommunicate myself, to deny _camaraderie_—“Messieurs, you are a mass +of conventions. I wish you the very good morning. Your rules are too +stringent for me. I cannot away with them. I find myself too individual, +too anarchic for the anarchists!” + +Then I waved my hand again, and set my face sternly towards +civilisation, despotism, and the flesh-pots of Egypt. + +I was weary of dissent, and longed for the catholic church of humanity. +I must go back to London, and be once more a type-writer. + + + CHAPTER VIII. + CALLED “OF ACCIDENTS.” + +For the first three or four miles I kept on pedalling steadily. I grazed +the corners, not even daring to look back, for I was haunted by a terror +that Léon, with his lips, was on the track behind me. But I heard only +the cries of the anarchist babies, calling to their playmate to come +back in Czech and Yiddish. + +When I had escaped from the intricate tangle of Sussex lanes, and found +myself once more on the Queen’s highway of England, under the protecting +ægis of Britannia’s shield (in spite of the blood of the Pilgrim +Fathers), I paused to reflect upon the week’s adventures. + +A bicycle in full swing, I maintain, is not an ideal place for calm +reflection. Hence the face of the bicyclist. Moreover, I had started +without due attention to my screws, in my eagerness to escape from my +sworn brothers, the anarchists, into the open air of Banded Despotism. +So I called a halt, and dismounted for a moment to tighten my loose +joints, metaphorically and literally. My knees still trembled under me, +and the wraith of Caliban, panting ever in the rear, still pursed its +thick lips in my face to mock me. I felt like Pliable when he abandoned +Christian at the outset of his pilgrimage, and slank back from the first +slough to the City of Destruction. For, in the background of my heart, I +still loved and admired these simple earnest souls, eager after their +kind to right human wrong, and to attain human perfection. I saw their +comic side; but I saw also that the root of the matter was in them. They +had noble enthusiasms—all save Caliban; he was the serpent in that +ten-acred Eden. When I got under weigh again, at a good easy pace, +beneath rifts of blue through white summer cloud, I began to be aware +that my first fortnight of free life had culminated in two distinct and +acknowledged failures. I had failed to accommodate myself to the +environment at Flor and Fingelman’s; I had failed to accommodate myself +to the public opinion of the anarchists at Pinfold. Environment was +triumphing all along the line. I felt constrained to regard myself as +one of the unfittest, who do _not_ survive, and whom no man pities. + +Resolving myself into Committee of Finance, I found I had been acting +with reckless extravagance. Cash in hand amounted to four and +sevenpence—of which sum, four shillings represented my week’s earnings, +and sevenpence my balance from the bounty of St. Nicholas, after +settling for two weeks’ rent in London, with sundry expenses. It +occurred to me now (too late) that I had practically been paying twice +over for lodging—once in London by cash, and once at the Community by +giving my labour in return for a mere box of a cubicle. I felt so proud +of this discovery in economics, however, that I was almost inclined to +condone the error for the sake of its detection. In other ways, also, I +was demonstrably worse off than when I started. I had worn my pretty +brown cycling suit for a week in the stiff clay fields, not to mention +the fact that I had splashed it with mud in the vicarious effort to +rectify the lines of grace in my comrades’ riding; and I had done my +tyres no good on the rough roads of Sussex. Altogether, I was forced to +confess to myself with shame that I returned to London after this +escapade not only a wiser, but a poorer woman. + +To crown all, I had no longer the use of my type-writer. The thirty +pieces of silver for which I had betrayed my entire stock-in-trade, the +instrument of production, were spent and lost to me. St. Nicholas had +proved but a broken reed. I had leaned upon him, and he had pierced my +hand. Never again should I trust the hypocritical smile on the face of +that bland and benignant impostor! + +I pedalled on at half-speed. Little vocalists, ignorant of the name of +Mendelssohn, carolled songs without words in the sky overhead: but my +heart was heavy. + +Yet, after all, I had had my amusement, and bought my experience. + +A pheasant screamed; I mistook it for Caliban. Mr. Commissioner looked +up in my face and sympathised. + +It was still early afternoon; for Saturday was a half-holiday: we had +struck work at noon, and dined, before proceeding to the division of +profits. June was almost come, and the days were lengthening. I hoped to +reach London long before the hour at which the Banded Despots compel us +to light our red lamps in the public interest. + +Yet I was so delighted to have flung off the yoke of anarchy that I +could have fallen on the neck of a Banded Despot, had he appeared at +that moment, were it but in the guise of a Sussex County Constable. The +country smiled: if eglantine be sweet-briar, it bordered the road; if +honeysuckle, it scented the cottage porches. + +I rode on and on, glad to be free once more, though sorry to be poor, +and doubtful where I could turn for the next few days’ board and +lodging. The words of the anarchist alphabet, which I had learned from +the one British brother at Pinfold, recurred strongly to my mind— + + “F is the freedom that old England brags about; + If you haven’t got a dinner—why—you’re free to go without.” + +I felt sure I might soon taste that common privilege secured to all of +us by Magna Charta. + +In this mood I coasted recklessly down a slight hill near Holmwood, with +my feet on the rest, and my hands too incautiously removed from the +handle-bar. Behind me lay the Weald; in front rose the trenchant rampart +of the North Downs. + +At the foot of the slope was a sudden turn. As I reached the bottom my +hand gripped the brake—too late. I was aware of a Foreign Body, rushing +eagerly round the curve, with flying fair hair; next, of a considerable +impact; then, of myself on the road, sprawling, and the Foreign Body +with the fair hair wringing its hands beside me. + +She was a woman, fortunately. + +I raised myself with dignity. It is always a good plan, in case of +collision, to take the aggressive first. “You came round that corner +rather fast, considering how sharp it is,” I observed in a coldly +critical tone, whose effect was perhaps rather marred by the fact that +my fingers were torn and bleeding. This was sheer bluff, and I knew it. + +“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she cried, clapping her hands to her ears in an +agonised little paroxysm. I saw that she was slight and fair and +evidently frightened: a wisp of a figure, a fluff of amber hair, blue +eyes like April. + +“It was a nasty spill,” I went on, growing severer in proportion as I +realised that my antagonist was little inclined to defend herself (which +was a meanness on my part). “You should slow round corners. I hope you +have not hurt yourself.” + +She set to cry all at once. “A little,” she answered. “Or rather, a +great deal.” + +She was a timid small atomy. I began to regret my hasty sternness, the +more so as I knew I was at least as much to blame as she, for I had run +down the hill without my fingers on the brake, and had trusted to chance +at the turn of the corner. All this too, I admit, with a wheel that had +already been badly buckled. + +Happily, Commissioner Lin did not take it into his head to seize her. + +I tried to console her. Then I turned to my machine. Which shows that I +am a woman first and a cyclist afterwards; for I notice that your born +cyclist looks first at her wheels, and only proceeds in the second place +to enquire which of her limbs is broken. + +When I saw its condition, I recognised at once that my cup was full. +All, all was lost. The front wheel was twisted out of human recognition; +the tyre was punctured; I saw seven-and-sixpence worth of repairs +staring me full in the face before I could fall back upon my base of +operations in London. + +I blush to confess it; but I followed her example. Lexington faded away. +I burst into tears, outright, and sank down on the ground by my broken +cycle. I suppose the spill had shattered my nerves. Mr. Commissioner +squatted on his haunches and stared at me. + +How long we might have sat there, mingling tears together, it were hard +to say—had not St. George come by, in the nick of time, sword in hand, +to rescue us. + +He was not mounted as usual on his milk-white steed, but more +prosaically seated on the box of a dog-cart. Yet what matters that? A +cavalier is a cavalier, be he horseman or gigman. The knights who ride +in all their pride around the frieze of the Parthenon are only knights +in virtue of their possession of the noble quadruped platonically adored +by the Grand Vizier and his satraps. So I knew it was a St. George, +though in place of a lance he had a lancet in his instrument case. To +unimaginative eyes he was the village doctor. + +He pulled up his horse by the roadside, and called out to us cheerily: +“Anything wrong? Can I be of use to you?” + +“Not for me,” I broke out, fearing he would want to dress my wounds and +be paid for it; “I am not hurt at all. About this lady I do not know. +She cannoned against me, and somebody seems to have fallen.” + +St. George dismounted—if one can dismount from a dog-cart—a genial +giant. He looked at my hands, which were torn and bleeding, and +ingrained with sand and dirt from the road. “Excuse me,” he said, +gravely; “this is worse than you think. You have had a nasty wrench. +And, besides, the soil contains——” + +“I know all that,” I answered. “The germs of lockjaw. I have gone +through an ambulance course, and helped the trained nurse at an East-End +Settlement. Well, the germs must take their chance. Tetanus microbes +have a right to live like the rest of us, I suppose.” + +My manner was perhaps defiant. He smiled, not unkindly, a boundless +Pacific of a smile: his ears alone checked it. “Ha! an anarchist?” he +enquired, glancing back in the direction whence I had come. + +“Yes,” I answered. “From Pinfold.” + +“Tired of it?” + +“Very much so. I am on my way back to London and the Banded Despots.” + +He smiled again. “You must let me dress your hand,” he said, +persuasively. + +I drew back in alarm. “Oh, no!” I cried, for I had nothing to pay him +with. + +“Nonsense,” he went on with kind persistence, divining my thought in the +hot flush that came over me. “This is not a professional matter. A mere +passing courtesy to a lady in distress. Let me drive you to my surgery, +and then on to Holmwood Station. You won’t be able to get those machines +mended so as to return to town to-night. I can pack them both in. And +your friend will come with you.” + +There was no resisting the frank kindliness of his big genial smile. He +was broad-shouldered and large-hearted, with a face to match. I +clambered up into the dog-cart, and the fair girl sat behind. How he +annihilated space so as to pack in the bicycles as well I have no idea. +But the age of miracles is _not_ past, nor yet the age of chivalry. St. +George convinced me that both still exist. At a moment of despair, he +revived my waning belief in human nature. + +At the surgery, he washed my bleeding hands tenderly, spread an +antiseptic ointment and a cool rag on top, and bound it all up with +womanly solicitude. As a faint protest, I murmured at the end: “How much +am I in your debt?” But he smiled his expansive smile, and repeated, +“Nothing, nothing!” Then he examined the fair girl, who was the exact +counterpart of Michaela in the opera, and pronounced her sound in wind +and limb, though nervously shaken. Michaela wept at learning she was not +hurt; she would have fainted, I think, if he had told her she was +injured. + +When our wounds had been assuaged, he drove us down to the station. On +the way, Michaela grew gradually calm enough to communicate her +misfortunes. “I want to get to Leith Hill,” she said. “I was going there +when I was so unlucky as to upset this lady.” + +(My heart pricked me, but I refrained from confessing.) + +“Leith Hill!” St. George cried, with his hearty great laugh. “Why, you +are five miles out for it! You have taken the wrong road. You were +straight on the way to Horsham when I met you.” + +“Oh, I was afraid of that,” Michaela exclaimed, beginning to cry again; +she had a genius for tears that might have been utilised with advantage +for purposes of irrigation. “I—I was cycling with a gentleman.” + +“Indeed?” I put in coldly. + +“But I—I am engaged to him.” + +“Of course,” I answered. Having left anarchy and all its works nine +miles behind me, I affected to believe _no_ young lady could be +bicycling with a man _unless_ he were engaged to her. + +“And we kept together as far as Dorking,” Michaela went on; “but there I +stopped to speak to some friends I met by chance in the street, and +my—my escort went round the corner to buy some cigarettes; and when I +hurried on again to catch him up, I could not discover him; and I’m +afraid I must go back alone to London.” She spoke as though London were +in the heart of Africa. + +The doctor laughed. “You took quite the wrong turn,” he said. “Or +rather, you kept straight on, when you should have swerved to the right. +That unhappy young man must be seeking you now, on the summit of Leith +Hill, with many qualms of conscience.” + +“Do you think so?” Michaela cried, wringing her hands once more. She was +a study in helplessness. I could feel she was rich, brought up in +cotton-wool, and for her sake I was glad of it; for I wondered what she +would do if she should ever find herself face to face with real +misfortune. + + + CHAPTER IX. + I PLAY CARMEN. + +St. George joined tact to his chivalry. When we pulled up at the +station, he handed us both out, unloaded our iron steeds, raised his hat +with an amicable smile, and then, before we had time to thank him, +cracked a merry whip, and drove away hurriedly. My bandaged condition +forbade me even to grasp his hand; he vanished into the past, and was +once more a phantom. I never saw him again. Yet I have always been +grateful to that brief vision of a knight who saved me for one moment +from a passing dragon. If peradventure he happen to read these words, +will he accept my thanks for it? + +On the platform, as Chancellor of my own Exchequer, I had time to bring +in my private budget. It showed an obvious deficit. Had I been Leader of +the Opposition, I could have risen with scorn from the front bench, and +subjected it to a scathing—nay, a crushing criticism. In plain words, I +saw that I had not money enough to pay my way back to London, to take a +dog-ticket for the Commissioner, and also to carry my bicycle with me +(zone 50, one shilling.) This collision had proved even more disastrous +to my finances than to my hands. Two courses were now open to me. I must +cloak-room my machine—with little chance of redeeming it—or else +resolve to spend the residue of my days at Holmwood. + +The latter alternative being the more original of the two, naturally I +made up my mind to adopt it. I felt so poor and desolate that I looked +for the police to step in and disperse me. + +“I won’t go up to town,” I said curtly to Michaela. “I will spend the +night here.” I said “the night” only, instead of “my life,” lest she +should suspect me of exaggeration. + +To my vast surprise, this resolution, which I fancied of no importance +to anyone save myself, threw my companion into a tremor of anxiety. +“Then I can’t go either,” she cried, wetting her lips with fear. “If +_you_ stop, _I_ must stop with you, and telegraph up for my father.” + +I stared at her in astonishment. “Why so?” I asked at last. + +“Why, because—because of this _dreadful_ murder!” + +“What murder?” I inquired, reverting instinctively to Léon and his lips. + +She stared in turn. “You _must_ have heard of it,” she exclaimed. “It +has been in all the papers.” + +I remembered that at Pinfold we had been too much absorbed by the future +of Europe and the affair of the new glass-house ever to trouble our +minds about what chanced to be happening in the mere provincial world of +London. So I assured her I knew naught of it. + +She went on to explain to me that a woman had been found killed in a +first-class carriage—stabbed to the heart, and stuffed under the +seat—only three days before. + +“I _dare_ not travel alone,” she said, clasping her hands and opening +her blue eyes wide. “Do _please_ come with me.” + +This forced me to explain my financial position. My new friend declared +that that did not matter. Might she lend me a sovereign? A sovereign! I +gasped at the idea of such wealth. But I had further to make it clear +that my chance of repaying it was a vanishing quantity. + +She listened to my explanation with open-mouthed astonishment. I think +she had never heard of such poverty before—in one of her own +sort—though to me it was commonplace. “But you _must_ let me lend it to +you,” she said, drawing out the daintiest little lizard-skin purse I +have ever seen; “or, rather, you must let me pay you for the harm I have +done to your bicycle, and the difficulty I have brought upon you. That +is only fair. I ought to settle for your ticket up to town, and for the +mending.” + +I was compelled to confess. My duplicity had failed. “It was more my +fault than yours,” I faltered out. “I was reckless in my pace. You were +mounting a slight rise, with the wind against you: I was descending, and +had it in my favour. If anybody is to blame, it is I. Pray, pray, +forgive me.” + +She insisted in spite of me. “I shall take two first-class tickets.” + +My democratic gorge rose. “Never!” I cried firmly. “St. Nicholas +forfend! Not in my palmiest and most unregenerate days did I travel +first-class. If you consent to take two thirds, I will owe you for the +amount. You can give me your address; and whenever I am rich enough I +will repay you all. I have sufficient of my own to buy a ticket for my +dog and bicycle.” It went against the grain with me to receive this +favour from a stranger unseen till to-day; but I recognised that there +was no help for it. + +She took the tickets under protest. “Such _dreadful_ people travel +third—drunken soldiers and sailors!” + +“Brave defenders of our country!” I answered, remembering my father’s +profession. “It’s _Thank you, Mr. Atkins_, when the band begins to +play.” + +The liquid blue eyes stared at me in blank amazement. Rudyard Kipling, +one could see, was a sealed book to her. I think she had doubts of my +perfect sanity. Perhaps you share them. + +We arranged for our maimed mounts. I hold it one of the best points of a +bicycle, as compared with the noble animal, that it considerately +refrains from wringing your heart in the matter of sympathy. It has no +nerves. The train panted into the station. We explored an empty +carriage, free from the contamination of soldiers and sailors, drunk or +sober, and started off comfortably. + +Michaela took the precaution to peer under the seats beforehand. I am +not sure which of the two she expected to find—a corpse or a murderer. + +“This is nice,” she said at last, smiling, and recovering her spirits +for the first time since the collision. “We shall have the carriage to +ourselves all the way to Victoria. I gave the guard half-a-crown. I +_couldn’t_ travel with a man. I should be quite too frightened.” + +Some devil entered into me. I am subject to devils. My new acquaintance +was so insipidly fair, so mediævally shrinking, while I am dark and +modern, that I had an irresistible impulse to play Carmen to her +Michaela. “Have you reflected,” I said drily, “that a _woman_ may have +committed that murder?” + +It was heartless of me, I admit. My little companion was so timid and +shrinking. But the bolt fell flat. She clasped her hands and looked at +me. “I never thought of that!” she said. “How _dreadfully_ clever you +must be to discover it. Dreadful as well as clever! But I am _sure_ you +are not a murderess.” (She had a trick of emphasising one word in each +sentence.) “You are a _great_ deal too nice. You behaved so sweetly +about the ticket, you know, and the accident! Anyone else in your place +would have pretended it was my fault, and made me pay for the damages.” + +“That was only common honesty,” I objected. “Murderers need not be +deficient in common honesty.” + +“Oh, but they must be awful people!” + +“Murderers are not a class,” said I. “They are you and me, acting under +pressure of powerful impulses.” + +She glanced at me, more amazed than frightened. “I _know_ you would not +murder me,” she replied, less alarmed than I might have expected. “You +are so kind, though you are so queer. I feel quite safe in your hands. +With those honest eyes I am certain you would not hurt me.” + +I could have crept under the seat, I felt such a brute. I took her two +small hands in my bandaged palms. “You dear little thing!” I exclaimed, +“nobody could ever hurt you!” Then seven other devils entered into me +again, worse than the first ones, and I could not help adding, “Though +if I _wanted_ to murder, this is a unique opportunity. My bleeding +hands, and the evidence about the bicycle accident would suffice to +account for any number of blood-stains. Still, to stuff you under the +seat would be bad taste and vulgar.” + +She caught my eye, and laughed. “What a funny girl it is!” she cried. +“You _are_ so comical! But it isn’t the least use your trying to +frighten me. I can see the twinkle in your big black eyes; and I like +you in spite of your trying to be horrid. Do you know, I liked you from +the first moment I saw you.” + +’Twas impossible not to be taken by such charming childishness. She +cooed so prettily one was forced to love her. Before we reached Victoria +we were fast friends. Michaela thought me the queerest person she had +ever met, but, oh, so nice! Her tongue was loosed. She told me a great +deal about what a dear fellow she was engaged to. She spoke of him as +Toto. She also wanted to lend me a pound. But I sternly refused. I must +work out my own salvation in fear and trembling. (This Biblical trick +descends to me, no doubt, from the Pilgrim Fathers.) + +Michaela gave me her card at Clapham Junction—“Miss Allardyce” it +said—and begged me to call upon her. I was driven to explain that in +the rank of life to which I now belonged people did not call upon one +another; more particularly that the Jews of Onslow Gardens (I am +dropping into it again) had no dealings with the Soho Samaritans. +Michaela dissented from this finding: her position was that “a lady was +a lady.” I granted the truth of that identical proposition, but flatly +disallowed that all ladies had time for calling. I also pointed out that +my first consideration was bread, which brought tears again into her +tender blue eyes. We parted the best of friends. We even kissed one +another, though I am an infrequent kisser. She thanked me mightily for +my company, which made me feel small again. For I had upset her nerves, +broken her machine, and borrowed some shillings, which I scarcely dared +to hope I might have the luck to repay her. + +However, I took her address, and added one small square to the mosaic +design with which I am paving my possible future residence. + + + CHAPTER X. + SIC ME SERVAVIT APOLLO! + +Perhaps you think I have made too much of those ancestors of mine who +fought and bled at Lexington. That is always possible; if so, on further +thought, you will feel that there are excuses for me. My ancestors +bequeathed me nothing save the memory of their courage. Had I inherited +from them an estate in Middlesex, or even in Massachusetts, I might +dwell less on their valour. But since they have left me heiress of their +glory alone, ’tis natural that I should magnify the one legacy I have +received from them. To deprive me of that pittance were to leave me poor +indeed. Let me salve my indigence with the honour of the family. + +And, in truth, when I got back to my rooms in Soho, I stood in need of +every ghost among my ancestral warriors. All the dragons in London +flapped wings together in that narrow lodging. + +Picture my position. I had no money in hand, and no machine to work +upon. Besides, with my maimed fingers, it would be impossible for me to +type-write for three days at least. I had no prospect of food till my +wounds recovered. Even then, much must depend upon the chance of an +engagement; and for record of my “last place” what had I but my mocking +letter to This Indenture Witnesseth? + +_Must_ I fall back on the aunt, with her black thread gloves and her +Zenana Missions? I glanced at Commissioner Lin; no, a bone, and freedom! + +However, petty troubles are the mustard of life: they add pungency. +Besides, we are all Cinderellas with a fairy godmother. Her name is +Aide-toi-et-Dieu-t’aidera. I have never failed to find much efficacy in +Citizen Danton’s prescription. In hopeless circumstances our three best +allies are audacity, audacity, and again audacity. + +I made up my mind to be audacious. I have big black eyes, as Michaela +had truly observed, so audacity comes easily to me; celestial blue is +always shrinking. I presented myself at the door of my lodgings with the +air of one who had merely gone away for a few days’ bicycling trip, and +had thousands at her banker’s. I think my jauntiness impressed the +landlady. I spoke in vague terms of “a tour in Sussex,” and of its +premature close through the accident of a collision. Item, the knees of +my knickerbockers had distinctly suffered. However, as I had paid a +fortnight’s rent before I left, out of St. Nicholas’s benefaction, and +had been away for a week and a day, besides four days more or less spent +at Flor and Fingelman’s, I was still entitled to two clear nights’ +lodging. If the worst came, I might even stop on for another week +without paying. The mere fact of my return was a guarantee of +“respectability,” which, in the lodging-house acceptation, is a synonym +for probable continuous solvency. + +I commanded supper with my lordliest air. My landlady was too much taken +aback to refuse me. I suggested a chop, as though chops grew wild. She +acquiesced without a murmur. + +I have remarked already that I belong to a generation which has analysed +conscience away. But I am sorry to say analysis is not really one with +annihilation. Conscience resembles nature in that, when driven out with +a pitchfork, it recurs in spite of you. My enjoyment of that excellent +chump chop—grilled brown to a turn—was sadly interfered with by the +floating fear that I might never be able to pay for it. I had painful +qualms. Had my landlady been rich, I might have swallowed them with the +chop: but she was a reduced widow with one invalid daughter. + +Conscience, however, though it makes cowards of us all, does not (within +my experience) produce insomnia. I slept the sleep of the just, and woke +up an Antæus, or rather an Antæa. (This remark I offer as a contribution +to the unsolved problem whether or not I have been to Girton.) + +The sun was shining. The thrushes (at the bird fancier’s opposite) were +bent on justifying Browning, by singing twice over each careless +_leit-motiv_. I ordered breakfast with an undaunted face, like Leonidas +at Thermopylæ. The landlady, completely subdued, brought up coffee and +rolls as if I had been a duchess. I almost soared to an egg; as the word +hung on my lips, conscience stepped in with “Necessaries, yes; but +luxuries—that were an infamy.” I forewent the egg, though my long ride +had begotten in me a noble hunger. And I rather flatter myself that in +saying “forewent” I am enriching the language with a new preterite. +Oxford Dictionary, please copy. + +Breakfast inspired me with fresh hope. There is much virtue in a +breakfast. I began to surmise that I might have misjudged St. Nicholas. +Not the bland old bishop of the National Gallery—he was a humbug, I +felt sure—but that charming young benefactor in Fra Angelico’s panel; +could he be equally untrustworthy, and with so innocent a face? I, for +one, could scarce credit it. He seemed like the masculine counterpart of +Michaela. And Michaela was too mild not to be really guileless. + +At least, I would stroll round to the Strand and seek another interview +with the holy man. For the next two days it were futile to hunt for +work. Those bandaged hands must tell against me. So perforce I took +holiday. + +On Monday morning I sallied forth. I wore my little black dress and hat, +in which, even to myself, I looked absurdly proper. I love trudging down +the Strand. It may sound ungrateful to confess it, after the pains that +have been taken to make London ugly for us, but I find a weird charm in +its picturesque ugliness. When I reached the window of which I was in +search, a sudden thrill ran through me. It seemed as though I had +suffered some personal loss. My patron saint had disappeared! Not a +trace of St. Nicholas! + +If the embalmed body of the holy bishop had been missing from the shrine +where it lies at Bari, still exuding manna, I could not have been more +disconcerted. In my surprise and alarm I even ventured into the shop. +“The little Fra Angelico,” I cried, “in the window—what has become of +it?” + +My anxious manner made the astute proprietor scent a possible purchaser. +“Put up to auction to-day,” he answered. “You must be quick if you want +it.” + +“Where?” + +He mentioned a firm of picture-dealers in the West-End. + +I know not what possessed me—unless it were the fairy godmother—but I +hurried off to the sale-rooms. I had never attended an auction before, +yet I wedged my way to the front with the assured air of a buyer. + +I was only just in time. My patron saint was in the hands of the +slave-dealer, who expatiated, after the usual fashion of slave-dealers, +on his chattel’s youth, simplicity, and beauty. He also called attention +to the innocence and charm of the three sleeping maidens. His language +was florid. I could not help wondering whether, from some calm cell in +the heavenly monastery overhead, the angelic friar looked down with a +pitying smile on this vicissitude of his handicraft. How lovingly he +laid on his cinnabar and his cobalt! He painted that picture with holy +joy for some dim niche in a Florentine nunnery; could he have foreseen +how it would be bandied about, with unsympathetic remarks as to its +drawing and colouring, in the unsanctified hands of far northern +heretics? + +It was hateful to behold that lovely youth, with his long fair hair and +his delicate trunk-hose, held up for competition to the highest bidder. +The desecration sickened me. There he stood on tip-toe, his back +half-turned to us, with his three purses of gold, a rich and noble +saint, yet not wealthy enough to redeem himself from such last +dishonour! Oh, strange craft of the brush which could so give life to a +dead thing that, ages after its fashioner had mouldered into dust, my +heart still went forth to it as to a living lover! Men began to bid for +St. Nicholas. Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty guineas; seventy guineas for +the saint; slower, slower, slower. + +At last the auctioneer reached a hundred. Then came a long pause. I +could not bear to think that that coarse-looking dealer with the vulgar +laugh—fat, sleek, materialised—should possess my patron. A young man +with a sweet voice (on whose forehead I seemed to see the red star of +St. Dominic) had bid up to ninety-five. How I hoped he would continue! +But he was silent at the hundred. I could no longer contain myself. The +fairy godmother at my elbow impelled me. With an effort I gasped out, “A +hundred and five!”—just to keep up the bidding. + +“Going at a hundred and five! A hundred and five guineas! A genuine Fra +Angelico! This exquisite work! _So_ small a price! Does no other +gentleman offer?” He made a dramatic pause. Then down came the hammer. +“The lady has it.” + +In a second it rushed over me what I had done. I gasped in my +embarrassment. A clerk drew near and murmured something inaudible about +“conditions of sale.” Through a mist of words I caught faint echoes of +“Five per cent. at once, and the balance before to-morrow.” + +My face was fiery red. I had dim dreams of prison. The young man with +the sweet voice stole quietly up to me. + +“Excuse me,” he said, in my ear; “one moment, before you complete this +purchase. I want that picture. _Will_ you take five guineas for your +bargain?” + +“Five guineas?” I cried, aghast. “For a picture worth more than a +hundred.” + +“You misunderstand me,” he corrected. “I want that work very +much—though I doubt its authenticity: I believe it to be only a +contemporary replica. However, if you cede it to me, I will pay the +money down and give you five guineas over. I did not care to go on +bidding further against the dealer; he was running up the price: but I +will buy it from _you_. Do you accept my offer?” + +_Sic me servavit Apollo!_ Thus St. Nicholas saved me! I repented of my +distrust. Twice was he tried at a pinch, and twice not found wanting! + +In a haze, I assented. The stranger paid me the money, which I handed +over to the clerk, less my own profit. Then I went forth into the +street, a rich woman once more, with an almost inexhaustible capital of +five guineas. + +Was it St. Nicholas, I wonder, or the fairy godmother? + +The question is important, from the doctrinal point of view, for it +involves the conflict between the faith and paganism. + +But my own opinion is that the young man with the star of Dominic on his +brow was St. Nicholas himself, come down to earth yet another time with +a purse of five guineas for a maiden’s dower. So have I seen him more +than once descending from solid clouds, in _ex voto’s_ in Italy. + + + CHAPTER XI. + A SAIL ON THE HORIZON. + +“This story,” you say, “is deficient in love-interest.” + +My dear critic, has anybody more reason to regret that fact than its +author? I have felt it all along. Yet reflect upon the circumstances. +Ten thousand type-writer girls crowd London to-day, and ’tis precisely +in this that their life is deficient—love-interest. + +Remember, I am only telling you my own poor little story; and I am but +an amateur story-teller. The professional novelist keeps in stock in her +study a large number of vats, each marked (like drinks in a +refreshment-room) with the names of their contents in gilt +letters—“Sensation,” “Character-sketches,” “Humour,” and so forth. She +turns on the taps mechanically as they are needed. But by far the +biggest vat is labelled “Love-interest.” No matter what plot the +professional novelist may invent, she lets this tap run, as soon as her +puppets are devised, and drenches the whole work with an amatory +solvent, exactly as the chemist dilutes his mixtures with distilled +water to eight ounces. I, however, who am narrating to you the actual +history of one stray girl among ten thousand in London,—what can I do +but wait for the love-interest to develop itself? + +My name is Juliet; you may well believe I have had moments when I +thrilled with the expectation of a Romeo. But Romeos do not grow on +every gooseberry bush. It were unreasonable to expect that any mere man +is sufficient. You will admit, for instance, that neither the Grand +Vizier, nor Rothenburg of the watery eyes, was precisely the ideal +knight my fancy painted. St. George, to be sure, was a dear: but I +suspected him of one fatal flaw—being married. + +I waited and watched for that not impossible he; and the not impossible +he still lurked unmaterialised. + +When I came into my fortune (of five guineas) my first impulse was +naturally to repay Michaela (which I did at once by post-office order), +and thus to transfer that particular square of mosaic pavement from its +nether abode to some celestial mansion. My second was, to buy a bunch of +tea-roses for my lodgings: and my third, to redeem my type-writer, so as +to return to St. Nicholas, as some small mark of my gratitude, thirty +shillings from his latest benefaction. + +On further thought, however, it occurred to me that thirty shillings in +the hand are worth more at a crisis than a type-writer in the bush—a +mixed metaphor which not even the printer’s reader with his officious +query shall prevail upon me to rectify. If no work came, I could live +upon capital once more. Meanwhile, the machine could be of no possible +service. + +After three days, my hands were so far recovered that I began to look +about me for a situation again. I took up a daily paper and, in a column +of mixed wants, read another “Wanted” advertisement: “Lady type-writer, +with good knowledge of shorthand. Apply, Messrs. Blank and Sons, +Publishers,”—and the address followed. + +I liked the idea of a publisher’s office, and I liked that +advertisement. My theory is that a type-writer girl should call herself +a type-writer girl; but that an advertiser should do her the courtesy to +speak of her as a Lady Type-writer, or something of the sort: certainly +not as a (parenthetical) female. Also, I must have literature. The +literature at my aunt’s consisted of ladies’ newspapers, Bishop Jackson +on “The Sinfulness of Little Sins,” and books about the Holy Land. Here, +I should have access to the Springs of Culture. + +So I hastened to apply for the vacant post. I was not the first this +time; I met a girl on the stairs, less strong than myself, coming down +from the office with a most dejected countenance. If this were the +struggle for life, it made my heart ache (for her sake) to think I must +engage in it. However, I continued on my way, and boldly stated my +errand to the young man in attendance. That young man struck a keynote. +He was neat, well-dressed, and had a black fringe of moustache; in spite +of which advantages he was not supercilious. His voice was a +gentleman’s. He told me Mr. Blank would be disengaged in a moment; +meanwhile, would I take a seat? I sank into one and waited. + +The office was quite unlike Messrs. Flor and Fingelman’s. The anteroom +where I sat was exquisitely clean, and neatly fitted up with polished +shelves and wood-work. An air of quiet culture pervaded the whole; it +seemed to communicate itself even to the clerks. In the pigeon-holes +round the room stood rows of books in glazed paper covers, looking as +spotless and as tidy as if a woman had arranged them. Well-known names +adorned their backs. As for dust, it was not. + +In a few minutes came the word, “Mr. Blank will see you.” + +I followed my guide, expecting to be ushered into a rather bare room +with a venerable gentleman seated at a table; I pictured him, in fact, +as the exact original of the hale old grey-beard who testifies in the +omnibuses to the merits of Eno’s Fruit Salt. For the firm is one of the +most dignified in London. Instead of that, I found myself in a neat +study,—too cosy for an office, too severe for a boudoir. It had +curtains of silken Samarcand, and fittings of cedared Lebanon. It had +also a tawny Oriental carpet, and an old oak desk, at which sat a young +man of modest and statuesque countenance. I guessed his age at +twenty-seven. He rose undecided as I entered, like one whom native +politeness impels to an act which he half fears is ill-suited to the +occasion. As he turned towards me, I saw a face of notable strength and +culture; a finely-modelled nose, firm, yet soft in outline; acute brown +eyes, piercing, but gentle; abundant dark eyebrows that hung slightly +over them and gave a masterful air to their keenness and penetration. +His hair was black and shaggy, like a retriever’s. He was tall, but +well-knit. His eyes met mine as he gave a little inclination. A thrill +ran through me. I knew him as by instinct. I said to myself, “A Romeo!” + +I suppose I was the only person in London at the time who did not know +that the head of the firm had lately died, and been succeeded by his +son, an Eton boy and Oxford man, who had taken high honours. + +Romeo waved me to a chair. “You have come, I think,” he said, in a rich, +clear voice, pausing for a minute out of instinctive courtesy before he +seated himself, “in answer to our advertisement.” + +“Yes,” I replied; “I understand you want a type-writer girl.” + +His eyebrows moved up at the words. I could see they produced a +favourable impression. He was accustomed to the formula “a lady to +type-write for you.” + +“Exactly,” he answered, folding his hands, and trying to assume the +official tone of a man of business; though I was aware that he was +unobtrusively observing my dress and appearance, not as Ahasuerus had +done, like a cross between an Oriental monarch and a horse-dealer, but +like a gentleman of keen insight, accustomed to take things in at a +glance without disconcerting the object of his scrutiny. + +He put me a few stereotyped questions as to speed and qualifications, +which I was fortunately able to answer to his satisfaction. Then he went +on in a deprecatory way, “I must ask you, I am afraid, to write a little +to my dictation, and then transcribe what you have written. Excuse this +detail. One must test your ability.” + +“Of course,” I assented, producing my stylograph. + +“We have had applicants already who did not suit my requirements. One +left as you arrived. I—I was sorry not to be able to engage her; for I +judged her to be in want; but—she was quite incompetent.” He spoke +apologetically. + +“I met her on the stairs,” I replied. “She appeared to be downcast.” + +He gave me a hurried glance, for there was pity in my tone. “It is _so_ +unfortunate,” he said, “that one must insist on competence! For often +the incompetent most need employment.” + +“There is a beautiful story,” I answered, “about Robert Owen, when +somebody patted the head of a very pretty child at his school at Harmony +Hall. ‘You are like all the rest,’ said Owen; ‘you pat the prettiest. +But it is the ugly ones that need encouragement.’ That was true +philanthropy.” + +He looked me through and through. I took out my note-book, and assumed a +business-like air. He reached down a volume of some History of Greece, +and began dictating rapidly. The passage, chosen of set purpose, was +full of Greek names, and rather recondite words of technical import. I +saw he had selected it as a test of knowledge as well as of speed. I was +glad I had been at——But that would be confessing. I wrote rapidly and +well—more rapidly, I think, than I had ever before done; and I knew +why: he was a Romeo. + +“Do I go too fast?” he asked at last, looking up at me suddenly with a +gentle smile. + +“Not at all,” I replied. “You might try a little faster, if you like, as +you really wish to test me.” + +“And you know the names?” he inquired with an incredulous accent. + +“Perfectly. Please go on; ‘the hegemony of Thebes’ was the last clause +you dictated.” + +He continued to the end. “Bœotia thus lost the flower of her hoplites,” +were the words with which he finished. + +I wrote it all out in long-hand, very clearly and distinctly. He ran his +eye over it. “But this is excellent!” he said at last, glancing at it +close. “You have all the words right. You must have studied Greek, +haven’t you?” + +I temporised. “A little.” + +He paused again. Then, after a few questions to draw me out, especially +as to attainments, he began rather timidly. “This is precisely what I +want. I require a lady of education, who can take down instructions and +write letters to authors on the subject-matter of their works, without +need for correction. But—I’m afraid the post would hardly suit you. If +you will excuse my saying so, you are too good for the place. I do not +mean as to salary—that, no doubt, I could arrange . . . in accordance +. . . with qualifications.” He glanced quickly at my black dress again. +“But I fear—I fear you will find the work beneath you.” + +“You can set your mind entirely at rest on that score,” I answered +frankly. “I will tell you the plain truth—I am in need of a situation, +and shall be glad to get one.” + +He hesitated once more. “Still, I feel doubts of conscience,” he went +on. “I will be quite open with you. You may think me quixotic, but I +have ideas of my own—social ideas—some people might even say +socialistic. Here is this work, which I have it in my hands to bestow; +which I hold as a trust, almost. It would suffice to keep some poor +lady’s wants supplied—some lady who is in need of actual necessaries. +Now, I do not think it right that young gentlewomen who have all they +need already found them at home should compete in the market against +poor girls in search of a bare subsistence. They ought not to deprive +such girls of bread in order to add to their own pin-money. This +movement for ‘doing something’ on the part of well-to-do women is +pressing hard on the girls of the lower middle-class. Pardon my putting +it so; but you come from a home, no doubt, where you have all you +require; and you seek this work just to increase your income.” + +I thought it was sweet of him. I could see I was exactly the person he +wanted; yet for a matter of principle he was prepared to take someone +possibly less suited to his special requirements. I was glad that I +could answer with the ring of truth, “There, you are quite mistaken. I +am one of the class whom you desire to employ—in fact, a girl in search +of a bare subsistence. I do not say so in order to appeal to your +generosity; I only wish to obtain work on my merits for what my services +are worth in the open market. But if, as you say, I prove a suitable +person for your purpose in other respects, you need have no scruple on +the grounds you suggest about employing me. I have nothing to live upon +save what I can earn by type-writing.” + +He blushed like a girl of eighteen. He was distressed that he had driven +me into making this avowal. “Oh, forgive me,” he said, rising again from +his chair. “I—it was awkward of me to put it thus bluntly. But you are +so evidently a lady of education that I took it for granted—you will +understand my natural error. I only hesitated to give a post which might +be filled by a person in need of employment to an amateur who wanted +occupation and pocket-money.” + +“I quite understand,” I answered. “Out bicycling last week, I passed a +common where shaggy donkeys, with unkempt coats, stood in the sunshine +dejected, hanging their heads as if they had been reading Schopenhauer.” +(He looked up suddenly at the name with an inquiring glance.) “But their +mood was justified; for geese were tugging at the short grass hard by, +nibbling it close to the root; and I felt the four-footed beasts might +well be melancholy at the struggle for life when birds, winged creatures +that may career over the world, took to competing with them by grazing +like cattle, and snatched the bread out of the donkey’s mouth.” + +His face wore an amused smile. “But you are learned,” he put in. “You +might obviously be engaged in so much higher work—a teacher’s, for +instance.” + +“I should hate teaching!” I cried vehemently. “I prefer freedom. I am +prepared for the drudgery of earning my livelihood in a house of +business. But I must realise myself.” + +“I understand that,” he answered; “and—and sympathise with it. Well, I +apologise for my mistake. Under the circumstances, we need only proceed +to arrange the business part of this transaction.” + +He named a weekly sum. It was my turn to blush. “That is too much,” I +exclaimed. I could see he was fixing it, not by the market price, but by +what he thought a sufficient income for a person of my presumed position +in society. It was all so alien from Ahasuerus’s way of hiring a +Shorthand and Type-writer (female). + +“Not for so competent an assistant,” he answered, still nervous. + +Awkward as it might be to begin one’s relations with a new employer by +an apparent contest of generosity, yet I could not accept the sum he +proposed. I told him so in plain words; he insisted: I beat him down. +After a brief but well-contested skirmish, I camped on the field as +victor, though we compromised for a wage a little less than half-way +between what he wished to give and what I was prepared to accept. It did +not escape me at the time, however, that such a first step almost of +necessity entailed a certain sentimental tinge in our relations: they +would scarce be those of employer and employed, as regulated by custom +and political economy. + +When all protocols were settled he went on, “Can you come in at once?” + +“To-day, if you wish it.” + +“Oh, that would be such a convenience to me! I have matters to settle +which I do not wish to hand over just now to my clerks; it was my desire +that you should act as confidential letter-writer in my dealings with +authors, quite outside the business.” + +“I will begin this afternoon,” I said. + +“Our type-writing machine—the one I intended for you—is——” I forget +precisely which make he mentioned, but it was one to whose keyboard I +was unaccustomed. “Can you work with it?” + +“No,” I answered. “But I have my own. I will bring it.” + +“How kind of you! Though you must not continue to use it, of course. We +have no right to impose upon you the wear and tear. If you will tell me +which sort you prefer, it shall be here to-morrow. Meanwhile, for +to-day, if you would bring round your own, I should be greatly obliged +to you.” + +“I will go and fetch it,” I said, remembering that it lay close by in +St. Nicholas’s safe keeping. + +“How? In a cab?” + +I smiled. His politeness positively embarrassed me. “No; in my hands,” I +replied. “I am accustomed to carry it.” + +“But type-writers are so heavy,” he remonstrated. (I felt his anxiety to +treat me like a lady was leading to complications, and I half regretted +the Grand Vizier’s lofty sense of masculine superiority.) “Had you not +better take a cab?” + +“No,” I answered with firmness; for I felt I must put a stop to this +strain at the outset. An employer should know his place. “I can carry it +easily, thank you.” + +He looked at me with a curious look. I suppose I have the average +endowment of feminine intuition; and I felt sure he was debating in his +own mind whether or not he should tell me to call a hansom and charge it +to the office. It was my own old duologue of Inclination and Duty. +Inclination said, “Make her take it”; Duty interposed, “You must begin +as you mean to go on. This is an office matter. If she cannot work your +machine, and wishes to bring her own, she must convey it at her own +expense. You have no ground to stand upon.” + +After a pause in which, as I could see, either impulse got the upper +hand alternately, he compromised the matter. “Is it far?” he enquired. + +“Close by. I can fetch it in five minutes.” + +“Then one of my clerks will step round with you and carry it for you.” + +I blushed bright crimson. I had imagined shyness to be (like +“sensibility,” hysterics, and fainting) an obsolete disease of the early +Victorian epoch. I now knew that it survived into our own time. I could +feel the hot blood flooding my ears and cheeks, and running down my +neck. What on earth could I answer? How let the clerk see where I had +left my machine? How confess to Romeo to whose keeping I had confided +it? He could never understand that, to a girl of my temperament, those +golden balls were but the mystic symbol of the saint of Myra. I knew not +what to answer. I stood still and blushed; and my blush it was that +betrayed, yet saved me. + +Lifting my eyes one second in a mute appeal, I saw right into his soul +as he stood there, facing me, more nervous, more embarrassed than ever. +I saw he divined that I lived in some poor quarter, or had a drunken +mother, or something equally discreditable, and was ashamed to let his +clerk know it. But he withdrew, like a gentleman that he was to the +finger-ends. “How stupid of me!” he went on. “I see, of course, it would +be unpleasant for you to walk down the street with one of my +clerks—though they are nice young men, all of them. Excuse my +_gaucherie_. But—you are coming in at once to oblige me; I ought to +have arranged to have a machine here to suit you. Won’t you please take +a cab, and allow me to—to charge it to the office?” + +He had got it out at last. I changed colour once more. To hide my +shyness—for to my vast surprise, I was speechlessly shy by this time—I +pulled out my handkerchief. As fate would have it—fate that mocks at +human souls—I drew with it from my pocket a little square of blue paper +which fell, face downward, on the floor. How can I confess the truth? It +was—the counterfoil or ticket I had received for my machine from the +representative of St. Nicholas. + + + CHAPTER XII. + A CAVALIER MAKES ADVANCES. + +I grieve to hint a doubt of my chosen patron, but enlarged experience of +St. Nicholas has led me to believe that he lacks consistency. His action +is jerky. Though he will often sweep down, as of old, in a pale haze of +glory, to rescue some votary from instant shipwreck, he is hardly a +saint in whom a girl can repose implicit confidence. At tight places of +social trial he is apt to fail one. + +I had but one consolation. The ticket had fallen on the floor face +downward. + +I stooped to pick it up. My cheeks, I feel sure, must have glowed with +crimson. Shame tingled in my ears. But Romeo was beforehand with me. He +raised the scrap of paper and handed it to me, still face downward, with +a faint inclination. I lifted my lowered eyelids. My swimming eyes +parleyed with his for a second. I cannot say whether he was aware what +manner of thing he was passing me; but I fancy he _did_ know. Yet if he +knew I felt sure he interpreted the episode aright, for his glance was +one of mute respect and sympathy. + +I crushed the unspeakable pasteboard into my pocket, never uttering a +word, and rushed, hot and red, from the room, without daring to speak to +him. + +On the stairs I debated whether I could ever come back. Prudence and +Shame fought it out between them. Prudence won. I determined to go on as +if nought untoward had happened. + +I might have failed, even so, in my resolution, had it not chanced that +my road to the Depository of my machine lay past the eating-house where +I was wont to retire for bodily refreshment from Flor and Fingelman’s. +As I reached the door a hand touched my arm. I looked round, startled, +and saw the Grand Vizier, outward bound from luncheon, with his hairy +hands, his goggle eyes, his shiny black coat grown green on the seams, +and his false diamond pin shaped like a shoe of the noble animal. + +“Good-morning, miss,” he said in a pert tone. + +I echoed his salute, and made as though I would pass on hurriedly. But I +noted in his accent, even from the three words he had spoken, a change +of mien; he was almost what for him might be deemed respectful. + +“Look here,” he went on, striding after me, and keeping abreast of me +against my will. “That was a devilish clever letter of yours—to the +governor, you know—a _devilish_ clever letter!” + +“I am proud to have earned the approbation of so competent a critic,” I +answered in my chilliest voice. “Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley——” + +He glanced at me with suspicion. I think his first and most flattered +idea was that I mistook him for a distinguished baronet; his second, +neutral in tint, that I was mad; his third, and most reluctant, that I +was poking sly fun at him. + +“Look here,” he began again—it was his formula for introducing a fresh +paragraph in his converse—“I’ve got an invitation for you. I’ve been +looking about for you everywhere. Will you come with me on Thursday +night, dress circle, at the Olympic?” + +He rolled it out impressively, as one who felt sure that the solemnity +of the dress circle would subdue my stubborn neck. + +“No, thanks,” I answered; “I never go to theatres with casual +acquaintances.” + +Then I walked on still faster, for I foresaw that I must often meet him +in future, since our offices lay close together; and I judged it best to +let him see at once I did not crave the honour of his society. + +“Oh, but this is on the square,” he went on. “You don’t understand. You +think I don’t mean right by you because I am a gentleman in a position +of Trust and Responsibility, and you are”—he was about to say “a +type-writer girl,” but he checked himself in time and substituted for it +the phrase “a lady stenographer.” “While you were at the office,” he +went on, “I couldn’t treat you on equal terms, of course, because of my +official position. But when I read that letter I saw at one glance you +had brains; and I like a girl with brains, and I mean to walk out with +one.” + +“Indeed?” I answered. “Then I advise you not to waste your valuable time +on a woman who does not pant for that privilege.” + +He let his mouth drop open. “But it’s a ticket for two,” he +expostulated, “given me by a friend of mine who takes a part in the +piece. You’d better think twice. It isn’t every day one gets a chance of +a seat in the dress circle. And if I go at all I like to take a young +lady.” + +This marked advance. I had gone up in the world. At Southampton Row I +had been “a young person.” + +He continued to talk, and I continued to turn my coldest shoulder. + +At last we reached the door of the Depository. The goggle eyes ogled me. +I saw that some violent act was needful if I were to escape persecution +at the man’s hands in future. I paused by the step. “I am going in +here,” I said, bravely. + +The Vizier did not observe the peculiar character of the shop as a +shrine of St. Nicholas. “I will wait for you,” he answered, waving one +hairy hand with cheerful promptitude. + +I braced myself up for a deadly thrust. “I have left my machine here,” I +went on in a cold clear voice, “and I am going in . . . to redeem it. I +shall then carry it home. A Gentleman in a position of Trust and +Responsibility will not like to be seen by my side as I carry it.” + +He glanced up at the mystic sign—one glance, no more. I saw his face +grow pale. To so respectable a man such conduct was inexplicable. Refuse +a ticket for the dress circle, and yet—— + +I darted in, with the same fierce flush of shame and repugnance as +before. But this time the need for getting rid of him had given me false +courage. + +When I emerged with the machine, a limp flaccid creature, half-dead with +disgust, the Grand Vizier had melted away, disappeared among the +phantoms. So again Apollo or St. Nicholas had saved me. + +Our courses crossed afterwards in the street many times. But his +tolerance of type-writer girls had its proper limits. He tacked across +to the other side as I hove in sight lest he should be exposed to the +risk of having to acknowledge a salute from so compromising a person. + +I will say for St. Nicholas that though he has curious methods of +bringing about the deliverance of those who trust him, he is a gentleman +at heart, and he usually succeeds in the end in giving effect to his +benevolent intentions. + + + CHAPTER XIII. + CONCERNING ROMEO. + +It is a far cry from Verona to London. The ways of the Corso are not the +ways of Pall Mall. Therefore, when I admit that my heart cried “A +Romeo!” you are not to infer that I had fallen in love with him. I +merely mean that I recognised in my new friend the type of man who might +conceivably command my heart and me, should fate so will it. + +When Romeo of Verona first saw his Juliet at the Capulets’ masque, ’tis +on record that, at first sight of her, he forgot fair Rosaline (for +whose sake but one hour earlier he was dying to die), and seizing his +new goddess’s hand, assured her, without preamble or introduction, that +his lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stood to smooth that rough touch +with a tender kiss; while Juliet, in return, was prepared to avow at a +glance that if the stranger were married her grave was like to be her +wedding bed. Those be the modes of Verona, as vouched by Shakespeare. +Our northern hearts, however, have not the instant electric +responsiveness of Italian breasts. Love with us is the child, not the +mother of acquaintance. And though I thought of my Romeo as Romeo from +the first moment I beheld him, never calling him in my soul by any other +name, yet ’twas but some prophetic fancy on my part. For many weeks he +figured as no more than my employer. + +Juliet of Verona, if I recollect aright, when she flung herself upon +Romeo, was not yet full fourteen till Lammas night; at her age our +northern maid, with her fair hair down, has conceived a romantic +attachment for chocolate-creams and the prettiest of her governesses. I +was twenty-two; and twenty-two, that mature age, takes time to consider. +Moreover, it waits till its Romeo asks it. + +For, pretend as we will, the plain truth is this: woman is plastic till +the predestined man appears; then she takes the mould he chooses to +impose upon her. Men make their own lives, women’s are made for them. +Why, one of my dearest friends at the Guild—an ethereal being—was wont +to pace the garden with a vellum-covered Rossetti or Pater in her +pocket, composing chants-royal to the moon and to divine love, till a +man loomed on the horizon—a man in a Norfolk jacket, with a commission +in the Guards and estates in the Midlands; whereupon she exchanged the +Rossetti all at once for a blear-eyed ferret, and strolled about the +lanes accompanied by a fox-terrier and a Cuban bloodhound. This is not +poetical, but ’tis life as I have noted it. + +To cut moralising short, I settled down at once to work at my Romeo’s. + +When I arrived there with my machine, more dead than alive with shame, +the good-looking clerk carried it upstairs for me reverently. He was a +comely youth, with a clean round face, Devonshire apple cheeks, and +pleasant parsonage manners; he came, indeed, as I discovered later, from +an Exmoor rectory. A table was set for me in Romeo’s own room. I feared +to invade that sanctum. “Am I to sit right here?” I asked. He smiled and +answered, “Right there.” So I took my place under protest. Thenceforth, +I was part of the furniture of his study. + +My life at Romeo’s was a life of routine. Now routine (varied by +outbreaks) is excellent for the nerves; but it does not afford material +for romance. It is the drab of life: art insists rather on the purple +and scarlet. So I make no apology for dealing with it here only in a few +brief episodes. + +All our history is episode, with blanks between, which just serve +conveniently to divide the chapters. + +At home, my social circle was limited to Mr. Commissioner Lin: my +conversation to “Did ’ums, then? did ’ums?” At occasional intervals I +dined with my aunt, who abode at Paddington: but I did not yearn to make +that joy too common. My revered relation has all the vices of the +decayed gentlewoman: unheroic vices, which interest nobody. She hoards +bits of string, and half-sheets of note-paper. Her table, her ideas, and +her discourse are meagre. She entertains angels, disguised as curates, +and is a prop of the Deaconesses’ Institute. + +At the office, I had my seat in Romeo’s own room. Poverty emancipates. +It often occurred to me how different things would have been had my dear +father lived, and had I remained a young lady. In that case, I could +have seen Romeo at intervals only, under shelter of a chaperon; as it +was, no one hinted the faintest impropriety in the fact that the +type-writer girl was left alone with him half the day in the privacy of +his study. Not that this freedom gave me much occasion (at first) for +talk with Romeo. He was courtesy itself, and by nature conversible: but +his chivalrous feelings, and his sense of my isolation, made him chary +of speaking. He dictated all day, or left me to transcribe; but he +seldom broke silence save on matters of business. + +Nevertheless, from the outset, he was markedly kind to me. I had two +nice boys at hand to run errands and carry my notes; one, a skimpy +London imp, compact of saucy humour; I called him Puck: the other, a +slender lad of fifteen, pale, delicate, girlishly pretty, with long +straw-coloured hair and a distracted manner, whom I rechristened Ariel. +Romeo gradually adopted this trick of speech from me. It is a habit of +mine (as you may have observed) to invent names for my friends; and +these generally stick—I suppose because I borrow them as a rule from +the poets, who have classified us into types which recur perennially. + +After I had been at the office a few weeks, I happened one day to slip +into some Americanism. Though I have seen little of America (having gone +there but once on a visit to my father’s folk at Salem when I was not +quite fifteen) I have inherited from my ancestry not a few Massachusetts +idioms, one or other of which I sometimes let drop, unconsciously to +myself, in the course of conversation. Romeo snapped at the word at +once. “Why, you must be a New Englander!” + +“Not quite,” I answered, flushing. “My father was born at Salem, an +American citizen; but he became naturalised in England young, and was a +British officer.” + +“Not in the army?” Romeo cried, surprised. + +“Yes,” I answered. “Why not? A colonel.” + +I grew hot as I spoke. For the first and only time, I think Romeo +doubted me. “Then you—must have—a pension,” he broke out, slowly. + +It was partly desire to avoid telling the truth, partly a certain native +love of mystification—or rather of piquing other people’s curiosity; +but I answered with a touch of defiance, “An officer’s daughter loses +her pension on marriage. I may be married, perhaps—or separated—or a +widow.” And I bent down over my work to hide my heightened colour. + +He gazed at me for a second; his eye fell on my left hand; then he +glanced away. I could see him saying to himself he had no right to +cross-question me. But interest in me prevailed. He drew near, and stood +over me. “You must forgive my persistence,” he said, gently, in his +modulated voice—each syllable clear as crystal—“but I feel constrained +to ask you. Have you really a pension? . . . . For if so, you have +misled me.” + +I looked up at him with proud eyes. My father’s blood rose hot in me. “I +must tell you the truth,” I said, “or you will think I am ashamed of my +father. I am not ashamed; I am proud of him. He was an English colonel; +but I have no pension. He was a very brave man. He threw up his +commission, in time of war, at a moment of danger, almost in face of the +enemy, because he would not carry out orders which seemed to him unjust. +And he died of anxiety and fever just after, on the West Coast of +Africa.” + +“I remember the case. Pray forgive me. It was cruel of me to drive you.” + +“Not at all. I am glad you did. Now you will understand better.” + +I rose, flushed, and faced him. “They say a soldier should resign his +conscience into the keeping of the Queen’s advisers. My father could +not. He felt wrong was being done. He would not make his judgment blind. +He left me poor by it; and I am proud of it—proud of him.” + +“You have reason to be proud,” Romeo answered. “I recall it all now. His +previous record showed it was courage, not cowardice. I honoured him for +it at the time—though the world thought otherwise.” + +“Thank you,” I said in a low voice. “May I go now? It is nearly five. +And I feel, after this, I can do no more work this evening.” + +He opened the door for me and bowed even more respectfully than usual. +There was sympathy in every movement. I felt he understood. I felt I had +made a friend. I felt, still more surely than before, that _this_ was my +Romeo. + + + CHAPTER XIV. + “NOW BARABBAS WAS A PUBLISHER.” + +I regret to say that from that day forth Romeo was more marked in his +courtesy to me than ever. His manner had always a tinge of sweet antique +courtliness; but now he surpassed himself. I regret it, I say, because I +was afraid I recognised in this courtesy some lingering undercurrent of +class feeling. The dear fellow would have been polite to a type-writer +girl from the dregs of the people, no doubt—he did not know how to be +less than polite to anyone; but he was politer still when he understood +that I was an officer’s daughter, and (as he learned a week later) that +my mother had sprung from a great Anglo-Indian family. This was treason +to his principles; for Romeo, as he had said, was more than half a +socialist; but I condoned that fault for the sake of his unvarying +kindness. + +Besides, I think he thought well of me because I was loyal to my +father’s memory. As though anyone who had known my dear father could +have been otherwise! + +Romeo published for Sidney Trevelyan. From the moment when I first +noticed “An Heir of the Plantagenets” among the rows of books in glazed +paper covers in the pigeon-holes, I had always longed to be present some +day when the famous novelist came in to discuss royalties or _éditions +de luxe_ with his publisher. Sidney Trevelyan’s name was like Charing +Cross or Hyde Park Corner—a familiar piece of public property. One +afternoon I had my will. I was seated at my table, clicking away at some +letters, when I heard on the stairs a rich strident voice, diffusing +itself very loud in clear shrill accents. I know not which struck me +most, its richness or its stridency. It was a sonorous voice, which one +turn of a note would have made unendurable. “He is in his lair?” it +said, filling the room. “Plotting schemes to suck my blood? Then I will +track him to his earth—the young vampire. My dear Barabbas, how are +you?” + +He burst into the sanctum, a whirlwind of a man—large, loose-limbed, +masterful, with a restless grey eye, and a huge mop of brown hair, shot +with threads of russet. Romeo rose to greet him. He flung himself into a +chair. It creaked beneath his elephantine weight. I left off clicking at +once, and went on with a piece of long-hand transcription. Or rather, to +be frank, I feigned to transcribe, though my pen was inkless. + +As a rule, when authors came, ’twas my place to leave the study for +awhile, and take refuge with Puck and Ariel in the anteroom. But as the +great man entered—two yards of humanity, double width—Romeo signed to +me to remain, with a quick movement of the eyebrow. He knew my wish, and +was kind enough to remember it. I counted it to him for righteousness. + +Sidney Trevelyan sniffed, and scanned the room, with its Oriental +hangings, and its scent of cedar-wood. “A nice den, Barabbas, a nice +den!” he observed, in a condescending tone; “an Ali Baba’s cave, rich +with bones of authors; vastly improved since the days of the old +robber!” + +Romeo winced. Like myself, he respected his father. + +“You have garnished it afresh,” the great novelist continued, “from the +spoils of the Egyptians. You have decked yourself in purple and fine +linen! Well, ’tis well you should be comfortable in this world, no +doubt: for in the next——But I refrain from painting a Tartarean +picture. Dante has done it so well before me that, like the grocer in my +street, he defies competition. I see you, my dear Barabbas,” he raised +his voice still louder, almost lapsing into a falsetto, “I see you +lolling here in Eastern opulence, bathed in Cyprian perfumes, and fanned +by obsequious Circassian odalisques”—I _felt_ him glance my way, though +my eyes were fixed on my paper; “I see you, like the sultan in Shelley’s +_Hellas_, surrounded by large-eyed houris, of voluptuous bosoms, who +strew your restless pillow with opiate flowers—I call your pillow +restless, my dear fellow, partly because that was Shelley’s epithet, if +memory serves me, but partly also because a publisher (especially a +young one) can scarcely expect to enjoy sound slumber; later on, no +doubt, as he becomes hardened in crime, he sleeps as well as a digestion +impaired by old port permits; but at first, remorse must disturb his +fitful rest—I see you, I say, with opiate flowers on your couch +stripped—what was the rhyme?—ah, yes, ‘flowers,’ ‘pillow’—stripped +from orient bowers by the Indian billow. That is the picture—_here_. +But at last comes the awakening.” He struck a dramatic attitude, and +held up one hand; he had impressive fat hands, which seemed always in +evidence. “You start from your sleep like Mahmood. ‘Man the +seraglio—guard! Make fast the gate!’ You dream yourself still lapped in +Eastern magnificence. Then . . . . ha! what’s this? An odour of +brimstone—a pallid whiff of blue flame—Mephistopheles smiling grimly +on the victim he has landed—you know where you are—unlike the current +hero of music-hall romance—you stretch dim hands of fear and grope—you +sink down, down, down, on a couch of liquid fire. ‘All is lost! Why was +I ever a publisher?’ In which of his circles did Dante place publishers? +Was it not close between the avaricious and the prevaricators? But aloft +in the empyrean, pillowed on purple cloud, meanwhile, I enjoy that +delight upon which Tertullian insisted as a prime element in the ecstasy +of the Blest—the delight of beholding you——But your satellites +overhear me! Sense of discipline forbids! Barabbas,” he waved his hand, +“I draw a veil over your future condition!” + +He paused for want of breath. Most fat men are sluggish: this mountain +of flesh was alive and volcanic in every atom. Romeo began in his soft +voice, “And on what particular conspiracy of crime have you come to-day +to consult the habitual criminal?” + +Sidney Trevelyan smiled. He liked to be taken in his mood. “Well, my +business,” he said, “is, as you anticipate, a fresh raid against the +purses of the Philistines. We must spoil them, my dear Barabbas; we must +spoil them, in unison. Here, our interests are identical. They have +taken two thousand, I see, of the three-volume ‘Mahatmas.’ That’s not +enough; you must issue at once a six-shilling edition. Grovelling +beasts, prone in the mud they love, what do they mean by rejecting this +so great salvation? Let Mudies see to it! I shall answer their neglect +by flinging back ‘Mahatmas’ in their teeth for six shillings. I know +whence it comes, this rebuff: those ignorant parrots, the critics. They +toss at me ever their parrot cry of ‘Artificial, artificial!’ Their own +thoughts grub and grunt in the mud of their sty, and they blame it to +the eagle that he should circle about gleaming icy peaks in clear ether. +‘Unnatural,’ they say; ‘Overloaded.’ That man Snigg, or Snagg, or +Snogg—something Teutonic and unlovely—I decline to remember his +honoured name—he reviewed me in the _Parthenon_. He has no wings +himself, and therefore he thinks flight an indecent gambolling. But what +do I care for the whole crew? Not an obolus, not a doit—neither for +Snagg nor Bagg, neither for Archer nor Parcher.” + +He paused again to catch breath. In the lull, Romeo put in quietly, “It +is too soon, in my opinion, for a cheap edition.” + +“No, Barabbas, it is not; it is the psychological moment. The world +awaits it with hushed breath. Six shillings—bound in cloth—Irish +linen—dark green—a subtle shade—a shade I have in my mind’s eye—like +lavender leaves in spring, when the sap mounts emerald through sea-hoary +stems. You catch my idea? A green not wholly green, not altogether blue, +not grey, not glaucous, but something of all, and more than all; with a +cunning design by that mad young Belgian—withy-bands that twist into +interlacing dragons; the title in their midst, in somewhat Celtic +letters.” + +He broke off abruptly. Once more I could feel him glance my way. I +seemed to see through the back of my head. I was sensitive to his +movements. + +Suddenly, he burst out in a quite different voice, snorting like a +war-horse: “Send that young woman away!” he cried, executing a sort of +ponderous rhinoceros-dance before me. “Send her away! I tell you I can’t +stand her. I won’t have her scribbling there and making notes of all I +say. She’s a paragraphist—a paragraphist: the vilest spawn on God’s +earth, a paragraphist! What do you mean by setting spavined shorthand +writers to report my _obiter dicta_?” He advanced towards me, striding: +I had risen hurriedly. “Go off!” he cried, waving his hands at me as if +I were a gadfly. “Go off! I won’t be listened to and paragraphed. I +could feel you paragraphing me. Away, young woman: away with you.” And +by dint of sheer bulk, he drove me before him. + +Romeo opened the door for me. He spoke with deference. “I think, Miss +Appleton,” he said, “you had better take a seat in the anteroom for the +moment, as your presence here seems to disturb Mr. Trevelyan.” + +I went out, mystified. As the door closed behind me, I heard the great +man snort again. “Now, really, Barabbas, if you choose to keep dusky +Samian slaves chained in your lair for your hours of leisure, you should +have the decency to unchain them when fellow-conspirators come in with +proposals for a joint campaign against Askelon.” + +I sat in the anteroom for half an hour. Ariel gazed in my face with +sympathetic inquiry. “The old bear was rude?” he asked at last, in a low +voice. + +“I might almost call him so.” + +“It is his way,” Ariel replied. “He seems to wipe his shoes on one.” + +“But he’s not a bad old chap, either,” Puck put in. “He chucked me +half-a-crown once for going a message for him.” + +“And called you a Tartar-nosed imp,” Ariel added; “and hit you in the +eye with it.” + +“He is a very great genius,” I observed, sententiously, half to salve my +own offended dignity. + +“But a genius is a man,” Ariel remarked. And I felt he had reason. + +Twenty minutes later, the famous writer emerged. He cast a scowl at me +in passing. “Change your type-writer woman!” he said curtly to Romeo. +“Good-bye, my dear Barabbas. Rob on, rob ever.” His broad back vanished +down the staircase like a sinking hippopotamus. + +“Well?” Romeo asked, with an anxious face, as I returned to my post when +the tornado had passed. “Now you have seen him, what do you think of +Sidney Trevelyan?” + +“I think,” I said, “I would rather be a Barabbas than a Byron.” + + + CHAPTER XV. + FRESH LIGHT ON ROMEO. + +“Sidney Trevelyan is a great man,” Romeo said to me later; “but his +ideas are _too_ great—especially his idea of his own greatness. This +taints life for him: he moves in an atmosphere of social suspicion. ’Tis +his fixed belief that all the world is always thinking of him, when it +is really doing as he does—thinking of itself. He imagines reporters as +a sultan imagines poison, or as a tsar imagines nihilists; he scents a +paragraphist in every hedge, and a critic in every stranger.” Which +explains, I suppose, his odd behaviour. + +But my own opinion is that he needed an audience; I could catch it in +his voice that he meant me to overhear; because I affected to be +absorbed in my work he thought I was not listening, and that made him +angry. + +Romeo was kindness itself to me; yet I dare say I might never have grown +to know him better had it not been for the special providence of an +accident—or the accident of a special providence; put it whichever way +best suits your philosophy. + +Straying one afternoon through the Cretan labyrinth of Soho, I happened +to note a young girl, very poorly dressed, but with the air of a lady, +staring in at a confectioner’s. Her face struck a chord. I ransacked my +memory for it in vain. Then I recalled in a flash where I had met her +before; she was the girl whom I had passed on the stairs at Romeo’s on +the day when I went to apply for the situation; the girl whom I had +supplanted in the struggle for existence. + +Her shrinking figure, her whipped air, made me turn to ask an inevitable +question: “Have you found work yet?” + +“No, none,” she said dejectedly. “How came you to know I wanted it?” + +I explained where I had seen her, and how I had heard or guessed her +errand. She seemed unduly grateful. My heart was touched, for though I +doubt not you think me, on my own evidence, a heartless young woman, I +_have_ a heart, after all, when aught occurs to rouse it. I reflected at +once how even my gentle Romeo had said of this poor child that she was +hopelessly incompetent. Still, the incompetent have mouths to feed, and +bodies to clothe, and possibly, also, souls to save, like the rest of +us. The struggle for life has not quite choked out my soul (if I have +one). I invited her to my room for a cup of tea, and an ounce of +sympathy. Her gratitude was a satire on Christian charity in this town +of London. I found she could type fairly well, though quite +unintelligently, like a well-trained Chinaman; but she had no machine of +her own, and no money to buy one; nor could she undertake work where +dictation was necessary; though, given a copy, she could reproduce each +word with mechanical fidelity. + +It flashed across me at once that all day long I was away at Romeo’s, +and did not need my machine. “Better come here,” I said, “and use it. I +will find you manuscripts to transcribe; we have plenty of such work to +give away at the office.” + +She fawned on me like a dog accustomed to ill-treatment, and for once +used kindly. The ravenous way in which she ate bread and butter would +have satisfied even the Charity Organisation Society as to the +genuineness of her hunger. She was painfully grateful. Her gratitude +distressed me. After that we became fast friends. It is true, she was +terrified at the first smell of tobac—— But I forget; that delinquency +I have hitherto concealed from you. However, she used my machine every +day, and I helped her in the evenings. Pale, blue-eyed, colourless, with +thin hair tied up in a knot the size of a nutmeg, she was built on the +same lines as Michaela (whom I always remembered), but with this +trifling difference—that Michaela was rich, while my new little friend +had not a cent to bless herself with. One was bound in Morocco, with +gilt edges; the other, a cheap edition, in paper covers. + +Her name was Elsie, her front name, that is to say; for she had another, +I suppose, a surname; but I took no heed of it. Surnames lie on the +surface of things, and do not interest me. They are of this age, +utilitarian; while I, who dwell ever in Once-upon-a-time, care little +save for the persons and dates of fairyland. We give each other +surnames, indeed, only so long as we are mutual phantoms; once pierce to +the underlying realities of human life, and we call one another by pet +names, like so many children. + +In time Elsie became to me a sort of adopted daughter. She was older +than I to be sure; but her helplessness and incompetence inspired in me +at last that sense of motherliness which we women love—does it not come +out in us even toward our dolls in childhood? Her affection was canine. +I found work for her from a type-writing office hard by—simple work, +selected with a special eye to her limitations. She toiled at it with +that patience which one observes in the squirrel who turns the unceasing +treadmill of his cage; for minds of a certain calibre prefer routine, +which would kill a thinking animal, to any task that calls for the +slightest exercise of intelligence. As long as she was permitted to go +on copying like a machine, Elsie was perfectly happy: a doubt or a query +seemed (as she said) to comb her brain; she lost heart before an +alternative. + +I spent little time in my room myself, save for the strict necessaries +of sleep and breakfast; at other times I was driven out of it by a work +of art on the walls—the Portrait of a Locket. It represented, or rather +represents (for doubtless it still exists), a gold locket and chain, +reposing on an ample black silk bosom, with a woman’s face and hands in +the background. The face and hands, so far as can be seen, are fat and +placid; the hands crossed; the face featureless. Flesh-tints and +modelling, however, cast much rude work upon the imagination. I had not +courage enough to suggest the removal of this gem to my landlady, who +valued it highly as “a real oil-painting”; but it, and two vases, drove +me out, I will not say to the public-house, but to the public buildings. +I retired at odd moments to my drawing-room in the National Gallery, or +to the hospitable electric light of the British Museum. Elsie, on the +other hand, was not repelled by the locket or the lady. I had now no use +for my machine, and she worked on it constantly. She and the +Commissioner struck up a violent friendship. It did her good to have +some living creature at hand in the room to whom she could talk in the +intervals of click-clicking. To enlarge her circle I added in time a +starling and a canary, whom we christened Beef and Mustard. The canary +was Mustard because of his colour, and the starling Beef because there +was so much more of him. + +One of the points which had barred Elsie’s way in the matter of +obtaining employment, she felt profoundly convinced, was her religious +opinions, which were soundly narrow. This happily enabled her, like +Rothenburg, to gild her penury with the halo of the martyr. + +For myself, I suspect that incompetence had more to do with her failure +than religious prejudice; but that is a private conviction. She was a +Positivist, or a Plymouth Sister, or a member of some other uncanny +small sect; I will plead guilty to discriminating ill these minor brands +of creed; I am hazy as to the true distinction between General and +Particular Baptists (though, perhaps, a Particular Baptist uses soap); +and I always mix up Swedenborgians with Irvingites. It was a surprise to +Elsie to find that her form of faith seemed to me a question of small +import either way. I hold that most men are human, and, still more, most +women. My tolerance astonished her. When I suggested that perhaps at +that very minute Swedenborg and Irving, John Knox and Thomas à Kempis, +might perchance be gazing down upon us with kindly eyes and an amused +smile from some sequestered garden bench in one of the spacious +pleasure-grounds of the Celestial City, where they sat in rapt converse +with the soul of John Glas, who first prospected her own strictly +provincial path to Paradise, she turned her face to me with mingled +delight and terror. My view seemed to her sweet but highly heterodox. +She refused to her God a breadth of sympathy which she instinctively +admired in a fellow-creature. + +One evening I came home and found Elsie at work on a piece of +transcription which was evidently too deep for her. It was poetry, she +said, in an awed whisper: she had been given it at the office under a +promise of secrecy. But the arrangement of the long and short lines of +complicated stanzas, which needed some care in the adjustment of +margins, was evidently beyond her. She looked tired and worried, and was +mildly tearful. “Besides, dear,” she said, smoothing my hair, “there are +such difficult words in it—words nobody could spell; not even you, I +believe—such as _myrrh_ with two _r_’s and an _h_. I can’t manage them +anyhow.” + +“Dictate to me,” I said; “I can write for a bit. I’ve not done much +to-day, and I’m hardly the least bit tired.” + +She dictated several strophes. I was not surprised that she found the +words hard. “Chrysoprase” “mandragora,” “anaglyph,” “Libitina”—these +lay some miles outside poor little Elsie’s vocabulary. + +At first I noticed only the rare richness of the language, the +many-faceted words, set like jewels so as to show their full beauty; +gradually, as she dictated, I began to be aware that the verses she read +aloud to me in her infantile sing-song were not merely rhyme but also +poetry. I do not pretend to the name of critic; but I judged them to be +written with limpid felicity. They had that artlessness which comes of +the apt use of the perfect word without show of effort. Each noun and +adjective fell so naturally into its place that one fancied the writer +could have used no other—till one began to reflect that only studious +care results in so absolute a sense of inevitability. And the poems were +statuesque; they had none of the tropical exuberance of our time; they +were Greek in their austerity. + +“Who is the author?” I asked, curious to know the name of the poet with +this Ionic note, new to our English Helicon. + +“They didn’t tell me. They wished me not to know. He particularly +desired that his verses should be kept secret.” + +She went on dictating in her mechanical way. My hand struck the keys +rapidly. At last she paused, near the close of a curious variant on the +Spenserian stanza. “There’s a word I can’t make out,” she murmured. +“‘True woman has the magic’ _something_——” + +I took the manuscript from her hands. + + “True woman has the magic Midas gift; + Touched by her hand, dull clay transmutes to molten gold.” + +But that was not what made me give a sudden cry of surprise, and then +turn red as a peony. The verses were written in Romeo’s hand. And Romeo +was their author. + +In a second I was buried in them, like a bee in a crocus. I felt he was +even more to me than before. I had believed him a publisher; now I knew +him a poet. No Barabbas, but a Byron. + +How long I lay awake in my garret that night—thinking of whom but of +Romeo! + + + CHAPTER XVI. + I TRY LITERATURE. + +Next morning at lunch time, as I crossed Long Acre, I caught a glimpse +of Michaela, in the gondola of London, steering rapidly northward. A big +summer hat, all wild roses and gossamer, half hid her face, like a wild +rose itself, pink and white and delicate. + +At sight of me she recognised me, and stopped her hansom short for a +second to grasp my hand. I was pleased at her remembrance. She had come +from Waterloo, she said, and was hurrying now to catch a train at +Euston. She looked radiantly happy; I told her so. Her face flushed with +pleasure; she leaned forward and confided to me in a thrilling whisper +that she was to be married in the autumn to the friend whom she had lost +on the day I first met her. I wished her joy, and waved my hand. She +vanished, smiling, towards Euston and the Unknown, a phantom once more +among the flickering phantoms. + +Happy at her happiness, I tripped back to Romeo’s. She was an airy +little thing of gauze and bergamot, like a breath of fairyland. + +That afternoon Romeo’s talk to me was more human than usual. It was +always plain that he wanted to talk, but a sense of the official nature +of our relation restrained him often. To-day he spoke much of woman’s +place in literature. So many women, he said, wrote of life with a note +of personality rare among men. They put more heart in it. Even squalor +or crime grew less base when they handled it. + +Half unconsciously to myself, I murmured under my breath, + + “True woman has the magic Midas gift; + Touched by her hand, dull clay transmutes to molten gold.” + +I murmured it quite low; but he caught at the words with a sharp gasp. +“Where did you see that?” he asked quickly. + +I was forced to confess, “The lines occurred in some verses a little +friend of mine—I told you of her some days since—had for copy +yesterday from a type-writing office.” + +I tried not to let him know more; but, for a woman, I am a poor +dissembler; my colour or the trembling of my lips betrayed me. + +“Did you see the manuscript?” he inquired. + +“Yes; I helped her to transcribe it.” + +“They promised secrecy!” he cried. + +“And you shall have it,” I answered. + +He paused a moment. “But _you_ were the last person I would have wished +to see them,” he went on, his face twitching. + +I knew why. In some of them an allusion, a description—here, a +blue-veined eyelid; there, a gloss like a swallow’s wing on a woman’s +smooth hair—had seemed to me familiar. + +He paced up and down the tawny carpet for awhile. Then he broke out once +more. “I have written verse since I was a boy,” he said. “It has ever +been my ambition to be found worthy of the crown of poet. But if I +printed these lyrics under my own name, what use? I could but give a +handle for Sidney Trevelyan to ask in the _Saturday Review_ ‘Is Barabbas +also among the prophets?’ Nobody will take a publisher’s rhymes +seriously. So I decided to issue mine under an assumed name, and with +another firm, that critics might at least be rude to them on their +merits. For that purpose I had them type-written—and not by you. I am +sorry you have seen them.” + +“And I am glad,” I answered. “You may not care for my opinion; but these +verses are masterpieces of handicraft. You have the rare gift of +reticence. Besides, you understand the fitness of words; you appreciate +their melting shades of tone; you feel the emotional atmosphere with +which each is girdled.” + +“Thank you,” he said, checking himself. “And _you_ are one of the few +whose praise I value. You speak well of my work for the qualities I +strive to have, not for those I know I have not.” + +From that day forth he was much more at home with me. You see, we shared +a Secret in common. + +When his volume came out, several months later, it made no stir in the +world; but it gained the approbation of five or six out of the +twenty-three men and women in England who love poetry. It will yet be +known, I think; for though the public often flock together like sheep +after some noisy impostor, true poetry is always forced upon them from +above by the chosen few who can discover and impose it. The few are +frequently obscure, and bear no hall-mark; but they know one another by +the two gifts which make a critic—insight and foresight. + +My knowledge of this book drew me nearer to Romeo. Having once accepted +the fact that I knew of his work, he consulted me time and again as to +type and paper—sometimes also as to the choice of an epithet or a point +of cadence, when two equally-balanced alternatives divided his +preference. Should it be _lurid_ or _livid_? was _ruddy_ or _russet_ the +better? This led us into talks not altogether official. Though always +reticent, he began to treat me less as a type-writer and more as a +woman. + +This quality of reticence, which I observed in Romeo’s self no less than +in his work, impressed me profoundly. I admired his quiet strength, his +calm, his urbanity. I am not urbane myself, and I fear I must grant that +I am rather vehement than strong; therefore I respected all the more +these traits in Romeo. One honours one’s complement above one’s +counterpart. He never spoke strongly; he reserved strength for action. A +week or two after Sidney Trevelyan’s visit I asked him one day whether +the cheap edition of “Mahatmas” was going forward. He smiled his +restrained smile, and answered, “No, certainly not; I never intended +it.” + +“But Mr. Trevelyan was so urgent, so instant; he had quite made up his +mind.” + +“Yes; that is unimportant. The moment had not arrived, and I told him +so, calmly. He is a rock when opposed; but calmness, like faith, can +move mountains. I did not oppose him at the time; opposition just then +could only have irritated him. I saw the state of his soul; he came to +me, seething internally with suppressed wrath at the critics. I let him +blow off steam; in such circumstances I judge it unwise to sit upon the +safety-valve. He opened his heart and had it out, flinging many hard +jibes at me and at the public. That relieved the tension. I let three +days pass; then I wrote an ultimatum, stating quietly what I thought. He +gave in at once. The cheap edition shall not appear till the autumn.” + +Such masculine absence of fussiness pleased me. + +Once or twice when I discussed with him he asked me seriously why I had +never written. I laughed off his assault. He returned to the charge; so +much racy material going to waste in my own adventures. I told him of my +work among the East-End slop-makers! “Ready-made stories,” was his +verdict. I doubted my own faculty. He was sure I possessed it. + +This encouraged me to narrate my experience at Pinfold. +“Anarchists!—and they blamed me because I could not fall in love to +order!” + +“You are an intrepid young lady,” Romeo said. “Do you know, I doubt if +you quite realise always in what galleys you have embarked.” + +“I think I do,” I answered: “but I have confidence in myself and my +guardian angel.” + +He urged me to try my hand at a short story of the modern girl who earns +her own living in London—“for example, this little friend who uses your +type-writer,” he added with a clever side-thrust; I was grateful to him +for thus diverting the theme from my own personality: “there is no more +pathetic figure in our world to-day than the common figure of the poor +young lady, crushed between classes above and below, and left with +scarce a chance of earning her bread with decency.” + +“I fear,” I said, “I have no knack of pathos; even at difficult turns I +am apt to see rather the humorous than the tragic side of things.” + +“So I note. But why not try; your own late adventures, for instance?” + +I felt that that romance had not yet reached its _dénoûment_; but I +refrained from telling him so. I promised to make an attempt, however, +with one of my earlier East-End reminiscences, or else with a little +vignette of the infant anarchists, unsullied by soap, pulling +Commissioner Lin’s tail, while their sisters turned the House that Jack +built into Czech and Yiddish. + +For a week or two I worked hard in my stray moments at this my poor +little literary first-born. I put its phrases in curl-papers till I was +sick of twisting them. When it was ripe for the birth, I confess I +thought meanly of it. Mine own, but a poor thing, to reverse +Touchstone’s saying: I brought it to Romeo, trembling. He read it and +was enthusiastic. For the first time now I felt sure he really cared for +me; what else could so have blinded his critical faculty? For he was a +judicious reader. + +He praised it as if it were the work of a consummate artist. His +encouragement was unstinted. I will not repeat what he said as to my +style; you, who are reading my second effort in that line, would be +painfully aware how much personal partiality must have warped his +judgment. + +“It is so breezy,” he said. “You write open-air English.” + +“I learnt it on the moors, among the whins,” I answered. + +“This eclogue must go into the magazine!” he cried; for, like most other +great houses, the firm published one of its own. + +I drew a line at that. “Oh, no,” I cried, flushing. “You are too kind, +too generous. I will not allow it to be printed where—where personal +acquaintance and your recommendation may disturb the editor’s calmer +opinion. I must send it to someone else. Then it will be weighed for +what it is worth, and if it is accepted, I shall know on what grounds.” + +“But I shall be sorry to lose it,” he exclaimed; “for the magazine’s own +sake. When one discovers a new writer, one wishes to keep the full +credit of the discovery.” + +I looked down to hide my burning cheeks. “No, no,” I said firmly. “You +are too flattering—too good. Your”——I paused to think how I could +best word it; “your knowledge of me predisposes you too much in my +favour.” + +He looked at me and hesitated. “Not my knowledge alone,” he corrected; +“my . . . friendship, my——” + +He did not say “affection”; but we raised our eyes in unison; and in a +flash of those eyes each knew that he meant it. + +There was a long pause. I was aware of my heart, which called attention +to its existence by a violent throbbing. I went back to my machine and +began typing mechanically. Then he added all at once, “But quite apart +from that, I _want_ this story; I want the honour of publishing it, +because I see it is a good one.” + +I went on clicking. “You cannot separate these things,” I said, without +looking up. “A person is a totality. We do not know, ourselves, how much +of any feeling is due to this cause, and how much to that. Nothing ever +goes wholly free from either fear or favour. But I have made up my mind. +I shall send it to _The Pimlico_.” + +I sent it in the end; and, to my great joy, not unmixed with surprise, +the editor accepted it, in a chastening letter. He did not say, like +Romeo, “a gem of English”; he called it on the contrary, “high-spirited +if flippant”; but he printed it none the less, and forwarded me a cheque +for twelve guineas. + +Twelve guineas! Such wealth seemed to me almost incredible. I felt like +an Argonaut. + +Still, Romeo was vexed. “We ought to have had it,” he said; “for, after +all, you were _my_ discovery.” + + + CHAPTER XVII. + A DRAWN BATTLE. + +It was about this time, if I recollect aright (for _I_ am the girl who +does not keep a diary), that Romeo invited me to dinner. + +I have two reasons for my avoidance of the besetting sin of +diary-writing. The first is that I am usually dog-tired with work when +evening comes, so that to ask me to fill in a journal with the day’s +events is like asking a galley-slave to take a scull in a pleasure-boat +after his toil is over. The second is that if you keep no diary it +cannot be used in evidence against you. As yet, ’tis true, by rigid +self-examination, I have steered clear of capital crimes; but I remember +always Ophelia’s wise saw, “We know what we are; we know not what we may +be.” + +Romeo invited me with caution, and tentatively. He began by remarking, +as if for no special reason, that he was giving a dinner next week at +the Savoy—a dinner devised for a particular purpose. Then he added +after a while that his mother would be there. This to inspire +confidence, dear fellow! as though I ever doubted him. Next he inquired +in a rather timid voice whether, if his mother picked me up by the way +in her brougham, I would mind joining the party. “My mother has not +called upon you yet,” he murmured in an apologetic parenthesis, looking +up at me askance from under his ridged eyebrows with an interrogative +lid; “but—perhaps you would waive that.” From the way he said it I +could read much. I felt instinctively she was a black-satin old lady of +the straightest sect; Romeo had implored her to call; she had refused +point-blank to go and see a type-writer girl who lived in one room in an +impossible street in Soho. Romeo had begged and prayed; the mother had +presented the true stiff neck of the black-satin order. Then Romeo had +planned this dinner as a means of introducing me, confident (dear boy) +that if once we were brought together, his mother—well, would think as +much of me as he did. Poor purblind Romeo! I pitied him for that. How +little had he fathomed black-satin psychology! + +I hesitated a moment. Not on Romeo’s account, nor even on the +mother’s—I do not fear the smoothest black satin; but because of the +mere material difficulty of a gown, which just at first rose +insuperable. Otherwise I thought so much of Romeo now—he had begun to +play so large a part in the unwritten dramas of my future with which I +lulled myself to sleep—that I felt at all costs I must be present at +this dinner and face the mother. A mother is almost inevitable; the +sooner one gets over her, like measles, the better. + +I had one evening dress, or the ghost of one, which had descended to me +from the days when I was a lady. Its sleeves carried date; but the +bodice and skirt were of that fanciful kind which is above the fashion, +and therefore never either in it or out of it. The colour was +sweet—white, shot with faint streaks of the daintiest pink, like the +first downy stage of budding willow catkins. On the other hand, I was +still in mourning for my dear father. Had I loved him less I should have +shrunk from wearing that gown; but my sorrow was not of the sort that +measures itself by yards of crape, which is why I have troubled you with +it so little in this narrative. I reflected a moment; then I answered, +“Yes; it will give me great pleasure.” + +That it gave Romeo great pleasure was visibly written on his face. He +had expected a _no_, and was delighted at my acceptance. I knew by his +eyes he had anticipated and even exaggerated the dress difficulty. I did +not misinterpret his pleased look, however. I never thought Romeo was in +love with me; I knew he was interested in me, both personally and as a +possible authoress; and I saw he wished much to bring me officially into +his mother’s circle. More than that, I did not believe, or rather, if I +am to tell you the precise truth, I thought Romeo was falling in love +with me by slow steps, but mistaking his love for mere interest and +friendliness. + +For a week I was a woman, not merely a type-writer. I worked hard at +that gown, first planning, then executing my alterations. Dear little +Elsie helped me with it like a Trojan. Nay, in cutting out and fitting +she displayed or developed unexpected talent. When dress was in question +she was no longer stupid; the woman in her grew; she showed taste and +skill; indeed, I have noted in life, throughout, that taste has no +necessary connection, direct or inverse, with intelligence or stupidity; +it is a native endowment which may break out anywhere. She was glad it +was a dinner, not a dance; her religious opinions would not have +sanctioned her assisting me with a ball-dress. But all sects alike +approve the habit of feeding. I must admit that when it came to the +details of my gown she showed herself at once most frankly worldly. +Elsie had little chance of making dresses for herself, poor child; but +she aided me with her needle and her advice till I was truly grateful. +The way she reorganised the sleeves to a Parisian model made one believe +in alchemy. We spent a few shillings on new tulle and lining. Every +evening we had an orgy of dressmaking: whole packets of pins, snippets +of silk on the floor. Before the end of the week we had transformed that +old gown of mine into a joy for ever. It was better than new; as it fell +in soft folds the blush showed on the ridge and cream-white in the +hollows. When I tried it on, Elsie bent over me enraptured. “You dear +thing!” she cried, hugging me (to the danger of the tulle), “I always +knew you were pretty, but I never knew till now you were splendidly +beautiful.” + +And I will honestly admit that the frock became me. + +The day arrived at last. Elsie came round to help me dress my hair. We +made more of this dinner than I should have made of being presented in +the days of my grandeur—such as it was. Dear little Elsie had brought +me some flowers from a friend’s garden at Ealing, choice sweet-scented +flowers, with a background of maidenhair. If I had believed her, I would +have thought no fairy princess ever looked more radiant than I looked +that evening; and, indeed, our joint efforts on the gown repaid us with +interest. When the last touch had been given Elsie kissed me on both +cheeks. “He will propose to-night,” she whispered. “I know he will: he +can’t help himself, dear. You _are_ so captivating!” I blushed, for I +had never mentioned his name to Elsie; but then, I forgot that Elsie too +was a woman. + +At ten minutes to eight the brougham arrived at the door. Never before +had our street beheld so distinguished an equipage. This was +unfortunate, for the children next door came to gaze at me with dirty +faces and unaffected interest, exclaiming, “Oh, my, don’t she look a +reel lidy?” as I made a rush for the carriage. + +Romeo’s mother was precisely what I had painted her—a Lady Montague of +the severest, with coffee-coloured point-lace, a Cornelia one shade too +stout for the mother of the Gracchi. Her smooth white hair looked not +gentle, but forbidding; she listened to what I said with well-bred +reserve: too stiff to acquiesce, too polite to contradict, too stony to +show interest. + +At the hotel, we were ushered into a handsome private room, most +gracefully decorated with crimson arabesques on white panelling. The +party consisted of Romeo and his mother with some six or eight more +(including a prebendary), among whom the chief guests seemed to be a +certain amiable-faced Lady Donisthorpe and her husband, Sir Everard. I +name them in this order, for though the husband was a man of some force +and character—early English, comfortable—Lady Donisthorpe, like Paul, +was the chief speaker. She seemed what is called “a womanly woman”—one +of those tranquil women with soft, rounded outlines, who look like wax, +but within are flint. She reminded me most of all of a pouter pigeon. + +She apologised much because dear Meta could not come. It was _such_ a +disappointment. The poor child had been taken ill—nothing serious she +was glad to say—but impossible to go out. She hoped Romeo would excuse +her. Romeo expressed most courteous regret at dear Meta’s enforced +absence; though I, who knew him now so well, and was used at the office +to note the varying degrees of cordiality or boredom in his reception of +authors, inferred at once from his eyes that he was somewhat relieved at +heart by dear Meta’s non-appearance. It was clear to me, too, that Lady +Donisthorpe flung Meta inartistically at his head; twenty times during +the evening she referred with a rigid smile and a puff of the pouter +bust to one of dear Meta’s sweet ways or to something delightful that +dear Meta had said or done for somebody. The impression she left upon me +was that Meta must be an insipid paragon, with all the virtues and their +concomitant insupportability. Romeo’s absent smile at each such +advertisement of Meta’s charming qualities—“so gentle,” “so +unaffected”—made me feel convinced that he was of the same opinion. + +To put it plainly, Lady Donisthorpe showed want of tact in her crude +mode of placarding Meta. + +She had another trick of manner which disturbed my peace of mind; like +most of the newly-enriched, she attached an excessive importance to the +after all somewhat negative quality of ladylikeness. The highest praise +she could accord to each achromatically charming girl of her +acquaintance was that of being “a perfect lady.” She flung the phrase in +my teeth. Apart from the fact that it seems to imply a somewhat narrow +standard, I always suspect women who insist upon this point of being +themselves cotton-backed ladies. + +I knew her type: she belonged to an aristocracy recruited by the names +of all the best-known brands of beer, soap, and whiskey. + +I protest, however, that just at first I began by treating Romeo’s +mother and Lady Donisthorpe with the utmost cordiality. For had I not +good reasons for desiring to conciliate them? But their treatment +chilled me. I could see they had come prepared to dislike me for a +conceited upstart. In return, I soon found I disliked their texture. +Cornelia was cold; I felt she regarded my humour as ill-timed. Lady +Donisthorpe had the vulgar fear of vulgarity. I do not share it; nature +is vulgar enough; we can only be “perfect ladies” on the Donisthorpe +pattern by shutting our eyes, shutting our ears, and shutting our noses +to most things around us. Now, I will not shut my eyes nor my mouth +either. If facts obtrude themselves, I recognise them. I fear Lady +Donisthorpe thought it painfully unladylike of me to have lived in the +East-End, and positively rude to tell stories of slop-makers. She raised +her tortoise-shell glasses at the very word as a mute protest. + +In fine, both were conscious of a social barrier. So was I—with a +difference. Lady Donisthorpe moved in what calls itself “good society,” +but _genteel_ would have been scarce too hard a word to describe her. + +Romeo’s mother swept in to dinner on Sir Everard’s arm, a three-decker +under full sail. Romeo offered me his; I gathered it was because Meta +had not arrived as expected. Always handsome, he looked handsomer in +evening dress. A waxy white flower lay on each plate: Romeo pinned mine +on my bodice. Lady Donisthorpe’s placid eyes did not let the action pass +unnoticed. + +The dinner—by which you shall understand the food—was the best I ever +tasted. The champagne, in the judgment of one who is no judge, was a +thought too dry, but delicious. The _mousse de jambon_ was an epicure’s +dream. I really enjoyed myself. Besides, I was conscious that Romeo +liked my dress and felt some mild surprise to see how well I looked in +it. He had hitherto known me in my black office gown alone. I forgot my +poverty and was once more a lady. + +It suits me better. I blossom under it. I did not even object to Sir +Everard for being a millionaire; it was hardly his fault; millionaires, +after all, are an outcome of the age: one can but regret that they +absorb its income. Lady Donisthorpe’s talk reeked of wealth till I felt +it would be delightful to get home at night and see something cheap +again. My seat was between Romeo and a clever young man, with keen eyes +and _pince-nez_, a rising physiologist. It relieved me to learn he was +not an electrical engineer; all the young men I used to meet in my +præ-type-writing days had been given over to riotous electrical +engineering. My neighbour’s hobby was a cheerful one—the identity of +genius and madness. He took _Paradise Lost_ and the Vatican frescoes for +premonitory symptoms of acute mania; he held the steam-engine to be a +by-product of the insane temperament. Yet he urged his thesis so well +that, on his own showing, I foresaw he must be qualifying for residence +in an asylum. When I told him so, he cavilled at my graceful compliment. +To escape his retort, I turned to the other side and joined talk with +Romeo and the prebendary. I do not know what a prebendary does; his +functions are more mysterious than even the archidiaconal; but I have +said I love mystery; and I found the prebendary a capital talker. + +Romeo was charming, as always—more charming to me that night, I +fancied, than ever. Perhaps it was because he had never seen me dressed +like a human being before; but also, I think, he was conscious of his +mother’s keen eyes and Lady Donisthorpe’s steely glance; smiling ever +her set smile, she felt Meta’s chances were slipping from her visibly. +She was an ox-eyed Hera, a little run to seed, and now almost cow-faced, +but cat-like in her watchfulness. To counteract the chilling effect of +the two mothers—one a feather-bed, the other a poker—and to put me at +my ease, Romeo behaved with the sweetest courtesy. He talked to me; he +drew me out; if I ever can be brilliant (which ’tis not for me to judge) +I was brilliant that evening. I flashed to my own surprise; Romeo’s +admiration, and the two elder women’s scarcely concealed hostility, put +me on my mettle. + +I was not angry with his mother; it was comprehensible, of course; +mothers are made like that. We erect each other into a class, and judge +accordingly. Could any woman with an aquiline nose, and white hair +neatly dressed by an immaculate maid, sit by unperturbed while her only +son paid open court to a type-writer girl? I suppose I should have felt +as she did, had I been put in her place. Being put in my own, I +naturally did my best to let myself be seen to the greatest advantage. + +So did Romeo. Having brought me there, he was determined I should be +treated with proper respect. He insisted on talking to me; Lady +Donisthorpe’s cat-like graciousness, Cornelia’s Roman austerity, only +increased his anxiety to do me honour. The more his mother froze, the +more Lady Donisthorpe, smiling her mechanical smile, and gently +crushing, raised her tortoise-shell eye-glasses to decide whether I was +human, the more did Romeo draw me out, and the more did I scintillate, +till at last all the table was talking to me or listening to me. I +laughed and raised laughter; I sparkled and parried. When Lady +Donisthorpe interposed sweetly, “And so you type-write at the office! +How fatiguing it must be!” on purpose to disconcert me, I had my +repartee ready: “At least it preserves me from being a perfect lady.” I +could see Romeo was pleased. I was a social success. I had justified his +temerity. + +In the midst of our fencing, of a sudden, Cornelia drew out a gold +pencil, wrote something on a card, and handed it across to him. Romeo +glanced at it and crumpled it up; I could guess by his face her note had +not pleased him. “As you will,” he answered across the table; then he +turned to me once more. “That was delicious,” he said; “and what did you +reply to him?” + +I went on with my story. Still, I could gather that he was annoyed; not +only annoyed, indeed, but perplexed and troubled. Dinner solemnised, we +withdrew to the comfortable divans of the balcony for Turkish coffee. +All the party crowded round me, save the two mammas; they did not sit +apart, but, joining our group, they preserved an austere moral +aloofness. The rest, however, redeemed their abstention. Even Sir +Everard was untrue to poor Meta’s chances. I was flushed by this time, +and the men’s eyes told me I was looking my prettiest. The two other +girls of the party chimed in and encouraged me. So did the prebendary; I +talked easily and brightly. Sir Everard laughed again and again at my +sallies. He was a portly old gentleman with a massive white waistcoat, +very like a toad as he leaned back on the ottoman. His voice, too, was a +purr; he was a toad, not a natterjack. + +But Romeo had stolen away to give some mysterious orders. I felt rather +than saw that something had gone wrong somewhere with the machinery. + +We were to adjourn to a theatre. We drove round in state. Our stalls +were near the centre; Lady Donisthorpe in claret-coloured velvet looked +truly imposing. In one of the interludes I looked round at the pit. +Directly behind me, in the front row, sat a foxey-headed man staring +open-eyed towards me. It was the Grand Vizier, accompanied by a lady (no +doubt “with brains”) and concealing but imperfectly the fact that he had +been dining. + +For a moment—a rare moment—I felt really disconcerted. Under any other +circumstances it would only have amused me had the Vizier leaned forward +and shouted, “Good evening, miss,” in his own dialect. But to-night, +with the eyes of those two mothers fixed stonily on my face, I confess I +trembled lest he should rise in his seat, wave one hairy hand, and call +out loudly across the intervening rows, “Allow me to introduce my +fee-on-say to you, Miss Appleton!” I looked away hastily, not before he +had caught my eye. I expected to see his goggle eyes fall out and drop +upon the floor: he was so evidently surprised at my transfigured +appearance. The last time he had parted from me it was beneath the +golden symbol of St. Nicholas at the shop in the Strand; to light upon +me there that night, dressed like a lady, surrounded by a little court, +made much of by the men, and flushed from the Savoy, might naturally +astonish him. + +However, he behaved with better taste than I could have anticipated. He +nudged his companion, and whispered in her ear, but kept his face +averted. He was puzzled, I felt sure; still he had sense enough to know +that this greeting would be ill-timed, and good feeling enough to +prevent him from forcing himself upon my notice. + +When the play was over Romeo led me to the door. I was still hot and +uncertain. So far as he was concerned this evening was for me a great +triumph; every man and woman there, save only the two mothers, had paid +me much attention, and, I will even venture to add, admired me. I had +looked and talked my best, and I was satisfied with my performance. But +the two elder women hung like black clouds lowering in the rear; I could +feel them disapproving of me with various degrees of rancour. One feared +for her son, the other for her daughter. + +Very natural, I knew; but so too was my own attitude. No woman is born +to be merely a type-writer. + +At the door Romeo led me by myself into a well-appointed brougham. Then +I knew what had happened. Cornelia had written across to him that she +declined to take me back in her carriage to Soho; and Romeo, to save me +the knowledge of that slight, had slipped away at the hotel, and ordered +another carriage to await me at the theatre. He held my hand in his own +for a brief space after he put me into it. + +“It was so good of you to come,” he said. “I have so much enjoyed this +talk with you.” + +But the two mothers hardly gave me the tips of their fingers, and bowed +distantly as I drove away alone, with chilly politeness. + +When I got back to my room my feelings were mixed. The jealous Gods thus +alloy our triumphs. Romeo had seen me at last as I really was. But I had +innocently disturbed the peace of two families. + +I did what every other woman would have done in my place—sat down to a +good cry and thought about Romeo. + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + AN AUTUMN HOLIDAY. + +I have large estates in Hertfordshire and the adjoining counties, free +of land tax. Some noble marquis, I am assured, lays claim to the bare +loam, the ploughed fields, the turnips; but who counts mere mud? The +rest is mine, to do as I will with. He may keep his rents: ’tis for me +to enjoy the green lawns, the huge buttressed beech-trees, the broad +circles of shade where drowsy sheep lie huddled: I own the stripling +streams that break against sharp stones in the sloping stickles, or +expand on the shallows between into placid pools, skimmed over by +water-beetles who dart and dance nimbly in interlacing whirligigs. The +sky overhead is mine, mine the road under foot; the scent of rain-wetted +earth; the broken song of the thrushes, the startled scream of the jay +as he bursts through the rustling oak-leaves, the long sweep of the +swift launching himself on the air from the battlements of the +church-tower. All these I own, by virtue of my freehold in the saddle of +my bicycle. + +Such a Sabine farm costs nought to manage; it gives pure delight without +counter-poise of trouble. I visited mine often, both on summer evenings +and on Saturday afternoons or Sundays. Early in my time at Romeo’s a +whimsical fancy seized me (being ever irresponsible) to spend my Sabbath +mornings in such churches within easy reach of London as were dedicated +to my chosen ally, St. Nicholas. I ran them down with care in an +Anglican Directory. If the day were doubtful, I strayed no farther +afield than to St. Nicholas Cole Abbey, in the City, where in a dark bay +of the aisle I prayed the prayer now nearest to my heart, which I leave +you to guess. Often as my patron had failed me at a pinch, still oftener +had he proved kind; I was prepared to give him one more chance of +distinguishing himself. But if the day promised to be fair, I got under +weigh betimes, and was spinning down the roads that lead northward out +of town while the smocked milkman still stood balanced by frothing pails +in the meadows. London lay, a vast blur, behind me. Cows on the common +chewed the cud of penury. Their eye was pensive. Commissioner Lin showed +a nasty Jack-in-office disposition to disturb them. He was called to +heel with difficulty. Then I would seek some country church, with low +tower and wooden lych-gate, where St. Nicholas still bore sway, spite of +iconoclast or Puritan, to pour out my heart’s wish to I know not what +Power that compels the universe. + +It was my wont to lean the bicycle meanwhile against the churchyard yew +or some convenient tombstone, leaving the Commissioner in charge. He was +well fitted for the task by his unregenerate monopolist views on private +property, backed up by a fine row of persuasive white arguments. + +These weekly trips made me careless of holiday. I waited to take my +summer outing till it should suit Romeo’s convenience. I was so much his +personal secretary that I must delay my vacation till he could take his; +and it had long been arranged that he should put it off till late +September—his partner having desired to go away in August. + +Romeo never alluded again to that evening at the Savoy; but I knew it +had brought him nought but disappointment. He had desired to include me +within his mother’s sphere, and Cornelia, gathering up her Roman robe, +had declined. Yet from that time he was more deferential and more +courteous, if possible, than even his wont. + +It was decided that his holiday should begin on the fifteenth of +September. As the time drew near, Romeo grew visibly distressed and +depressed. The spring failed in his step. I fancied he was suffering +some internal conflict. His manner was distraught; he sat at times as if +he hardly heard what was passing. It was plain to see he was struggling +within himself; irreconcilable feelings drew him alternately in opposite +directions. + +On the fourteenth he came down to the office as usual, but sat gloomy +and moody. He did not tell us whither he was bound: nay, more, he gave +orders that no letters should follow him. He made some mystery of his +destination. At three o’clock he went home, bidding me good-bye with +more reserve than was his wont. He kept his glance averted. I could see +he was fighting hard to avoid breaking down. This holiday must mean much +to him. He could not look me in the face to bid me good-bye. The tremor +of his eyelids was as of one who holds back tears with difficulty. I +wished him a pleasant trip. He answered a hurried “Thank you,” and +rushed out to his carriage. + +If I had known where he was going I think I should have followed him. + +As the thought passed through my mind, Puck came in for some money out +of hand. It was my duty to keep the petty cash for Romeo’s personal +office expenditure. “I want nine shillings, miss,” the boy said; +“Baedeker’s ‘North Italy’ and Hare’s ‘Venice.’” + +My heart gave a quick bound. I had surprised his objective. I am an +erratic creature. In one second my mind was made up. I should follow +him. + +I had still the twelve guineas I had received for my story. Thank +heaven, I am improvident. The _bourgeois_ vice of thrift is one from +which my family has never suffered: the Puritan blood in our veins must +have been too generously diluted. Besides, have I not learned from more +modern political economy that saving is the source of all the evils of +capitalism?—and do I not give thanks daily that I show not the faintest +tendency to develop in that direction? I have made up my mind never to +be a capitalist; and, up to date, I see every chance of my keeping my +resolution. So I decided to spend my twelve guineas like a man, to +please myself, leaving Providence or St. Nicholas to make good the +deficiency. This is called faith, and is a cardinal virtue. + +I gave Romeo two clear days’ start, lest I should travel along with him +and seem to be dogging him; then I set out alone on my way to Venice. + +I am nothing, if not frank. Therefore I do not seek to deny the truth +that I went to Italy on purpose to follow Romeo. + +“Unwomanly!” you say. What a false convention! + +Yes, I am always frank; I think the day has almost come for frankness. +Men novelists have depicted us as men wish us to be; we have meekly and +obediently accepted their portrait: to some extent, even, we have +striven, against the grain, to model ourselves upon it. A man’s ideal is +the girl that shrinks; the sweetly unconscious girl, who scarce knows +she loves, till his strong arm glides round her, and he clasps her to +his heart: then, with a sudden awakening, she awakens to the truth, and +knows she has loved him long, loved him from the beginning. That, I say, +is a man’s woman. Her purity, her maidenly modesty, are quite +unapproachable by concrete feminine humanity. She is too delicate in +mind ever to dream that she can love spontaneously, of her own mere +motion. She loiters in the shade; she waits to be wooed; she is coy, +undecided, shrinking, timid. + +There was a time, I suppose, when such women were common. I do not +know—for have I not Shakespeare to the contrary? But the type was once +true, I dare say, and widely distributed. Still, has not time altered +it? In the world in which we live men are no longer ardent. We scarce +affect to conceal the fact that they grow shy of marriage. As a +necessary consequence, women have changed too; the woman of this age +often knows she loves, knows it poignantly, breathlessly, and must use +those weapons which the world allows her if she would gain the affection +of the man who has taken her maiden fancy. She cannot by open means +pursue him, I admit; but she has recourse to the immemorial feminine +devices of ruse and stratagem. + +I have Shakespeare on my side, I say, because I remember Rosalind. A man +drew her; yet I see in her pure woman. She loves; she knows she loves; +she longs frankly for her lover. And that is the way with women as I +have found them. + +Why did I follow Romeo? Why did Rosalind fly to the forest of Arden? +Only once—scarcely once—had Romeo seen me as I was: that evening of +the dinner. At the office, what was I but the type-writer girl? If I +could meet him in Italy, he would know me as myself; we could talk more +freely; he might pluck up heart of grace to break the ice, and tell me +he loved me. + +For I knew he was fond of me. I could not now doubt it. When he talked +to me, it was with those unmistakable sidelong glances which a woman’s +heart can interpret. Often he broke off suddenly. But his mother was +against me; his mother wished him to marry Lady Donisthorpe’s dear Meta. +In London, I knew, I had little chance to prevail over that perfect +lady. But in Venice—ah, what miracles may not happen in Venice! + +Mirage of the lagoons, you show men everything! + +I had not set foot in the enchanted city since my father took me when I +was a girl of sixteen; but I remembered it well; I knew every refluent +ditch of it. I could have found my way, on foot, through little aimless +lanes that wander in and out, from the Piazza to the Ghetto. + +If Romeo met me there by accident—if we loitered together among those +churches and galleries—if I told him of my saints, if I pointed him out +my best-beloved pictures, surely the struggle within him would be +settled in my favour. He would prefer my wayward Gypsy-American fantasy +to dear Meta’s insipid graces of the perfect lady. He would know which +he preferred, in spite of his mother and Lady Donisthorpe’s crude +advertisements. + +My one regret was, that I could not take Mr. Commissioner and Elsie with +me. + + + CHAPTER XIX. + “O, ROMEO, ROMEO!” + +When Linnæus first saw gorse in blossom he fell on his knees and thanked +God. Our modern Pharisees, who say grace before meat, never, I fancy, +say grace before Venice. + +And yet there is only one Venice. + +From the moment you arrive in the dusk at the station, and stroll down +slippery steps to your gondola, to glide with stealthy movement along +the lesser canals, under mysterious bridges where mysterious bystanders +lean over to watch you, unknown forms that creep from dark doors in +unknown streets—do you not thank God, like Linnæus, that he has brought +you to Venice? And does not this feeling of gratitude and wonder for +that living romance deepen on you each day that you remain? Do you not +long to float for ever down those noiseless ways, to gaze up for ever at +those water-stained palaces, to dream for all time among those +innocent-faced St. Ursulas? Mint, anise, and cumin, indeed, when God has +given us Venice! The country or the south! I pine in London. + +I had loitered on my way out, breaking my nights at Lucerne and Milan, +that Romeo might have time to reach his journey’s end with certainty +before my arrival. And on my first morning of freedom by the motionless +lagoons, I set out early to renew my acquaintance with Venice. + +I did not know where Romeo was stopping; nor did I seek to find out. I +left everything to St. Nicholas. If chance should throw me in my Romeo’s +way, well and good; if chance chose to be unkind, better so than that I +should track him. Besides, in Venice, you cannot long fail to meet +whoever else is there. All the world gravitates towards the centre of +the Piazza. Sooner or later, you must needs cross the path of everyone +in the city. + +I set out from my hotel on foot; I love footing it in Venice; I love the +intricate tangle of narrow paved alleys, overhung by stone sills and +rusty iron balconies, by which the walker threads his way through the +mazes of the city. Millionaires in gondolas never know it. You must +ramble to see Venice. Past little dim shops where red water-melons, +sliced open, and strings of yellow carrots adorn the slabs; past odours +of salt fish and rank whiffs of garlic; past cavernous recesses where, +from murky Tintoretto-like gloom, the light of a little lamp just serves +to throw up the tinsel crown of Our Lady. So suddenly at once, under the +columns of a portico, into the open sky of the great square, the +thronging turmoil of pigeons, the liberal flood of southern sunshine, +the strong shadow of the campanile flung like a fallen obelisk on the +floor of the Piazza, the mighty flagstaffs of the dead republic, and +beyond them all, low and squat, a riot of white domes, the fantastic, +many-pinnacled carven front of St. Mark’s, glowing golden in the +pellucid air of morning. + +I stood still and drew a deep breath. It was even as I thought. Grace +before St. Mark’s: “For what we are about to receive——” There is but +one Venice. + +Holding my breath all the while, I drew near the great porches, with +their round-arched tops, and gazed up at the mosaics. My soul steeped +herself in beauty. I revelled in an orgy of jasper and porphyry. How +gross to give thanks for beef and pudding, but none for Carpaccio, +Bellini, Titian! + +Slowly, out of the great dream of form and colour, bit by bit, as I +gazed, distinct visions framed themselves—palm-leaves and lilies, robed +shapes of angels, half-translucent alabaster shafts or capitals, rich +foliage of acanthus, wandering lines of tracery. In the midst of it all, +one little relief held my eye at last—a flat relief of quaint +Romanesque workmanship, beautiful with the winning beauty of infantile +art; two birds that faced one another, and pecked at a bunch of +grapes—when, all at once, I was aware of a start of surprise beside me. +I turned round. My heart fluttered for a second. It was Romeo. + +Venice faded. Though I had come out to him, I was taken aback at his +presence. + +He gave a little gasp. “What, _you_ here,” he faltered out—“Miss +Appleton—Juliet?” + +“Yes,” I answered assuming an air of unconcern; “I thirsted for a breath +of Italy again. It is nearly five years since I have been out of +England.” + +“But—this is fate!” he blurted out. “I—I came here—to avoid you.” + +I was in a mischievous mood. “I can go away again,” I answered, looking +deep into his eyes, and half curtseying. “It is not for me to interfere +with my employer’s holiday.” + +He cast me an imploring look. “Juliet,” he cried, “do not jest. Do not +break my heart. This is no time for pleasantry. My child, my child, I +have suffered.” + +I saw it in his face. And yet I could not conceive what was his trouble. +Could a mother count for so much? I had never known mine. “You look +ill,” I said; “so different from what you looked last week in London. +Can I do anything for you? I—I will really go away—at once—if you +desire it.” + +He restrained himself with an effort from seizing my hands, then and +there, in the open Piazza. “_Go away?_” he cried. “_Go away?_ No, _that_ +is not my trouble. I wish you _not_ to go away. I wish you to stay with +me always. Juliet, you must have guessed it; you must have known it in +London. Do not tell me you did not know. You _saw_ that I loved you!” + +“I thought so, at times,” I answered in a very low voice. “But—why then +did you wish to run away from me?” + +He glanced about him with uneasy eyes. “Now this has come,” he burst +forth, “I must fight it out boldly. I must face it like a man. Juliet, +where can we go? I _must_ talk—alone—with you.” + +“Let us take a gondola,” I suggested, my heart throbbing high with joy; +for I felt I had triumphed now; his mother, and dear Meta, and ox-eyed +Lady Donisthorpe were wholly forgotten. + +“A gondola!” he echoed. “A gondola! Ah, how clever you are! Of course! I +never thought of that. There we can talk uninterrupted.” + +We moved towards the Molo. I hailed a gondolier. “Put up the felze,” I +said, “so that we may not be overlooked.” The man raised the little +black box, and shut us in as in a sedan-chair. Romeo gazed admiration +again. “And you talk Italian!” + +“Whither, signore?” the gondolier asked. + +“Where shall we go?” Romeo inquired, turning to me. + +“Where you will,” I answered; “it is all Venice.” I did not add that +with him by my side all the world would be Venice. + +He pointed towards the open, where we would be less observed. The +gondolier nodded. Then the old fancy seized me. “To San Nicolò di Lido!” +I cried. It seemed like an omen. My patron saint had always brought me +luck, and his church lay before me. In this crisis of my fate I would +commend myself to his favour. + +I told Romeo why I chose that way. He smiled, a little sadly. “May it +turn out as you wish,” he exclaimed. “May St. Nicholas help us!” + +I sat by his side on the soft black cushions, never uttering a +word—placidly, quietly happy. I was in no hurry to speak; the sense +that I had Romeo alone to myself at last was joy enough for me. He took +my hand in his. I let it lie there, unresisting. + +Words only spoil such first thrills of fruition. Touch is the +mother-sense of love; it needs no interpreter. + +At last Romeo broke the charmed silence. I gave a little sigh as he +broke it. “Oh, why so soon?” I asked. But, like a man, he was eager to +speak and explain himself. They _are_ so precipitate! + +“What am I to do, Juliet?” he cried, burying his face in his hands. +“Your coming has thrown me back upon my first resolve; it has driven me +from my stronghold. When I tore myself away from you in London and no +longer saw your eyes—those great magnetic uncomplaining eyes of yours, +those eyes that have bewitched me—I made up my mind that I must go +through with it now, and try to forget you. Not try, but pretend; for it +would be all pretence. Since the first day you came, daily and daily you +have meant more and more to me. It was hard to break away from you, but +I broke away and came here, so that I might be free from the spell; for +while I saw your eyes I could think of nothing else; and now chance has +thrown you in my path again, and—I cannot go through with it.” + +“Not chance,” I murmured low; “not chance—but St. Nicholas! I have come +with the money that my story brought me.” + +He smiled at my little conceit, for I had told him in London of my +half-fanciful cult of the poor maids’ saint, and I had called my little +tale “A Ward of St. Nicholas.” + +“You are a brownie!” he cried, gazing at me. “You wild thing, what +brought you here?” + +I laughed. “The Gotthard railway—and my love of adventure. I was +sickening of England; I had a migratory instinct, like birds when they +gather on the telegraph wires in autumn, or restless Spanish sheep in +spring, when they herd and leap, uneasy to be driven to their pastures +in the mountains.” + +“What a wild thing you are!” he repeated. “A brownie, a brownie! I +wonder where you got it from?” + +“From my gypsy ancestry, I suppose,” I answered. + +“Gypsy—but I thought you told me you were American?” + +“On my father’s side, yes; but on my mother’s Lowland Scot or +Anglo-Indian. She was a Baillie of the Borders; and I suspect all +borderers of sharing the blood of the Faas and the Petulengros. There +was plenty of intermarriage.” + +“No doubt,” he mused. “The difference must have been slight between a +moss-trooper and a gypsy. Each had much the same gentility. And, indeed, +I remember the ‘Lord and Earl of Little Egypt’ was summoned to Edinburgh +as a peer of parliament.” + +“At any rate,” I said gaily, “whether ’tis true or false, it accounts, +to my mind, for the Meg Merrilies vein in me. I was born a random +vagrant in the world, a peripatetic philosopher. I love movement, I love +freedom—Bohemia. Why, I could tell your fortune now if you cared to +cross my hand with silver.” + +He gazed into my eyes. “I do not doubt it,” he answered, “for it lies in +your hands to-day.” + +I thrilled and was still. The gondola glided over the glassy water. + +Soon he began again. “Gypsy, I want your help. You must _make_ my +fortune, not tell it. Show me how to act. Show me how to get free. What +can I do in this crisis, Juliet—my Juliet?” + +“How can I answer?” I replied. “’Tis for your own heart to say. I know +you are fond of me. But—your mother has money, I suppose, and you +prefer your mother.” + +He withdrew the arm that lay half round me, and sat up facing me in +surprise. “My mother!” he cried. “My mother! Why, Juliet, my child, what +do you mean? It is not my mother I think of—not her, but poor Meta!” + +A pang darted through me. “Then you love her!” I exclaimed; “that +woman’s daughter!” + +“Love her? I do not say that. Yet, Juliet, consider; put yourself in her +place: I have been five years engaged to her!” + +It burst upon me like a thunderbolt. Why had I never guessed it? From +the first day we met I had taken it for granted—unreservedly, +unthinkingly—that Romeo was heart-free and unfettered as I was. Even +when I met Lady Donisthorpe I imagined too fast that she was flinging +Meta openly at his head, but not that he was betrothed to her. My own +heart must have blinded me. Now that I realised it all, I stood aghast +at the way woman’s instinct had failed me. How had I managed to +misunderstand? I saw in a flash that the conflict I had observed in +Romeo before he left London was a conflict in his soul between love and +honour. + +He seized my hand again. “It is _that_ that made it so difficult,” he +whispered. “From the first day _you_ came I began to love you. I fought +against it hard, oh! so hard; I tried to talk little with you. Day after +day I felt you sitting there, with your great gypsy eyes fixed ever +steadily on your sheet of paper, and your heart going forth to me. I +knew it went forth to me. I could feel it in the room. A subtle wave or +thrill throbbed ever between us. I began to love you; and still I fought +hard. But the more we talked together the more did I feel you were the +woman God made for me, and that Meta was not. At last I had a great +struggle—a great struggle with my heart, and came out of it as I +thought victorious. I fled from you here, where the Donisthorpes had +come, to remain with Meta till the day I married her. It was what honour +demanded; I made love yield to honour.” + +I withdrew my hand slowly. “Give me time to think this out. It has burst +upon me so suddenly. Oh, Romeo, till this moment I never dreamt you were +engaged to her.” + +“Why _Romeo_?” + +I smiled, though my heart was aching. I remembered that he did not know +what I had always called him. Now I told him my fancy. “You have never +been anything but _Romeo_ to me,” I murmured. + +He seized my hand again. “Juliet, I _am_ your Romeo. I felt it from the +first. We were meant for one another.” + +“I know it!” I cried. “I know it! And this woman, who is not yours, has +stolen you from me. You are mine by natural fitness; and she took you, +_she_ took you!” + +We leaned back on the seats and mused. The gondolier sang low to himself +a soft Venetian love-song. + +After some minutes I began again. “Of course,” I murmured, “it is Lady +Donisthorpe’s daughter.” + +“Of course. Five years ago I proposed to her.” + +“Then _why_ did you not marry?” I cried vehemently. “I _hate_ these long +engagements! They are vile for everybody!” + +“Her stepfather would not permit it till she came of age. She is a ward +in Chancery, and he has influence with the court. Till her marriage her +mother has some interest in the property, and Sir Everard, to preserve +it, being fabulously rich already, made an excuse that a publisher was +hardly the person to whom she might expect to aspire—though he +permitted, or rather encouraged the engagement.” + +“And she is not yet of age?” + +“In October.” + +I gave an impatient wave of the hand. “But she was a child when you +proposed to her!” + +“A child? We were both children. We did not know our own minds. The +Nemesis of it is that I know mine now, while she remains still at the +childish standpoint.” + +“She loves you?” + +“In her baby way—yes; else it were all easy. But it would break her +poor heart. Such a trusting little creature!” + +“And _you_ love _her_?” + +“Juliet, I thought I did once. But then, I had not learnt what love +meant. She was only my Rosaline. I did not know the world of difference +between a sweet little wax doll, with masses of light yellow tow for +hair, and a woman, a thinking woman, with heart, soul, brain, courage—a +woman who could face life full of intrepid self-reliance; a woman with +nerve, audacity, spirit; a woman with Homeric love of danger and +adventure; a woman made dearer by her sense of humour, the merry twinkle +of her eye, her gay laugh at misfortune. I feel now that I need a +comrade and a helpmeet for me. Someone who could brace me up for the +battle of life; someone with great thoughts, fine fibre, noble impulses. +I cannot go back to Meta. I could have done it last night. This morning, +with you by my side, I feel it, I know it, impossible.” + +He drew a long breath. I lay back on the cushion. “Romeo,” I said, +pleading my rival’s cause, “you _must_ go back to her.” + +“Never!” he answered, “never!” + +I temporised. “This is not a question to decide all at once. Let us +think it over slowly; let us lay it—before St. Nicholas!” + +“If I lay it before St. Nicholas,” he cried, “with you beside me, the +oracle can give but one answer, I warrant. For I want you; I need you; +my whole being cries out for you.” + +We paused again. The water was cat’s-eye green. The inexorable gondola +glided on towards the Lido. + +We talked it over clause by clause. A light began to break upon me. The +nearer I drew to San Nicolò the clearer grew the light. Ought a man to +wreck two lives—his own and the girl’s whom he means to marry (for my +private fate I ignored)—in order to satisfy a false sense of honour? +What, after all, was this honour? A bugbear dressed up to frighten us +from the truth. And what was the truth? That Romeo was rushing madly +into marriage with a girl for whom he was not fit, and who was not fit +for him. + +“Romeo,” I said at last, “could you make her happy?” + +“That’s the rub,” he answered. “It could hardly be for long. I could +give her my hand, but not my heart; for my heart, my heart, Juliet, is +yours—yours only.” + +“Then for _her_ sake set her free,” I cried. “The whole man—body, soul, +and spirit—or nothing.” + +“So I think,” he murmured. “The question is, when one has made a +mistake, a mistake that involves final ruin for two lives, which is the +better, after all: to repair it beforehand, while repair is still +possible, or bow to an antiquated ideal of honour, an ideal that comes +to us from an age when women were toys, all alike, and run one’s head +into a noose from which there will be no escaping? For her sake, as well +as my own and yours, ought I not to tell her, frankly but gently, that +this marriage she desires must mean misery for both of us?” + +I tried to be impartial, though impartiality is hard when your own love +and life lie trembling in the balance. “You ought,” I answered, “if you +feel sure you cannot truly love her.” + +“Juliet, I can never love anyone but you. I know you for my counterpart. +My love did not come suddenly; it grew up by degrees from living so near +you; and it has grown, grown, grown, like a vast growth in my heart, +till it has absorbed my nature. I have watched you every day, talked +with you, listened to you. You know me and you understand me. But Meta, +dear little soul, she seems to me like a child. I cannot share life with +her. I can only take care of her. You have originality, initiative; +Meta’s soul has the shape that her mother has put upon it. Look how you +loved and appreciated my verses! Your criticism, your help, were of +infinite use to me. In each word that you altered I felt you were right. +Your suggestion of ‘harmonious’ in that last line where I had written +‘consistent’ made a full close for the sonnet, in sonorous organ music, +and turned my prose into poetry. Whereas, when I gave Meta my book she +read it through, and then kissed me. ‘How clever of you, you dear boy, +to be able to write verses!’ Would _such_ a help be meet for me?” + +I clung to his hand; it was hard to decide; but in a very low voice I +faltered out, “I think not, Romeo.” + +He talked of my poor attempts at writing stories; he praised them, as he +had always done. “You will be famous yet, my child; and I shall be +proud, whatever comes, that I was the first to encourage you.” He +appreciated me, I appreciated him; surely, if marriages are made in +heaven, we two were moulded for one another. Not alike, but +complementary. And then, how rash to dream of marrying one woman when, +even before marriage, you love another better! Is _that_ the way to +insure a happy home? Is that the safe path to a life of wedded +confidence? + +We drew near to San Nicolò at last. “Let us go in,” I said seriously, +“and submit ourselves to the saint. His body lies within. We will kneel +together before it.” + +“But I thought you told me St. Nicholas lay throned in a gorgeous shrine +at Bari?” he objected. + +“Why, of course,” I answered. “What is the use of being a saint if you +cannot have two bodies, and be in two places at once? And what is the +use of faith if it does not enable you to believe the impossible?” + +“I _do_ believe it,” he answered; “since I came to Venice to be out of +your enchantment, and found you here, more deliciously enchanting than +ever. The fascination of your eyes——” + +I cut him short with a gesture; but I was glad he praised them. + +We landed by the steps, and entered the sailors’ church. I led Romeo up +to a scalloped niche by the tribune, where I had often prayed as a girl +with my father. We knelt down, side by side, before the jewelled shrine +that contains the blessed dust of St. Nicholas of Myra, I hope not +irreverently. I may be what the Warden at our Guild was fond of calling +me, “an amiable heathen,” but at least I am sincere. Tears stole down my +cheek. I asked with an earnest heart for light, for guidance. We know +not, indeed, whose saintly bones repose at peace within that sculptured +marble altar-tomb; nor does it matter to me much whether they be or be +not those of the benign bishop of Myra. I accepted them as the symbol of +that Power, above ourselves, to which our hearts go forth at moments of +doubt, of fear, of anguish; and to such a Power I prayed unfeignedly, +that at this turning-point of my life I might be led aright, might form +the just judgment, unbiassed by self-profit, holding an equal scale +between myself and my rival. + +As I knelt there a single flashing ray of light beat down through a +little window above upon San Nicolò’s altar-slab. It gilt the niche for +a moment; it fell in gold on the tessellated floor; then it passed away +as a cloud covered the sun. Rightly or wrongly, I accepted the omen. +Tears stood in my eyes still, but they were tears of gladness. “St. +Nicholas has answered,” I whispered. “What did he say to you, Romeo?” + +Romeo looked me in the face solemnly as he made reply. “He said, ‘Better +tell her early than tell her too late. Save her while she can be saved, +and let three hearts be lightened.’” + +Venice hung like a haze. The row back to the Molo was a lane in +Paradise. + + + CHAPTER XX. + “WHEREFORE ART THOU ROMEO?” + +At the Molo we parted. The Donisthorpes, Romeo said, must long have been +expecting him, fidgeting that he did not arrive; he knew not what lame +excuse he could rake up to satisfy them. It was agreed on both sides, +however, and impressed with last words, that he must not break poor +Meta’s heart prematurely, by too abrupt an avowal of his new decision. +We were to break it by degrees—to give her three days of purgatory. +Meanwhile, Romeo promised he would not see me again, at least to speak +together; though he asked leave, wistfully, to pass under my window once +each morning and smile at me, just so as to make sure of my presence. I +wanted this interval; I wished to see whether he would remain firm to +his purpose when he was removed for a day or two from that “magnetism” +of my eyes on which he dwelt so strongly. + +I spent the three days of grace in wandering about Venice. For the most +part, I avoided the great square, St. Mark’s, the Academy—all the +familiar tourist haunts—because I did not desire collision with the +Donisthorpes. Most of my time I devoted to the out-of-the-way streets +and the out-of-the-way sights, which are so infinitely amusing; the +funny little alleys where the true Venetians stroll; the funny little +_campi_, where old men and children lie stretched in the shade on the +north side of some small church, as fallow-deer huddle on the north side +of the domed oaks in a park at noontide. Every turn revealed some +passing picture. As I had said to Romeo, it was all Venice. Not a remote +sunless lane, with walls of peeling plaster, tufted with pellitory, that +is not dear to my heart; not a sluggish side canal, into whose stagnant +green water branches of acacia and trailing sprays of Virginia creeper +hang from beyond the mouldering garden grill, but I love and cherish it. +Little Romanesque windows, high up on some red-washed steeple, with twin +round arches, tall and narrow, held apart in the midst by one twisted +column; great patches of sunlight falling through quatrefoils in +dazzling relief on the deep recessed gloom of the loggia; wee bridges +that rise, arched like a cat’s back, over streams strewn with +cabbage-leaves, where market boats from Mestre, laden high with +pumpkins, crawl slowly down the channel—do I not know them all? Are +they not etched on my brain by some fadeless process of mental +photography? + +In spite of my haunting these remoter by-ways, however, I did once by +accident catch sight of the Donisthorpes. They were seated with the +prebendary at a _café_ in the great Piazza, as I crossed it one +afternoon on my way home from San Zaccaria, where I had been feasting on +saints in the placid enjoyment of every form of martyrdom. Sir Everard, +leaning back on his chair and sipping black coffee, with a small brown +cap pushed well off his forehead, a brown tourist suit, and a capacious +yellow waistcoat, amply displayed in front of him, looked more absurdly +like a fat toad than ever. Lady Donisthorpe, smiling sweetly upon Venice +in general, with her lady-like softness, her mechanical amiability, her +pouter-pigeon suavity, yet showed marks about the eyes of some inner +dissatisfaction. They did not observe me; I stole close behind them, +anxious to see the immaculate colourless Meta; I wished to know for +myself what manner of girl she might be; but she was not with them—gone +off, no doubt, for a stroll round the square with Romeo. That thought +drove me quickly home; like a frightened rabbit, I rushed under the +clock-tower and along the thronged Merceria to my hotel on a side canal; +I could not have endured to see them together like lovers. + +Had I no qualms meanwhile? Aye, marry, had I? Do you think I slept much +through those three long nights of suspense and torture? If I tramped +from church to church and picture to picture during the day, ’twas but +to escape from my own stinging thoughts for a moment. I argued it all +out over and over again with myself. When we two had been seated side by +side in the gondola—Romeo’s arm half stealing round my waist, my head +half pillowed one second on Romeo’s shoulder—the question of ethics had +been translucent as crystal. We saw quite clearly our course was mapped +out for us by eternal equities. Even in Meta’s interest, I was advising +him for the best. “The whole man,” I had said—“body, soul, and +spirit—or else nothing!” That was woman’s full gospel of the new +dispensation. Less than that could be no true marriage. And “is it not +better, under such conditions, to change one’s mind early than to change +it too late? Is it not better for you to speak the truth, even at great +risk of pain and humiliation to a woman you have loved, than to tie her +for life to a man who cannot give her his whole heart unreservedly, +enthusiastically? Is it not better for her to be made miserable once +than to be made miserable for ever?” In advising Romeo to break off this +one-sided engagement, was I not advising him most of all in Meta +Donisthorpe’s interest? + +At times I even felt as if I had succeeded in doing a great favour, +unasked, to Meta. + +But in the dead hour of night, when all Venice slept, and the last +“Stalì!” had answered the last “Premè!” under my bedroom window, one +stanza of “In Memoriam” kept ever recurring most inopportunely to my +mind; I heard it in the creaking of the vane on the Dogana, in the lap +of the water against the honeycombed walls, in the sigh of the wind +through the arches of the belfry. It was a reproachful sound—the voice +of that conscience which I flattered myself the generation of whom I am +one had analysed away for ever. + + “Hold thou the good; define it well; + For fear divine Philosophy + Should push beyond her mark, and be + Procuress to the Lords of Hell.” + +The Lords of Hell! The Lords of Hell! It clanged with the hour from the +great Campanile! Was that where my sophisms were taking me, I wondered? +The Lords of Hell! The Lords of Hell! Had I advised Romeo aright, as the +woman who loves a man should strive to advise him at dangerous passes? + +On the third day of the three I rose early from my sleepless bed—tired +of tossing off the quilt—and wandered out by myself eastward through +the tortuous labyrinth of elbow-bending streets that spreads between St. +Mark’s and St. George of the Slavonians. I was bound no whither in +particular; I let each narrow flagged alley, each canal-side causeway, +lead me onward where it would; but, without design on my part, I found +myself at last on the small paved platform with the slimy green steps +that catches the morning sun, in front of San Giorgio degli Schiavoni. +“San Giorgio!” I thought to myself; “I must stray in here for awhile for +rest and meditation. After Nicholas of Myra, has not the ever-blessed +George been most of all my patron? Let me lay before him my doubts—a +poor maiden’s doubts; it may be that the courteous young saint will +resolve them.” + +I pushed aside the padded curtain, and sat down on one of the seats. +Venetian women were there with their babies, praying—dark-haired, +dusky-eyed, poorly-clad, eager-spirited. For a while my eyes strayed to +those ever-exquisite Carpaccios, high ranged on the left-hand wall, +which tell the pretty tale of the tutelary saint with naïve Venetian +idealistic realism. I scarce knew which of the two chief actors I +admired the more—in the episode of the slaying of the dragon, so +familiar to me from my own life, the beautiful, graceful youth, with his +loose golden hair rippling free on the wind; or, in the scene of the +baptism, the kneeling Princess Cleodolind, her long, fair tresses +flowing richly down her back as she bends to receive the sacrament of +the font at the hands of her chivalrous and devout deliverer. St. +George, I fancied, in his earnest, clear face, somehow recalled my +Romeo; but the Princess—I shuddered: what ill-omen was this? The +Princess whom he baptised was a fair-haired maiden. I knew Meta was +fair—had he not spoken of her “masses of yellow tow”? A cold thrill ran +down my spine. Oh, St. Nicholas—oh, St. George, avert the omen! + +I pulled out my little silver crucifix, and, clasping it tight, decided +to lay my case before the Madonna herself, who reigns in the +altar-piece. Am I a Catholic, then? you ask. That is alien to this +story. There are three subjects which I decline to discuss: bimetallism, +the sex question, and my religious convictions. + +As I bent my knee before Our Lady on the shrine a low sob by my side +distracted my attention. It came from a young girl a little apart in the +gloom. Her face lay hidden in her hands—small gloved hands, like a +lady’s; but her fine-fibred hair was golden and luxuriantly abundant. I +glanced from her to the Carpaccio, and from the Carpaccio to her. Yes, +it could not be gainsaid—this was the Princess Cleodolind. + +Had her St. George proved untrue? She was crying bitterly. + +I knew at once that was the right explanation. The sound of her sobs +betrayed it. For there are species in crying. There is the cry of the +mother for the loss of her son; there is the cry of the wife for the +faithlessness of her husband; there is the cry of the maiden for the +defection of her lover. Each has its own note, recognisable at the first +sound to those who have once heard it. We talk in such cases of woman’s +intuition; it were truer, I think, to call it inference, for inference +it is from delicate observation. All women observe keenly the symptoms +of emotion; at moments of exaltation or passion they observe them with +an almost miraculous acuteness. I knew in a second that Cleodolind had +lost her lover’s heart; and I guessed in a flash that Cleodolind was +Meta. + +She was dressed like a lady; and out at this early hour; when she and I, +alone of our class, driven from our beds by alternative aspects of the +self-same problem, were abroad among the fisherwomen. + +I gazed at her with the respect one always accords to sorrow. My heart +misgave me. How easy it was in the gondola to philosophise in the +abstract; but here, on dry land, and in sight of this poor child with +the breaking heart—philosophy in the concrete seemed to present its own +fresh difficulties. + +Of a sudden she raised her face, and glanced across at me, piteously. +Her eyes met mine. I started. The wisp of a figure, the pathetic blue +eyes, the sunny fluff of hair: it was Michaela. + +I took it in with a great gulp. Michaela was Meta, then, and Meta +Michaela. + +I could not understand it, for the inscription on her card said, not +Donisthorpe, but “Miss Allardyce”; and had she not told me that her +Christian name was Margaret? But I had no time to think it out just +then. With a little cry of pleasure, she came over to me, still weeping. + +“You dear thing!” she whispered, holding out her gloved hand, “what a +comfort to see you! I want to have a talk with you. You were so good to +me at Holmwood.” + +I saw it was inevitable. I must face Meta now. I took her hand in mine, +with a deep sense of repentant treachery. “Come out with me, dear,” I +said, for she melted my heart. “Tell me all your trouble.” + +She pressed my hand in return. “I knew you would be good to me,” she +answered. “You are odd, but oh, so good. I saw it in your big eyes the +first day I met you. Do you know, your eyes are magnetic; they seem to +draw one.” + +“So I have been told,” I answered bitterly. + +“Where can we go to talk?” she asked. She had a caressing voice. “I am +sure you will do me good. And I do so want to talk this over with +somebody else besides mamma. Mamma is like a feather-bed. She is kind in +her way, but so soft and comfortable. Nothing seems to make a dint in +her.” + +Inventiveness forsook me. I had no suggestion to offer except another +gondola. And even at that moment, when the world whirled round madly +with myself for pivot, I was dimly conscious, as one is often conscious +of such trifles at a great crisis, that always in Venice, when people +wanted a _tête-à-tête_, they must have taken a gondola. Nowhere else in +that tangle of narrow streets and small squares could one go unobserved +for a second. + +We called a gondolier. “Where shall we tell him to take us?” Michaela +asked. It was not in her nature to suggest a route spontaneously. + +“Out on the open,” I replied. “We shall be less overlooked there.” Then +I added a little morosely, “If you are not afraid I shall drown you.” + +She smiled through her tears. “You were always so queer,” she said, “but +so kind.” She did not guess how much more reason I had now for drowning +her. She jumped lightly into the boat; she was a light little atomy; you +could have blown her away with a good puff, like thistledown. + +The gondolier took us across by San Giorgio Maggiore. Michaela sat by my +side, holding my hand in hers. If ever in my life, I felt guilty that +minute. + +So all those months I had been doing in earnest what I had said in +jest—unconsciously playing Carmen to her Michaela. I had stolen away +her Don José—and had never known it! + +She told me hurriedly how the man to whom she was engaged had always +seemed to love her, oh, so much—till five months ago; how, since that +time, his love had been gradually fading; how it had faded all away, +till she was wretched, hopeless! + +She cried so intensely that I laid her head on my shoulder. ’Twas a soft +little head. I felt like a man to her as I tried to comfort her. + +“Five years,” she sobbed out: “five years—all forgotten!” + +“You must have been a child at the time when you began to love him,” I +murmured. + +She raised her head. “Yes, a child. That’s what makes it so much worse! +We have loved and been loved since we were both children. Every thought, +every pleasure, we have shared with one another. I was cycling with him +that day when I first met you. We have grown up together. He has grown +into my heart—ever closer and closer.” + +“What is his name?” I asked, trembling. + +She told me. I hardly needed to ask it. + +“Why, I know him a little,” I said. “But I thought—he was engaged to a +daughter of Lady Donisthorpe’s.” + +“Yes, of course. Lady Donisthorpe is my mother.” + +“But—her name is Meta; and you are Margaret Allardyce?” + +“Mamma married again; I told you I had a stepfather.” + +She went on with her story. She loved him more and more. Her heart was +bound up with him. After so long a time, too! If he had told her three +years ago—— But five years—you could never make five years seem +nothing. + +“And can you account for it?” I inquired, to see how much she knew, +stroking her sunny hair with my hand as I did so. + +“You _dear_ thing! How sweetly sympathetic you are! Oh, yes, but it is +almost too dreadful to tell. A hateful woman—a type-writer girl at his +office! Could you ever have believed a person like _that_ would come +between us?” + +“Perhaps,” I ventured to suggest, “she did not mean it.” + +“Did not mean it? Oh, she did: the dreadful creature, she has bewitched +him! He loves _her_ best now. And yet, you would think that the years +must count; the years must count!” She sobbed, and became inaudible. + +“Has he told you of her?” I faltered. + +“Oh! no; he says nothing. He only lets me feel it. But mamma met her +once at a dinner Toto gave at the Savoy—a hateful vulgar creature! +Mamma and his mother both spoke to him of the way he treated her—the +attention he paid her—bringing a woman like that to dine with ladies, +it was unpardonable.” + +“Some type-writers _are_ ladies, Michaela,” I put in softly. “I am a +type-writer myself.” + +“Ah! yes, but that is different! you are so sweet, so gentle. You know +so much; you have been brought up like a lady; you have sympathy and +magnetism. This other creature—mother said it was horrid to be in the +same room with her. So loud, so noisy! And she’s here now, she’s here; +she has followed him to Venice on purpose to thwart us. He came out to +stay with me till the day we were to be married. And this woman, when +she saw her hold on him was failing, rushed after him to prevent it. Can +you believe such wickedness? Mamma saw her with him in a gondola. Oh! I +can’t bear to say it, dear, in a gondola, near the Riva, with his arm +around her!” + +“Perhaps,” I hazarded, “when she came here she did not know he was +engaged. Perhaps, if we could speak to her we might play upon some chord +in her better nature.” + +Michaela looked up at me admiringly. “You beautiful, broad-minded +person,” she cried; “how good you are, how tolerant! You make allowances +and excuses for everyone, I declare! How I wish I was like you! But she +_has_ no better nature, I believe. Mamma says she is a person lost to +all sense of shame. Why, the stories she told at that dinner of Toto’s +about the places she had been in and the people she had met were quite +beyond, you know, quite beyond; oh, too dreadful for anything.” + +I risked another card. “My dear little friend,” I said, “I speak of the +thing that I know: she _has_ a better nature.” (Oh, God, how it was +battling now against love of Romeo in her heart; how it was grappling +and struggling!) “I am almost sure I have met this girl of whom you +speak. There is a type-writer stopping at the same hotel as myself, and +I think she was out in a gondola the other day with your Romeo—let us +call him Romeo; it is ‘more real and agreeable,’ as Dick Swiveller said +to the Marchioness, and ’tis the only way in which I can talk about +people.” I maundered on, to gain time, for though outwardly I was +jesting, within I was fighting wild beasts at Ephesus. “Now, she has +talked to me of your Romeo, and I assure you solemnly, when she arrived +in Venice she had not an idea he was engaged—of that I am confident.” + +“Ah, but she knows it now, I am sure; and yet, she bewitches him!” + +I played one card still, a more doubtful and dangerous card than any. +“Perhaps,” I answered. “But the years must count. You are right in that. +Remember, as you say, I am (I hope) broad-minded. I try to see things +from everybody’s point of view. From yours, I see now that Romeo is +behaving—cruelly. From the type-writer girl’s, I see that she loves him +deeply, very deeply; but ’tis a new love, fresh grown; however firmly it +may have rooted itself, it has no claim on the score of age as against +yours; and if she is told so calmly and frankly, she may perhaps realise +it. From Romeo’s, I see—well, more than I like to tell you.” I paused +and hesitated. The effort to gain time made me didactic. “Life is the +interaction of individualities,” I said, “each seeing things its own +way. Justice is the attempt to reconcile them. Let us try here if we can +make this type-writer girl see something a little beyond her own point +of view—see, as you say, that the years must count. She is not wholly +bad, whatever Lady Donisthorpe may tell you. I will be your ambassador. +I will speak to _her_; I will speak to Romeo. I will try to make them +feel what you have made me feel—that the years should count. And I will +come to San Giorgio of the Slavonians to tell you what success I have +had in my embassy at this time to-morrow.” + +She brightened up at the idea. She thanked me profusely. “He loves me +still,” she said, “a little; only, this girl bewitches him. Oh, I have +read about her eyes and her hair in his verses. He thought no one knew; +he put it so darkly—all wrapped up in words; but I could see they were +hers, though he thinks me so silly. I am clever enough where one’s heart +is concerned; I can catch at a straw then. But if _she_ were once away, +I am sure he would come back to me.” She nestled into my shoulder. “You +_dear_ thing!” she cried again, grinding her teeth with affection, “you +have put fresh hope in me.” + +“Thank you, dear,” I answered. “Do you remember at Holmwood I called you +Michaela, because you were so fair, like the girl in the opera? Now, +this type-writer girl is dark, and she has been playing Carmen to +you—stealing your love away from you by her clever ways and her +blandishments. She has gypsy attractiveness. But, Michaela, I am sure +she did not mean it. If she had known of you, if she might have seen +you, she could not have wronged you. Do you recollect what I said to you +in the train that day—‘You dear little thing, no one could ever hurt +you!’? Well, I am sure the type-writer woman would feel as I do—if she +knew you. But I want to make you promise me one thing—if I bring you +back your Romeo, you will forgive her?—you will never again call her a +horrid creature?” + +She soothed my hand in turn. “I could promise you anything,” she said. +“I never knew anyone so tender and helpful.” + +We bid the gondolier turn. She held my hand still; blue sky in her eyes +shone after the rain. “Only to think,” she cried, “I have met you three +times—no more; and yet I feel you are a dear friend—the sort of friend +who would do anything for one.” + +“You have reason,” I answered. + +We returned to the Molo. A crushed heart and a doubtful one had embarked +in that gondola; a crushed heart and a doubtful one disembarked from it +again. But they had changed places. + +Three days ago I had seen through the gates of Paradise. To-day an angel +with a flaming sword stood to bar my entrance. And, worst of all, I knew +his name was Justice. + + + CHAPTER XXI. + ENVOY PLENIPOTENTIARY. + +I trailed back to my hotel, surely the most abject soul in Venice. +Michaela’s misapprehension of my motives I did not resent; the American +eagle in my breast had scarce a flap left—a more draggle-plumed bird I +had seldom seen. But all was at an end. I had lost my Romeo. + +My interview with the first of the two delinquents whom I had engaged to +lure back to the path of rectitude I got over quickly on my way home. It +was not a hard one. The culprit, sitting meekly on the penitent’s bench, +listened to all my blame with a contrite heart; and in consideration of +her contrition I condoned her evil deeds. It was easy to condone, for +here I knew all, and to know all is to forgive all. Michaela would have +forgiven had she seen into that poor mangled heart as I did. + +Looking back over my life dispassionately from the calm height of +twenty-three, as if I were looking at some other woman’s life, I think I +can say I have never acted wrong—grossly and unforgivably wrong—given +the circumstances. It is those alone that others fail to understand. If +they understood, they must sympathise where now they blame us. + +Could Michaela have watched, stage by stage, the slow organic growth of +my love for Romeo; could she have felt the inevitability, the +consecutiveness of the way it unfolded; could she have realised its +foregone certainty as an outcome of two natures, I think, dear little +soul, even she would have hesitated to call me “that horrid woman.” + +But it was all past now, and she had regained her Romeo. + +One culprit had recanted. I had still to face my embassy to the second +high contracting party. + +I sat by the balconied open window of my bedroom and looked down into +the canal. It was almost the hour for Romeo’s daily passage. Slow barges +with firewood drifted lazily by, then a boat-load of purple egg-fruit +and heaped golden melons, with a gondola or two loitering on the look +out for passengers, like our London crawlers. + +At last my heart began to beat, not high as it had beaten the two +previous mornings, but with a low foreboding. Another gondola swung with +a graceful curve round the huge bosses of the corner palace; in it, a +familiar crush Tyrolese hat, and beneath the hat, Romeo. + +He gazed up at me, smiled, and waved one hand; but his look was anxious. + +I leaned out and called to him: “Romeo, Romeo, Romeo!” + +He rose and glanced at me with checked breath and eager eyes. + +“Come up here,” I faltered; “I want to speak with you.” + +“In your room?” he cried, hesitating. + +I felt it was no moment to stand on false convention. “Yes, in my room,” +I answered. “Have I not told you I have confidence in myself and my +guardian angel?” + +He waved the gondolier to the steps, leaped lightly out, English athlete +that he was, and was with me in a moment. + +I might have treated the situation melodramatically and hissed out at +him “Traitor!” (But then, it is true, I unconsciously shared his +treachery.) Instead of that I treated it like a woman, and burst into +tears before him. + +He drew a chair by my side. His white face quivered. “You have seen +Meta?” he faltered out. + +I could feel his heart throb. + +“Yes,” I answered, “I have seen her, and—I find I know her. Romeo, we +were all wrong. We were deceiving our own hearts with specious sophisms. +She said to me in her soft small voice, all choked with tears, ‘The +years must count; the years must count!’—and—she was right when she +said it!” + +He flung himself upon me. “Juliet!” he cried, “dear Juliet, I too have +suffered. I have battled with my own soul. The beast has fought the +angel and the angel the man in me. When I see her, when I am with +her—so gentle, so childish, so cruelly hurt by my coldness, or what she +thinks my coldness—how can I have the heart to break to her the +resolution we formed? Yet the moment I leave her I know it is the right +one. It would be wrong of me to marry her now, having found my true +mate—wrong for her own sake. ‘The whole man—body, soul, and spirit—or +nothing.’ Do not go back on your own words. It would be treason to the +eternal cause of woman.” + +He spoke so vehemently that I faltered. + +Then Michaela’s pale face, with the gentle blue eyes swollen red from +weeping, came up like a mist before me. “You shall not wrong that +child!” I cried. “Much as I love you, Romeo, not even for my sake will I +allow you to wrong her. She is right and we are wrong; the years must +count. She has grown up with your love inextricably twined by rootlets +and tendrils through the fibre of her being; to tear it away now were to +tear her very heart out. She lives on your affection. To see is to +understand; before I saw her I thought as we thought at the Lido. Now I +know better. I will not allow you to wrong her.” + +He drew away a step and looked me over with his keen eyes from head to +foot. I quailed before his glance, so full it was of admiration. “My +Juliet!” he cried. “Why talk? I love you for _this_ better than I have +ever loved you! That you can contemplate such a sacrifice for honour’s +sake and for justice—the greater to the less, you to Meta—shows me you +are more worthy to be loved than even I thought you. I _cannot_ marry +anyone but you. You, you, you! O, God,” he flung himself upon me in an +ecstasy, “to think that in a world which holds such a woman as you they +should call upon me to content myself with that wax doll of a Meta!” + +I untwined his arms quietly. I was fighting now the battle of my sex, +and I almost forgot myself in my advocacy of Michaela. “You shall not +speak so of her!” I cried; “the girl whom you have loved for years—the +girl to whom you have uttered such vows, on whom you have bestowed such +kisses. It is an insult to our sex. The years must count—the years and +the endearments.” + +He stood away and began again. “Juliet,” he murmured, in caressing +tones, and in his flute-like voice, as if he loved to repeat my name, +“there is one woman in the world supremely fitted for me. She has +courage, she has wit, imagination, fancy. She can hold her own; +vivacious, brave, strenuous. One of her stray black elf-locks is worth +all Meta’s loose gold. Yet she has high purpose enough to plead another +woman’s cause against her own heart, her own happiness. Her brain is +alert; her eye electric; her soul womanly. The more she argues, the more +does she make me admire her, reverence her, worship her. Go on pleading +if you will, dear heart; I love to hear you, to watch you; but every +word you say, every hand you move, for Meta, only strengthens my resolve +that you I will have, or I will have nobody. Against your will, I will +make you happy.” + +He sat down by my side again, and bent towards me coaxingly. In his low +sweet voice he began to reason. I listened while he said over again +every argument we had used together by the shrine of St. Nicholas, with +others like them. If he married Meta, how could she hold his heart? She +would be the mistress of his house, a sort of superior pet bird, to be +tricked out in fine feathers, to be coaxed, stroked, fondled; but not a +wife. If he married me, we should go through the world together, equally +paired, soul-wedded, each mirroring the other’s mind, each respecting, +admiring, reinforcing the other. We two were natural complements. Why +seek to throw him back from the higher upon the lower? + +I listened and trembled. What he said was so flattering to one’s own +inner vanity, seemed so exactly what one thought in private when one +dared to be frank with oneself, had such a show of eternal and immutable +reason, that the temptation to go back on my word and accept his +argument as true was almost irresistible. If I had not seen Michaela, I +think I should have yielded. Love, one’s own heart, the man one adores +at one’s feet, these are dangerous assailants. But I closed my eyes, and +there Michaela’s blue eyes rose up, appealing to me in the gondola, with +that piteous cry, “The years must count; the years must count!” wailed +out ever from her heart; and I knew I was fighting the common battle of +womanhood. If I were to turn traitor now, I should turn traitor to +whatever I had within me best worth calling a conviction. + +He seized my hand and kissed it. When the lips of the man you love touch +you, it is hard to refuse. But I drew the hand away. He followed it up. +His breath was warm upon my cheek. My bosom rose in a tumult. I began to +fear I had presumed too much upon my guardian angel. If Romeo pressed me +hard now, I must throw Michaela overboard—I must forget his honour, the +years that count, the battle of my sex, all that is sacred on earth, +everything save myself and Romeo. If he asked me, I must say, “Yes; let +the white girl go; I will be yours, my Romeo.” + +Then, conscious of my own weakness—with an impulse as if from without, +of a sudden I flung myself on my knees, and prayed silently and +earnestly for strength to do right, strength to refrain from betraying +Michaela. + +Romeo stood off with clasped hands, observing me in dead silence. + +I rose from my knees another woman. The soul of womanhood found voice +within me. “Romeo, dear Romeo,” I cried, facing him, and speaking like +one inspired, “it is not a question for you; it is a question for me. I +love you with all my soul; but I refuse to marry you. I will not be a +traitor; the years must count: go back to Meta!” + +He caught my hand in his. I let it lie like a stone. “Do not send me +away,” he implored. “Let me stop with you a little!” + +I sank into a chair. He did the same. “But remember,” I gasped, between +two sighs, “this is final.” + +Tears rose to his eyes. He began to speak once more. “You must not +think, dearest,” he said, “I have not felt for Meta. Not all these +nights have I slept; but, honestly, in the dark, I thought it out, and I +came to the conclusion it would be best in the end—even for Meta.” + +“Romeo,” I said, raising my eyes, “do you love me?” + +He made a hasty gesture as if he would fling himself upon me once more. + +I waved him off with one open palm. “Then promise me, promise me, you +will go back to Meta.” + +“I cannot!” he cried. “I love you.” + +“Will you go back to Meta?” + +It was a hard, long struggle. We parried, thrust, marched, +countermarched, evaded; but I had taken it in hand, and I determined to +finish it. Inch by inch falling back, but still fighting, he gave way. +He saw I was in earnest. Behind each line of defence, each logical +hedge, he tried to argue it out again. I cut him short with a hasty +gesture. “A man, yes, he can forget the years; but a woman—never!” + +At last, worn out, he promised. In the agony of my excitement I took his +yielding as a personal triumph. I had asked of my lover a difficult +gift, and by dint of woman’s armoury, had prevailed on him to grant it. + +“But—you will stop on at the office?” he asked at last, holding his +breath. + +I turned on him. “How could I? For Meta’s sake, impossible; for my own, +an infamy.” + +“And—I must never see you again?” + +I bowed my head. “These things are made so. It is _yes_ or _no_. If +_yes_, for life; if _no_, then never.” + +He advanced towards me, with his lips trembling visibly. “I may say +good-bye?” he faltered. + +My heart leaped to break its strings. I knew not what to say. At +last—“Yes, if it is good-bye, and if you go back to Meta.” + +He seized me in his arms. I will not deny that for one whole minute I +lay there sobbing, happy. It is little, for a lifetime. Then I moved him +away softly. He clung to me, panting. “Now you must go,” I whispered. +“Do not tell her it was _I_. Keep my secret!” + +I opened the door. For a second he lingered. I waved him away. I could +endure it no longer. Looking back and breathing hard, he passed through +into the passage. I turned the key in the lock to satisfy myself that +that embassy was fulfilled; then I fell on the bed, and cried a low cry, +“Romeo! Romeo!” + + + CHAPTER XXII. + I CLING TO THE RIGGING. + +So my poor little Odyssey had come to an end in shipwreck! Mr. Samuel +Butler must be wrong, after all. I doubt a woman’s ability to handle +these sustained epics. I was to get no farther on my way to Ithaca than +the episode of Phæacia. Nor would any Nausicaa come forth to aid me. + +After I had cried my heart’s full—cried till that point when you begin +to leave off and to laugh like a child at nothing, for pure +weariness—the humorous element, which inevitably enters into all human +tragedy, pressed itself upon me. On the stage, art never lets these +incongruous incidents intervene at critical moments to disturb the +current: in real life, they _will_ obtrude their faces, like Paul Pry; +and ’tis my misfortune and my good luck that, with some grain of Heine +in my composition, I cannot shut my eyes to them. So here, the comic +muse, masquerading as Common Sense, stepped in with one grotesque +reminder: “You have no money to pay your way back to London.” + +Now, gypsy or American or Anglo-Indian or what you will, I am true +Briton in this, that whatever misfortune lowers, I see one path of +safety—the road home to London. “If only I could get back to London!” +is the Briton’s heart-felt cry of distress in a foreign land. He can +starve in comfort, so he may starve in Piccadilly. + +I have already explained that I am wholly free from the vile vice of +prudence. To take no thought for the morrow is to me an article of +religion, though ’tis rare among those who profess to accept it as a +divine injunction. Acting on this principle, I had bought a single +second-class ticket to Venice, as my funds were insufficient to pay for +a return. It was my idea, when I started, to trust for my journey home +to the saint who lies at the Lido. Now, however, I found myself in an +awkward predicament. St. Nicholas had played me a last bad turn. I had +bought perforce a new travelling costume before I left England, for I +recognised that my rational dress with the knickerbockers would +harmonise ill with the genius of Venice; the rest of my cash in hand had +gone for beds at Lucerne or Milan, and passing necessaries. I stood face +to face with an Italian court of bankruptcy; liabilities, my hotel bill; +assets, five paper lire. + +To borrow from Romeo was now clearly impossible. And the canals are so +redolent of thirty generations of Venetian refuse that suicide does not +offer here its normal allurements. + +This brought the revulsion. I lay on my bed and laughed to think that, +broken heart or not, I could not get away from Venice. + +By evening, I had a headache. I was crying once more. But the worst of +headache is that it never kills. + +Early next morning I woke from a short snatch of sleep with a dull pain +in my left side. It was moral, not physical. I rose, to ease it by +action. _Oubliez; voyagez!_ I had still qualms of conscience—I who +fancied I had dissected conscience out of existence: but this time they +were reversed. Had I done right, after all, in speeding Romeo to his +fate? Would Michaela be a mate for him? Was it not better as it was +before—for the greatest happiness of the greatest number at least? St. +Nicholas, help! John Stuart Mill, stand by me! + +I dressed, bathed my red eyes, and went out to keep my appointment. I +was early at San Giorgio, but Michaela was before me. As I lifted the +heavy curtain, her eyes shone happiness. In her radiant countenance I +read my doom. She was calmly, serenely joyous. I beckoned her to the +_campo_. She flitted out, and with a charming baby impulse flung her +arms around me. + +Tears rose in my eyes. It was sweet to see her happy. I held her hand +and said nothing. + +“Well, he has explained all,” she whispered. “You were a dear to speak +to him.” + +“Explained!” I cried. How true it is that explanations explain nothing! + +“Yes, he told mamma he did not know the type-writer girl was coming to +Venice. He went out with her in a gondola because he met her by +accident—and it was such a surprise to him; and he wanted to avoid +mamma. But he is not going to see her again, and I believe he will +dismiss her.” + +“No, dear,” I said gently, unable to restrain myself, “he will _not_ +dismiss her, because—she will go away of her own accord. She does not +intend to remain with him. I have seen her, and I can assure you she is +better than you think. She did not know Romeo was engaged; and when she +fully realised it she relinquished all claim to him, or rather admitted +she had never had one. Michaela, dear child, you must not be hard upon +her. You promised to forgive her. I feel sure she has suffered, for she +loved him devotedly.” + +“How good you are!” Michaela cried. “You sympathise so with everyone!” + +“She has promised me,” I went on, “that she will never again see him, +that she will avoid him with care, that she will not speak to him nor +write to him. She will try to forget him, though to forget him is as +impossible for her as for you. But she will be true to you; she will +keep her word. I can answer for her as I could answer for myself; she +spoke with such earnestness. She is tearing out her heart; but because +she thinks it right she will tear it out ruthlessly.” + +Michaela smiled a tranquil smile. “And it is all right now,” she said. +“We are to be married in October, as we arranged originally.” + +We walked along the canal. We walked side by side, but great gulfs +separated us. At last I spoke again. “You forgive her, Michaela?” + +“Oh! yes, dear, I forgive her. If she did not know, of course it was +natural. He _is_ such a dear! She could not help falling in love with +him!” + +“So I feel,” I said. She glanced up at me with inquiring blue eyes. I +think for a second she half suspected the truth, for I had spoken too +deeply. + +We walked on in silence a little farther. Then Michaela began again, +brimming over with her happiness. “I haven’t a quarter thanked you. But +I _am_ so grateful! You were a sweet to see them both. You will come to +my wedding?” + +“No, dearest,” I answered, driving back the tears with a fierce effort. +“If so, I should be breaking a solemn promise.” + +Again she seemed to suspect, and again the doubt went from her. + +“It was all a mistake,” she continued, in a childish, sunny way, “a +passing cloud. And Toto seemed so distressed, I couldn’t help feeling +sorry to see him so sorry for me. It has touched him very deep. He cried +a great deal. He has been crying all the time. But it is all right now. +We shall be quite happy!” + +I swallowed a lump. What a child it was! And _there_ lay the irony. I +think I could have spared Romeo better had I felt I was sparing him to +more of a woman. Self-sacrifice for some great soul would be easy: but +for a bit of thistledown! And yet I loved her. + +“I told mamma how kind you had been,” Michaela went on, quite +guilelessly, “and she wants to see you so much. You must come and dine +with us at our hotel. How long do you stop in Venice?” + +I paused and reflected. I had done her a service—a very great service; +what need to stand on trifles? For I do not share the vulgar dread of +putting myself under an obligation. + +“Dear little Michaela,” I said, spanning her arm with one hand—it was +so fairy-like and tiny—and drawing her towards me, “I will confess the +truth. I am travelling with that type-writer girl. I know her +intimately. Now, I want to spirit her away from Venice at once, so that +she may not see Romeo, and that Romeo may not see her. It would be +awkward for both of them. But I have no money. I borrowed from you once +and repaid you faithfully; if I borrow from you again I will repay in +like manner. This is a worse strait than Holmwood. I shall need six or +seven pounds. My dear, can you lend it to me?” + +She drew out the dainty purse. “Why, of course, dear, if I have it. +Fifty, a hundred and fifty, two hundred lire; will that be enough for +you?” + +“Yes, my child,” I gasped out, taking the crumpled notes and crushing +them in my folded hand. “If I work my fingers to the bone you shall have +it back.” + +We walked on towards the Molo. O grey, grey Venice! The greatest +happiness of the greatest number. Back, back, Stuart Mill! Get thee +behind me, Satan! A gondola approached. I hailed it. + +“Where are you going?” she cried, surprised. + +“Away,” I said, “at once. It is better—safer! I will give the devil no +chances.” Then to the gondolier, “Hold off a little!” + +He held off beyond jumping distance. Michaela hung over on the bridge +close by, wondering. + +“Michaela,” I cried, “now I will tell you!” An impulse came over me; I +could no longer resist it. “It was _I_ who stole your Romeo’s heart by +mistake! It was _I_ who played Carmen and beguiled your Don José. It was +_I_ who sent him back. _I_ am the type-writer girl!” + +“You!” she cried, waving to me to return. “Oh, you dear thing, come +back! If it was you, how good you have been! Why, I can see it in your +face. You have suffered for my sake! Come back, and let me kiss you!” + +“No, dearest,” I said, melting. “I must go. I dare not trust myself. +Good-bye for ever! Good-bye to you; good-bye to Romeo. Give him that +message for me; I will never again see him.” I turned to the gondolier. +“Quick, row for all you are worth! To my hotel first, then on to the +railway station!” + + * * * * * + +If this book succeeds I mean to repay Michaela. Meanwhile, in any case, +I am saving up daily every farthing to repay her. For I am still a +type-writer girl—at another office. + + THE END + _Malcomson & Co., Ltd., Printers, Redhill._ + + + + + NEW 3s. 3d. FICTION. + + _____ + + H. G. WELLS’ NEW ROMANCE. + + =THE INVISIBLE MAN.= + + By the Author of “The Time Machine.” Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 3s. 6d. + + Other writers have treated this theme, but they have generally + given the invisible man a power which it was something more than + a satisfaction for him to have. Mr. Wells, however, is original + in all things, and shows us in this story what a disadvantage it + is to become invisible. He describes how, if a man becomes + invisible, it does not follow that the clothes he wears become + invisible also, and on this supposition has woven a story that + will hold the reader with breathless interest from start to + finish. + +=The Duke and the Damsel.= By RICHARD MARSH, Author of the “Devil’s +Diamonds,” &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. + + In this story Mr. Richard Marsh devotes himself to a series of + light-comedy incidents, relieved by a few touches of strong + feeling. The scene is laid at Monte Carlo, and the whole tale is + a study of modern men (and women) and manners. + +=Fortune’s Footballs.= By G. B. BURGIN, Author of “Old Man’s Marriage,” +&c., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. + + In this story Mr. Burgin forsakes his customary Canadian and + Turkish haunts in favour of “dramatic life” in London. The plot + deals with a strolling vagabond who has stolen the half-finished + play of a great dramatic author and afterwords produces it as + his own. He is tracked by the daughter of the dead dramatist, + and ultimately meets with his deserts. There is a boy-and-girl + love-story in the subsidiary plot, and a “new thing” in villains + in the shape of a greasy Canadian philanthropist. + +=Her Royal Highness’s Love Affairs.= By J. MACLAREN COBBAN, Author of +“The Cure of Souls,” “The Red Sultan,” &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. + + In his new story, Mr. Maclaren Cobban follows Mr. Wells’ example + and makes a hero of a shopman. Unlike Mr. Wells, however, the + shopman in question is of good family, and sells lace for a + West-End firm. He first meets the heroine (the Princess) when + she is bicycling, and out of the _rencontre_ Mr. Maclaren Cobban + spins a very dainty love-story. + +=The Iron Cross.= By R. H. SHERARD, Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. + + Mr. Sherard has laid the scene of this story in an old French + village, and deals with a search for hidden treasure in a + thoroughly novel and interesting way. The mystery of the hidden + treasure is well maintained up to the last chapter. + +=John of Strathbourne.= By R. D. CHETWODE. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. + + In this story Mr. Chetwode challenges comparison with Mr. + Stanley Weyman in his most dramatic moments. He has fully caught + the romantic spirit of the time when “The Thousand Devils” + flourished in Old France, and furnishes a very pretty love-story + as a set-off to the foibles of the villains whom he depicts. + +=The Skipper’s Wooing.= By W. W. JACOBS, Author of “Many Cargoes,” &c. +Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. + + It will be remembered that Mr. Jacobs made an instantaneous + success with his first book of short stories. Mr. Jacobs is now + following up that success with a long novel, the scene of which + is laid among the semi-seafaring folk with whose peculiarities + he is so familiar. “The Skipper’s Wooing” deals with the + adventures of a Captain in search of his sweetheart’s father, + who has disappeared under a cloud. Despairing of the success of + his own exertions, the Captain offers a reward to all the + members of his crew to help him. They set forth in different + directions on the same quest, and meet with many ludicrous + misadventures by the way. The book is written with all the high + spirits of youth, and should more than confirm Mr. Jacobs’ + previous success. + +=When the Birds Begin to Sing.= By WINIFRED GRAHAM, Author of “On the +Down Grade.” With 16 illustrations by HAROLD PIFFARD. Square crown 8vo. +Price 3s. 6d. + + “A striking and interesting tale. The authoress has evidently a + strong imagination and a gift for story-telling.”—_Dundee + Courier._ + + + + + NEW 6s. NOVELS. + + _____ + + COMPANION VOLUME TO “THE FINAL WAR.” + +=An American Emperor.= By LOUIS TRACY. Square crown 8vo, cloth, 16 +full-page illustrations. Price 6s. + + It is a long time since such a daring book as “An American + Emperor” has been produced. Mr. Tracy has taken for his theme + the power of money, and the work is written in his best and most + graphic style. All through runs a vein of romance, mingled with + stirring adventure and with tragedy. And throughout there is + nothing improbable, nothing which outsteps the possibilities of + such a power as unlimited millions would bestow. With a + cheque-book Mr. Tracy’s hero performs what Napoleon accomplished + with an army. + + _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ + +_THE FINAL WAR.—A Story of the Great Betrayal. Illustrated by Ernest F. +Sherie. Square crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s._ + +=Queen of the Jesters.= By MAX PEMBERTON, Author of “Christine of the +Hills,” &c., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, illustrated, 6s. + + This is a collection of the stories by Mr. Pemberton which have + been delighting all England for the last few months. They are + full of stirring adventure, and written with Mr. Pemberton’s + customary skill in depicting strong emotion and dramatic + incident. + +=The Raid of the “Detrimental.”= By the EARL OF DESART, Author of “Lord +and Lady Piccadilly,” &c., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. + + In this story the Earl of Desart has made a new departure. The + tale deals with the True History of the Great Disappearance of + 1862, and is related by several of those implicated and others. + The story is so fantastic and novel, the dialogue so brilliant, + that it recalls the former successes of the author in the + particular field which is almost his own. + +=The Zone of Fire.= By HEADON HILL, Author of “Guilty Gold,” “The +Rajah’s Second Wife,” &c., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. + + _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ + +_GUILTY GOLD.—A Romance of Financial Fraud and City Crime. Illustrated +by Raymond Potter. Square crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s._ + +=Valdar—The Oft-Born: A Saga of Seven Ages.= By GEORGE GRIFFITH, Author +of “The Angel of the Revolution,” &c., &c. Illustrated by HAROLD +PIFFARD. Square crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. + +=The Impudent Comedian, and Others.= By FRANKFORT MOORE. Illustrated by +ROBERT SAUBER. Large crown 8vo, cloth. Price 5s. + + “Really Mr. Frankfort Moore ought to write for the theatres. He + has not only an uncommon talent for dramatic dialogue—dialogue, + that is to say, which contributes at the same time to the + development of character and the conduct of a plot—he is also + particularly cunning in devising a telling situation. There are + two or three stories in his new book, ‘The Impudent Comedian,’ + which may be turned into plays as easily as pork may be made + into sausages—the same thing in another form.”—_The Referee._ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER NOTES + + Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where + multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. + + Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer + errors occur. + + Book cover illustration was taken from Wikipedia Commons. The + resulting cover is placed in the public domain. + + [The end of _The Type-writer Girl_, by Grant Allen.] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78662 *** diff --git a/78662-h/78662-h.htm b/78662-h/78662-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..95e58b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/78662-h/78662-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8218 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> + <title>The type-writer girl | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg"/> + <meta name="cover" content="images/cover.jpg" /> + <meta name="DC.Title" content="The Type-writer Girl"/> + <meta name="DC.Creator" content="Grant Allen"/> + <meta name="DC.Language" content="en"/> + <meta name="DC.Created" content="1897"/> + <meta name="DC.Subject" content="fiction"/> + <meta name="DC.date.issued" content="1897"/> + <meta name="Tags" content="historical fiction, fiction, Canadiana, romance"/> + <meta name="DC.Publisher" content="Distributed Proofreaders Canada"/> + <meta name="generator" content="fpgen 4.67a"/> + <style type="text/css"> + body { margin-left:8%;margin-right:10%; 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+ margin-right: auto; + margin-left: auto; + padding: 1em;} + </style> + </head> + + <body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78662 ***</div> + +<div class='figcenter' style='width:60%'> +<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='book cover' id='iid-0000' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/> +</div> + +<hr class='pbk'/> + +<div class='lgc' style='margin-top:4em;'> <!-- rend=';' --> +<p class='line'><span style='font-size:larger'>THE</span></p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:4em;font-size:3em;'>TYPE-WRITER GIRL</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line'><span style='font-size:x-small'>BY</span></p> +<p class='line'><span style='font-size:larger'>OLIVE PRATT RAYNER</span></p> +</div> <!-- end rend --> + +<div class='lgc' style='margin-top:4em;margin-bottom:4em;'> <!-- rend=';fs:.9em;' --> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>LONDON</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>C. ARTHUR PEARSON LIMITED</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>HENRIETTA STREET W.C.</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>1897</p> +</div> <!-- end rend --> + +<hr class='pbk'/> + +<div class='lgc' style='margin-top:4em;margin-bottom:4em;'> <!-- rend=';fs:.9em;' --> +<p class='line' style='font-size:.9em;'>TO</p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>THEODORE RAYNER</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>AND</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>OLIVER WENDELL PRATT,</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>A WIFE’S HOMAGE,</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:-.5em;font-size:.9em;'>A SISTER’S LOVE.</p> +</div> <!-- end rend --> + +<hr class='pbk'/> + +<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:3em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;'>CONTENTS</p> + +<table id='tab1' summary='' class='center'> +<colgroup> +<col span='1' style='width: 3.5em;'/> +<col span='1' style='width: 27.5em;'/> +<col span='1' style='width: 3em;'/> +</colgroup> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><span style='font-size:x-small'>CHAP.</span></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><span style='font-size:x-small'>PAGE</span></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>I.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>Introduces a Latter-day Heroine</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_9'>9</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>II.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>The Struggle for Life</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_18'>18</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>III.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>Environment Wins</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_29'>29</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>IV.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>The Choice of a Patron</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_41'>41</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>V.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>Vive l’Anarchie!</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_47'>47</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>VI.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>The Inner Brotherhood</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_60'>60</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>VII.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>A Mutinous Mutineer</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_68'>68</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>VIII.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>Called “Of Accidents”</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_83'>83</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>IX.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>I play Carmen</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_95'>95</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>X.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>Sic me servavit Apollo!</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_104'>104</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XI.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>A Sail on the Horizon</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_114'>114</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XII.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>A Cavalier makes Advances</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_131'>131</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XIII.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>Concerning Romeo</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_137'>137</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XIV.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—“<span class='sc'>Now Barabbas was a Publisher</span>”</td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_145'>145</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XV.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>Fresh Light on Romeo</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_155'>155</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XVI.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>I try Literature</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_165'>165</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XVII.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>A Drawn Battle</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_176'>176</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XVIII.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>An Autumn Holiday</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_194'>194</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XIX.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—“<span class='sc'>O Romeo, Romeo!</span>”</td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_203'>203</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XX.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—“<span class='sc'>Wherefore art thou Romeo?</span>”</td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_223'>223</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XXI.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>Envoy Plenipotentiary</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_242'>242</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XXII.</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'>—<span class='sc'>I Cling to the Rigging</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle0'><a href='#Page_253'>253</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class='pbk'/> + +<div class='bbox'> +<table id='tab2' summary='' class='center'> +<colgroup> +<col span='1' style='width: 7.5em;'/> +<col span='1' style='width: 10em;'/> +</colgroup> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle2' colspan='2'>NEW 3s. 6d. BOOKS.</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle2' colspan='2'><span style='font-size:smaller'>(TO APPEAR SHORTLY.)</span></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle2' colspan='2'>_____</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle1' colspan='2'><span class='bold'>The Invisible Man.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'>By <span class='sc'>H. G. Wells</span>.</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle2' colspan='2'>_____</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle1' colspan='2'><span class='bold'>Fortune’s Footballs.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'>By <span class='sc'>G. B. Burgin</span>.</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle2' colspan='2'>_____</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle1' colspan='2'><span class='bold'>The Skipper’s Wooing.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'>By <span class='sc'>W. W. Jacobs</span>.</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle2' colspan='2'>_____</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle1' colspan='2'><span class='bold'>John of Strathbourne.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle0'>By <span class='sc'>R. D. Chetwode</span>.</td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<div><h1>THE TYPE-WRITER GIRL.</h1></div> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='9' id='Page_9'></span>CHAPTER I.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>INTRODUCES A LATTER-DAY HEROINE.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>I was</span> twenty-two, and without employment.</p> + +<p>I would not say by this that I was without +occupation. In the world in which we live, +set with daisies and kingfishers and undeciphered +faces of men and women, I doubt +I could be at a loss for something to occupy +me. A swallow’s back, as he turns in the +sunshine, is so full of meaning. If you dwell +in the country, you need but pin on a hat +and slip out into a meadow, and there, in +some bight of the hedgerow, you shall see +spring buds untwisting, sulphur butterflies +coquetting; hear nightingales sing as they +sang to Keats, and streamlets make madrigal +as they wimpled for Marlowe. Nay, even +here in London, where life is rarer, how can +I cruise down the Strand without encountering +<span class='pageno' title='10' id='Page_10'></span> +strange barks—mysterious argosies that +attract and intrigue me? That living stream +is so marvellous! Whence come they, these +shadows, and whither do they go?—innumerable, +silent, each wrapped in his own +thought, yet each real to himself as I to my +heart. To me, they are shooting stars, +phantoms that flash athwart the orbit of my +life one second, and then vanish. But to +themselves they are the centre of a world—of +<span class='it'>the</span> world; and I am but one of the +meteors that dart across their horizon.</p> + +<p>I cannot choose but wonder who each is, +and why he is here. For one after another I +invent a story. It may not be the true story, +but at least it amuses me. Every morning I +see them stream in from the Unknown, by the +early trains, and disperse like sparks that +twinkle on the thin soot of the chimney-back—men +with small black bags, bound for +mysterious offices. What happens in those +offices I have no idea: they may lend money, +or buy shares, or promote Christian knowledge. +I only know I see them come in the +morning and flit again at night, sometimes the +same figures, recognisably identical. They +rush back, absorbed, to catch the train to the +Unknown, as they rushed up from it earlier. +<span class='pageno' title='11' id='Page_11'></span> +So, day after day, the tide sets and ebbs; while +I stand on the shore of the vast sea of London +like a child that watches. And Commissioner +Lin guards me.</p> + +<p>I have always been grateful to Mr. Samuel +Butler for his eccentric theory that a woman +wrote the Odyssey. I do not say that I +agree with him; if I did, I am not aware that +any critic would attach the least importance +to my opinion. But it is a soothing theory +for us latter-day women. Without thinking +it true, I love to believe it. The Odyssey, +you will grant, is the epic of the imagination. +It is the epic of mystery. In the Iliad, which +is the epic of fact, everything is clear-cut, distinct, +commonplace. I do not conceive that +a woman could have written the Iliad. Its +theme would fail to interest her. That hard +handplay of battle counts for nought to our +sex. Clang of bronze sword on ringing shield +rouses no echo in our heart or brain. It is +a masculine poem. How practical it is, how +cold, how everyday, how mannish! Considering +its august age, how little it gleams +with the glamour of antiquity! Ulysses in +the Iliad is just a shifty politician, an adroit +public speaker. Achilles is just a petulant, +ill-disciplined young warrior—I have met him +<span class='pageno' title='12' id='Page_12'></span> +in London, fresh home from the Transvaal. +The whole mighty saga is a saga of men’s +ideas, so sharp is it in its outlines, so historical, +so definite. But the Odyssey!</p> + +<p>Yes, I read in it clearly the fine hand of a +woman. It has the vagueness, the elusiveness, +the melting, hazy charm of feminine +craft. It thrills with mystery; and woman +is the mystic. Look at its glorious dimness. +You descry its geography in veiled outline +only, as one beholds the Paps of Jura on a +day of sea-fog through swaying sheets of +white cloud from a fisherman’s boat on the +Bay of Oban. It is a Celtic dreamland. +From morning to night, in that enchanted +poem, on and on we sail, past uncertain isles +or dubious blue headlands, begirt with fantastic +forms, and in perils of the sea more +awesome than the real. Architects have reconstructed +Priam’s palace, I believe, from +the description in the Iliad. That is man’s +way of describing. But who could reconstruct, +from the rapt words of the Odyssey, Circe’s +island or the gardens of Alcinous? Peering +and prying Schliemann found in the battle-epic +a whole plan of the Troad; or, at least, +read one into it: fancy even imagining you +could construct a chart of the Mediterranean +<span class='pageno' title='13' id='Page_13'></span> +to show the homeward maze of the much-travelled +wanderer from Ilion to Ithaca! +The bare idea would indicate a misconception +of the Odyssey. For those are the seas and +islands that never were; they live but in the +ghost-geography of poets and women.</p> + +<p>As arguments, indeed, the proofs adduced +seem to me preposterous. It is nonsense to +say that in the Odyssey the chief <span class='it'>rôle</span> is played +by women. Do women’s books deal exclusively, +or even mainly, with their own sex? +Is not the Titan man, the strong, sardonic, +woman-quelling hero, a recognised commonplace +of women’s fancy? I do not believe an +Ithacan lady wrote the Odyssey <span class='it'>because</span> of the +relative importance of Penelope and Nausicaa. +Surely even a man might have set Penelope +at her web, or Nausicaa at her tennis. In +that I see nothing occult or esoterically +feminine. Men must be aware that every +Circe has the power of turning men into +swine. They ought to know; they have seen +it done daily. No, those are not the reasons +that weigh with me. It is the wonder, the +magic, the purple mystery, of the Odyssey +that tells to my mind in favour of its female +authorship. And though I know Mr. Samuel +Butler’s theory is not true, I thank God I +<span class='pageno' title='14' id='Page_14'></span> +am woman enough none the less to embrace +it.</p> + +<p>But what has all this to do with my story—the +story I am setting out in my own +fashion to tell you? A great deal; and +besides, unless you let me tell it in my own +wayward way, I can never get through with +it. In that respect also I hold myself true +woman. And this is the connection. “If +only we could have lived in those days!” +people say. I answer, “You <span class='it'>are</span> living in +them.” It is not the days, not the places, +not the things that change, but we who +see them otherwise. Consider, the Mediterranean +is the same sea to-day as when +the Ithacan lady who wrote the Odyssey +looked out upon its blue zones to behold +it peopled with strange forms and wizard +shadows. For that nameless Sappho, that +prehistoric Charlotte Brontë, that inchoate +Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the Ionian main +swarmed alive with Gorgons and Harpies +as Loch Fyne with herrings. Sirens sang +on every rock to lure the seaman; promontories +glowed red at set of sun with the +forges of the Cyclops. You may steam down +the prosaic Adriatic to-day in an Austrian +Lloyd steamer—a fearsome Behemoth, bellowing, +<span class='pageno' title='15' id='Page_15'></span> +snorting, flame-breathing—and identify +those charmed shores of Hellenic fancy, as +laid down, with soundings, in the Admiralty +surveys. But that is your blindness. Scylla +and Charybdis are there as of old: ’tis you +who turn them into the Straits of Messina. +Polyphemus still haunts his seaward cave: +’tis you who transform him into a custom-house +officer. Adventures are to the adventurous. +Go through the world in search +of Calypso, and you will surely find her. +Be modern, and you will find only Willesden +Junction. That may suffice for you. I live +in “those days,” as all lovers of the mystical +have always lived in them.</p> + +<p>And I will go forth into the world in search +of adventures. They are sure to come to me; +for faith moves mountains. In every age, +when the Princess Cleodolind is sent out +from the city as a prey for the dragon, some +youthful St. George, in celestial armour, rides +by in the nick of time, on his snow-white +steed, and draws his trusty blade, and fights +for her, and rescues her from the loathly +thing. Else what were the use of faith and +of poetry? In every age we fashion the story +anew in our passing manner, dressing it up +in our own clothes, and fitting it to our +<span class='pageno' title='16' id='Page_16'></span> +particular modes and morals. But ’tis the +same to the end through all disguises. The +Greeks told it as the tale of Perseus and +Andromeda; they made their hero purely +Greek, a triumphant young son of immortal +Zeus, who rescues a beautiful princess, with +fair nude limbs like Parian marble, from the +devouring sea-monster. Mediæval Italy made +the sign of the cross, turned the son of +Danaë into a Christian martyr, and clad the +beautiful nude maiden in clinging silk robes, +as it would fain have clad Melian Aphrodite +herself when it converted her image into a +crowned Madonna. The Renaissance came, +and Cellini unclothed her again, in his revived +paganism, to set her polished bronze limbs, +where every eye might see and stare, in the +Piazza at Florence. Our modern novelists +dress her up afresh in the princess robe of +the day (sage green or crushed strawberry), +and turn her loose on that slimy old dragon +the world, till Prince Charming comes by, +as a baronet in a tennis suit, to lay at her +feet ten thousand a year and the title of My +Lady. But ’tis the old tale still, and who +lists to tell it may trick it out once more in +his own heart’s fashion. For though there +be nothing new under the sun, the old wonder +<span class='pageno' title='17' id='Page_17'></span> +is there, as marvellous as ever, if you choose +to marvel at it. Each spring brings it back, +a perpetual miracle.</p> + +<p>So I set forth into the world, a Princess +Cleodolind of the nineteenth century, ready +to face the dragons that, as I well know, +abound in it, and full of faith in the St. George +who will come to rescue me. I mean to sail +away on my Odyssey, unabashed, touching +at such shores as may chance to beckon, yet +hopeful of reaching at last the realms of +Alcinous.</p> + +<p>From all which you may guess that I am +a Girton girl.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='18' id='Page_18'></span>CHAPTER II.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>You</span> may guess it, I say; for it is no part of +my plan to tell you. Being a woman, I throw +out this hint to pique your curiosity.</p> + +<p>Let us return to the point that I was +twenty-two, and had no employment. Commissioner +Lin and I were alone and friendless.</p> + +<p>Four months earlier I had suffered a great +loss. How great a loss I am not careful to +assure you. It is far from my desire to make +capital out of my inmost heart. I cannot spin +phrases about my dead father. But by this +time the first fierce numbness of my sorrow +had worn away; I was no longer a stone; I was +beginning to smile, and to feel the sunshine. +A certain quicksilver light-heartedness in the +veins of my race helps to conceal a background +of feeling. Besides, I had my livelihood +to earn. That is a great resource. +The need for bread served to edge out my +<span class='pageno' title='19' id='Page_19'></span> +grief. My first four months had been assured +me beforehand in the Settlement; for we +paid in advance, half-yearly, our Warden +being a prudent soul who disliked bad debts, +and preferred the safe side. But when the +four months of my deepest mourning were +over, it was absolutely necessary for me to +find employment.</p> + +<p>How it all came about I need not inform +you: the bank that broke, the electric light +that failed: I was told the details in terms so +crabbed that if I tried to repeat them I could +but show my ignorance.</p> + +<p>It was not hard for me to be poor; for in +the Settlement we lived as the other East-Enders +live, and I had learned from my +match-girls how to be hungry and merry. +But my poverty hitherto had been that of the +amateur; I had now to learn professional +indigence. When I shook hands with Sister +Phyllis and Sister Agatha at the door of +the guild, leaving Commissioner Lin in their +charge for the moment, and went forth into +the world to earn my living, I had six and +elevenpence as available assets. I was a +capitalist in my way. That formed my capital.</p> + +<p>“Under these circumstances,” I said to +myself, “the first thing for a prudent girl to +<span class='pageno' title='20' id='Page_20'></span> +do is to look out for lunch; the second thing +is to look out for a situation.”</p> + +<p>I do not pretend to prevision; on the contrary, +I was born to take no heed for the +morrow. I belong to the tribe of the grasshopper, +not that of the ant. But I had been +so deeply impressed by Sister Phyllis’s exhortations +during my last four months in the +guild that I had taken pains to learn shorthand +and type-writing. I did not then know +that every girl in London can write shorthand, +and that type-writing as an accomplishment +is as diffused as the piano; else +I might have turned my hand to some +honest trade instead, such as millinery or +cake-making. However, a type-writer I was, +and a type-writer I must remain. So I set +forth on my Odyssey by walking down the +phantom-haunted channel of the Strand, and +cast anchor for my first halt in an aërated +bread shop.</p> + +<p>Luxury, we are told, demoralises this age, +and (while I remain a type-writer) I am absolute +to set my face against it. But a cup +of coffee and a slice of seed-cake (not too +luxuriously sweetened) lay well within the +compass of my capital. I am a poor arithmetician, +but I arrive by finger-lore at the net +<span class='pageno' title='21' id='Page_21'></span> +result that fourpence from six and elevenpence +leaves six and seven. I took up an evening +paper, which some recklessly extravagant customer +had bequeathed to his successors, and +my eye scanned the advertisements. Hands +that waved a signal seemed to catch my glance. +“A sail on the horizon!” I cried to myself. +And this is what I read—</p> + +<p>“Shorthand and Type-writer wanted +(female). Legal work.—Apply Flor and +Fingelman, 27<span class='sc'>b</span>, Southampton Row.”</p> + +<p>I felt myself already on the road to fortune. +A glance at the date: it was to-day’s paper! +In matters of business, promptitude is everything. +I would be the first to apply. I tossed +off my hot coffee with unbecoming haste, and, +deeply impressed with the fact that in this +age the struggle for existence has become one +of the rights of woman, I hurried with all +speed to Flor and Fingelman’s.</p> + +<p>I was a Shorthand and Type-writer +(female); and I was fully prepared to be as +legal as they desired of me.</p> + +<p>I do not say that “female” is a poetical +description. I have never heard it applied +to Heloise or to Ophelia—not even by the +grave-digger; though Touchstone, to be sure, +uses it once of Audrey. But the nineteenth +<span class='pageno' title='22' id='Page_22'></span> +century has a chivalry all its own, which I +scruple to depreciate. If it speaks of us as +females, it has given us the bicycle, and it +almost admits that we are as fit for the franchise +as the forty-shilling lodger. It puts us +a little lower than the navvies. I call that +magnanimity.</p> + +<p>I had made haste to run up Charing Cross +Road, and when I reached Southampton Row, +impressed by the importance of the Struggle +for Existence, I believe I was absolute winner +in the race against time for the position +of Shorthand and Type-writer (female).</p> + +<p>Up two pair of stairs, where a notice led, +I entered the Outer Office. Its keynote was +fustiness. Three clerks (male), in seedy +black coats, the eldest with hair the colour of +a fox’s, went on chaffing one another for two +minutes after I closed the door, with ostentatious +unconsciousness of my insignificant +presence.</p> + +<p>No doubt they inferred that I was a candidate +for the post of Shorthand and Type-writer +(female), and they treated me as such +persons may look to be treated. Their talk +turned upon that noble animal, the horse.</p> + +<p>They spoke also of the turf; by which I +understood them to allude, not so much to +<span class='pageno' title='23' id='Page_23'></span> +the greensward of the downs, as to the imperceptible +moral turf of Fleet Street. The +two younger were indeterminate young men, +with straight black hair, and features modelled +on an oyster’s. As they appeared to be +loftily unaware of my intrusion, I signified my +presence by coughing slightly. It was the +apologetic cough that stands for “I beg your +pardon, but will you kindly attend to me?” +They did not permit even the cough, however, +to hurry them unduly. The youngest +of the three, a pulpy youth, adjusted his +cuffs, and completed some deep remarks upon +two-year-old form before he turned to stare +at me. I suppose he was kind enough to be +satisfied with my personal appearance, for +after a while he wheeled round on his high +stool, and broke out with the chivalry of his +age and class, “Well, what’s your business?”</p> + +<p>My voice trembled a little, but I mustered +up courage and spoke. “I have called about +your advertisement for a Shorthand and +Type-writer (female).”</p> + +<p>He eyed me up and down. I am slender, +and, I will venture to say, if not pretty, at +least interesting-looking.</p> + +<p>“How many words a minute?” he asked +after a long pause.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='24' id='Page_24'></span> +I stretched truth as far as its elasticity +would permit. “One ninety-seven,” I answered +with an affectation of the precisest +accuracy. To say “Two hundred” were commonplace.</p> + +<p>The pulpy youth ran his eyes over me as +if I were a horse for sale. I was conscious +of my little black dress and hat; conscious +also of a fiery patch in the centre of my +cheek; but if you struggle for life you must expect +these episodes. “That’s good enough,” +he said slowly, with a side-glance at his +fellow-clerks. I had a painful suspicion that +the words were intended rather for them +than for me, and that they bore reference +more to my face and figure than to my real +or imagined pace per minute.</p> + +<p>The eldest clerk, with the foxy head, +wheeled round, and took his turn to stare. +He had hairy hands and large goggle eyes.</p> + +<p>“Got your own machine?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“What sort?”</p> + +<p>“A Barlock.”</p> + +<p>“That’ll do,” he said, eyeing the rest. And +again I detected an undercurrent of double +meaning. He seemed to be expressing modified +satisfaction at my outer personality.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='25' id='Page_25'></span> +They questioned me for some minutes with +equal grace and charm. Then the eldest rose +slowly. “I’ll tell the governor,” he murmured, +and disappeared through a dingy door +marked in large letters “Mr. Fingelman.”</p> + +<p>In a short time he came back and +beckoned me mysteriously. I followed him, +trembling. He waved his hairy hand towards +me as if to show me off to the +man at the table. I felt disagreeably like +Esther in the presence of Ahasuerus—a fat +and oily Ahasuerus of fifty. “This is the +young person,” he said, by way of introduction.</p> + +<p>Ahasuerus—otherwise Mr. Fingelman—inspected +me in turn. I quailed before his +glance; he was a commissioner for oaths, and +wore large round spectacles. “Had experience?” +he asked at last. In person he +was rotund and obviously wealthy, though +’twas a third-rate solicitor’s.</p> + +<p>“A little,” I replied. I had made up my +mind to say “Lots” beforehand; but when +it came to the pinch, the ingrained bad habit +of speaking the truth reasserted itself partially.</p> + +<p>Ahasuerus stared. “What name?” he +asked, after a long stony gaze.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='26' id='Page_26'></span> +I stammered out “Juliet Appleton.”</p> + +<p>“Age?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-two.”</p> + +<p>He perused me up and down with his small +pig’s eyes, as if he were buying a horse, scrutinising +my face, my figure, my hands, my +feet. I felt like a Circassian in an Arab slave-market. +I thought he would next proceed to +examine my teeth. But he did not. Having +satisfied himself as to externals, he went on +to put me through my paces.</p> + +<p>“Sit down there,” he said, pointing to a +seat. “Have you pen and note-book?” I +produced my stylograph.</p> + +<p>He grunted approbation, and dictated for a +few minutes a short business-letter. Then +he waved me to the type-writer. “Transcribe,” +he said curtly. I sat down and +transcribed.</p> + +<p>The chief clerk meanwhile stood by, with +his hairy hands crossed in a curved attitude +of ostentatious servility, which contrasted +strangely with his Outer Office manner. +When I had finished, he peered at my work, +nodded, and handed it over to Ahasuerus. +Ahasuerus ran his eye up and down, grunting +again. “She’ll do?” he said interrogatively.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='27' id='Page_27'></span> +The chief clerk signed <span class='it'>yes</span>.</p> + +<p>“She’s the first we’ve seen,” Ahasuerus +interposed, with caution in his tone.</p> + +<p>“Saves trouble,” said the chief clerk. I +was aware with a rush of hot blood that the +chief clerk approved of me, and that to his +lordly approbation (as of the Sultan’s Vizier) +I owed my appointment.</p> + +<p>The Oriental monarch waved his pen towards +the door. “Very well,” he answered. +“Settle terms with her outside. You know +what I give. Bother me no more with it.” +And wheeling round his swivel-chair, he +buried himself in his writing.</p> + +<p>The terms the Vizier proposed were not +wholly superior to the dreams of avarice; but +they were a modest starvation; and after my +East-End experiences, I looked for no more. +I accepted them without demur, and went +forth into Southampton Row an engaged +type-writer.</p> + +<p>I have a mercurial temperament. My +spirits rise and fall as if they were consols. +This success exalted me. I walked down +Charing Cross Road (by no means, as a rule, +an exhilarating thoroughfare) in the seventh +heaven. I had justified myself before the impartial +tribunal of political economy. I could +<span class='pageno' title='28' id='Page_28'></span> +earn my own bread—butter doubtful. In the +Struggle for Life I had obtained a footing. +This magnificent post of Shorthand and Type-writer +(female) had been thrown open by advertisement +to public competition. In that competition +I had won the day. My energy, my +promptitude, the rapid resolution with which I +had gulped down my coffee, burnt my tongue, +and rushed off to Southampton Row, had secured +for me the prize of a modest starvation. +I had proved myself fittest by the mere fact of +survival. Matthew Arnold had taught me, +indeed, with much sweet reasonableness, that +there was not any proper reason for my existing; +but I like to exist. The sole remaining +question was, Could I adapt myself to my environment? +If so, I had fulfilled the whole +gospel of Darwinism.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='29' id='Page_29'></span>CHAPTER III.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>ENVIRONMENT WINS.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>It</span> was a wrench to tear myself away from my +old men and women in the Isle of Dogs, for I +truly loved them. The operation left a scar +that was slow to heal. I felt I did them good: +my visits cheered them, unlike the curate’s; +my whimsical talk broke the monotony of old +age and the East-End. But doing good is a +luxury, and I was now face to face with the +strict necessity of earning my livelihood. Yet +hope lies still at the bottom of Pandora’s box. +Though I had but six and sevenpence in the +world, and starvation wages, I started blithely +to my work at Flor and Fingelman’s.</p> + +<p>I had found a room meanwhile to which my +purse consented. The normal difficulties of +lodging-hunting had been aggravated in my +case by the need for finding a house where I +should not be separated from Commissioner +Lin; which made a back-yard a necessity: +but I succeeded in surmounting them. Commissioner +<span class='pageno' title='30' id='Page_30'></span> +Lin, I may say, to allay your fears, +is my mongrel Chinese bull-pup. Like Ulysses, +I have a dog; he is ugly, but <span class='it'>a beauty</span>, +and, oh, such a dear! I may starve, but the +Commissioner shares my last crust.</p> + +<p>Geographically, my post was in the Outer +Office. Early each morning I went in to the +inner recess of Shushan the palace to receive +Ahasuerus’s instructions, and to take down +from his royal lips my shorthand notes, which +I afterwards expanded on the type-writer in +the anteroom. Ahasuerus was graciously +pleased to like me. I found favour, also, in the +eyes of the Grand Vizier; he was good enough +to say my work was intelligent. I had doubts +in my own mind as to the Vizier’s competence +to form an opinion on this head; but was he +not a man—a vote-wielding citizen, empowered +to take his share (vicariously) in the counsels +of the nation? and was not I but a Shorthand +and Type-writer (female)? I bowed to the +wisdom of the superior sex, and answered +with a modest blush that I rejoiced to have +earned his approval.</p> + +<p>The morning and afternoon were taken up +in expanding letters and copying drafts of +documents. Their style was execrable. The +principal verb adroitly concealed itself: the +<span class='pageno' title='31' id='Page_31'></span> +principal adjective was usually “aforesaid.” +Now, regarded as an epithet, I find “aforesaid” +colourless. Its monotony bored me. I +suggested to Ahasuerus that his prose might +be enriched by a greater variety of graphic +adjectives such as “amethystine,” “prismatic,” +“opalescent,” “empyrean,” or even “colossal;” +but he stared at me coldly, and replied +in a curt voice that legal phraseology was +necessarily limited. The Grand Vizier, also, +cavalierly rejected my mild suggestions for an +enlarged vocabulary. He contended that I +should model my composition on <span class='it'>Chitty on +Contract</span>. He was right, of course; but I +found the iteration of “provided always” in +that well of legal English intensely irksome.</p> + +<p>The anteroom where I clicked was shared +by the Grand Vizier and the two other clerks. +They talked incessantly; I was forced to continue +my transcription without interruption, +in spite of their voices. I will admit that +their discourse, as such, by no means distracted +me, in virtue either of its intrinsic +attractiveness or of the nature of its subjects. +It circled chiefly round the noble quadruped, +with divergences on Rugby and Association +football. I did not gather that the Vizier and +his satellites knew much at first hand about +<span class='pageno' title='32' id='Page_32'></span> +the breed of race-horses, nor could they +have distinguished with ease between a fetlock +and a cannon-bone. They loved sport +from afar: they were platonically horsey. +But they were diligent students of a daily +journal in the interest of manly pastimes: and +they extracted from its pages many charming +speculations as to the numerical chance of +first and second favourites. They also spoke +freely of the ladies of the music-hall. As their +tongues rippled on, with peculiar London +variants on the vowels of our native language, +my type-writer continued to go click, click, +click, till I was grateful for its sound as a +counter-irritant to their inanity.</p> + +<p>That click, click, click became to me like +music—if only because it drowned the details +of the Lewes Spring Meeting. I saw in it all +a trail of Ibsenesque atavism. The horse was +the sacred beast of the English in the days of +Woden, and, in spite of St. Augustine and +John Wesley, his worship still survives, its +festivals attracting thousands of pilgrims each +year to the centres of the cult at Epsom and +Newmarket. Devotees may be known by +their badge, a pink paper, which blushes +itself, and is a cause of blushing in others.</p> + +<p>Another peculiarity of the Outer Office was +<span class='pageno' title='33' id='Page_33'></span> +its richness in dust—the dust specific to a +solicitor’s premises. I think, in this age of +sanitation, I have kept my head tolerably unprejudiced +on the subject of germs; I do not +speak evil of bacteria with the reckless extravagance +of the world at large; I am prepared +to live and let live; nor do I deny to the +bacilli of typhoid fever the common right to +the struggle for existence. But the bacilli +at Flor and Fingelman’s, I must admit, were +obtrusively aggressive. They carried the +war into Africa. They flew about me visibly +whenever I lifted a book; they settled in +myriads on my poor black dress; they invaded +my hair, and required to be daily dislodged +by violent hostilities. The three clerks +seemed to me to disregard them altogether; +and when I ventured timidly to suggest a +duster, they were almost as horrified as when +I proposed to vary the bald language of a writ +by the introduction of a few graceful chromatic +adjectives. Fustiness and mustiness are +part of the profession, it seems; you must no +more attempt to sweep the Augean stables +than to carry out that other Herculean task—the +simplifying and codification of the law +of England.</p> + +<p>For three mornings and three afternoons I +<span class='pageno' title='34' id='Page_34'></span> +endured Flor and Fingelman’s. It was a +question of self <span class='it'>versus</span> environment. I am a +unit of the proletariat, and dear Sister Agatha +had impressed upon me often, with her sad, +sweet smile, the fundamental truth that beggars +must not be choosers. So I continued +to click, click, click, like a machine that I was, +and to listen as little as possible to the calculated +odds upon King Arthur for the Ascot +Cup, till I was tired of the subject. On the +fourth day, however, the rebel in my blood +awoke. Not for nothing had my fathers +fought at Lexington. I felt I must strike one +blow for freedom. The aforesaid office failed +to respond to the needs of the party of the +first part. I went out to lunch, half resolved +in the whirligig I call my mind never to go +back again.</p> + +<p>It was not the Grand Vizier, with his hairy +hands, his goggle eyes, and his false diamonds; +though a certain insolent condescension in the +creature’s manner made me shrink from his +presence. It was not the junior clerks; though +the tone of voice with which they addressed +me as “Miss” reminded me of the accent +in which I had often heard men of their type +bespeak a defenceless barmaid; while their +demeanour varied from the haughty to the +<span class='pageno' title='35' id='Page_35'></span> +condescending. It was Ahasuerus himself +whose Oriental leer drove me from the office. +I felt sure Ahasuerus considered his manner +killing—a three-tailed bashaw, with a natural +gift of captivating Circassians. His smile was +the smile that knows itself irresistible. He +had not as yet ventured anything rude to me; +but I scented prospective rudeness in the way +he watched me come in and out—the way he +beamed on me benignly, with his small pig’s eyes, +as who should say, “See how bland and +how pleasant I am; you must rejoice, mere +female, to have secured the favour of so genial +a gentleman, who revels in semi-detached +affluence at Balham.” I fled from his oily face, +assured that the law was not my proper +sphere. I would diverge into paths of more +commonplace business.</p> + +<p>All this time I had been living upon Capital. +If you judge such conduct imprudent, +remember that I could hardly have lived upon +its interest. My six and sevenpence was +almost spent. I owed my landlady (at the +single room I had taken) for bread and rent. +I had nothing left for my own food or for Mr. +Commissioner. The outlook was serious. +Dimly aware of failure in the Struggle for +Life—inability to succeed in Adaptation to the +<span class='pageno' title='36' id='Page_36'></span> +Environment—I retired for lunch to a little +shop close by, whose merits the Grand Vizier +had from the first impressed upon me.</p> + +<p>At the table by my side sat two middle-aged +men. They were talking earnestly. I +detected at once in the mellow tone of the +better-looking of the two that he was a Cambridge +man and a political economist. The +Moral Sciences Tripos has its special aroma. +After the rippling tittle-tattle of the noble +quadruped I was glad to listen even to the +voice of economics. I strained my ears. It +was pleasant to hear educated men speak +again. And their talk was full of interest.</p> + +<p>“You have been to see them?” the first +voice said.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” the Cambridge man answered. “It +is an interesting experiment, though foredoomed +to failure. They say they want to try +anarchy in practice. They have bought ten +acres of wild land very cheap; they are +getting it into tillage; and they mean to +manage it upon Kropotkine’s system of intensive +culture.”</p> + +<p>Intensive culture! I saw at once what that +meant. What a capital plan! Till the land +to the utmost, so as to make the largest +possible amount of food or roses come out of +<span class='pageno' title='37' id='Page_37'></span> +it. And anarchists, too! Why, I was born +an anarchist. Never could I endure being +ordered about by anyone. After Flor and +Fingelman’s—click, click, click, all day—what +a vista of Eden! I sat a postulant at the +gate of that Paradise. Just to go out into the +fields and till them anarchically!</p> + +<p>“And have they no organisation?”</p> + +<p>“None at all. He told me it was a band +of brothers. I asked him by what rule they +worked. He said each man or woman +laboured when he or she chose! If he didn’t +feel inclined he left off for that day and sat in +the sun, basking. They cultivate in common; +each member of the community receives food +and clothes; and at the end of the week, if +any surplus remain, they divide it between +them by way of pocket-money.”</p> + +<p>“Then it acts, so far.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, apparently. But ’tis new. They +look healthy enough, though pallid, and they +are certainly enthusiastic. I asked Rothenburg +how he liked it; he said it was delightful—ten +thousand times better than being a +tailor in Paris.”</p> + +<p>I could no longer restrain myself. A +caprice seized me. I leaned across the table. +“Pardon me,” I said, “but may I venture +<span class='pageno' title='38' id='Page_38'></span> +to ask, as an anarchist in the grain, where +shall I find this Utopia, this Eldorado of +anarchy?”</p> + +<p>The Cambridge man smiled.</p> + +<p>“Near Horsham,” he answered. “But—excuse +curiosity—are you <span class='it'>really</span> an anarchist?”</p> + +<p>“I will join them!” I cried, clasping my +hands. “I have every qualification. I am +alone in the world, and penniless—splendid +material for anarchy. Such idyllic anarchy, +too! Do they receive mere women?”</p> + +<p>“I think,” the Cambridge man replied, +“they would be charmed to take you. But +remember, they are uncultivated—the raw +material of a state, rough working men and +women. Go down and see them by all means. +But when you have inspected their home I +venture to hazard a guess that you will decide +it is not meant for ladies.”</p> + +<p>“I am young,” I answered; “I have tolerable +strength and abundant energy. Misfortunes +are nothing if one takes them in the +spirit of camping out. Hardships cease to be +hardships when you talk of them as roughing +it. After all, it is only what we voluntarily +do at a picnic up the river. At least, I will +go down and interview your anarchists.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='39' id='Page_39'></span> +He scribbled their precise address on the +back of an envelope, with a smile for my enthusiasm. +I went home to my solitary room +at once, and sat down to my private and particular +Barlock—the same on which I am inditing +these present memoirs—to write out +my resignation to Flor and Fingelman.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>Gentlemen</span>,</p> + +<p> “WHEREAS I, the undersigned, have +worked for three days and upwards, be the +same more or less, to my great discomfort, in +your dingy, stingy, musty, and fusty office; and +WHEREAS I have found the post of Shorthand +and Type-writer (female) which you have +deigned to bestow upon me, in the aforesaid +office, highly disagreeable to my mind and +brain, owing as well to the impurity of the air +as to the dulness and monotony of the terms +employed in it; and WHEREAS I am now +desirous of seeking other and more congenial +employment elsewhere than in the aforesaid +dinginess, stinginess, mustiness, and fustiness, +as herein designated, NOW THEREFORE, +This Indenture Witnesseth and know all men +by these presents, that I have made up my +mind not to return to your messuage or tenement +this afternoon, nor on any subsequent +<span class='pageno' title='40' id='Page_40'></span> +date, but to relinquish entirely the aforesaid +post of Shorthand and Type-writer (female) +with all and sundry the emoluments or salaries +thereto pertaining, and to say good-bye to you, +the aforesaid Flor and Fingelman, and to your +Grand Vizier and other faithful satellites. In +witness whereof I have hereto set my hand +and seal, this twenty-first day of May, in the +year of our Lord, &c., &c.</p> + +<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;'>“JULIET APPLETON.”</p> + +</div> + +<p>I put it into an envelope and dropped it +into the post; then I turned again on my +way, a Free Woman.</p> + +<p>Free, but penniless.</p> + +<p>Hurrah for anarchy! flowery, bowery +anarchy, in a careless-ordered garden, run +wild with eglantine! Could a Peri hope to +storm that Eden?</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='41' id='Page_41'></span>CHAPTER IV.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>THE CHOICE OF A PATRON.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>I prowled</span> along the Strand, in quest of an +inspiration. You will readily conceive that +the situation was serious. I had disbursed +my last coin for lunch that morning. True, +I had still my bicycle; and by its aid I might +set off to join my unknown brothers, the +anarchists, near Horsham. But my heart +smote me, for I had not wherewith to pay +my landlady. Had I worked out my week +with Ahasuerus, no doubt I might have +settled her bill, and gone on my way honestly. +But I could not leave her in the lurch; +nor, indeed, could I set out without the contents +of my modest portmanteau. My effects +must go with me. Thus the position teemed +with difficulties. I had an aunt in London, +of course; I suppose not even the most destitute +are ever wholly deprived of the solace of +a maiden aunt in London. Conscience suggested +that in such a crisis I ought to consult +<span class='pageno' title='42' id='Page_42'></span> +her. But fortunately I belong to a generation +which has analysed conscience away. “Go +to the aunt,” said Duty. “Stop away,” said +Inclination. And Inclination, as usual, won +in a canter—I might almost say, Inclination +walked over. If you doubt that these metaphors +are becoming on a woman’s lips, you +must recollect that my style had been suffering +for three days from the enforced proximity of +the Grand Vizier, his satraps, and the noble +quadruped.</p> + +<p>I <span class='it'>could</span> not go to the aunt. She was the +average woman of the small fixed income; +prosaic, stagnant, serenely literal; a placid +pool that reflects its surroundings. It was +her fixed belief that everything I did was in +equal parts foolish and wicked. No doubt +she was right; but her arguments vexed me. +“It is quite impossible for a young lady to do +so,” she said about many actions which I +knew from experience to be not only possible +but actual. So I avoided the aunt, and set +my face toward the shop-windows for light +and guidance. I found it, of course. Faith +is always rewarded, or I like to think so. At +a corner shop, devoted to the sale of more +or less genuine <span class='it'>bric-à-brac</span>, I saw in the +window a charming little Fra Angelico, +<span class='pageno' title='43' id='Page_43'></span> +almost a replica of a miniature I remembered +to have noted at the Vatican. Whether +it was authentic or not I do not presume to +decide; who am I that I should give myself +the airs of a Morelli? But its <span class='it'>naïveté</span>, its +grace, its frank purity of colour, were obvious +at once, even to the eye of a woman. The +picture represented what is called in art the +Charity of St. Nicholas. Through an open +door you see into the home of a poor nobleman. +’Tis a dainty interior, of the age when +drab had not wholly ousted the primary hues. +In the background his three starving daughters +lie snugly in bed—a trio of innocent +maidens, with pretty blonde heads of infantile +guilelessness, laid on white pillows, between +dimity curtains. In the foreground the nobleman +their father is seated, the picture of +despair, in a long vermilion robe and a brown +study; without, by a grated window, the dear +young saint himself, in Florentine hose, with +a sleeveless jerkin, stands timidly on tip-toe, +in the very act of dropping three purses of gold +as dowries for the maidens through the open +casement. The story is told with the pellucid +simplicity of early Tuscan art; no airs and +graces, but just the bare outline of facts which +it behoves you to know;—these girls are +<span class='pageno' title='44' id='Page_44'></span> +poor; their father is at his wits’ end; and +yonder amiable young gentleman, in crimson +and puce, has come to their rescue, like a +gallant Christian, with purses of gold very fat +and opulent.</p> + +<p>I stood long and looked at it. It was so +archly engaging. The clear-cut outlines, the +translucent hues, the sweet old-world directness, +the story-telling faculty, each charmed +and beguiled me. “After all,” I said to myself, +“St. Nicholas, not St. George, is the +saint for me. My dragon is poverty. St. +George for princesses; St. Nicholas for the +poor and portionless maiden!” I gazed at +him long, with affectionate eyes; then I went +on my way towards the National Gallery, +strengthened and comforted.</p> + +<p>Have you found out the true use of the +National Gallery, I wonder? On three days +in the week the British nation throws those +stately rooms open, free, to any woman who +chooses to enter them. I use them as my +drawing-room. You get a comfortable chair +to sit upon for nothing; you get pictures to +look at; and in winter the gallery is heated +by flues, over which you can stand and warm +your feet gratis. I went in on this critical +afternoon of my history, not only for rest, but +<span class='pageno' title='45' id='Page_45'></span> +in search of St. Nicholas—St. Nicholas of +Myra—St. Nicholas of Bari—St. Nicholas, +the giver of dowries to damsels. My dear +father had been a lover of Italian art, and had +taught me betimes the legends of the saints, +without which Fra Angelico and Benozzo +Gozzoli talk a strange tongue to you. I was +certain now that St. Nicholas, not St. George, +was my predestined patron. He was so good +to the poor, and especially to maidens. In +many pictures on those walls I beheld him +as of old, in his bishop’s robes, benign and +benevolent, a model of suavity, holding the +three golden balls which typify the three fat +purses of gold he threw in at the window to +the starving daughters of the nobleman of +Myra. He was the saint of the oppressed, +the enslaved, the suffering. If knighthood +had its St. George, serfdom had its St. +Nicholas. I saw him again, with his three +spheres of gold, traced by the hand of +Raphael in the Blenheim Madonna; a courteous +old gentleman here, bland and mild, +and very sweet of feature. I saw him in +many other less famous pictures, a friend in +need, ever gentle and helpful, the patron of +children, of the distressed, of the storm-tossed. +I saw him in many guises, painted for the +<span class='pageno' title='46' id='Page_46'></span> +most part in what, in default of exact knowledge, +I will call a chasuble, but always as the +deliverer. My heart went forth to him. +“Holy Nicholas,” I murmured, “you were +my father’s friend; be my friend as well! +Stand by me, and protect me!”</p> + +<p>I issued once more into the phantom-crowded +Strand. Below, the streaming street +was full of those hurrying, scurrying men +with black bags, bound as ever for the Unknown. +But above—I lifted my eyes, and +there, clear against the sky, I beheld—the +three golden balls of St. Nicholas.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='47' id='Page_47'></span>CHAPTER V.<br/> <span class='sub-head'><span class='it'>VIVE L’ANARCHIE!</span></span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>I drew</span> a deep breath. He was the poor +man’s saint; his symbol has descended to the +poor man’s banker.</p> + +<p>Yet my confidence after all was not all +misplaced. St. Nicholas, at a pinch, would +provide my dowry.</p> + +<p>It flashed across me at a stroke what those +golden balls meant. Never before had I +divined their meaning—their intimate connection +with my newly-chosen patron. I +caught at it now clearly. Nicholas, I knew, +was the saint of the people—the saint of the +labourer who toils for daily bread, of the +fisherman who struggles with the stormy sea, +of the orphan, of the slave, of the child, the +captive, the prisoner, the unfortunate. No +wonder, then, that his golden balls have survived +as the badge of that generous profession +which freely lends to all the poor who leave +a pledge behind.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='48' id='Page_48'></span> +I accepted the omen. Tempest-tossed as I +was, my precious type-writer might save me +for the day from the present distresses. I +hurried back to my attic in a street off Soho, +packed it up in its case, and carried it with +difficulty in my own small arms to the shrine +of St. Nicholas.</p> + +<p>My errand, I grant, was new, and repugnant. +But necessity, like our magistrates, +knows no law. I will not pretend that I +passed those dubious portals without a flush +of shame. Still, I passed them bravely.</p> + +<p>“How much?” asked the acolyte.</p> + +<p>I was inexperienced in the ritual of the +sordid temple. “Three pounds?” I queried +tentatively.</p> + +<p>He cut me short with a gesture of contempt. +“We could do thirty shillings.”</p> + +<p>“I <span class='it'>paid</span> twenty pounds for it,” I murmured.</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders. “An error of +judgment, I should say. Thirty shillings. +Do you take it?”</p> + +<p>I was anxious to escape from the squalid +place. Bundles of shabby clothes in square +pigeon-holes daunted me. “I accept,” I said, +gasping. He counted out the money, and +handed me a ticket.</p> + +<p>I fled, like one followed by a roaring wild +<span class='pageno' title='49' id='Page_49'></span> +beast. No quicker flies the Arimaspian whom +the gryphon pursues. Nor did I pause or +halt till I reached my own bower. Safe back +in that stronghold, I bolted and locked the +door, and washed the pollution off me in an +orgy of cold water.</p> + +<p>Then the dignity of womanhood reasserted +itself. I sat back in the one arm-chair, and +reflected. A freak is dear to my soul. I would +pay my weekly bill before starting, carry my +knapsack with me, and engage the room for +another week in advance, in case the anarchists +should chance to prove too anarchic +for my taste. And after that, who dare call +me imprudent? ’Tis the habit of twenty-two +to burn its boats. When it takes measures +for preserving them, you should give it credit +for singular forethought.</p> + +<p>I had still my faithful bicycle. I rose betimes +next morning, and endued myself in +my cycling costume, which, like all else about +me (I trust), is rational. The Commissioner +and I stole silently down the stairs. Before +London was well awake we had left Westminster +Bridge behind us in the haze, and +were off on the open road, on our way towards +Horsham, two palmers bent for the Holy +Land of Anarchy.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='50' id='Page_50'></span> +How light and free I felt! When man +first set woman on two wheels with a pair of +pedals, did he know, I wonder, that he had +rent the veil of the harem in twain? I doubt +it; but so it was. A woman on a bicycle has +all the world before her where to choose; +she can go where she will, no man hindering. +I felt it that brisk May morning as I span +down the road, with a Tam o’ Shanter on my +head, and my loose hair travelling after me +like a Skye terrier.</p> + +<p>“This,” thought I to myself, “is truly +my Odyssey. To play at being a latter-day +Ulysses in London, among those crowded +streets, is like a child’s game—too much make-believe. +But mounted here on the ship of +the high-road, scudding gaily down hill, or +luffing against head-winds on a steep upward +slope, I feel myself the heroine of a modern +sea epic. As I coast by narrow straits of +hedge-bordered lane, round some lumbering +cart, I steer with care betwixt headland and +whirlpool. Siren inns hang out signs to +beckon me into port; piratical carts, buccaneering +drays, skidding fast down long slopes, +strive to crush me as they pass like living +Symplegades. In perils oft, I yet feel the +fresh wind in my teeth, and see the foam +<span class='pageno' title='51' id='Page_51'></span> +of May break over hawthorn promontories. +Troy lies behind; in front of me beckons +the peaceful Ithaca of my anarchist settlement.”</p> + +<p>The road, indeed, was a pleasant one. +Lying at first among suburban quarters, pink +with blossom at that perfect moment of the +year, and heavy with lilac, it grew greener +by degrees as it stretched out to the rising +plain of Surrey and then swelled up slowly +into the great breaker of the chalk downs. +That huge wave of land rises in a long curve +on the side towards London, but curls over +abruptly by Box Hill and Dorking, like a +billow that has hardened in the act of breaking. +My way led me through a deep gorge +that cuts the slope of this ridge at right +angles, beside a wandering stream, as though +one stroke of some great magician’s wand +had cleft a way for it through the barrier. +The ravine is bordered to the left by a cliff-like +edge, overgrown with juniper bushes. +They call it the Vale of Mickleham. Spring +had put on her best frock for my visit. I +rode at a good pace. Commissioner Lin toiled +behind, with his tongue out. Then we broke +into the open, where a steeple showed the +way, and through a billowy common, crest +<span class='pageno' title='52' id='Page_52'></span> +after trough alternately, dotted thick with +holly-trees, across the Weald of Sussex. A +still, pearly-pale sky hung over the misty +level. Despondent donkeys munched furze-tops +and mused pessimism. Trains dashed +under bridges with long streamers of steam, +as I rode over them unabashed—huge monsters +of burnished brass, snorting death from +their throats, such as would have terrified +the timid Achæan sailors. But I took no +heed of them—I, the braver daughter of an +iron age, trained to disregard dragons of +that mechanical sort, and to fear only those +against whom St. Nicholas is potent—I had +seen one but yesterday on Margaritone’s +panel. The horses that passed over by my +side reared and quivered at the ungainly +monster; but my undaunted steel palfrey, +himself a scion of the iron age, showed no +sign of weakness. Or if he trembled at all, +’twas something wrong in the gearing.</p> + +<p>A mile or two from Horsham I diverged, +as directed, down a cross-road to the left. +’Twas a level lane in champaign country, +bordered by a low hedge of close-clipped +maple. The fields were of leaden clay—so +much I saw where they were ploughed—muddy, +and all but impassable in wet +<span class='pageno' title='53' id='Page_53'></span> +weather, to meet which state of morass every +cottage was approached by a small paved +causeway of flags, giving a singularly distinctive +note to the district. Many such I passed, +each built of pale red brick, each tiled with +mossy tiles, and each approached through a +square of front garden by its town-like pavement. +The lanes were a maze, running aimlessly +hither and thither. One after another, +as I tried it, led me back by circumvolutions +to a rustic Clapham Junction, the centre of +Nowhere. Judge if I was nonplussed.</p> + +<p>At one of the cottages I reined up at last, +and, leaning from my saddle, called out to a +boy who was weeding the front patch: “Can +you tell me where I shall find the anarchist +settlement?”</p> + +<p>The boy looked up, taken aback. It was +clear that the rationality of my dress astonished +him. And, indeed, ’tis so rare to be +rational in this world that I was not surprised +at his surprise. He stared at me with a +frank provincial stare; I am not sure that +he did not design heaving half a brick at +me, in recognition of my originality. But he +contented himself with a few contumelious +epithets, which did not hurt me. I flung him +a penny; this softened his heart. He answered, +<span class='pageno' title='54' id='Page_54'></span> +after a pause, “I guess you mean +them furriners.”</p> + +<p>The American blood in me was flattered +by that “I guess.” Thus my ancestors must +have spoken here in Sussex long ago, before +they went over in the <span class='it'>Mayflower</span>, to fight +in due time at Lexington. It is a point of +honour with all Massachusetts folk to have +gone over in the <span class='it'>Mayflower</span>. She was a sloop +of 180 tons, and must have carried thousands +of steerage passengers. I am not sure about +the tonnage, but there can be no doubt as to +the passengers.</p> + +<p>“They are probably foreigners,” I replied, +coming back to this century. “At any rate, +they are new-comers. And I was told they +had settled down somewhere near Pinfold.”</p> + +<p>He waved his hand vaguely towards the +quarter of the sunrise, and gave me directions +of complicated topography. But he added, +after a moment for internal reflection, “They +bain’t the sort o’ folk for the likes o’ you to +visit.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” I answered, “I am an +anarchist myself.” And I spurred on my +mount, round the corner where he directed +me.</p> + +<p>The day, which was brisk when I started, +<span class='pageno' title='55' id='Page_55'></span> +had become by this time hot and windless, +and the sun beat mercilessly. After various +intricate twists and turns, ill-deciphered from +uncertain instructions, I found myself at last +by the side of a pond which formed the one +fixed point in my guide’s geography. He had +called it “a horse-pond.” It was a pretty +little pool: tall glossy weeds grew lush by +its edge; a grey-leaved willow drooped into +it; Naiads lurked among the broad green +disks of the water-lilies at its farther end. +I was glad it was so taking. I accepted it as +an omen of success in my wild-goose chase. +From the first I was not without misgivings +of my own wisdom in thus seeking to fraternise +with unknown anarchist brethren. But +I knew how often fortune brings in some +boats that are not steered; and I took the +beauty of this “horse-pond” as a foretaste of +what I should find in the anarchist settlement.</p> + +<p>An old woman, with sleeves tucked up and +the parboiled arms of a laundress, stood near +the door of a new brick cottage hard by. +“Can you tell me,” I called out, “where I +can find Rothenburg?”</p> + +<p>I omitted the Mr., as my Cambridge friend +had warned me that that harmless prefix +<span class='pageno' title='56' id='Page_56'></span> +acted on your anarchist like the picador’s +dart on the bulls of Andalusia.</p> + +<p>“Rottenborough?” the old woman answered, +transforming his name, as is the wont +of her class, into something significant in her +own language. “He’s down yonder by the +new glass-house.” And she pointed with her +hand towards a deep clay field just behind +her cottage.</p> + +<p>I dismounted, and led my bicycle gently +through the mud. There was no eglantine. +At the far end of the field, under shelter of a +hedge which backed it to the north, I saw a +slender, pale-faced young man in a blue Continental +blouse, digging a trench with a pick, +to whose use he was evidently but little +accustomed.</p> + +<p>“Are you Rothenburg?” I asked, in +French.</p> + +<p>He looked up and smiled. My costume +took his fancy. “I am,” he answered in the +same language, but with a marked Alsatian +accent. “What do you want with me, comrade?”</p> + +<p>“I am an anarchist,” I said, simply, rushing +straight to the point. “I wish to join +your community.”</p> + +<p>He laid down his pick, and came up out of +<span class='pageno' title='57' id='Page_57'></span> +the trench. I could see him better now—a +pallid, anæmic young man, with a high +narrow forehead, watery restless eyes, thin +yellow hair, and twitching hands that played +nervously all the time with a shadowy moustache. +I judged him at sight the very type of +an eager-hearted ineffectual enthusiast—a man +born to failure as the sparks fly upward.</p> + +<p>He looked me over, all surprised. “We +are a party of working men,” he objected, at +last; “artisans, sempstresses, labourers. We +do not desire or court the aid of the <span class='it'>bourgeois</span>.”</p> + +<p>Now, I can endure most things, but not +to be called a <span class='it'>bourgeoise</span>. I coloured a little, +I suppose; at any rate, I answered, “I am +an <span class='it'>ouvrière</span> myself. I have nothing to do +with the <span class='it'>bourgeoisie</span>. I have ridden down from +London to link my fate with yours. Are +you the head of this colony?”</p> + +<p>He flushed somewhat in turn—or rather, +faint streaks of pink stole over that bloodless +face. “We have no head,” he answered. +“We are thorough-going anarchists. Equality +is our aim. Since when do you belong to +our party?”</p> + +<p>“Since I was born,” I retorted, boldly. +“I am anarchic by nature. Wherever there +<span class='pageno' title='58' id='Page_58'></span> +is a government, I am always against it. Let +me join your band—and I promise disobedience.”</p> + +<p>He eyed me suspiciously. This confession +of faith seemed rather to disturb than to +reassure him. He paused a moment. “How +did you hear of us?”</p> + +<p>“Casually, in an eating-house in London, +from a Cambridge economist who had been +here to see you. When he spoke of you, +I thought to myself, ‘These are the people +I want. I recognise my kind. I must go +and join them.’ ”</p> + +<p>“Ha! He was a co-operator. A voluntary +co-operator. But he had not the whole truth. +If he sent you here, you may be wrong—you +are perhaps a Marxian?”</p> + +<p>I perceived that there was an orthodoxy +and a heterodoxy of anarchism; in which case, +of course, I should be on the heterodox side. +“You will find me sound,” I said, seeking to +temporise, “in my uncompromisingly anarchic +anarchism of anarchy.” I thought I could +hardly be more mutinous than that. If ’twas +rebellion they wanted, I was honestly prepared +to rebel against the rebels.</p> + +<p>He drew out a cheap gun-metal watch. +“It is dinner-time,” he said, temporising in +<span class='pageno' title='59' id='Page_59'></span> +return. “The comrades will have assembled. +Come up and discuss. We will see whether +they are content to accept you as a companion.”</p> + +<p>I confess I was disappointed. This seemed +painfully close to a legislative assembly—at +the very least to a folk-moot or parish council. +Did they mean to decide things by base show +of hands? And if so, wherein did your +anarchist differ from the ordinary coercive +governmental authority?</p> + +<p>In the Utopia I had framed for myself, +every man (or woman) did that which was +right in his own eyes—without prejudice +to his equal freedom to do that which was +wrong, if he chanced to be so minded. Here, +I saw just a common joint-stock company—Anarchy, +Limited.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='60' id='Page_60'></span>CHAPTER VI.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>THE INNER BROTHERHOOD.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>We</span> assembled in the large room of the first +cottage I had seen—a sort of bare, bald dining-hall, +big enough to feed some twenty or thirty +souls, and ugly enough to take away their +appetite for ever. Its architect’s name, I +would conjecture, was Jeremiah.</p> + +<p>“A new comrade,” Rothenburg said, waving +his hand towards me not ungracefully. +“Let us dine first, and consider her afterward.”</p> + +<p>This was an awkward introduction. I +sat down to eat and drink, painfully conscious +that the eyes of anarchic Europe were +upon me. My long unbroken ride had given +me a keen edge for food; still, apart from +their scrutiny, I confess I eat with an undercurrent +of disgust. The meat and bread were +wholesome; but I suspected their cleanliness. +The napery, too, was coarse and cried for +the laundress. However, if one chooses to +<span class='pageno' title='61' id='Page_61'></span> +herd with anarchists, one must not be too +particular on matters of diet. I eat a hearty +dinner, in spite of my doubts, and even drank +some sour red wine; for they were not +English enough yet to relish our beer, of +which I was not sorry.</p> + +<p>Replenished by dinner, they drew apart, +discussing me in low tones and in cosmopolitan +languages. I fancy I detected the ring +both of Czech and Yiddish—tongues of which +I do not profess an intimate knowledge, though +my East-End experiences had given me a +distant nodding acquaintance with either. +Most of them were Austrians (assorted) or +else subjects of the Tsar, living here for their +health, because they preferred England as a +place of residence to that part of the Russian +territory which is called Siberia. From time +to time they appealed to me on some point +of my history—where was I born, of what +nationality, why did I wish to join them? I +answered as best I might, though the ordeal +was severe. It was bad enough to stand as +Esther before Ahasuerus, but I realised now +that I was set to perform the part of Vashti +before a whole court of critical anarchists.</p> + +<p>At last Rothenburg, still fumbling with his +moustache, had the happy thought to ask me +<span class='pageno' title='62' id='Page_62'></span> +my name. When I said “Juliet Appleton” I +saw that it moved them. The fact that I was +a Juliet gave food to their fancy. Each man +drew himself up and stroked his chin with the +very air of a Romeo. Even the women smiled—for +there were women among them, some +four or five, with pretty curly-haired children. +Then they began to instruct me in the doctrines +of their sect. I was sworn to eternal +friendship with all and sundry. The intricate +Eleusinian mysteries of anarchy were explained +to me, as catechumen, in Alsatian French and +Bohemian German. I answered in such dialects +of either tongue as I had at command. +My profession of faith appeared to give satisfaction, +especially when, prompted by Rothenburg, +I renounced Karl Marx and all his ways, +and embraced with fervour the true faith of +Bakunin. Who or what Bakunin was I had +not an idea: but I made up in zeal what I +lacked in understanding.</p> + +<p>It began to dawn on me that sectarianism +is of the nature of man, and that all things +tend to fall into my doxy and your doxy.</p> + +<p>At last Rothenburg arrived at what he +evidently considered a crucial point in his +catechism. “You understand, of course, that +you must not form an idolatrous attachment +<span class='pageno' title='63' id='Page_63'></span> +to any one of the comrades, to the exclusion +of the others?”</p> + +<p>I glanced around me at the dozen sorry +specimens of the male of my species there +ranged before me, and felt convinced at sight +I could safely engage not to idolise excessively +any one among them. And I said so.</p> + +<p>This assurance appeared to give the community +boundless satisfaction. They turned +next to my bicycle, which was a nice little +machine—the nicest in England, indeed, like +everyone else’s. One or two of them were +kind enough to accept my full membership at +once by trying to ride it. I am tolerably tall +for a woman, while the comrades, as I learned +to call them, were for the most part undersized +town-bred working men, of the skimpy +order. Thus my machine just fitted them; +they did not even require to shift the pedals. +I showed them how to stick on, correcting the +excessive line of grace in their initial curves: +this obviously pleased them, and I think they +formed a high idea of the new comrade herself +and more especially of the property she +brought into the Community. They had not +an equal opinion of Mr. Commissioner.</p> + +<p>So I settled down at once as a full-fledged +anarchist.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='64' id='Page_64'></span> +Figure to yourself a group of naked cottages, +with bald slate roofs untempered by the +years—no moss, no house-leeks—dropped +down at random in a sticky clay cabbage-field—and +you see our colony.</p> + +<p>My first business was to behold where I +was to abide. The rotund old lady whom I +had found at the door of the first messuage or +tenement took me round to my cubicle; for +they had a nomenclature of their own, suited +to the ways of anarchists. ’Twas in a brand-new +building of pale pink brick—a sort of +anæmic brick, which bore the same relation +to healthy red brickiness that Rothenburg’s +complexion bore to normal humanity. It was +vastly modern, like the views of its builders; +it also betrayed the same painful lack of +æsthetic tendencies. It cried for creepers. +In front of it stretched a patch of utilitarian +potato-ground. I would have preferred hollyhocks. +There was no hall or passage: the +door opened abruptly into a small parlour; +behind lay three bedrooms of the minutest +dimensions. Mine was tiny. However, I +have always inculcated kindness to animals, +and am not conscious of the faintest desire to +swing a cat; so it sufficed very well for me. +The bath entailed difficulties, no other anarchist +<span class='pageno' title='65' id='Page_65'></span> +being a slave to the habit: but a wooden +water-tub and economy of space speedily overcame +them. I unpacked my knapsack, put my +room to rights, dusted the window-panes, and +sallied forth to see what work the Community +demanded of me.</p> + +<p>The Community was ranged outside my +cottage door as one man. It seemed that, +unable to resist the combined attractions of +the bicycle and a new comrade, they had +decreed a half-holiday by universal suffrage, +and were waiting without to let me teach +them the use of the machine. But the Commissioner, +who was an unregenerate monopolist +as to private property, effectually prevented +its premature appropriation by a mute white +protest.</p> + +<p>I trembled as I saw how many awkward +youths desired to ride my precious cycle. +But if you go in for Communism you must +expect it to cut both ways. I had eaten their +dinner, they must share my bicycle. For so +it is written in the lawless law of anarchy.</p> + +<p>Most of these young men were good fellows +in their way—very simple-hearted anarchists. +I do not credit it that they could have +blown up a Tsar, or even dropped a bomb into +a suburban letter-box. They confined themselves +<span class='pageno' title='66' id='Page_66'></span> +to cabbages and passionate denunciation +of the oppressors. But the ringleader +in the attempt to borrow my bicycle from an +absent comrade was an exception to the rule. +He was a villainous-looking creature—the +Caliban of our island. His name was Léon. +I think he must have been built after designs +by Mr. Aubrey Beardsley. He had rufous hair, +a nose without a bridge, and thick protruding +lips. Those lips were a nightmare. I set +him down as a judicious cross between a +Swiss <span class='it'>crétin</span> and an albino negro. To make +matters worse, like many other repulsive +people, he had the habit when he spoke +to you of coming up very close and breathing +in your face, so that his protruding lips almost +seemed to touch you. I had an irresistible impulse +to say to him, “Take, oh take those lips +away!” only, I knew if I did he would not +understand; or if he understood he would +misunderstand me.</p> + +<p>I felt from the outset that I might have +trouble with Léon.</p> + +<p>That first night, for some time, I was kept +awake by a continuous concert, which sorely +puzzled me. It could not be nightingales—the +note was not varied enough; nor was it +the Six Great Powers of Europe—the chorus +<span class='pageno' title='67' id='Page_67'></span> +was far too concordant. It reminded me most +of the serenade made by the small green +southern tree-frogs; but here, in Sussex! I +lay awake and racked my brain. Next day +solved the mystery. The hollow beyond our +plot of intensive culture was marshy and +weedy, it teemed with natterjacks. I will +own that till I came to Pinfold I wist not +even that the natterjack existed. I had rolled +him into one with his cousin the toad. But +our only British brother, a leather-dresser +from Bermondsey, and a born naturalist, soon +showed me the difference. Ever since I have +met the natterjack in society everywhere. +He is the gentleman and the artist in his own +family. Frogs croak, toads purr, but the +natterjack sings. You will admire his clear +high note, trilled with a delicate tremolo.</p> + +<p>At last I fell asleep, a very wearied anarchist.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='68' id='Page_68'></span>CHAPTER VII.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>A MUTINOUS MUTINEER.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>I respected Rothenburg;</span> he was a man of +ideas. Of course, they were wrong; but, +according to his rush-lights, he acted them out. +He seemed to me to have a shallow brain, in +a constant state of feverish agitation. He was +a flamboyant rhetorician, a crisp denunciator. +It did one’s soul good to hear him declaim red-hot +against kings, priests, and the intolerable +tyranny of public opinion. The rest were +shadows. Rothenburg by comparison was an +intellectual Titan.</p> + +<p>Even old Mrs. Pritchard, of the parboiled +arms, who lived in the Community cottage +with the bare, bald hall, recognised his +superiority. “That there Rottenborough,” +she would say, with her arms akimbo, “why +he’s worth the whole lot of ’em.” She was a +study in her way, Mrs. Pritchard—globular and +emotional. Rothenburg’s eloquence filled her +eyes with tears. <span class='it'>Why</span> she was an anarchist +<span class='pageno' title='69' id='Page_69'></span> +I failed to perceive. She seemed as much out +of place in that cosmopolite crew as a Free +Kirk elder in a chorus of Mænads. She told +me they had “convinced” her. If so, she +must have had a mind singularly open to conviction. +I gather rather that she took to +anarchy as she might have taken to Primitive +Methodism, the Salvation Army, or any +other variety of dithyrambic religion. There +chanced to be no Shakers or Mormons in the +field at the moment, so Mrs. Pritchard fell +back upon the allurements of Communism. +She washed for the comrades, a post, you may +guess, which almost amounted to a lady-like +sinecure.</p> + +<p>When I joined the Community I did so in +dead earnest. You may think I jest, but I +assure you seriously that my first intention +was to live and die in the bosom of anarchy. +Even the first sight of the ten acres, with its +fringe of natterjacks and its total lack of eglantine, +did not damp my ardour; nor did the +dinner at the outset. I reflected that I had +taught a cookery class at the Guild, and that I +could find an outlet for my energies in radical +reform of the Communal kitchen. It certainly +afforded a noble chance for the reformer. +Meanwhile I said nothing, though I eat every +<span class='pageno' title='70' id='Page_70'></span> +meal with an increasing undercurrent of distrust +as to its cleanliness.</p> + +<p>At night we gathered in the Community hall +and decided the future of Europe. Within, as +without, it had anæmic brick walls, slightly +inclined towards jaundice, and under its roof +we listened drearily while Rothenburg settled +the map of the twentieth century in unofficial +harangues. Save for his torrent of eloquence +I found the hall depressing. Our Community +shared the common mania of the sectary for +placarding its sentiments. Only here “The +Lord is my Shepherd” and “God Bless our +Home” gave place to “<span class='it'>Solidarité de la Race +Humaine</span>,” “No King, no Laws, no Taxes,” +“<span class='it'>Das Land für das Volk</span>,” “<span class='it'>Ubi bene, ibi +Patria</span>,” and “Free Thought, Free Affection.” +I read these legends over and over till they +palled. In another respect also my comrades +resembled the universal schismatic—their +interests were confined to a single range. +They were great on altruism; but one saw +their eyes glaze over the moment one diverged +from the beaten path of anarchic platitude.</p> + +<p>Rothenburg asked me the first day if I knew +anything of gardening. Anything of gardening! +I could have told them at a glance that +their cauliflowers were planted three inches +<span class='pageno' title='71' id='Page_71'></span> +too close, while their views on spring carrots +were absurdly elementary. I had been reared +in the country. But I reflected that, even +among anarchists, modesty befits a woman, +and I answered that I hoped so.</p> + +<p>They wished to set me at first upon light +work in the glass-houses; even those rough +working men, I could see (notable mainly for the +whiteness of their faces and the redness of their +politics), paid some homage to my gentility; +though they would have denied it themselves, +they were anxious to spare me as much as possible +of manual labour. But I would have none +of that. If I joined their clan at all I must +join on equal terms. I am all for the absolute +equation of the sexes. I wished to bear my +part in the burdens of the Community.</p> + +<p>So I devoted myself with a single mind to +intensive culture. I may be dense, but after +close inspection my impression is that intensive +culture, were it not for its name, +might readily be confused with ordinary gardening.</p> + +<p>Rothenburg was working on the foundations +of a new glass-house. To avoid Léon, +whose province was potatoes, I took a +pick and worked by the Alsatian’s side. He +seldom spoke; when he did he left off delving—his +<span class='pageno' title='72' id='Page_72'></span> +shallow brain had room but for one occupation +at a time. It was curious to see him +pause, push his crush-hat from his brow, wipe +his narrow forehead with his shirt-sleeve, +stroke the thin yellow hair, and then give +vent to some deep philosophical speculation, +which a child of ten might have considered +profound.</p> + +<p>On the second day of my task at the trench +a sudden thought struck me. “Rothenburg,” I +said, wielding my pick somewhat viciously, +“you have bought this land; how do you +manage to hold it?”</p> + +<p>He struck work, as usual, and turned the +watery blue eyes upon me.</p> + +<p>“We hold it, Juliet,” he said—I was +officially known to all the comrades as Juliet—“we +hold it”—he paused as if I were +drawing a tooth—“we hold it by trustees. +No other way is possible.”</p> + +<p>“The English law compels you?”</p> + +<p>“My faith, yes; we cannot own it as a +Community.”</p> + +<p>“And suppose some comrade were to refuse +to work, and yet stick to his rooms. +What could you do to get rid of him?”</p> + +<p>That was a problem for Rothenburg. He +fondled the thin yellow hair till I thought it +<span class='pageno' title='73' id='Page_73'></span> +would come out; he fingered the shadowy +moustache with that nervous hand till he +made me frightened.</p> + +<p>“I imagine,” he said at last, after due +deliberation, in a very slow tone, “we would +be compelled to call in . . . . the State +. . . . to eject him.” He uttered that +hated word with visible effort.</p> + +<p>Appello Cæsarem! I dug my pick into the +ground more viciously than ever. But I said +nothing. Coercive practices! I saw I was +back with my old friends Aforesaid and This +Indenture Witnesseth.</p> + +<p>Yet I will do the anarchists the justice to +say that none of them seemed anxious to +afford their pet bugbear, the State, the opportunity +of trying this test case. They toiled +hard, and inefficiently. In the sweat of their +brow they did very little. None of them +could be called a specialist in gardening. +Rothenburg himself had worked as a lady’s +tailor in Paris, he told me, and had flung up +a post of fifty francs a week—“Not bad +wages for a working man,” he observed, +preening himself, with the complacency of +a willing martyr—to till the soil with intensive +culture. I believe he was really +a good tailor spoiled to make an indifferent +<span class='pageno' title='74' id='Page_74'></span> +gardener. Still, one could not help respecting +his enthusiasm. When I pressed him +further on this head, he admitted with regret +that in the present state of the world only +a chosen few—“like you and me, Juliet”—were +fit for anarchy. (I felt half inclined to +retort with the last of the Sandemanians, that +I was “no that sure of Juliet.”) However, +he thought it was well to begin the experiment; +after all, one should live up to one’s +highest ideal.</p> + +<p>I glanced around at the sodden field, the +bald brick cottages, and had doubts in my +mind whether they did really fulfil my highest +ideal.</p> + +<p>I worked hard with the rest. A certain +sense of honour made me work my hardest. +<span class='it'>Noblesse oblige</span>; and precisely in proportion +as I saw the comrades would be content to +let me shirk some share of my task out of +regard for my gentility, did I feel it incumbent +upon me to do my utmost possible. +I wore my cycling suit in the fields, and +laboured like a man. I am not muscularly +strong, but I have been well trained, and +I honestly believe I was the most efficient +workman in all that little group of incompetent +town toilers.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='75' id='Page_75'></span> +In my spare time I set about reforming +the kitchen. The vegetarian dishes I had +learned at the Guild delighted the souls of +the simple anarchists. My barley cutlets +with tomato sauce were voted “heavenly” +in best lip-licking Teutonic; my vermicelli +shape received the praise of “bravissima” +from our Neapolitan Luigi. This skill in +cookery much increased my vogue among +the men of the Community; while the women +were not sorry to have their task lightened +by a little amateur assistance.</p> + +<p>If I have not said much here of the women +and children ’tis not for want of appreciation: +they were the salt of the settlement. There +was no nonsense of high principles about +them: they had followed their husbands and +fathers and brothers to this outland spot +as women will do; and they would have +shouted “Vive l’Empereur” as heartily to-morrow +as they shouted “Vive l’Anarchie” +when asked to-day. But they loved to +applaud Rothenburg on the war-path of +peace, and would have scalped anyone who +doubted the truth of the shibboleths of +fraternity.</p> + +<p>With the children I made great friends. +Dear rough-and-tumble little things, they +<span class='pageno' title='76' id='Page_76'></span> +oozed with merriment. My rational dress +delighted them: so did Mr. Commissioner, +with his white teeth, as soon as they had got +over the first formalities. He suffered them +to pull his tail like a lamb. We played +games together at night, in the intervals +of reorganising European affairs and abolishing +the capitalist. We romped like tomboys. +My attempts to tell them “Cinderella” and +“The Three Bears,” in bad German, translated +by the more knowing into Czech and +Yiddish, were not a complete success; but +neither were they a failure, for at any rate +they resulted in happy laughter. Besides +I taught them cat’s-cradle, and cat’s-cradle +at least has escaped the curse of Babel.</p> + +<p>Still, rocks lay ahead. My Odyssey was +not so quickly to bring me into port. By +the end of the week a cloud took shape: +I foresaw storms brewing.</p> + +<p>All the comrades were devoted in equal +parts to myself and my bicycle. In the +evenings, when work was done, and we had +watered the cabbages, I gave them lessons +in turn on the mysterious monster. From +the beginning it occurred to me that most of +them were anxious to entice me away from +the common field towards remoter lanes +<span class='pageno' title='77' id='Page_77'></span> +where occasions for private talk were more +easily obtained. But, mindful of my promise +not to form idolatrous attachments, I resisted +the temptations of the polyglot Fausts who +would fain have discoursed to me the words +of love in many uncouth languages. It was +my policy to keep close to the cottages and +the other women, backed up by that round +mountain of Britannic matronhood, the guileless +Mrs. Pritchard. Besides, in the Commissioner, +I had an efficient bodyguard.</p> + +<p>On Saturday came the weekly division +of profits. We had done well that week, +having sent consignments of early roses and +asparagus to Guildford and London. We +declared a dividend, a splendid communal +dividend, at the rate of four shillings per +head for adults, and two shillings for children. +I thought this profit magnificent. But just +before the distribution of cash, Rothenburg +strolled up to me, as I was dandling a +mottle-armed anarchist. His fingers twitched +on the imperceptible moustache more tremulously +than ever. “Juliet,” he said, briefly, +“I want to speak to you.”</p> + +<p>He said it in the voice with which our +Principal at College was wont to summon us +to her study for the discipline of exhortation. +<span class='pageno' title='78' id='Page_78'></span> +Free anarchist though I was, I listened and +trembled.</p> + +<p>“Well, Rothenburg?” I murmured, laying +down the baby.</p> + +<p>“The question is, do you mean to remain +with us?”</p> + +<p>“Why, certainly,” I cried, astonished. +“Did we not swear eternal friendship?”</p> + +<p>“But—the comrades complain that you +take no notice of them.”</p> + +<p>“No notice! Absurd! Why, I have +taught them how to bicycle.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; but that is not everything. Friends +should show friendliness. You hold them at +arm’s length. You keep yourself aloof. You +have no <span class='it'>camaraderie</span>.”</p> + +<p>I looked him hard in the face. He blinked +his watery eyes. I knew he was sincere—a +good, honest anarchist; but he expected too +much of me. “Rothenburg,” I said firmly, +“I call this coercion.”</p> + +<p>“No, no; not coercion; but comrades +ought to be sociable.”</p> + +<p>“ ’Tis intolerable!” I exclaimed. “What +is anarchy for, if we are each to be forced +into talking to one another against our wills? +I have done my week’s work; I have cooked you +good food; I have lent you my bicycle; and still +<span class='pageno' title='79' id='Page_79'></span> +you complain of me. The Banded Despots”—which +was our technical phrase, to wit, for +the British Government—“could not do worse +than that, nor as bad as that either. They +do not insist that one should make oneself +agreeable. They are amply satisfied if man +pays man’s taxes.”</p> + +<p>He twirled the non-existent moustache till +he put a visible point on it. His fingers +twitched painfully. “I only tell you what +the comrades are saying,” he replied, in a +deprecatory way. “They find that you do +not behave to them like a sister. In one word, +they think that you give yourself the airs of +a superior person. You pose as an <span class='it'>aristo</span>. +They believed when you came that you would +amalgamate freely with us. We want no +women who decline to fraternise.”</p> + +<p>This was too much for my temper. I broke +into open mutiny. “I shall resign,” I cried. +“You are bringing to bear against me the +intolerable tyranny of public opinion. I shall +go back to the freedom and comfort of the +Despots.”</p> + +<p>His jaw dropped at this resolve. His eye +glanced feelingly sideways towards the bicycle. +For a moment I feared Commissioner Lin +would pin him. “No, no,” he cried. “You +<span class='pageno' title='80' id='Page_80'></span> +must not do that. We all like and respect +you. We wish you to remain. But we wish +you to be a sister. Give me time to consider—to +communicate with the comrades.”</p> + +<p>“Not one moment,” I answered, hardly +liking this turn. “Hand me over my money, +and let me go! I have worked for a week, +and the labourer is worthy at least of his +travelling expenses. I return to London.”</p> + +<p>He hurried back to the group who hung +about the door of the Community cottage, +and spoke to them in low tones. Then he +came again as envoy. “All the comrades +say, if you will reconsider your decision, they +will no longer insist upon your altering your +demeanour.”</p> + +<p>“I will <span class='it'>not</span> reconsider it,” I replied, growing +really frightened, for I caught Léon’s eye. +“I go at once. Give me my money, and let +me return to the world I came from.”</p> + +<p>They debated again. Commissioner Lin +watched the case in my interest. Then one +of the others approached. It was Léon—Caliban—the +man with the protruding lips. +I had my hand on my bicycle, and was ready +to mount it.</p> + +<p>“This machine is ours,” he said calmly, +putting his face close to mine. “Whatever +<span class='pageno' title='81' id='Page_81'></span> +any comrade brings into the Community is +common property. We will give you your +dividend and let you go; but this you must +leave with us.”</p> + +<p>My blood was up. The old Eve within +me was roused. The American eagle in my +heart flapped its wings. I remembered how +my fathers had fought at Lexington (they +were quite a property to me). “Sir,” I +exclaimed, in my most commanding voice, +“you shall not touch my machine. If you +venture to detain it”—I tried to remember +the worst phrases I had learnt at Flor and +Fingelman’s—“I will move for a mandamus +to compel you to show cause why you should +escape the penalties of præmunire.” What +it all meant I do not know; but I am sure +the effect upon Caliban’s mind was most salutary. +I have ever since had a vastly increased +respect for the law of England.</p> + +<p>They conferred again for a few minutes, +with one eye on the Commissioner. Then +Rothenburg came forward once more as +spokesman. “Will you try it again for one +week?” he asked in a really grieved voice. +“We shall be sorry to lose you.”</p> + +<p>“Not for one day!” I answered, a furtive +gleam in Commissioner Lin’s eye lending me +<span class='pageno' title='82' id='Page_82'></span> +courage. “Give me what I have earned, and +let me go!” I asked for it with the greater +confidence because I felt sure in my own +mind I had done more effective work in the +week than any of them.</p> + +<p>They paid me, murmuring. I retired to +my cubicle, packed my knapsack in haste, +returned to my machine, and laid my hand on +it firmly. But within I was trembling like +an Italian greyhound. Then I jumped into +the saddle, and waved my hand to my sworn +brothers, with an affectation of courage. +“Messieurs,” I said—and to call them +“messieurs” was to excommunicate myself, +to deny <span class='it'>camaraderie</span>—“Messieurs, you are a +mass of conventions. I wish you the very +good morning. Your rules are too stringent +for me. I cannot away with them. I find +myself too individual, too anarchic for the +anarchists!”</p> + +<p>Then I waved my hand again, and set my +face sternly towards civilisation, despotism, +and the flesh-pots of Egypt.</p> + +<p>I was weary of dissent, and longed for the +catholic church of humanity. I must go back +to London, and be once more a type-writer.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='83' id='Page_83'></span>CHAPTER VIII.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>CALLED “OF ACCIDENTS.”</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>For</span> the first three or four miles I kept on +pedalling steadily. I grazed the corners, not +even daring to look back, for I was haunted +by a terror that Léon, with his lips, was on +the track behind me. But I heard only the +cries of the anarchist babies, calling to their +playmate to come back in Czech and Yiddish.</p> + +<p>When I had escaped from the intricate +tangle of Sussex lanes, and found myself once +more on the Queen’s highway of England, +under the protecting ægis of Britannia’s +shield (in spite of the blood of the Pilgrim +Fathers), I paused to reflect upon the week’s +adventures.</p> + +<p>A bicycle in full swing, I maintain, is not +an ideal place for calm reflection. Hence the +face of the bicyclist. Moreover, I had started +without due attention to my screws, in my +eagerness to escape from my sworn brothers, +the anarchists, into the open air of Banded +<span class='pageno' title='84' id='Page_84'></span> +Despotism. So I called a halt, and dismounted +for a moment to tighten my loose +joints, metaphorically and literally. My +knees still trembled under me, and the +wraith of Caliban, panting ever in the +rear, still pursed its thick lips in my face +to mock me. I felt like Pliable when he +abandoned Christian at the outset of his +pilgrimage, and slank back from the first +slough to the City of Destruction. For, in +the background of my heart, I still loved +and admired these simple earnest souls, +eager after their kind to right human wrong, +and to attain human perfection. I saw their +comic side; but I saw also that the root of +the matter was in them. They had noble +enthusiasms—all save Caliban; he was +the serpent in that ten-acred Eden. When +I got under weigh again, at a good easy +pace, beneath rifts of blue through white +summer cloud, I began to be aware that my +first fortnight of free life had culminated +in two distinct and acknowledged failures. +I had failed to accommodate myself to the +environment at Flor and Fingelman’s; I had +failed to accommodate myself to the public +opinion of the anarchists at Pinfold. Environment +was triumphing all along the line. I +<span class='pageno' title='85' id='Page_85'></span> +felt constrained to regard myself as one of the +unfittest, who do <span class='it'>not</span> survive, and whom no +man pities.</p> + +<p>Resolving myself into Committee of Finance, +I found I had been acting with reckless extravagance. +Cash in hand amounted to four +and sevenpence—of which sum, four shillings +represented my week’s earnings, and sevenpence +my balance from the bounty of St. +Nicholas, after settling for two weeks’ rent +in London, with sundry expenses. It occurred +to me now (too late) that I had practically +been paying twice over for lodging—once in +London by cash, and once at the Community +by giving my labour in return for a mere box +of a cubicle. I felt so proud of this discovery +in economics, however, that I was almost inclined +to condone the error for the sake of its +detection. In other ways, also, I was demonstrably +worse off than when I started. I had +worn my pretty brown cycling suit for a week +in the stiff clay fields, not to mention the fact +that I had splashed it with mud in the vicarious +effort to rectify the lines of grace in +my comrades’ riding; and I had done my +tyres no good on the rough roads of Sussex. +Altogether, I was forced to confess to myself +with shame that I returned to London after +<span class='pageno' title='86' id='Page_86'></span> +this escapade not only a wiser, but a poorer +woman.</p> + +<p>To crown all, I had no longer the use of my +type-writer. The thirty pieces of silver for +which I had betrayed my entire stock-in-trade, +the instrument of production, were spent and +lost to me. St. Nicholas had proved but a +broken reed. I had leaned upon him, and +he had pierced my hand. Never again should +I trust the hypocritical smile on the face +of that bland and benignant impostor!</p> + +<p>I pedalled on at half-speed. Little vocalists, +ignorant of the name of Mendelssohn, carolled +songs without words in the sky overhead: +but my heart was heavy.</p> + +<p>Yet, after all, I had had my amusement, and +bought my experience.</p> + +<p>A pheasant screamed; I mistook it for Caliban. +Mr. Commissioner looked up in my +face and sympathised.</p> + +<p>It was still early afternoon; for Saturday +was a half-holiday: we had struck work at +noon, and dined, before proceeding to the +division of profits. June was almost come, +and the days were lengthening. I hoped to +reach London long before the hour at which +the Banded Despots compel us to light our +red lamps in the public interest.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='87' id='Page_87'></span> +Yet I was so delighted to have flung off +the yoke of anarchy that I could have fallen +on the neck of a Banded Despot, had he +appeared at that moment, were it but in the +guise of a Sussex County Constable. The +country smiled: if eglantine be sweet-briar, it +bordered the road; if honeysuckle, it scented +the cottage porches.</p> + +<p>I rode on and on, glad to be free once more, +though sorry to be poor, and doubtful where +I could turn for the next few days’ board and +lodging. The words of the anarchist alphabet, +which I had learned from the one British +brother at Pinfold, recurred strongly to my +mind—</p> + + + <div class='poetry-container' style=''> + <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> +<div class='stanza-outer'> +<p class='line0'>“F is the freedom that old England brags about;</p> +<p class='line0'> If you haven’t got a dinner—why—you’re free to go without.”</p> +</div> +</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> + +<p>I felt sure I might soon taste that common +privilege secured to all of us by Magna +Charta.</p> + +<p>In this mood I coasted recklessly down a +slight hill near Holmwood, with my feet on +the rest, and my hands too incautiously removed +from the handle-bar. Behind me lay +the Weald; in front rose the trenchant rampart +of the North Downs.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the slope was a sudden turn. +<span class='pageno' title='88' id='Page_88'></span> +As I reached the bottom my hand gripped the +brake—too late. I was aware of a Foreign +Body, rushing eagerly round the curve, with +flying fair hair; next, of a considerable impact; +then, of myself on the road, sprawling, +and the Foreign Body with the fair hair +wringing its hands beside me.</p> + +<p>She was a woman, fortunately.</p> + +<p>I raised myself with dignity. It is always +a good plan, in case of collision, to take the +aggressive first. “You came round that corner +rather fast, considering how sharp it is,” +I observed in a coldly critical tone, whose +effect was perhaps rather marred by the fact +that my fingers were torn and bleeding. This +was sheer bluff, and I knew it.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she cried, clapping +her hands to her ears in an agonised +little paroxysm. I saw that she was slight +and fair and evidently frightened: a wisp of +a figure, a fluff of amber hair, blue eyes like +April.</p> + +<p>“It was a nasty spill,” I went on, growing +severer in proportion as I realised that my +antagonist was little inclined to defend herself +(which was a meanness on my part). +“You should slow round corners. I hope +you have not hurt yourself.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='89' id='Page_89'></span> +She set to cry all at once. “A little,” she +answered. “Or rather, a great deal.”</p> + +<p>She was a timid small atomy. I began to +regret my hasty sternness, the more so as +I knew I was at least as much to blame as +she, for I had run down the hill without +my fingers on the brake, and had trusted to +chance at the turn of the corner. All this +too, I admit, with a wheel that had already +been badly buckled.</p> + +<p>Happily, Commissioner Lin did not take it +into his head to seize her.</p> + +<p>I tried to console her. Then I turned to +my machine. Which shows that I am a +woman first and a cyclist afterwards; for I +notice that your born cyclist looks first at her +wheels, and only proceeds in the second place +to enquire which of her limbs is broken.</p> + +<p>When I saw its condition, I recognised at +once that my cup was full. All, all was lost. +The front wheel was twisted out of human +recognition; the tyre was punctured; I saw +seven-and-sixpence worth of repairs staring +me full in the face before I could fall back +upon my base of operations in London.</p> + +<p>I blush to confess it; but I followed her +example. Lexington faded away. I burst +into tears, outright, and sank down on the +<span class='pageno' title='90' id='Page_90'></span> +ground by my broken cycle. I suppose the +spill had shattered my nerves. Mr. Commissioner +squatted on his haunches and stared +at me.</p> + +<p>How long we might have sat there, mingling +tears together, it were hard to say—had +not St. George come by, in the nick of time, +sword in hand, to rescue us.</p> + +<p>He was not mounted as usual on his milk-white +steed, but more prosaically seated on +the box of a dog-cart. Yet what matters +that? A cavalier is a cavalier, be he horseman +or gigman. The knights who ride in all +their pride around the frieze of the Parthenon +are only knights in virtue of their possession +of the noble quadruped platonically +adored by the Grand Vizier and his satraps. +So I knew it was a St. George, though in +place of a lance he had a lancet in his instrument +case. To unimaginative eyes he was +the village doctor.</p> + +<p>He pulled up his horse by the roadside, +and called out to us cheerily: “Anything +wrong? Can I be of use to you?”</p> + +<p>“Not for me,” I broke out, fearing he +would want to dress my wounds and be +paid for it; “I am not hurt at all. About +this lady I do not know. She cannoned +<span class='pageno' title='91' id='Page_91'></span> +against me, and somebody seems to have +fallen.”</p> + +<p>St. George dismounted—if one can dismount +from a dog-cart—a genial giant. He +looked at my hands, which were torn and +bleeding, and ingrained with sand and dirt +from the road. “Excuse me,” he said, +gravely; “this is worse than you think. +You have had a nasty wrench. And, besides, +the soil contains——”</p> + +<p>“I know all that,” I answered. “The +germs of lockjaw. I have gone through an +ambulance course, and helped the trained +nurse at an East-End Settlement. Well, +the germs must take their chance. Tetanus +microbes have a right to live like the rest of +us, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>My manner was perhaps defiant. He +smiled, not unkindly, a boundless Pacific of +a smile: his ears alone checked it. “Ha! +an anarchist?” he enquired, glancing back +in the direction whence I had come.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I answered. “From Pinfold.”</p> + +<p>“Tired of it?”</p> + +<p>“Very much so. I am on my way back to +London and the Banded Despots.”</p> + +<p>He smiled again. “You must let me +dress your hand,” he said, persuasively.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='92' id='Page_92'></span> +I drew back in alarm. “Oh, no!” I cried, +for I had nothing to pay him with.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” he went on with kind persistence, +divining my thought in the hot flush +that came over me. “This is not a professional +matter. A mere passing courtesy to a +lady in distress. Let me drive you to my +surgery, and then on to Holmwood Station. +You won’t be able to get those machines +mended so as to return to town to-night. I +can pack them both in. And your friend will +come with you.”</p> + +<p>There was no resisting the frank kindliness +of his big genial smile. He was broad-shouldered +and large-hearted, with a face to +match. I clambered up into the dog-cart, and +the fair girl sat behind. How he annihilated +space so as to pack in the bicycles as well I +have no idea. But the age of miracles is <span class='it'>not</span> +past, nor yet the age of chivalry. St. George +convinced me that both still exist. At a +moment of despair, he revived my waning +belief in human nature.</p> + +<p>At the surgery, he washed my bleeding +hands tenderly, spread an antiseptic ointment +and a cool rag on top, and bound it all up +with womanly solicitude. As a faint protest, +I murmured at the end: “How much am I +<span class='pageno' title='93' id='Page_93'></span> +in your debt?” But he smiled his expansive +smile, and repeated, “Nothing, nothing!” +Then he examined the fair girl, who was the +exact counterpart of Michaela in the opera, +and pronounced her sound in wind and +limb, though nervously shaken. Michaela +wept at learning she was not hurt; she would +have fainted, I think, if he had told her she +was injured.</p> + +<p>When our wounds had been assuaged, he +drove us down to the station. On the way, +Michaela grew gradually calm enough to +communicate her misfortunes. “I want to get +to Leith Hill,” she said. “I was going there +when I was so unlucky as to upset this lady.”</p> + +<p>(My heart pricked me, but I refrained from +confessing.)</p> + +<p>“Leith Hill!” St. George cried, with his +hearty great laugh. “Why, you are five +miles out for it! You have taken the wrong +road. You were straight on the way to +Horsham when I met you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I was afraid of that,” Michaela exclaimed, +beginning to cry again; she had a +genius for tears that might have been utilised +with advantage for purposes of irrigation. +“I—I was cycling with a gentleman.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed?” I put in coldly.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='94' id='Page_94'></span> +“But I—I am engaged to him.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” I answered. Having left +anarchy and all its works nine miles behind +me, I affected to believe <span class='it'>no</span> young lady could +be bicycling with a man <span class='it'>unless</span> he were engaged +to her.</p> + +<p>“And we kept together as far as Dorking,” +Michaela went on; “but there I stopped to +speak to some friends I met by chance in the +street, and my—my escort went round the +corner to buy some cigarettes; and when I +hurried on again to catch him up, I could not +discover him; and I’m afraid I must go back +alone to London.” She spoke as though +London were in the heart of Africa.</p> + +<p>The doctor laughed. “You took quite the +wrong turn,” he said. “Or rather, you kept +straight on, when you should have swerved +to the right. That unhappy young man must +be seeking you now, on the summit of Leith +Hill, with many qualms of conscience.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think so?” Michaela cried, +wringing her hands once more. She was a +study in helplessness. I could feel she was +rich, brought up in cotton-wool, and for her +sake I was glad of it; for I wondered what +she would do if she should ever find herself +face to face with real misfortune.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='95' id='Page_95'></span>CHAPTER IX.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>I PLAY CARMEN.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>St. George</span> joined tact to his chivalry. +When we pulled up at the station, he handed +us both out, unloaded our iron steeds, raised +his hat with an amicable smile, and then, +before we had time to thank him, cracked a +merry whip, and drove away hurriedly. My +bandaged condition forbade me even to grasp +his hand; he vanished into the past, and was +once more a phantom. I never saw him +again. Yet I have always been grateful to +that brief vision of a knight who saved me +for one moment from a passing dragon. If +peradventure he happen to read these words, +will he accept my thanks for it?</p> + +<p>On the platform, as Chancellor of my own +Exchequer, I had time to bring in my private +budget. It showed an obvious deficit. Had +I been Leader of the Opposition, I could have +risen with scorn from the front bench, and +subjected it to a scathing—nay, a crushing +<span class='pageno' title='96' id='Page_96'></span> +criticism. In plain words, I saw that I had +not money enough to pay my way back to +London, to take a dog-ticket for the Commissioner, +and also to carry my bicycle with +me (zone 50, one shilling.) This collision +had proved even more disastrous to my +finances than to my hands. Two courses +were now open to me. I must cloak-room +my machine—with little chance of redeeming +it—or else resolve to spend the residue of +my days at Holmwood.</p> + +<p>The latter alternative being the more +original of the two, naturally I made up my +mind to adopt it. I felt so poor and desolate +that I looked for the police to step in and +disperse me.</p> + +<p>“I won’t go up to town,” I said curtly to +Michaela. “I will spend the night here.” +I said “the night” only, instead of “my +life,” lest she should suspect me of exaggeration.</p> + +<p>To my vast surprise, this resolution, which +I fancied of no importance to anyone save +myself, threw my companion into a tremor of +anxiety. “Then I can’t go either,” she cried, +wetting her lips with fear. “If <span class='it'>you</span> stop, <span class='it'>I</span> +must stop with you, and telegraph up for my +father.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='97' id='Page_97'></span> +I stared at her in astonishment. “Why +so?” I asked at last.</p> + +<p>“Why, because—because of this <span class='it'>dreadful</span> +murder!”</p> + +<p>“What murder?” I inquired, reverting +instinctively to Léon and his lips.</p> + +<p>She stared in turn. “You <span class='it'>must</span> have heard +of it,” she exclaimed. “It has been in all the +papers.”</p> + +<p>I remembered that at Pinfold we had been +too much absorbed by the future of Europe +and the affair of the new glass-house ever to +trouble our minds about what chanced to be +happening in the mere provincial world of +London. So I assured her I knew naught +of it.</p> + +<p>She went on to explain to me that a woman +had been found killed in a first-class carriage—stabbed +to the heart, and stuffed under +the seat—only three days before.</p> + +<p>“I <span class='it'>dare</span> not travel alone,” she said, clasping +her hands and opening her blue eyes +wide. “Do <span class='it'>please</span> come with me.”</p> + +<p>This forced me to explain my financial +position. My new friend declared that that +did not matter. Might she lend me a sovereign? +A sovereign! I gasped at the idea +of such wealth. But I had further to make +<span class='pageno' title='98' id='Page_98'></span> +it clear that my chance of repaying it was a +vanishing quantity.</p> + +<p>She listened to my explanation with open-mouthed +astonishment. I think she had never +heard of such poverty before—in one of her +own sort—though to me it was commonplace. +“But you <span class='it'>must</span> let me lend it to you,” she +said, drawing out the daintiest little lizard-skin +purse I have ever seen; “or, rather, you +must let me pay you for the harm I have +done to your bicycle, and the difficulty I have +brought upon you. That is only fair. I +ought to settle for your ticket up to town, +and for the mending.”</p> + +<p>I was compelled to confess. My duplicity +had failed. “It was more my fault than +yours,” I faltered out. “I was reckless in +my pace. You were mounting a slight rise, +with the wind against you: I was descending, +and had it in my favour. If anybody is to +blame, it is I. Pray, pray, forgive me.”</p> + +<p>She insisted in spite of me. “I shall take +two first-class tickets.”</p> + +<p>My democratic gorge rose. “Never!” I +cried firmly. “St. Nicholas forfend! Not +in my palmiest and most unregenerate days +did I travel first-class. If you consent +to take two thirds, I will owe you for the +<span class='pageno' title='99' id='Page_99'></span> +amount. You can give me your address; and +whenever I am rich enough I will repay you all. +I have sufficient of my own to buy a ticket +for my dog and bicycle.” It went against the +grain with me to receive this favour from a +stranger unseen till to-day; but I recognised +that there was no help for it.</p> + +<p>She took the tickets under protest. “Such +<span class='it'>dreadful</span> people travel third—drunken soldiers +and sailors!”</p> + +<p>“Brave defenders of our country!” I answered, +remembering my father’s profession. +“It’s <span class='it'>Thank you, Mr. Atkins</span>, when the band +begins to play.”</p> + +<p>The liquid blue eyes stared at me in blank +amazement. Rudyard Kipling, one could see, +was a sealed book to her. I think she had +doubts of my perfect sanity. Perhaps you +share them.</p> + +<p>We arranged for our maimed mounts. I +hold it one of the best points of a bicycle, as +compared with the noble animal, that it considerately +refrains from wringing your heart +in the matter of sympathy. It has no nerves. +The train panted into the station. We explored +an empty carriage, free from the contamination +of soldiers and sailors, drunk or +sober, and started off comfortably.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='100' id='Page_100'></span> +Michaela took the precaution to peer under +the seats beforehand. I am not sure which +of the two she expected to find—a corpse or +a murderer.</p> + +<p>“This is nice,” she said at last, smiling, +and recovering her spirits for the first time +since the collision. “We shall have the +carriage to ourselves all the way to Victoria. +I gave the guard half-a-crown. I <span class='it'>couldn’t</span> +travel with a man. I should be quite too +frightened.”</p> + +<p>Some devil entered into me. I am subject +to devils. My new acquaintance was so insipidly +fair, so mediævally shrinking, while +I am dark and modern, that I had an irresistible +impulse to play Carmen to her +Michaela. “Have you reflected,” I said drily, +“that a <span class='it'>woman</span> may have committed that +murder?”</p> + +<p>It was heartless of me, I admit. My little +companion was so timid and shrinking. But +the bolt fell flat. She clasped her hands and +looked at me. “I never thought of that!” +she said. “How <span class='it'>dreadfully</span> clever you must +be to discover it. Dreadful as well as clever! +But I am <span class='it'>sure</span> you are not a murderess.” (She +had a trick of emphasising one word in each +sentence.) “You are a <span class='it'>great</span> deal too nice. +<span class='pageno' title='101' id='Page_101'></span> +You behaved so sweetly about the ticket, you +know, and the accident! Anyone else in +your place would have pretended it was my +fault, and made me pay for the damages.”</p> + +<p>“That was only common honesty,” I +objected. “Murderers need not be deficient +in common honesty.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but they must be awful people!”</p> + +<p>“Murderers are not a class,” said I. “They +are you and me, acting under pressure of +powerful impulses.”</p> + +<p>She glanced at me, more amazed than frightened. +“I <span class='it'>know</span> you would not murder me,” +she replied, less alarmed than I might have +expected. “You are so kind, though you are +so queer. I feel quite safe in your hands. +With those honest eyes I am certain you +would not hurt me.”</p> + +<p>I could have crept under the seat, I felt +such a brute. I took her two small hands in +my bandaged palms. “You dear little thing!” +I exclaimed, “nobody could ever hurt you!” +Then seven other devils entered into me again, +worse than the first ones, and I could not help +adding, “Though if I <span class='it'>wanted</span> to murder, this +is a unique opportunity. My bleeding hands, +and the evidence about the bicycle accident +would suffice to account for any number of +<span class='pageno' title='102' id='Page_102'></span> +blood-stains. Still, to stuff you under the seat +would be bad taste and vulgar.”</p> + +<p>She caught my eye, and laughed. “What +a funny girl it is!” she cried. “You <span class='it'>are</span> so +comical! But it isn’t the least use your trying +to frighten me. I can see the twinkle in your +big black eyes; and I like you in spite of your +trying to be horrid. Do you know, I liked +you from the first moment I saw you.”</p> + +<p>’Twas impossible not to be taken by such +charming childishness. She cooed so prettily +one was forced to love her. Before we +reached Victoria we were fast friends. Michaela +thought me the queerest person she had ever +met, but, oh, so nice! Her tongue was +loosed. She told me a great deal about what +a dear fellow she was engaged to. She spoke +of him as Toto. She also wanted to lend me +a pound. But I sternly refused. I must work +out my own salvation in fear and trembling. +(This Biblical trick descends to me, no doubt, +from the Pilgrim Fathers.)</p> + +<p>Michaela gave me her card at Clapham +Junction—“Miss Allardyce” it said—and +begged me to call upon her. I was driven +to explain that in the rank of life to which +I now belonged people did not call upon one +another; more particularly that the Jews of +<span class='pageno' title='103' id='Page_103'></span> +Onslow Gardens (I am dropping into it again) +had no dealings with the Soho Samaritans. +Michaela dissented from this finding: her position +was that “a lady was a lady.” I granted +the truth of that identical proposition, but flatly +disallowed that all ladies had time for calling. +I also pointed out that my first consideration +was bread, which brought tears again into her +tender blue eyes. We parted the best of +friends. We even kissed one another, though +I am an infrequent kisser. She thanked me +mightily for my company, which made me feel +small again. For I had upset her nerves, +broken her machine, and borrowed some shillings, +which I scarcely dared to hope I might +have the luck to repay her.</p> + +<p>However, I took her address, and added one +small square to the mosaic design with which +I am paving my possible future residence.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='104' id='Page_104'></span>CHAPTER X.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>SIC ME SERVAVIT APOLLO!</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>Perhaps</span> you think I have made too much of +those ancestors of mine who fought and bled +at Lexington. That is always possible; +if so, on further thought, you will feel that +there are excuses for me. My ancestors bequeathed +me nothing save the memory of +their courage. Had I inherited from them an +estate in Middlesex, or even in Massachusetts, +I might dwell less on their valour. But since +they have left me heiress of their glory alone, +’tis natural that I should magnify the one +legacy I have received from them. To deprive +me of that pittance were to leave me poor +indeed. Let me salve my indigence with the +honour of the family.</p> + +<p>And, in truth, when I got back to my rooms +in Soho, I stood in need of every ghost among +my ancestral warriors. All the dragons in +London flapped wings together in that narrow +lodging.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='105' id='Page_105'></span> +Picture my position. I had no money in +hand, and no machine to work upon. Besides, +with my maimed fingers, it would be impossible +for me to type-write for three days +at least. I had no prospect of food till my +wounds recovered. Even then, much must +depend upon the chance of an engagement; +and for record of my “last place” what had +I but my mocking letter to This Indenture +Witnesseth?</p> + +<p><span class='it'>Must</span> I fall back on the aunt, with her black +thread gloves and her Zenana Missions? I +glanced at Commissioner Lin; no, a bone, +and freedom!</p> + +<p>However, petty troubles are the mustard of +life: they add pungency. Besides, we are +all Cinderellas with a fairy godmother. Her +name is Aide-toi-et-Dieu-t’aidera. I have +never failed to find much efficacy in Citizen +Danton’s prescription. In hopeless circumstances +our three best allies are audacity, +audacity, and again audacity.</p> + +<p>I made up my mind to be audacious. I +have big black eyes, as Michaela had truly +observed, so audacity comes easily to me; +celestial blue is always shrinking. I presented +myself at the door of my lodgings with the air +of one who had merely gone away for a few +<span class='pageno' title='106' id='Page_106'></span> +days’ bicycling trip, and had thousands at her +banker’s. I think my jauntiness impressed +the landlady. I spoke in vague terms of “a +tour in Sussex,” and of its premature close +through the accident of a collision. Item, the +knees of my knickerbockers had distinctly +suffered. However, as I had paid a fortnight’s +rent before I left, out of St. Nicholas’s +benefaction, and had been away for a week +and a day, besides four days more or less +spent at Flor and Fingelman’s, I was still +entitled to two clear nights’ lodging. If the +worst came, I might even stop on for another +week without paying. The mere fact of my +return was a guarantee of “respectability,” +which, in the lodging-house acceptation, is a +synonym for probable continuous solvency.</p> + +<p>I commanded supper with my lordliest air. +My landlady was too much taken aback to +refuse me. I suggested a chop, as though +chops grew wild. She acquiesced without a +murmur.</p> + +<p>I have remarked already that I belong to a +generation which has analysed conscience +away. But I am sorry to say analysis is not +really one with annihilation. Conscience resembles +nature in that, when driven out with +a pitchfork, it recurs in spite of you. My +<span class='pageno' title='107' id='Page_107'></span> +enjoyment of that excellent chump chop—grilled +brown to a turn—was sadly interfered +with by the floating fear that I might never +be able to pay for it. I had painful qualms. +Had my landlady been rich, I might have +swallowed them with the chop: but she was +a reduced widow with one invalid daughter.</p> + +<p>Conscience, however, though it makes +cowards of us all, does not (within my experience) +produce insomnia. I slept the +sleep of the just, and woke up an Antæus, or +rather an Antæa. (This remark I offer as a +contribution to the unsolved problem whether +or not I have been to Girton.)</p> + +<p>The sun was shining. The thrushes (at +the bird fancier’s opposite) were bent on +justifying Browning, by singing twice over +each careless <span class='it'>leit-motiv</span>. I ordered breakfast +with an undaunted face, like Leonidas at +Thermopylæ. The landlady, completely subdued, +brought up coffee and rolls as if I had +been a duchess. I almost soared to an egg; +as the word hung on my lips, conscience +stepped in with “Necessaries, yes; but +luxuries—that were an infamy.” I forewent +the egg, though my long ride had begotten +in me a noble hunger. And I rather flatter +myself that in saying “forewent” I am enriching +<span class='pageno' title='108' id='Page_108'></span> +the language with a new preterite. +Oxford Dictionary, please copy.</p> + +<p>Breakfast inspired me with fresh hope. +There is much virtue in a breakfast. I began +to surmise that I might have misjudged St. +Nicholas. Not the bland old bishop of the +National Gallery—he was a humbug, I felt +sure—but that charming young benefactor +in Fra Angelico’s panel; could he be equally +untrustworthy, and with so innocent a face? +I, for one, could scarce credit it. He +seemed like the masculine counterpart of +Michaela. And Michaela was too mild not +to be really guileless.</p> + +<p>At least, I would stroll round to the Strand +and seek another interview with the holy +man. For the next two days it were futile +to hunt for work. Those bandaged hands +must tell against me. So perforce I took +holiday.</p> + +<p>On Monday morning I sallied forth. I +wore my little black dress and hat, in which, +even to myself, I looked absurdly proper. +I love trudging down the Strand. It may +sound ungrateful to confess it, after the pains +that have been taken to make London ugly +for us, but I find a weird charm in its picturesque +ugliness. When I reached the window +<span class='pageno' title='109' id='Page_109'></span> +of which I was in search, a sudden thrill +ran through me. It seemed as though I had +suffered some personal loss. My patron +saint had disappeared! Not a trace of St. +Nicholas!</p> + +<p>If the embalmed body of the holy bishop +had been missing from the shrine where it +lies at Bari, still exuding manna, I could not +have been more disconcerted. In my surprise +and alarm I even ventured into the +shop. “The little Fra Angelico,” I cried, +“in the window—what has become of it?”</p> + +<p>My anxious manner made the astute proprietor +scent a possible purchaser. “Put up +to auction to-day,” he answered. “You must +be quick if you want it.”</p> + +<p>“Where?”</p> + +<p>He mentioned a firm of picture-dealers in +the West-End.</p> + +<p>I know not what possessed me—unless it +were the fairy godmother—but I hurried off +to the sale-rooms. I had never attended an +auction before, yet I wedged my way to the +front with the assured air of a buyer.</p> + +<p>I was only just in time. My patron saint +was in the hands of the slave-dealer, who expatiated, +after the usual fashion of slave-dealers, +on his chattel’s youth, simplicity, +<span class='pageno' title='110' id='Page_110'></span> +and beauty. He also called attention to the +innocence and charm of the three sleeping +maidens. His language was florid. I could +not help wondering whether, from some calm +cell in the heavenly monastery overhead, the +angelic friar looked down with a pitying +smile on this vicissitude of his handicraft. +How lovingly he laid on his cinnabar and his +cobalt! He painted that picture with holy +joy for some dim niche in a Florentine +nunnery; could he have foreseen how it +would be bandied about, with unsympathetic +remarks as to its drawing and colouring, +in the unsanctified hands of far northern +heretics?</p> + +<p>It was hateful to behold that lovely youth, +with his long fair hair and his delicate trunk-hose, +held up for competition to the highest +bidder. The desecration sickened me. There +he stood on tip-toe, his back half-turned to +us, with his three purses of gold, a rich and +noble saint, yet not wealthy enough to redeem +himself from such last dishonour! Oh, +strange craft of the brush which could so give +life to a dead thing that, ages after its +fashioner had mouldered into dust, my heart +still went forth to it as to a living lover! +Men began to bid for St. Nicholas. Thirty, +<span class='pageno' title='111' id='Page_111'></span> +forty, fifty, sixty guineas; seventy guineas +for the saint; slower, slower, slower.</p> + +<p>At last the auctioneer reached a hundred. +Then came a long pause. I could not bear to +think that that coarse-looking dealer with the +vulgar laugh—fat, sleek, materialised—should +possess my patron. A young man with a +sweet voice (on whose forehead I seemed to +see the red star of St. Dominic) had bid up to +ninety-five. How I hoped he would continue! +But he was silent at the hundred. I +could no longer contain myself. The fairy +godmother at my elbow impelled me. With +an effort I gasped out, “A hundred and +five!”—just to keep up the bidding.</p> + +<p>“Going at a hundred and five! A hundred +and five guineas! A genuine Fra Angelico! +This exquisite work! <span class='it'>So</span> small a price! +Does no other gentleman offer?” He made +a dramatic pause. Then down came the +hammer. “The lady has it.”</p> + +<p>In a second it rushed over me what I had +done. I gasped in my embarrassment. A +clerk drew near and murmured something +inaudible about “conditions of sale.” Through +a mist of words I caught faint echoes of +“Five per cent. at once, and the balance +before to-morrow.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='112' id='Page_112'></span> +My face was fiery red. I had dim dreams +of prison. The young man with the sweet +voice stole quietly up to me.</p> + +<p>“Excuse me,” he said, in my ear; “one +moment, before you complete this purchase. +I want that picture. <span class='it'>Will</span> you take five +guineas for your bargain?”</p> + +<p>“Five guineas?” I cried, aghast. “For a +picture worth more than a hundred.”</p> + +<p>“You misunderstand me,” he corrected. +“I want that work very much—though I +doubt its authenticity: I believe it to be only +a contemporary replica. However, if you +cede it to me, I will pay the money down +and give you five guineas over. I did not +care to go on bidding further against the +dealer; he was running up the price: but I will +buy it from <span class='it'>you</span>. Do you accept my offer?”</p> + +<p><span class='it'>Sic me servavit Apollo!</span> Thus St. Nicholas +saved me! I repented of my distrust. Twice +was he tried at a pinch, and twice not found +wanting!</p> + +<p>In a haze, I assented. The stranger paid +me the money, which I handed over to the +clerk, less my own profit. Then I went +forth into the street, a rich woman once +more, with an almost inexhaustible capital +of five guineas.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='113' id='Page_113'></span> +Was it St. Nicholas, I wonder, or the fairy +godmother?</p> + +<p>The question is important, from the doctrinal +point of view, for it involves the conflict +between the faith and paganism.</p> + +<p>But my own opinion is that the young man +with the star of Dominic on his brow was +St. Nicholas himself, come down to earth yet +another time with a purse of five guineas for +a maiden’s dower. So have I seen him more +than once descending from solid clouds, in +<span class='it'>ex voto’s</span> in Italy.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='114' id='Page_114'></span>CHAPTER XI.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>A SAIL ON THE HORIZON.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>“This</span> story,” you say, “is deficient in love-interest.”</p> + +<p>My dear critic, has anybody more reason +to regret that fact than its author? I have +felt it all along. Yet reflect upon the circumstances. +Ten thousand type-writer girls +crowd London to-day, and ’tis precisely in +this that their life is deficient—love-interest.</p> + +<p>Remember, I am only telling you my own +poor little story; and I am but an amateur +story-teller. The professional novelist keeps +in stock in her study a large number of vats, +each marked (like drinks in a refreshment-room) +with the names of their contents in gilt +letters—“Sensation,” “Character-sketches,” +“Humour,” and so forth. She turns on the +taps mechanically as they are needed. But +by far the biggest vat is labelled “Love-interest.” +No matter what plot the professional +novelist may invent, she lets this +<span class='pageno' title='115' id='Page_115'></span> +tap run, as soon as her puppets are devised, +and drenches the whole work with an amatory +solvent, exactly as the chemist dilutes his +mixtures with distilled water to eight ounces. +I, however, who am narrating to you the +actual history of one stray girl among ten +thousand in London,—what can I do but +wait for the love-interest to develop itself?</p> + +<p>My name is Juliet; you may well believe +I have had moments when I thrilled with the +expectation of a Romeo. But Romeos do not +grow on every gooseberry bush. It were +unreasonable to expect that any mere man is +sufficient. You will admit, for instance, that +neither the Grand Vizier, nor Rothenburg +of the watery eyes, was precisely the ideal +knight my fancy painted. St. George, to be +sure, was a dear: but I suspected him of +one fatal flaw—being married.</p> + +<p>I waited and watched for that not impossible +he; and the not impossible he still +lurked unmaterialised.</p> + +<p>When I came into my fortune (of five +guineas) my first impulse was naturally to +repay Michaela (which I did at once by post-office +order), and thus to transfer that particular +square of mosaic pavement from its nether +abode to some celestial mansion. My second +<span class='pageno' title='116' id='Page_116'></span> +was, to buy a bunch of tea-roses for my +lodgings: and my third, to redeem my type-writer, +so as to return to St. Nicholas, as +some small mark of my gratitude, thirty +shillings from his latest benefaction.</p> + +<p>On further thought, however, it occurred +to me that thirty shillings in the hand are +worth more at a crisis than a type-writer in +the bush—a mixed metaphor which not even +the printer’s reader with his officious query +shall prevail upon me to rectify. If no work +came, I could live upon capital once more. +Meanwhile, the machine could be of no possible +service.</p> + +<p>After three days, my hands were so far recovered +that I began to look about me for a +situation again. I took up a daily paper and, +in a column of mixed wants, read another +“Wanted” advertisement: “Lady type-writer, +with good knowledge of shorthand. Apply, +Messrs. Blank and Sons, Publishers,”—and +the address followed.</p> + +<p>I liked the idea of a publisher’s office, and +I liked that advertisement. My theory is that +a type-writer girl should call herself a type-writer +girl; but that an advertiser should do +her the courtesy to speak of her as a Lady +Type-writer, or something of the sort: certainly +<span class='pageno' title='117' id='Page_117'></span> +not as a (parenthetical) female. Also, +I must have literature. The literature at my +aunt’s consisted of ladies’ newspapers, Bishop +Jackson on “The Sinfulness of Little Sins,” +and books about the Holy Land. Here, I +should have access to the Springs of Culture.</p> + +<p>So I hastened to apply for the vacant post. +I was not the first this time; I met a girl on +the stairs, less strong than myself, coming +down from the office with a most dejected +countenance. If this were the struggle for +life, it made my heart ache (for her sake) to +think I must engage in it. However, I continued +on my way, and boldly stated my +errand to the young man in attendance. That +young man struck a keynote. He was neat, +well-dressed, and had a black fringe of moustache; +in spite of which advantages he was +not supercilious. His voice was a gentleman’s. +He told me Mr. Blank would be disengaged +in a moment; meanwhile, would I +take a seat? I sank into one and waited.</p> + +<p>The office was quite unlike Messrs. Flor and +Fingelman’s. The anteroom where I sat was +exquisitely clean, and neatly fitted up with +polished shelves and wood-work. An air of +quiet culture pervaded the whole; it seemed +<span class='pageno' title='118' id='Page_118'></span> +to communicate itself even to the clerks. In +the pigeon-holes round the room stood rows +of books in glazed paper covers, looking as +spotless and as tidy as if a woman had +arranged them. Well-known names adorned +their backs. As for dust, it was not.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes came the word, “Mr. +Blank will see you.”</p> + +<p>I followed my guide, expecting to be +ushered into a rather bare room with a venerable +gentleman seated at a table; I pictured +him, in fact, as the exact original of the hale +old grey-beard who testifies in the omnibuses +to the merits of Eno’s Fruit Salt. For the +firm is one of the most dignified in London. +Instead of that, I found myself in a neat study,—too +cosy for an office, too severe for a boudoir. +It had curtains of silken Samarcand, +and fittings of cedared Lebanon. It had also +a tawny Oriental carpet, and an old oak desk, +at which sat a young man of modest and +statuesque countenance. I guessed his age +at twenty-seven. He rose undecided as I +entered, like one whom native politeness impels +to an act which he half fears is ill-suited +to the occasion. As he turned towards me, +I saw a face of notable strength and culture; +a finely-modelled nose, firm, yet soft in outline; +<span class='pageno' title='119' id='Page_119'></span> +acute brown eyes, piercing, but gentle; +abundant dark eyebrows that hung slightly +over them and gave a masterful air to their +keenness and penetration. His hair was +black and shaggy, like a retriever’s. He was +tall, but well-knit. His eyes met mine as he +gave a little inclination. A thrill ran through +me. I knew him as by instinct. I said to +myself, “A Romeo!”</p> + +<p>I suppose I was the only person in London +at the time who did not know that the head +of the firm had lately died, and been succeeded +by his son, an Eton boy and Oxford +man, who had taken high honours.</p> + +<p>Romeo waved me to a chair. “You have +come, I think,” he said, in a rich, clear voice, +pausing for a minute out of instinctive courtesy +before he seated himself, “in answer to +our advertisement.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I replied; “I understand you want +a type-writer girl.”</p> + +<p>His eyebrows moved up at the words. I +could see they produced a favourable impression. +He was accustomed to the formula +“a lady to type-write for you.”</p> + +<p>“Exactly,” he answered, folding his hands, +and trying to assume the official tone of a man +of business; though I was aware that he +<span class='pageno' title='120' id='Page_120'></span> +was unobtrusively observing my dress and +appearance, not as Ahasuerus had done, like +a cross between an Oriental monarch and a +horse-dealer, but like a gentleman of keen +insight, accustomed to take things in at a +glance without disconcerting the object of +his scrutiny.</p> + +<p>He put me a few stereotyped questions as +to speed and qualifications, which I was fortunately +able to answer to his satisfaction. +Then he went on in a deprecatory way, “I +must ask you, I am afraid, to write a little to +my dictation, and then transcribe what you +have written. Excuse this detail. One must +test your ability.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” I assented, producing my +stylograph.</p> + +<p>“We have had applicants already who did +not suit my requirements. One left as you +arrived. I—I was sorry not to be able to +engage her; for I judged her to be in want; +but—she was quite incompetent.” He spoke +apologetically.</p> + +<p>“I met her on the stairs,” I replied. “She +appeared to be downcast.”</p> + +<p>He gave me a hurried glance, for there was +pity in my tone. “It is <span class='it'>so</span> unfortunate,” he +said, “that one must insist on competence! +<span class='pageno' title='121' id='Page_121'></span> +For often the incompetent most need employment.”</p> + +<p>“There is a beautiful story,” I answered, +“about Robert Owen, when somebody patted +the head of a very pretty child at his school +at Harmony Hall. ‘You are like all the rest,’ +said Owen; ‘you pat the prettiest. But it +is the ugly ones that need encouragement.’ +That was true philanthropy.”</p> + +<p>He looked me through and through. I +took out my note-book, and assumed a business-like +air. He reached down a volume of +some History of Greece, and began dictating +rapidly. The passage, chosen of set purpose, +was full of Greek names, and rather recondite +words of technical import. I saw he had +selected it as a test of knowledge as well as +of speed. I was glad I had been at——But +that would be confessing. I wrote rapidly +and well—more rapidly, I think, than I had +ever before done; and I knew why: he was +a Romeo.</p> + +<p>“Do I go too fast?” he asked at last, +looking up at me suddenly with a gentle +smile.</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” I replied. “You might try a +little faster, if you like, as you really wish to +test me.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='122' id='Page_122'></span> +“And you know the names?” he inquired +with an incredulous accent.</p> + +<p>“Perfectly. Please go on; ‘the hegemony +of Thebes’ was the last clause you dictated.”</p> + +<p>He continued to the end. “Bœotia thus +lost the flower of her hoplites,” were the +words with which he finished.</p> + +<p>I wrote it all out in long-hand, very clearly +and distinctly. He ran his eye over it. “But +this is excellent!” he said at last, glancing at +it close. “You have all the words right. +You must have studied Greek, haven’t you?”</p> + +<p>I temporised. “A little.”</p> + +<p>He paused again. Then, after a few questions +to draw me out, especially as to attainments, +he began rather timidly. “This is +precisely what I want. I require a lady of +education, who can take down instructions +and write letters to authors on the subject-matter +of their works, without need for +correction. But—I’m afraid the post would +hardly suit you. If you will excuse my +saying so, you are too good for the place. I +do not mean as to salary—that, no doubt, I +could arrange . . . in accordance . . . +with qualifications.” He glanced quickly at +my black dress again. “But I fear—I fear +you will find the work beneath you.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='123' id='Page_123'></span> +“You can set your mind entirely at rest +on that score,” I answered frankly. “I will +tell you the plain truth—I am in need +of a situation, and shall be glad to get +one.”</p> + +<p>He hesitated once more. “Still, I feel +doubts of conscience,” he went on. “I will +be quite open with you. You may think me +quixotic, but I have ideas of my own—social +ideas—some people might even say socialistic. +Here is this work, which I have it in my +hands to bestow; which I hold as a trust, +almost. It would suffice to keep some poor +lady’s wants supplied—some lady who is in +need of actual necessaries. Now, I do not +think it right that young gentlewomen who +have all they need already found them at +home should compete in the market against +poor girls in search of a bare subsistence. +They ought not to deprive such girls of +bread in order to add to their own pin-money. +This movement for ‘doing something’ on the +part of well-to-do women is pressing hard on +the girls of the lower middle-class. Pardon +my putting it so; but you come from a home, +no doubt, where you have all you require; +and you seek this work just to increase your +income.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='124' id='Page_124'></span> +I thought it was sweet of him. I could see +I was exactly the person he wanted; yet for +a matter of principle he was prepared to take +someone possibly less suited to his special requirements. +I was glad that I could answer +with the ring of truth, “There, you are quite +mistaken. I am one of the class whom you +desire to employ—in fact, a girl in search of +a bare subsistence. I do not say so in order +to appeal to your generosity; I only wish to +obtain work on my merits for what my services +are worth in the open market. But if, +as you say, I prove a suitable person for your +purpose in other respects, you need have no +scruple on the grounds you suggest about +employing me. I have nothing to live upon +save what I can earn by type-writing.”</p> + +<p>He blushed like a girl of eighteen. He +was distressed that he had driven me into +making this avowal. “Oh, forgive me,” he +said, rising again from his chair. “I—it was +awkward of me to put it thus bluntly. But +you are so evidently a lady of education that +I took it for granted—you will understand +my natural error. I only hesitated to give +a post which might be filled by a person +in need of employment to an amateur who +wanted occupation and pocket-money.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='125' id='Page_125'></span> +“I quite understand,” I answered. “Out +bicycling last week, I passed a common where +shaggy donkeys, with unkempt coats, stood +in the sunshine dejected, hanging their heads +as if they had been reading Schopenhauer.” +(He looked up suddenly at the name with an +inquiring glance.) “But their mood was +justified; for geese were tugging at the +short grass hard by, nibbling it close to the +root; and I felt the four-footed beasts might +well be melancholy at the struggle for life +when birds, winged creatures that may career +over the world, took to competing with them +by grazing like cattle, and snatched the bread +out of the donkey’s mouth.”</p> + +<p>His face wore an amused smile. “But +you are learned,” he put in. “You might +obviously be engaged in so much higher +work—a teacher’s, for instance.”</p> + +<p>“I should hate teaching!” I cried vehemently. +“I prefer freedom. I am prepared +for the drudgery of earning my livelihood in a +house of business. But I must realise myself.”</p> + +<p>“I understand that,” he answered; “and—and +sympathise with it. Well, I apologise for +my mistake. Under the circumstances, we +need only proceed to arrange the business +part of this transaction.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='126' id='Page_126'></span> +He named a weekly sum. It was my turn +to blush. “That is too much,” I exclaimed. +I could see he was fixing it, not by the +market price, but by what he thought a sufficient +income for a person of my presumed +position in society. It was all so alien from +Ahasuerus’s way of hiring a Shorthand and +Type-writer (female).</p> + +<p>“Not for so competent an assistant,” he +answered, still nervous.</p> + +<p>Awkward as it might be to begin one’s +relations with a new employer by an apparent +contest of generosity, yet I could not accept +the sum he proposed. I told him so in plain +words; he insisted: I beat him down. After +a brief but well-contested skirmish, I camped +on the field as victor, though we compromised +for a wage a little less than half-way between +what he wished to give and what I was prepared +to accept. It did not escape me at the +time, however, that such a first step almost +of necessity entailed a certain sentimental +tinge in our relations: they would scarce be +those of employer and employed, as regulated +by custom and political economy.</p> + +<p>When all protocols were settled he went +on, “Can you come in at once?”</p> + +<p>“To-day, if you wish it.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='127' id='Page_127'></span> +“Oh, that would be such a convenience +to me! I have matters to settle which I do +not wish to hand over just now to my +clerks; it was my desire that you should act +as confidential letter-writer in my dealings +with authors, quite outside the business.”</p> + +<p>“I will begin this afternoon,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Our type-writing machine—the one I intended +for you—is——” I forget precisely +which make he mentioned, but it was one to +whose keyboard I was unaccustomed. “Can +you work with it?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered. “But I have my own. +I will bring it.”</p> + +<p>“How kind of you! Though you must not +continue to use it, of course. We have no +right to impose upon you the wear and tear. +If you will tell me which sort you prefer, it +shall be here to-morrow. Meanwhile, for to-day, +if you would bring round your own, I +should be greatly obliged to you.”</p> + +<p>“I will go and fetch it,” I said, remembering +that it lay close by in St. Nicholas’s safe +keeping.</p> + +<p>“How? In a cab?”</p> + +<p>I smiled. His politeness positively embarrassed +me. “No; in my hands,” I replied. +“I am accustomed to carry it.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='128' id='Page_128'></span> +“But type-writers are so heavy,” he remonstrated. +(I felt his anxiety to treat me like a +lady was leading to complications, and I half +regretted the Grand Vizier’s lofty sense of +masculine superiority.) “Had you not better +take a cab?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered with firmness; for I +felt I must put a stop to this strain at the outset. +An employer should know his place. +“I can carry it easily, thank you.”</p> + +<p>He looked at me with a curious look. I +suppose I have the average endowment of +feminine intuition; and I felt sure he was +debating in his own mind whether or not he +should tell me to call a hansom and charge it +to the office. It was my own old duologue +of Inclination and Duty. Inclination said, +“Make her take it”; Duty interposed, “You +must begin as you mean to go on. This is +an office matter. If she cannot work your +machine, and wishes to bring her own, she +must convey it at her own expense. You +have no ground to stand upon.”</p> + +<p>After a pause in which, as I could see, +either impulse got the upper hand alternately, +he compromised the matter. “Is it far?” he +enquired.</p> + +<p>“Close by. I can fetch it in five minutes.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='129' id='Page_129'></span> +“Then one of my clerks will step round +with you and carry it for you.”</p> + +<p>I blushed bright crimson. I had imagined +shyness to be (like “sensibility,” hysterics, +and fainting) an obsolete disease of the early +Victorian epoch. I now knew that it survived +into our own time. I could feel the hot blood +flooding my ears and cheeks, and running +down my neck. What on earth could I +answer? How let the clerk see where I had +left my machine? How confess to Romeo to +whose keeping I had confided it? He could +never understand that, to a girl of my +temperament, those golden balls were but +the mystic symbol of the saint of Myra. I +knew not what to answer. I stood still and +blushed; and my blush it was that betrayed, +yet saved me.</p> + +<p>Lifting my eyes one second in a mute +appeal, I saw right into his soul as he stood +there, facing me, more nervous, more embarrassed +than ever. I saw he divined that +I lived in some poor quarter, or had a drunken +mother, or something equally discreditable, +and was ashamed to let his clerk know it. +But he withdrew, like a gentleman that he +was to the finger-ends. “How stupid of +me!” he went on. “I see, of course, it would +<span class='pageno' title='130' id='Page_130'></span> +be unpleasant for you to walk down the +street with one of my clerks—though they +are nice young men, all of them. Excuse my +<span class='it'>gaucherie</span>. But—you are coming in at once +to oblige me; I ought to have arranged to +have a machine here to suit you. Won’t you +please take a cab, and allow me to—to charge +it to the office?”</p> + +<p>He had got it out at last. I changed colour +once more. To hide my shyness—for to my +vast surprise, I was speechlessly shy by this +time—I pulled out my handkerchief. As fate +would have it—fate that mocks at human +souls—I drew with it from my pocket a little +square of blue paper which fell, face downward, +on the floor. How can I confess the +truth? It was—the counterfoil or ticket I +had received for my machine from the representative +of St. Nicholas.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='131' id='Page_131'></span>CHAPTER XII.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>A CAVALIER MAKES ADVANCES.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>I grieve</span> to hint a doubt of my chosen patron, +but enlarged experience of St. Nicholas has +led me to believe that he lacks consistency. +His action is jerky. Though he will often +sweep down, as of old, in a pale haze of glory, +to rescue some votary from instant shipwreck, +he is hardly a saint in whom a girl can repose +implicit confidence. At tight places of social +trial he is apt to fail one.</p> + +<p>I had but one consolation. The ticket had +fallen on the floor face downward.</p> + +<p>I stooped to pick it up. My cheeks, I +feel sure, must have glowed with crimson. +Shame tingled in my ears. But Romeo was +beforehand with me. He raised the scrap of +paper and handed it to me, still face downward, +with a faint inclination. I lifted my +lowered eyelids. My swimming eyes parleyed +with his for a second. I cannot say +whether he was aware what manner of thing +<span class='pageno' title='132' id='Page_132'></span> +he was passing me; but I fancy he <span class='it'>did</span> know. +Yet if he knew I felt sure he interpreted the +episode aright, for his glance was one of mute +respect and sympathy.</p> + +<p>I crushed the unspeakable pasteboard into +my pocket, never uttering a word, and rushed, +hot and red, from the room, without daring to +speak to him.</p> + +<p>On the stairs I debated whether I could +ever come back. Prudence and Shame fought +it out between them. Prudence won. I determined +to go on as if nought untoward had +happened.</p> + +<p>I might have failed, even so, in my resolution, +had it not chanced that my road to the +Depository of my machine lay past the eating-house +where I was wont to retire for bodily +refreshment from Flor and Fingelman’s. As +I reached the door a hand touched my arm. +I looked round, startled, and saw the Grand +Vizier, outward bound from luncheon, with +his hairy hands, his goggle eyes, his shiny +black coat grown green on the seams, and his +false diamond pin shaped like a shoe of the +noble animal.</p> + +<p>“Good-morning, miss,” he said in a pert tone.</p> + +<p>I echoed his salute, and made as though I +would pass on hurriedly. But I noted in +<span class='pageno' title='133' id='Page_133'></span> +his accent, even from the three words he +had spoken, a change of mien; he was +almost what for him might be deemed respectful.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” he went on, striding after me, +and keeping abreast of me against my will. +“That was a devilish clever letter of yours—to +the governor, you know—a <span class='it'>devilish</span> clever +letter!”</p> + +<p>“I am proud to have earned the approbation +of so competent a critic,” I answered in +my chilliest voice. “Praise from Sir Hubert +Stanley——”</p> + +<p>He glanced at me with suspicion. I think +his first and most flattered idea was that I +mistook him for a distinguished baronet; his +second, neutral in tint, that I was mad; his +third, and most reluctant, that I was poking +sly fun at him.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” he began again—it was his +formula for introducing a fresh paragraph in +his converse—“I’ve got an invitation for you. +I’ve been looking about for you everywhere. +Will you come with me on Thursday night, +dress circle, at the Olympic?”</p> + +<p>He rolled it out impressively, as one who +felt sure that the solemnity of the dress circle +would subdue my stubborn neck.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='134' id='Page_134'></span> +“No, thanks,” I answered; “I never go to +theatres with casual acquaintances.”</p> + +<p>Then I walked on still faster, for I foresaw +that I must often meet him in future, since our +offices lay close together; and I judged it best +to let him see at once I did not crave the +honour of his society.</p> + +<p>“Oh, but this is on the square,” he went +on. “You don’t understand. You think I +don’t mean right by you because I am a +gentleman in a position of Trust and Responsibility, +and you are”—he was about to +say “a type-writer girl,” but he checked himself +in time and substituted for it the phrase +“a lady stenographer.” “While you were at +the office,” he went on, “I couldn’t treat you +on equal terms, of course, because of my +official position. But when I read that letter +I saw at one glance you had brains; and +I like a girl with brains, and I mean to walk +out with one.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed?” I answered. “Then I advise +you not to waste your valuable time on a +woman who does not pant for that privilege.”</p> + +<p>He let his mouth drop open. “But it’s a +ticket for two,” he expostulated, “given me +by a friend of mine who takes a part in the +piece. You’d better think twice. It isn’t +<span class='pageno' title='135' id='Page_135'></span> +every day one gets a chance of a seat in the +dress circle. And if I go at all I like to take +a young lady.”</p> + +<p>This marked advance. I had gone up in +the world. At Southampton Row I had been +“a young person.”</p> + +<p>He continued to talk, and I continued to +turn my coldest shoulder.</p> + +<p>At last we reached the door of the Depository. +The goggle eyes ogled me. I saw that +some violent act was needful if I were to +escape persecution at the man’s hands in +future. I paused by the step. “I am going +in here,” I said, bravely.</p> + +<p>The Vizier did not observe the peculiar +character of the shop as a shrine of St. +Nicholas. “I will wait for you,” he answered, +waving one hairy hand with cheerful promptitude.</p> + +<p>I braced myself up for a deadly thrust. “I +have left my machine here,” I went on in a +cold clear voice, “and I am going in . . . +to redeem it. I shall then carry it home. A +Gentleman in a position of Trust and Responsibility +will not like to be seen by my side as +I carry it.”</p> + +<p>He glanced up at the mystic sign—one +glance, no more. I saw his face grow pale. +<span class='pageno' title='136' id='Page_136'></span> +To so respectable a man such conduct was +inexplicable. Refuse a ticket for the dress +circle, and yet——</p> + +<p>I darted in, with the same fierce flush of +shame and repugnance as before. But this +time the need for getting rid of him had given +me false courage.</p> + +<p>When I emerged with the machine, a limp +flaccid creature, half-dead with disgust, the +Grand Vizier had melted away, disappeared +among the phantoms. So again Apollo or St. +Nicholas had saved me.</p> + +<p>Our courses crossed afterwards in the street +many times. But his tolerance of type-writer +girls had its proper limits. He tacked across +to the other side as I hove in sight lest he +should be exposed to the risk of having to +acknowledge a salute from so compromising a +person.</p> + +<p>I will say for St. Nicholas that though he +has curious methods of bringing about the +deliverance of those who trust him, he is a +gentleman at heart, and he usually succeeds +in the end in giving effect to his benevolent +intentions.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='137' id='Page_137'></span>CHAPTER XIII.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>CONCERNING ROMEO.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>It</span> is a far cry from Verona to London. The +ways of the Corso are not the ways of Pall Mall. +Therefore, when I admit that my heart cried +“A Romeo!” you are not to infer that I had +fallen in love with him. I merely mean that I +recognised in my new friend the type of man +who might conceivably command my heart and +me, should fate so will it.</p> + +<p>When Romeo of Verona first saw his Juliet +at the Capulets’ masque, ’tis on record that, at +first sight of her, he forgot fair Rosaline (for +whose sake but one hour earlier he was dying +to die), and seizing his new goddess’s hand, +assured her, without preamble or introduction, +that his lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stood +to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss; +while Juliet, in return, was prepared to avow +at a glance that if the stranger were married +her grave was like to be her wedding bed. +Those be the modes of Verona, as vouched by +<span class='pageno' title='138' id='Page_138'></span> +Shakespeare. Our northern hearts, however, +have not the instant electric responsiveness of +Italian breasts. Love with us is the child, +not the mother of acquaintance. And though +I thought of my Romeo as Romeo from the +first moment I beheld him, never calling him +in my soul by any other name, yet ’twas but +some prophetic fancy on my part. For many +weeks he figured as no more than my employer.</p> + +<p>Juliet of Verona, if I recollect aright, when +she flung herself upon Romeo, was not yet +full fourteen till Lammas night; at her age our +northern maid, with her fair hair down, has +conceived a romantic attachment for chocolate-creams +and the prettiest of her governesses. I +was twenty-two; and twenty-two, that mature +age, takes time to consider. Moreover, it waits +till its Romeo asks it.</p> + +<p>For, pretend as we will, the plain truth is +this: woman is plastic till the predestined man +appears; then she takes the mould he chooses +to impose upon her. Men make their own +lives, women’s are made for them. Why, +one of my dearest friends at the Guild—an +ethereal being—was wont to pace the garden +with a vellum-covered Rossetti or Pater in her +pocket, composing chants-royal to the moon +<span class='pageno' title='139' id='Page_139'></span> +and to divine love, till a man loomed on the +horizon—a man in a Norfolk jacket, with a +commission in the Guards and estates in the +Midlands; whereupon she exchanged the Rossetti +all at once for a blear-eyed ferret, and +strolled about the lanes accompanied by a fox-terrier +and a Cuban bloodhound. This is not +poetical, but ’tis life as I have noted it.</p> + +<p>To cut moralising short, I settled down at +once to work at my Romeo’s.</p> + +<p>When I arrived there with my machine, +more dead than alive with shame, the good-looking +clerk carried it upstairs for me +reverently. He was a comely youth, with +a clean round face, Devonshire apple cheeks, +and pleasant parsonage manners; he came, +indeed, as I discovered later, from an Exmoor +rectory. A table was set for me in Romeo’s +own room. I feared to invade that sanctum. +“Am I to sit right here?” I asked. He +smiled and answered, “Right there.” So +I took my place under protest. Thenceforth, +I was part of the furniture of his study.</p> + +<p>My life at Romeo’s was a life of routine. +Now routine (varied by outbreaks) is excellent +for the nerves; but it does not afford +material for romance. It is the drab of life: +art insists rather on the purple and scarlet. +<span class='pageno' title='140' id='Page_140'></span> +So I make no apology for dealing with it here +only in a few brief episodes.</p> + +<p>All our history is episode, with blanks +between, which just serve conveniently to +divide the chapters.</p> + +<p>At home, my social circle was limited to +Mr. Commissioner Lin: my conversation +to “Did ’ums, then? did ’ums?” At occasional +intervals I dined with my aunt, who +abode at Paddington: but I did not yearn to +make that joy too common. My revered +relation has all the vices of the decayed +gentlewoman: unheroic vices, which interest +nobody. She hoards bits of string, and half-sheets +of note-paper. Her table, her ideas, +and her discourse are meagre. She entertains +angels, disguised as curates, and is a prop +of the Deaconesses’ Institute.</p> + +<p>At the office, I had my seat in Romeo’s +own room. Poverty emancipates. It often +occurred to me how different things would +have been had my dear father lived, and had +I remained a young lady. In that case, +I could have seen Romeo at intervals only, +under shelter of a chaperon; as it was, no +one hinted the faintest impropriety in the +fact that the type-writer girl was left alone +with him half the day in the privacy of his +<span class='pageno' title='141' id='Page_141'></span> +study. Not that this freedom gave me much +occasion (at first) for talk with Romeo. He +was courtesy itself, and by nature conversible: +but his chivalrous feelings, and his sense +of my isolation, made him chary of speaking. +He dictated all day, or left me to transcribe; +but he seldom broke silence save on matters +of business.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, from the outset, he was +markedly kind to me. I had two nice boys +at hand to run errands and carry my notes; +one, a skimpy London imp, compact of saucy +humour; I called him Puck: the other, +a slender lad of fifteen, pale, delicate, girlishly +pretty, with long straw-coloured hair and +a distracted manner, whom I rechristened +Ariel. Romeo gradually adopted this trick +of speech from me. It is a habit of mine (as +you may have observed) to invent names +for my friends; and these generally stick—I +suppose because I borrow them as a rule +from the poets, who have classified us into +types which recur perennially.</p> + +<p>After I had been at the office a few weeks, +I happened one day to slip into some Americanism. +Though I have seen little of America +(having gone there but once on a visit to my +father’s folk at Salem when I was not quite +<span class='pageno' title='142' id='Page_142'></span> +fifteen) I have inherited from my ancestry not +a few Massachusetts idioms, one or other of +which I sometimes let drop, unconsciously +to myself, in the course of conversation. +Romeo snapped at the word at once. “Why, +you must be a New Englander!”</p> + +<p>“Not quite,” I answered, flushing. “My +father was born at Salem, an American +citizen; but he became naturalised in England +young, and was a British officer.”</p> + +<p>“Not in the army?” Romeo cried, surprised.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I answered. “Why not? A colonel.”</p> + +<p>I grew hot as I spoke. For the first and +only time, I think Romeo doubted me. +“Then you—must have—a pension,” he +broke out, slowly.</p> + +<p>It was partly desire to avoid telling the +truth, partly a certain native love of mystification—or +rather of piquing other people’s +curiosity; but I answered with a touch of +defiance, “An officer’s daughter loses her +pension on marriage. I may be married, +perhaps—or separated—or a widow.” And +I bent down over my work to hide my +heightened colour.</p> + +<p>He gazed at me for a second; his eye fell +on my left hand; then he glanced away. +<span class='pageno' title='143' id='Page_143'></span> +I could see him saying to himself he had no +right to cross-question me. But interest in +me prevailed. He drew near, and stood +over me. “You must forgive my persistence,” +he said, gently, in his modulated voice—each +syllable clear as crystal—“but I feel constrained +to ask you. Have you really a +pension? . . . . For if so, you have +misled me.”</p> + +<p>I looked up at him with proud eyes. My +father’s blood rose hot in me. “I must tell +you the truth,” I said, “or you will think I +am ashamed of my father. I am not ashamed; +I am proud of him. He was an English +colonel; but I have no pension. He was a +very brave man. He threw up his commission, +in time of war, at a moment of danger, +almost in face of the enemy, because he would +not carry out orders which seemed to him +unjust. And he died of anxiety and fever +just after, on the West Coast of Africa.”</p> + +<p>“I remember the case. Pray forgive me. +It was cruel of me to drive you.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. I am glad you did. Now you +will understand better.”</p> + +<p>I rose, flushed, and faced him. “They say +a soldier should resign his conscience into the +keeping of the Queen’s advisers. My father +<span class='pageno' title='144' id='Page_144'></span> +could not. He felt wrong was being done. +He would not make his judgment blind. He +left me poor by it; and I am proud of it—proud +of him.”</p> + +<p>“You have reason to be proud,” Romeo +answered. “I recall it all now. His previous +record showed it was courage, not cowardice. +I honoured him for it at the time—though +the world thought otherwise.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” I said in a low voice. “May +I go now? It is nearly five. And I feel, +after this, I can do no more work this evening.”</p> + +<p>He opened the door for me and bowed even +more respectfully than usual. There was +sympathy in every movement. I felt he +understood. I felt I had made a friend. I +felt, still more surely than before, that <span class='it'>this</span> +was my Romeo.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='145' id='Page_145'></span>CHAPTER XIV.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>“NOW BARABBAS WAS A PUBLISHER.”</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>I regret</span> to say that from that day forth +Romeo was more marked in his courtesy to +me than ever. His manner had always a +tinge of sweet antique courtliness; but now +he surpassed himself. I regret it, I say, +because I was afraid I recognised in this +courtesy some lingering undercurrent of class +feeling. The dear fellow would have been +polite to a type-writer girl from the dregs of +the people, no doubt—he did not know how +to be less than polite to anyone; but he was +politer still when he understood that I was an +officer’s daughter, and (as he learned a week +later) that my mother had sprung from a great +Anglo-Indian family. This was treason to his +principles; for Romeo, as he had said, was +more than half a socialist; but I condoned that +fault for the sake of his unvarying kindness.</p> + +<p>Besides, I think he thought well of me +because I was loyal to my father’s memory. +<span class='pageno' title='146' id='Page_146'></span> +As though anyone who had known my dear +father could have been otherwise!</p> + +<p>Romeo published for Sidney Trevelyan. +From the moment when I first noticed “An +Heir of the Plantagenets” among the rows of +books in glazed paper covers in the pigeon-holes, +I had always longed to be present +some day when the famous novelist came in +to discuss royalties or <span class='it'>éditions de luxe</span> with his +publisher. Sidney Trevelyan’s name was +like Charing Cross or Hyde Park Corner—a +familiar piece of public property. One afternoon +I had my will. I was seated at my +table, clicking away at some letters, when I +heard on the stairs a rich strident voice, +diffusing itself very loud in clear shrill +accents. I know not which struck me most, +its richness or its stridency. It was a sonorous +voice, which one turn of a note would +have made unendurable. “He is in his lair?” +it said, filling the room. “Plotting schemes +to suck my blood? Then I will track him to +his earth—the young vampire. My dear +Barabbas, how are you?”</p> + +<p>He burst into the sanctum, a whirlwind of +a man—large, loose-limbed, masterful, with a +restless grey eye, and a huge mop of brown +hair, shot with threads of russet. Romeo +<span class='pageno' title='147' id='Page_147'></span> +rose to greet him. He flung himself into a +chair. It creaked beneath his elephantine +weight. I left off clicking at once, and went +on with a piece of long-hand transcription. +Or rather, to be frank, I feigned to transcribe, +though my pen was inkless.</p> + +<p>As a rule, when authors came, ’twas my +place to leave the study for awhile, and take +refuge with Puck and Ariel in the anteroom. +But as the great man entered—two yards of +humanity, double width—Romeo signed to +me to remain, with a quick movement of the +eyebrow. He knew my wish, and was kind +enough to remember it. I counted it to him +for righteousness.</p> + +<p>Sidney Trevelyan sniffed, and scanned the +room, with its Oriental hangings, and its scent +of cedar-wood. “A nice den, Barabbas, a +nice den!” he observed, in a condescending +tone; “an Ali Baba’s cave, rich with bones +of authors; vastly improved since the days of +the old robber!”</p> + +<p>Romeo winced. Like myself, he respected +his father.</p> + +<p>“You have garnished it afresh,” the great +novelist continued, “from the spoils of the +Egyptians. You have decked yourself in +purple and fine linen! Well, ’tis well you +<span class='pageno' title='148' id='Page_148'></span> +should be comfortable in this world, no doubt: +for in the next——But I refrain from painting +a Tartarean picture. Dante has done it so +well before me that, like the grocer in my +street, he defies competition. I see you, my +dear Barabbas,” he raised his voice still +louder, almost lapsing into a falsetto, “I see +you lolling here in Eastern opulence, bathed in +Cyprian perfumes, and fanned by obsequious +Circassian odalisques”—I <span class='it'>felt</span> him glance my +way, though my eyes were fixed on my paper; +“I see you, like the sultan in Shelley’s <span class='it'>Hellas</span>, +surrounded by large-eyed houris, of voluptuous +bosoms, who strew your restless pillow +with opiate flowers—I call your pillow restless, +my dear fellow, partly because that was +Shelley’s epithet, if memory serves me, but +partly also because a publisher (especially a +young one) can scarcely expect to enjoy +sound slumber; later on, no doubt, as he +becomes hardened in crime, he sleeps as well +as a digestion impaired by old port permits; +but at first, remorse must disturb his fitful +rest—I see you, I say, with opiate flowers on +your couch stripped—what was the rhyme?—ah, +yes, ‘flowers,’ ‘pillow’—stripped from +orient bowers by the Indian billow. That is +the picture—<span class='it'>here</span>. But at last comes the +<span class='pageno' title='149' id='Page_149'></span> +awakening.” He struck a dramatic attitude, +and held up one hand; he had impressive +fat hands, which seemed always in evidence. +“You start from your sleep like Mahmood. +‘Man the seraglio—guard! Make fast the +gate!’ You dream yourself still lapped in +Eastern magnificence. Then . . . . ha! +what’s this? An odour of brimstone—a +pallid whiff of blue flame—Mephistopheles +smiling grimly on the victim he has landed—you +know where you are—unlike the current +hero of music-hall romance—you stretch dim +hands of fear and grope—you sink down, +down, down, on a couch of liquid fire. ‘All +is lost! Why was I ever a publisher?’ In +which of his circles did Dante place publishers? +Was it not close between the avaricious and +the prevaricators? But aloft in the empyrean, +pillowed on purple cloud, meanwhile, I enjoy +that delight upon which Tertullian insisted +as a prime element in the ecstasy of the Blest—the +delight of beholding you——But your +satellites overhear me! Sense of discipline +forbids! Barabbas,” he waved his hand, “I +draw a veil over your future condition!”</p> + +<p>He paused for want of breath. Most fat +men are sluggish: this mountain of flesh was +alive and volcanic in every atom. Romeo +<span class='pageno' title='150' id='Page_150'></span> +began in his soft voice, “And on what particular +conspiracy of crime have you come to-day +to consult the habitual criminal?”</p> + +<p>Sidney Trevelyan smiled. He liked to be +taken in his mood. “Well, my business,” +he said, “is, as you anticipate, a fresh raid +against the purses of the Philistines. We +must spoil them, my dear Barabbas; we must +spoil them, in unison. Here, our interests +are identical. They have taken two thousand, +I see, of the three-volume ‘Mahatmas.’ That’s +not enough; you must issue at once a six-shilling +edition. Grovelling beasts, prone in +the mud they love, what do they mean by +rejecting this so great salvation? Let Mudies +see to it! I shall answer their neglect by +flinging back ‘Mahatmas’ in their teeth for six +shillings. I know whence it comes, this rebuff: +those ignorant parrots, the critics. They +toss at me ever their parrot cry of ‘Artificial, +artificial!’ Their own thoughts grub and +grunt in the mud of their sty, and they blame +it to the eagle that he should circle about +gleaming icy peaks in clear ether. ‘Unnatural,’ +they say; ‘Overloaded.’ That man +Snigg, or Snagg, or Snogg—something Teutonic +and unlovely—I decline to remember +his honoured name—he reviewed me in the +<span class='pageno' title='151' id='Page_151'></span> +<span class='it'>Parthenon</span>. He has no wings himself, and +therefore he thinks flight an indecent gambolling. +But what do I care for the whole crew? +Not an obolus, not a doit—neither for Snagg +nor Bagg, neither for Archer nor Parcher.”</p> + +<p>He paused again to catch breath. In the +lull, Romeo put in quietly, “It is too soon, +in my opinion, for a cheap edition.”</p> + +<p>“No, Barabbas, it is not; it is the psychological +moment. The world awaits it with +hushed breath. Six shillings—bound in cloth—Irish +linen—dark green—a subtle shade—a +shade I have in my mind’s eye—like lavender +leaves in spring, when the sap mounts +emerald through sea-hoary stems. You catch +my idea? A green not wholly green, not +altogether blue, not grey, not glaucous, but +something of all, and more than all; with a +cunning design by that mad young Belgian—withy-bands +that twist into interlacing +dragons; the title in their midst, in somewhat +Celtic letters.”</p> + +<p>He broke off abruptly. Once more I +could feel him glance my way. I seemed to +see through the back of my head. I was +sensitive to his movements.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, he burst out in a quite different +voice, snorting like a war-horse: “Send that +<span class='pageno' title='152' id='Page_152'></span> +young woman away!” he cried, executing a +sort of ponderous rhinoceros-dance before +me. “Send her away! I tell you I can’t +stand her. I won’t have her scribbling there +and making notes of all I say. She’s a paragraphist—a +paragraphist: the vilest spawn +on God’s earth, a paragraphist! What do +you mean by setting spavined shorthand +writers to report my <span class='it'>obiter dicta</span>?” He +advanced towards me, striding: I had risen +hurriedly. “Go off!” he cried, waving his +hands at me as if I were a gadfly. “Go off! +I won’t be listened to and paragraphed. I +could feel you paragraphing me. Away, +young woman: away with you.” And by +dint of sheer bulk, he drove me before +him.</p> + +<p>Romeo opened the door for me. He spoke +with deference. “I think, Miss Appleton,” he +said, “you had better take a seat in the anteroom +for the moment, as your presence here +seems to disturb Mr. Trevelyan.”</p> + +<p>I went out, mystified. As the door closed +behind me, I heard the great man snort again. +“Now, really, Barabbas, if you choose to keep +dusky Samian slaves chained in your lair +for your hours of leisure, you should have +the decency to unchain them when fellow-conspirators +<span class='pageno' title='153' id='Page_153'></span> +come in with proposals for a +joint campaign against Askelon.”</p> + +<p>I sat in the anteroom for half an hour. +Ariel gazed in my face with sympathetic +inquiry. “The old bear was rude?” he +asked at last, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>“I might almost call him so.”</p> + +<p>“It is his way,” Ariel replied. “He seems +to wipe his shoes on one.”</p> + +<p>“But he’s not a bad old chap, either,” Puck +put in. “He chucked me half-a-crown once +for going a message for him.”</p> + +<p>“And called you a Tartar-nosed imp,” +Ariel added; “and hit you in the eye with it.”</p> + +<p>“He is a very great genius,” I observed, +sententiously, half to salve my own offended +dignity.</p> + +<p>“But a genius is a man,” Ariel remarked. +And I felt he had reason.</p> + +<p>Twenty minutes later, the famous writer +emerged. He cast a scowl at me in passing. +“Change your type-writer woman!” he +said curtly to Romeo. “Good-bye, my dear +Barabbas. Rob on, rob ever.” His broad +back vanished down the staircase like a sinking +hippopotamus.</p> + +<p>“Well?” Romeo asked, with an anxious +face, as I returned to my post when the tornado +<span class='pageno' title='154' id='Page_154'></span> +had passed. “Now you have seen him, +what do you think of Sidney Trevelyan?”</p> + +<p>“I think,” I said, “I would rather be a +Barabbas than a Byron.”</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='155' id='Page_155'></span>CHAPTER XV.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>FRESH LIGHT ON ROMEO.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>“Sidney Trevelyan</span> is a great man,” Romeo +said to me later; “but his ideas are <span class='it'>too</span> great—especially +his idea of his own greatness. +This taints life for him: he moves in an atmosphere +of social suspicion. ’Tis his fixed +belief that all the world is always thinking of +him, when it is really doing as he does—thinking +of itself. He imagines reporters as +a sultan imagines poison, or as a tsar imagines +nihilists; he scents a paragraphist in every +hedge, and a critic in every stranger.” Which +explains, I suppose, his odd behaviour.</p> + +<p>But my own opinion is that he needed an +audience; I could catch it in his voice that he +meant me to overhear; because I affected to +be absorbed in my work he thought I was +not listening, and that made him angry.</p> + +<p>Romeo was kindness itself to me; yet I +dare say I might never have grown to know +him better had it not been for the special +<span class='pageno' title='156' id='Page_156'></span> +providence of an accident—or the accident of +a special providence; put it whichever way +best suits your philosophy.</p> + +<p>Straying one afternoon through the Cretan +labyrinth of Soho, I happened to note a +young girl, very poorly dressed, but with the +air of a lady, staring in at a confectioner’s. +Her face struck a chord. I ransacked my +memory for it in vain. Then I recalled in a +flash where I had met her before; she was +the girl whom I had passed on the stairs at +Romeo’s on the day when I went to apply +for the situation; the girl whom I had supplanted +in the struggle for existence.</p> + +<p>Her shrinking figure, her whipped air, +made me turn to ask an inevitable question: +“Have you found work yet?”</p> + +<p>“No, none,” she said dejectedly. “How +came you to know I wanted it?”</p> + +<p>I explained where I had seen her, and how +I had heard or guessed her errand. She +seemed unduly grateful. My heart was +touched, for though I doubt not you think +me, on my own evidence, a heartless young +woman, I <span class='it'>have</span> a heart, after all, when +aught occurs to rouse it. I reflected at +once how even my gentle Romeo had said +of this poor child that she was hopelessly +<span class='pageno' title='157' id='Page_157'></span> +incompetent. Still, the incompetent +have mouths to feed, and bodies to clothe, +and possibly, also, souls to save, like the +rest of us. The struggle for life has not +quite choked out my soul (if I have one). +I invited her to my room for a cup of tea, and +an ounce of sympathy. Her gratitude was a +satire on Christian charity in this town of +London. I found she could type fairly well, +though quite unintelligently, like a well-trained +Chinaman; but she had no machine +of her own, and no money to buy one; nor +could she undertake work where dictation +was necessary; though, given a copy, she +could reproduce each word with mechanical +fidelity.</p> + +<p>It flashed across me at once that all day +long I was away at Romeo’s, and did not +need my machine. “Better come here,” I +said, “and use it. I will find you manuscripts +to transcribe; we have plenty of such +work to give away at the office.”</p> + +<p>She fawned on me like a dog accustomed +to ill-treatment, and for once used kindly. +The ravenous way in which she ate bread +and butter would have satisfied even the +Charity Organisation Society as to the +genuineness of her hunger. She was painfully +<span class='pageno' title='158' id='Page_158'></span> +grateful. Her gratitude distressed me. +After that we became fast friends. It is +true, she was terrified at the first smell of +tobac—— But I forget; that delinquency +I have hitherto concealed from you. However, +she used my machine every day, and +I helped her in the evenings. Pale, blue-eyed, +colourless, with thin hair tied up in a +knot the size of a nutmeg, she was built on +the same lines as Michaela (whom I always +remembered), but with this trifling difference—that +Michaela was rich, while my new little +friend had not a cent to bless herself with. +One was bound in Morocco, with gilt edges; +the other, a cheap edition, in paper covers.</p> + +<p>Her name was Elsie, her front name, +that is to say; for she had another, I suppose, +a surname; but I took no heed of it. +Surnames lie on the surface of things, and do +not interest me. They are of this age, utilitarian; +while I, who dwell ever in Once-upon-a-time, +care little save for the persons +and dates of fairyland. We give each other +surnames, indeed, only so long as we are +mutual phantoms; once pierce to the underlying +realities of human life, and we call +one another by pet names, like so many +children.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='159' id='Page_159'></span> +In time Elsie became to me a sort of +adopted daughter. She was older than I to +be sure; but her helplessness and incompetence +inspired in me at last that sense of +motherliness which we women love—does it +not come out in us even toward our dolls in +childhood? Her affection was canine. I +found work for her from a type-writing office +hard by—simple work, selected with a special +eye to her limitations. She toiled at it with +that patience which one observes in the +squirrel who turns the unceasing treadmill of +his cage; for minds of a certain calibre prefer +routine, which would kill a thinking animal, +to any task that calls for the slightest exercise +of intelligence. As long as she was permitted +to go on copying like a machine, Elsie was +perfectly happy: a doubt or a query seemed +(as she said) to comb her brain; she lost +heart before an alternative.</p> + +<p>I spent little time in my room myself, save +for the strict necessaries of sleep and breakfast; +at other times I was driven out of it by +a work of art on the walls—the Portrait of +a Locket. It represented, or rather represents +(for doubtless it still exists), a gold +locket and chain, reposing on an ample +black silk bosom, with a woman’s face and +<span class='pageno' title='160' id='Page_160'></span> +hands in the background. The face and +hands, so far as can be seen, are fat and +placid; the hands crossed; the face featureless. +Flesh-tints and modelling, however, +cast much rude work upon the imagination. +I had not courage enough to suggest the +removal of this gem to my landlady, who +valued it highly as “a real oil-painting”; but +it, and two vases, drove me out, I will not +say to the public-house, but to the public +buildings. I retired at odd moments to my +drawing-room in the National Gallery, or +to the hospitable electric light of the British +Museum. Elsie, on the other hand, was not +repelled by the locket or the lady. I had now +no use for my machine, and she worked on +it constantly. She and the Commissioner +struck up a violent friendship. It did her +good to have some living creature at hand in +the room to whom she could talk in the intervals +of click-clicking. To enlarge her circle +I added in time a starling and a canary, whom +we christened Beef and Mustard. The canary +was Mustard because of his colour, and the +starling Beef because there was so much +more of him.</p> + +<p>One of the points which had barred Elsie’s +way in the matter of obtaining employment, +<span class='pageno' title='161' id='Page_161'></span> +she felt profoundly convinced, was her religious +opinions, which were soundly narrow. +This happily enabled her, like Rothenburg, +to gild her penury with the halo of the +martyr.</p> + +<p>For myself, I suspect that incompetence +had more to do with her failure than religious +prejudice; but that is a private conviction. +She was a Positivist, or a Plymouth Sister, or a +member of some other uncanny small sect; I +will plead guilty to discriminating ill these +minor brands of creed; I am hazy as to the +true distinction between General and Particular +Baptists (though, perhaps, a Particular Baptist +uses soap); and I always mix up Swedenborgians +with Irvingites. It was a surprise +to Elsie to find that her form of faith seemed +to me a question of small import either way. +I hold that most men are human, and, still +more, most women. My tolerance astonished +her. When I suggested that perhaps at that +very minute Swedenborg and Irving, John +Knox and Thomas à Kempis, might perchance +be gazing down upon us with kindly eyes +and an amused smile from some sequestered +garden bench in one of the spacious pleasure-grounds +of the Celestial City, where they +sat in rapt converse with the soul of John +<span class='pageno' title='162' id='Page_162'></span> +Glas, who first prospected her own strictly +provincial path to Paradise, she turned her +face to me with mingled delight and terror. +My view seemed to her sweet but highly +heterodox. She refused to her God a breadth +of sympathy which she instinctively admired +in a fellow-creature.</p> + +<p>One evening I came home and found Elsie +at work on a piece of transcription which was +evidently too deep for her. It was poetry, +she said, in an awed whisper: she had been +given it at the office under a promise of +secrecy. But the arrangement of the long +and short lines of complicated stanzas, which +needed some care in the adjustment of +margins, was evidently beyond her. She +looked tired and worried, and was mildly +tearful. “Besides, dear,” she said, smoothing +my hair, “there are such difficult words +in it—words nobody could spell; not even +you, I believe—such as <span class='it'>myrrh</span> with two <span class='it'>r</span>’s +and an <span class='it'>h</span>. I can’t manage them anyhow.”</p> + +<p>“Dictate to me,” I said; “I can write for +a bit. I’ve not done much to-day, and I’m +hardly the least bit tired.”</p> + +<p>She dictated several strophes. I was not +surprised that she found the words hard. +“Chrysoprase” “mandragora,” “anaglyph,” +<span class='pageno' title='163' id='Page_163'></span> +“Libitina”—these lay some miles outside +poor little Elsie’s vocabulary.</p> + +<p>At first I noticed only the rare richness of +the language, the many-faceted words, set +like jewels so as to show their full beauty; +gradually, as she dictated, I began to be +aware that the verses she read aloud to me +in her infantile sing-song were not merely +rhyme but also poetry. I do not pretend to +the name of critic; but I judged them to be +written with limpid felicity. They had that +artlessness which comes of the apt use of the +perfect word without show of effort. Each +noun and adjective fell so naturally into its +place that one fancied the writer could have +used no other—till one began to reflect that +only studious care results in so absolute a +sense of inevitability. And the poems were +statuesque; they had none of the tropical +exuberance of our time; they were Greek in +their austerity.</p> + +<p>“Who is the author?” I asked, curious to +know the name of the poet with this Ionic +note, new to our English Helicon.</p> + +<p>“They didn’t tell me. They wished me +not to know. He particularly desired that +his verses should be kept secret.”</p> + +<p>She went on dictating in her mechanical +<span class='pageno' title='164' id='Page_164'></span> +way. My hand struck the keys rapidly. At +last she paused, near the close of a curious +variant on the Spenserian stanza. “There’s +a word I can’t make out,” she murmured. +“ ‘True woman has the magic’ <span class='it'>something</span>——”</p> + +<p>I took the manuscript from her hands.</p> + + + <div class='poetry-container' style=''> + <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> +<div class='stanza-outer'> +<p class='line0'>      “True woman has the magic Midas gift;</p> +<p class='line0'>Touched by her hand, dull clay transmutes to molten gold.”</p> +</div> +</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> + +<p>But that was not what made me give a +sudden cry of surprise, and then turn red as +a peony. The verses were written in Romeo’s +hand. And Romeo was their author.</p> + +<p>In a second I was buried in them, like a +bee in a crocus. I felt he was even more to +me than before. I had believed him a publisher; +now I knew him a poet. No Barabbas, +but a Byron.</p> + +<p>How long I lay awake in my garret that +night—thinking of whom but of Romeo!</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='165' id='Page_165'></span>CHAPTER XVI.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>I TRY LITERATURE.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>Next</span> morning at lunch time, as I crossed +Long Acre, I caught a glimpse of Michaela, +in the gondola of London, steering rapidly +northward. A big summer hat, all wild roses +and gossamer, half hid her face, like a wild +rose itself, pink and white and delicate.</p> + +<p>At sight of me she recognised me, and +stopped her hansom short for a second to +grasp my hand. I was pleased at her remembrance. +She had come from Waterloo, she +said, and was hurrying now to catch a train +at Euston. She looked radiantly happy; I +told her so. Her face flushed with pleasure; +she leaned forward and confided to me in a +thrilling whisper that she was to be married +in the autumn to the friend whom she had lost +on the day I first met her. I wished her joy, +and waved my hand. She vanished, smiling, +towards Euston and the Unknown, a phantom +once more among the flickering phantoms.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='166' id='Page_166'></span> +Happy at her happiness, I tripped back to +Romeo’s. She was an airy little thing of +gauze and bergamot, like a breath of fairyland.</p> + +<p>That afternoon Romeo’s talk to me was +more human than usual. It was always plain +that he wanted to talk, but a sense of the +official nature of our relation restrained him +often. To-day he spoke much of woman’s +place in literature. So many women, he said, +wrote of life with a note of personality rare +among men. They put more heart in it. +Even squalor or crime grew less base when +they handled it.</p> + +<p>Half unconsciously to myself, I murmured +under my breath,</p> + + + <div class='poetry-container' style=''> + <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> +<div class='stanza-outer'> +<p class='line0'>      “True woman has the magic Midas gift;</p> +<p class='line0'>Touched by her hand, dull clay transmutes to molten gold.”</p> +</div> +</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> + +<p>I murmured it quite low; but he caught at +the words with a sharp gasp. “Where did +you see that?” he asked quickly.</p> + +<p>I was forced to confess, “The lines occurred +in some verses a little friend of mine—I +told you of her some days since—had for +copy yesterday from a type-writing office.”</p> + +<p>I tried not to let him know more; but, for +a woman, I am a poor dissembler; my colour +or the trembling of my lips betrayed me.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='167' id='Page_167'></span> +“Did you see the manuscript?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“Yes; I helped her to transcribe it.”</p> + +<p>“They promised secrecy!” he cried.</p> + +<p>“And you shall have it,” I answered.</p> + +<p>He paused a moment. “But <span class='it'>you</span> were +the last person I would have wished to see +them,” he went on, his face twitching.</p> + +<p>I knew why. In some of them an allusion, a +description—here, a blue-veined eyelid; there, +a gloss like a swallow’s wing on a woman’s +smooth hair—had seemed to me familiar.</p> + +<p>He paced up and down the tawny carpet +for awhile. Then he broke out once more. +“I have written verse since I was a boy,” he +said. “It has ever been my ambition to be +found worthy of the crown of poet. But if I +printed these lyrics under my own name, what +use? I could but give a handle for Sidney +Trevelyan to ask in the <span class='it'>Saturday Review</span> ‘Is +Barabbas also among the prophets?’ Nobody +will take a publisher’s rhymes seriously. So +I decided to issue mine under an assumed +name, and with another firm, that critics +might at least be rude to them on their merits. +For that purpose I had them type-written—and +not by you. I am sorry you have seen +them.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='168' id='Page_168'></span> +“And I am glad,” I answered. “You may +not care for my opinion; but these verses are +masterpieces of handicraft. You have the rare +gift of reticence. Besides, you understand the +fitness of words; you appreciate their melting +shades of tone; you feel the emotional +atmosphere with which each is girdled.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” he said, checking himself. +“And <span class='it'>you</span> are one of the few whose praise I +value. You speak well of my work for the +qualities I strive to have, not for those I know +I have not.”</p> + +<p>From that day forth he was much more at +home with me. You see, we shared a Secret +in common.</p> + +<p>When his volume came out, several months +later, it made no stir in the world; but it +gained the approbation of five or six out of the +twenty-three men and women in England who +love poetry. It will yet be known, I think; +for though the public often flock together like +sheep after some noisy impostor, true poetry +is always forced upon them from above by +the chosen few who can discover and impose +it. The few are frequently obscure, and bear +no hall-mark; but they know one another by +the two gifts which make a critic—insight +and foresight.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='169' id='Page_169'></span> +My knowledge of this book drew me nearer +to Romeo. Having once accepted the fact +that I knew of his work, he consulted me time +and again as to type and paper—sometimes +also as to the choice of an epithet or a point +of cadence, when two equally-balanced alternatives +divided his preference. Should it be +<span class='it'>lurid</span> or <span class='it'>livid</span>? was <span class='it'>ruddy</span> or <span class='it'>russet</span> the better? +This led us into talks not altogether official. +Though always reticent, he began to treat me +less as a type-writer and more as a woman.</p> + +<p>This quality of reticence, which I observed +in Romeo’s self no less than in his work, +impressed me profoundly. I admired his +quiet strength, his calm, his urbanity. I am +not urbane myself, and I fear I must grant +that I am rather vehement than strong; therefore +I respected all the more these traits in +Romeo. One honours one’s complement +above one’s counterpart. He never spoke +strongly; he reserved strength for action. A +week or two after Sidney Trevelyan’s visit I +asked him one day whether the cheap edition +of “Mahatmas” was going forward. He smiled +his restrained smile, and answered, “No, +certainly not; I never intended it.”</p> + +<p>“But Mr. Trevelyan was so urgent, so +instant; he had quite made up his mind.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='170' id='Page_170'></span> +“Yes; that is unimportant. The moment +had not arrived, and I told him so, calmly. +He is a rock when opposed; but calmness, +like faith, can move mountains. I did not +oppose him at the time; opposition just then +could only have irritated him. I saw the +state of his soul; he came to me, seething +internally with suppressed wrath at the +critics. I let him blow off steam; in such +circumstances I judge it unwise to sit upon +the safety-valve. He opened his heart and +had it out, flinging many hard jibes at me +and at the public. That relieved the tension. +I let three days pass; then I wrote an ultimatum, +stating quietly what I thought. He +gave in at once. The cheap edition shall not +appear till the autumn.”</p> + +<p>Such masculine absence of fussiness pleased +me.</p> + +<p>Once or twice when I discussed with him +he asked me seriously why I had never +written. I laughed off his assault. He returned +to the charge; so much racy material +going to waste in my own adventures. I +told him of my work among the East-End +slop-makers! “Ready-made stories,” was his +verdict. I doubted my own faculty. He was +sure I possessed it.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='171' id='Page_171'></span> +This encouraged me to narrate my experience +at Pinfold. “Anarchists!—and +they blamed me because I could not fall in +love to order!”</p> + +<p>“You are an intrepid young lady,” Romeo +said. “Do you know, I doubt if you quite +realise always in what galleys you have +embarked.”</p> + +<p>“I think I do,” I answered: “but I have +confidence in myself and my guardian angel.”</p> + +<p>He urged me to try my hand at a short +story of the modern girl who earns her own +living in London—“for example, this little +friend who uses your type-writer,” he added +with a clever side-thrust; I was grateful to +him for thus diverting the theme from my +own personality: “there is no more pathetic +figure in our world to-day than the common +figure of the poor young lady, crushed between +classes above and below, and left with +scarce a chance of earning her bread with +decency.”</p> + +<p>“I fear,” I said, “I have no knack of +pathos; even at difficult turns I am apt to +see rather the humorous than the tragic side +of things.”</p> + +<p>“So I note. But why not try; your own +late adventures, for instance?”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='172' id='Page_172'></span> +I felt that that romance had not yet +reached its <span class='it'>dénoûment</span>; but I refrained from +telling him so. I promised to make an +attempt, however, with one of my earlier +East-End reminiscences, or else with a little +vignette of the infant anarchists, unsullied +by soap, pulling Commissioner Lin’s tail, +while their sisters turned the House that +Jack built into Czech and Yiddish.</p> + +<p>For a week or two I worked hard in my +stray moments at this my poor little literary +first-born. I put its phrases in curl-papers +till I was sick of twisting them. When it +was ripe for the birth, I confess I thought +meanly of it. Mine own, but a poor thing, to +reverse Touchstone’s saying: I brought it +to Romeo, trembling. He read it and was +enthusiastic. For the first time now I felt +sure he really cared for me; what else could +so have blinded his critical faculty? For he +was a judicious reader.</p> + +<p>He praised it as if it were the work of +a consummate artist. His encouragement was +unstinted. I will not repeat what he said as +to my style; you, who are reading my second +effort in that line, would be painfully aware +how much personal partiality must have +warped his judgment.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='173' id='Page_173'></span> +“It is so breezy,” he said. “You write +open-air English.”</p> + +<p>“I learnt it on the moors, among the +whins,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“This eclogue must go into the magazine!” +he cried; for, like most other great houses, +the firm published one of its own.</p> + +<p>I drew a line at that. “Oh, no,” I cried, +flushing. “You are too kind, too generous. +I will not allow it to be printed where—where +personal acquaintance and your recommendation +may disturb the editor’s calmer +opinion. I must send it to someone else. +Then it will be weighed for what it is worth, +and if it is accepted, I shall know on what +grounds.”</p> + +<p>“But I shall be sorry to lose it,” he exclaimed; +“for the magazine’s own sake. +When one discovers a new writer, one +wishes to keep the full credit of the discovery.”</p> + +<p>I looked down to hide my burning cheeks. +“No, no,” I said firmly. “You are too +flattering—too good. Your”——I paused to +think how I could best word it; “your +knowledge of me predisposes you too much +in my favour.”</p> + +<p>He looked at me and hesitated. “Not my +<span class='pageno' title='174' id='Page_174'></span> +knowledge alone,” he corrected; “my . . . +friendship, my——”</p> + +<p>He did not say “affection”; but we raised +our eyes in unison; and in a flash of those +eyes each knew that he meant it.</p> + +<p>There was a long pause. I was aware of +my heart, which called attention to its existence +by a violent throbbing. I went back +to my machine and began typing mechanically. +Then he added all at once, “But quite +apart from that, I <span class='it'>want</span> this story; I want +the honour of publishing it, because I see it +is a good one.”</p> + +<p>I went on clicking. “You cannot separate +these things,” I said, without looking +up. “A person is a totality. We +do not know, ourselves, how much of any +feeling is due to this cause, and how much to +that. Nothing ever goes wholly free from +either fear or favour. But I have made up +my mind. I shall send it to <span class='it'>The Pimlico</span>.”</p> + +<p>I sent it in the end; and, to my great joy, +not unmixed with surprise, the editor accepted +it, in a chastening letter. He did not +say, like Romeo, “a gem of English”; he +called it on the contrary, “high-spirited if +flippant”; but he printed it none the less, and +forwarded me a cheque for twelve guineas.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='175' id='Page_175'></span> +Twelve guineas! Such wealth seemed to +me almost incredible. I felt like an Argonaut.</p> + +<p>Still, Romeo was vexed. “We ought to +have had it,” he said; “for, after all, you +were <span class='it'>my</span> discovery.”</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='176' id='Page_176'></span>CHAPTER XVII.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>A DRAWN BATTLE.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>It</span> was about this time, if I recollect aright +(for <span class='it'>I</span> am the girl who does not keep a diary), +that Romeo invited me to dinner.</p> + +<p>I have two reasons for my avoidance of the +besetting sin of diary-writing. The first is +that I am usually dog-tired with work when +evening comes, so that to ask me to fill in a +journal with the day’s events is like asking a +galley-slave to take a scull in a pleasure-boat +after his toil is over. The second is that +if you keep no diary it cannot be used in +evidence against you. As yet, ’tis true, by +rigid self-examination, I have steered clear +of capital crimes; but I remember always +Ophelia’s wise saw, “We know what we +are; we know not what we may be.”</p> + +<p>Romeo invited me with caution, and tentatively. +He began by remarking, as if for no +special reason, that he was giving a dinner +next week at the Savoy—a dinner devised for +<span class='pageno' title='177' id='Page_177'></span> +a particular purpose. Then he added after a +while that his mother would be there. This to +inspire confidence, dear fellow! as though I +ever doubted him. Next he inquired in a rather +timid voice whether, if his mother picked me +up by the way in her brougham, I would mind +joining the party. “My mother has not called +upon you yet,” he murmured in an apologetic +parenthesis, looking up at me askance from +under his ridged eyebrows with an interrogative +lid; “but—perhaps you would waive +that.” From the way he said it I could read +much. I felt instinctively she was a black-satin +old lady of the straightest sect; Romeo had +implored her to call; she had refused point-blank +to go and see a type-writer girl who +lived in one room in an impossible street in +Soho. Romeo had begged and prayed; the +mother had presented the true stiff neck of the +black-satin order. Then Romeo had planned +this dinner as a means of introducing me, confident +(dear boy) that if once we were brought +together, his mother—well, would think as +much of me as he did. Poor purblind +Romeo! I pitied him for that. How little +had he fathomed black-satin psychology!</p> + +<p>I hesitated a moment. Not on Romeo’s +account, nor even on the mother’s—I do not +<span class='pageno' title='178' id='Page_178'></span> +fear the smoothest black satin; but because of +the mere material difficulty of a gown, which +just at first rose insuperable. Otherwise I +thought so much of Romeo now—he had +begun to play so large a part in the unwritten +dramas of my future with which I lulled myself +to sleep—that I felt at all costs I must be +present at this dinner and face the mother. +A mother is almost inevitable; the sooner one +gets over her, like measles, the better.</p> + +<p>I had one evening dress, or the ghost of +one, which had descended to me from the +days when I was a lady. Its sleeves carried +date; but the bodice and skirt were of that +fanciful kind which is above the fashion, and +therefore never either in it or out of it. The +colour was sweet—white, shot with faint +streaks of the daintiest pink, like the first +downy stage of budding willow catkins. On +the other hand, I was still in mourning for +my dear father. Had I loved him less I +should have shrunk from wearing that gown; +but my sorrow was not of the sort that +measures itself by yards of crape, which is +why I have troubled you with it so little in +this narrative. I reflected a moment; then I +answered, “Yes; it will give me great pleasure.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='179' id='Page_179'></span> +That it gave Romeo great pleasure was +visibly written on his face. He had expected +a <span class='it'>no</span>, and was delighted at my acceptance. I +knew by his eyes he had anticipated and even +exaggerated the dress difficulty. I did not +misinterpret his pleased look, however. I +never thought Romeo was in love with me; I +knew he was interested in me, both personally +and as a possible authoress; and I +saw he wished much to bring me officially +into his mother’s circle. More than that, I +did not believe, or rather, if I am to tell you +the precise truth, I thought Romeo was falling +in love with me by slow steps, but mistaking +his love for mere interest and friendliness.</p> + +<p>For a week I was a woman, not merely a +type-writer. I worked hard at that gown, +first planning, then executing my alterations. +Dear little Elsie helped me with it like a +Trojan. Nay, in cutting out and fitting she +displayed or developed unexpected talent. +When dress was in question she was no +longer stupid; the woman in her grew; she +showed taste and skill; indeed, I have noted +in life, throughout, that taste has no necessary +connection, direct or inverse, with intelligence +or stupidity; it is a native endowment which +<span class='pageno' title='180' id='Page_180'></span> +may break out anywhere. She was glad it was +a dinner, not a dance; her religious opinions +would not have sanctioned her assisting me +with a ball-dress. But all sects alike approve +the habit of feeding. I must admit that +when it came to the details of my gown she +showed herself at once most frankly worldly. +Elsie had little chance of making dresses for +herself, poor child; but she aided me with her +needle and her advice till I was truly grateful. +The way she reorganised the sleeves to a +Parisian model made one believe in alchemy. +We spent a few shillings on new tulle and +lining. Every evening we had an orgy of +dressmaking: whole packets of pins, snippets +of silk on the floor. Before the end of the +week we had transformed that old gown of +mine into a joy for ever. It was better than +new; as it fell in soft folds the blush showed +on the ridge and cream-white in the hollows. +When I tried it on, Elsie bent over me enraptured. +“You dear thing!” she cried, hugging +me (to the danger of the tulle), “I always +knew you were pretty, but I never knew till +now you were splendidly beautiful.”</p> + +<p>And I will honestly admit that the frock +became me.</p> + +<p>The day arrived at last. Elsie came round +<span class='pageno' title='181' id='Page_181'></span> +to help me dress my hair. We made more of +this dinner than I should have made of being +presented in the days of my grandeur—such +as it was. Dear little Elsie had brought me +some flowers from a friend’s garden at Ealing, +choice sweet-scented flowers, with a background +of maidenhair. If I had believed her, +I would have thought no fairy princess ever +looked more radiant than I looked that evening; +and, indeed, our joint efforts on the gown +repaid us with interest. When the last touch +had been given Elsie kissed me on both +cheeks. “He will propose to-night,” she +whispered. “I know he will: he can’t help +himself, dear. You <span class='it'>are</span> so captivating!” I +blushed, for I had never mentioned his name +to Elsie; but then, I forgot that Elsie too was +a woman.</p> + +<p>At ten minutes to eight the brougham +arrived at the door. Never before had our +street beheld so distinguished an equipage. +This was unfortunate, for the children next +door came to gaze at me with dirty faces and +unaffected interest, exclaiming, “Oh, my, don’t +she look a reel lidy?” as I made a rush for the +carriage.</p> + +<p>Romeo’s mother was precisely what I +had painted her—a Lady Montague of the +<span class='pageno' title='182' id='Page_182'></span> +severest, with coffee-coloured point-lace, a +Cornelia one shade too stout for the mother +of the Gracchi. Her smooth white hair +looked not gentle, but forbidding; she listened +to what I said with well-bred reserve: too stiff +to acquiesce, too polite to contradict, too stony +to show interest.</p> + +<p>At the hotel, we were ushered into a handsome +private room, most gracefully decorated +with crimson arabesques on white panelling. +The party consisted of Romeo and his mother +with some six or eight more (including a prebendary), +among whom the chief guests +seemed to be a certain amiable-faced Lady +Donisthorpe and her husband, Sir Everard. +I name them in this order, for though the +husband was a man of some force and character—early +English, comfortable—Lady Donisthorpe, +like Paul, was the chief speaker. She +seemed what is called “a womanly woman”—one +of those tranquil women with soft, +rounded outlines, who look like wax, but +within are flint. She reminded me most of +all of a pouter pigeon.</p> + +<p>She apologised much because dear Meta +could not come. It was <span class='it'>such</span> a disappointment. +The poor child had been taken ill—nothing +serious she was glad to say—but impossible +<span class='pageno' title='183' id='Page_183'></span> +to go out. She hoped Romeo would +excuse her. Romeo expressed most courteous +regret at dear Meta’s enforced absence; though +I, who knew him now so well, and was used +at the office to note the varying degrees of +cordiality or boredom in his reception of +authors, inferred at once from his eyes that +he was somewhat relieved at heart by dear +Meta’s non-appearance. It was clear to me, +too, that Lady Donisthorpe flung Meta inartistically +at his head; twenty times during +the evening she referred with a rigid smile +and a puff of the pouter bust to one of dear +Meta’s sweet ways or to something delightful +that dear Meta had said or done for somebody. +The impression she left upon me was +that Meta must be an insipid paragon, with +all the virtues and their concomitant insupportability. +Romeo’s absent smile at each +such advertisement of Meta’s charming qualities—“so +gentle,” “so unaffected”—made +me feel convinced that he was of the same +opinion.</p> + +<p>To put it plainly, Lady Donisthorpe showed +want of tact in her crude mode of placarding +Meta.</p> + +<p>She had another trick of manner which +disturbed my peace of mind; like most of the +<span class='pageno' title='184' id='Page_184'></span> +newly-enriched, she attached an excessive +importance to the after all somewhat negative +quality of ladylikeness. The highest praise +she could accord to each achromatically +charming girl of her acquaintance was that +of being “a perfect lady.” She flung the +phrase in my teeth. Apart from the fact that +it seems to imply a somewhat narrow standard, +I always suspect women who insist upon +this point of being themselves cotton-backed +ladies.</p> + +<p>I knew her type: she belonged to an +aristocracy recruited by the names of all the +best-known brands of beer, soap, and whiskey.</p> + +<p>I protest, however, that just at first I began +by treating Romeo’s mother and Lady Donisthorpe +with the utmost cordiality. For had I +not good reasons for desiring to conciliate +them? But their treatment chilled me. I +could see they had come prepared to dislike +me for a conceited upstart. In return, I soon +found I disliked their texture. Cornelia was +cold; I felt she regarded my humour as ill-timed. +Lady Donisthorpe had the vulgar +fear of vulgarity. I do not share it; nature +is vulgar enough; we can only be “perfect +ladies” on the Donisthorpe pattern by shutting +<span class='pageno' title='185' id='Page_185'></span> +our eyes, shutting our ears, and shutting +our noses to most things around us. Now, I +will not shut my eyes nor my mouth either. +If facts obtrude themselves, I recognise them. +I fear Lady Donisthorpe thought it painfully +unladylike of me to have lived in the East-End, +and positively rude to tell stories of +slop-makers. She raised her tortoise-shell +glasses at the very word as a mute protest.</p> + +<p>In fine, both were conscious of a social +barrier. So was I—with a difference. Lady +Donisthorpe moved in what calls itself “good +society,” but <span class='it'>genteel</span> would have been scarce +too hard a word to describe her.</p> + +<p>Romeo’s mother swept in to dinner on Sir +Everard’s arm, a three-decker under full sail. +Romeo offered me his; I gathered it was +because Meta had not arrived as expected. +Always handsome, he looked handsomer in +evening dress. A waxy white flower lay on +each plate: Romeo pinned mine on my bodice. +Lady Donisthorpe’s placid eyes did not let +the action pass unnoticed.</p> + +<p>The dinner—by which you shall understand +the food—was the best I ever tasted. The +champagne, in the judgment of one who is no +judge, was a thought too dry, but delicious. +The <span class='it'>mousse de jambon</span> was an epicure’s dream. +<span class='pageno' title='186' id='Page_186'></span> +I really enjoyed myself. Besides, I was +conscious that Romeo liked my dress and felt +some mild surprise to see how well I looked +in it. He had hitherto known me in my black +office gown alone. I forgot my poverty and +was once more a lady.</p> + +<p>It suits me better. I blossom under it. I +did not even object to Sir Everard for being a +millionaire; it was hardly his fault; millionaires, +after all, are an outcome of the age: +one can but regret that they absorb its income. +Lady Donisthorpe’s talk reeked of wealth till +I felt it would be delightful to get home at +night and see something cheap again. My +seat was between Romeo and a clever young +man, with keen eyes and <span class='it'>pince-nez</span>, a rising +physiologist. It relieved me to learn he was +not an electrical engineer; all the young men +I used to meet in my præ-type-writing days +had been given over to riotous electrical +engineering. My neighbour’s hobby was a +cheerful one—the identity of genius and madness. +He took <span class='it'>Paradise Lost</span> and the Vatican +frescoes for premonitory symptoms of acute +mania; he held the steam-engine to be a by-product +of the insane temperament. Yet he +urged his thesis so well that, on his own +showing, I foresaw he must be qualifying +<span class='pageno' title='187' id='Page_187'></span> +for residence in an asylum. When I told him +so, he cavilled at my graceful compliment. +To escape his retort, I turned to the other +side and joined talk with Romeo and the prebendary. +I do not know what a prebendary +does; his functions are more mysterious than +even the archidiaconal; but I have said I +love mystery; and I found the prebendary a +capital talker.</p> + +<p>Romeo was charming, as always—more +charming to me that night, I fancied, than +ever. Perhaps it was because he had never +seen me dressed like a human being before; +but also, I think, he was conscious of his +mother’s keen eyes and Lady Donisthorpe’s +steely glance; smiling ever her set smile, she +felt Meta’s chances were slipping from her +visibly. She was an ox-eyed Hera, a little +run to seed, and now almost cow-faced, but +cat-like in her watchfulness. To counteract +the chilling effect of the two mothers—one a +feather-bed, the other a poker—and to put +me at my ease, Romeo behaved with the +sweetest courtesy. He talked to me; he +drew me out; if I ever can be brilliant (which +’tis not for me to judge) I was brilliant that +evening. I flashed to my own surprise; +Romeo’s admiration, and the two elder +<span class='pageno' title='188' id='Page_188'></span> +women’s scarcely concealed hostility, put me +on my mettle.</p> + +<p>I was not angry with his mother; it was +comprehensible, of course; mothers are made +like that. We erect each other into a class, +and judge accordingly. Could any woman +with an aquiline nose, and white hair neatly +dressed by an immaculate maid, sit by unperturbed +while her only son paid open court to +a type-writer girl? I suppose I should have +felt as she did, had I been put in her place. +Being put in my own, I naturally did my best +to let myself be seen to the greatest advantage.</p> + +<p>So did Romeo. Having brought me there, +he was determined I should be treated with +proper respect. He insisted on talking to +me; Lady Donisthorpe’s cat-like graciousness, +Cornelia’s Roman austerity, only increased +his anxiety to do me honour. The more his +mother froze, the more Lady Donisthorpe, +smiling her mechanical smile, and gently +crushing, raised her tortoise-shell eye-glasses +to decide whether I was human, the more did +Romeo draw me out, and the more did I +scintillate, till at last all the table was talking +to me or listening to me. I laughed and +raised laughter; I sparkled and parried. +<span class='pageno' title='189' id='Page_189'></span> +When Lady Donisthorpe interposed sweetly, +“And so you type-write at the office! How +fatiguing it must be!” on purpose to disconcert +me, I had my repartee ready: “At least +it preserves me from being a perfect lady.” +I could see Romeo was pleased. I was a +social success. I had justified his temerity.</p> + +<p>In the midst of our fencing, of a sudden, +Cornelia drew out a gold pencil, wrote something +on a card, and handed it across to him. +Romeo glanced at it and crumpled it up; I +could guess by his face her note had not +pleased him. “As you will,” he answered +across the table; then he turned to me once +more. “That was delicious,” he said; “and +what did you reply to him?”</p> + +<p>I went on with my story. Still, I could +gather that he was annoyed; not only annoyed, +indeed, but perplexed and troubled. Dinner +solemnised, we withdrew to the comfortable +divans of the balcony for Turkish coffee. All +the party crowded round me, save the two +mammas; they did not sit apart, but, joining +our group, they preserved an austere moral +aloofness. The rest, however, redeemed their +abstention. Even Sir Everard was untrue to +poor Meta’s chances. I was flushed by this +time, and the men’s eyes told me I was looking +<span class='pageno' title='190' id='Page_190'></span> +my prettiest. The two other girls of the +party chimed in and encouraged me. So did +the prebendary; I talked easily and brightly. +Sir Everard laughed again and again at my +sallies. He was a portly old gentleman with +a massive white waistcoat, very like a toad as +he leaned back on the ottoman. His voice, +too, was a purr; he was a toad, not a natterjack.</p> + +<p>But Romeo had stolen away to give some +mysterious orders. I felt rather than saw +that something had gone wrong somewhere +with the machinery.</p> + +<p>We were to adjourn to a theatre. We +drove round in state. Our stalls were near +the centre; Lady Donisthorpe in claret-coloured +velvet looked truly imposing. In +one of the interludes I looked round at the +pit. Directly behind me, in the front row, +sat a foxey-headed man staring open-eyed +towards me. It was the Grand Vizier, accompanied +by a lady (no doubt “with brains”) +and concealing but imperfectly the fact that +he had been dining.</p> + +<p>For a moment—a rare moment—I felt +really disconcerted. Under any other circumstances +it would only have amused me had +the Vizier leaned forward and shouted, “Good +<span class='pageno' title='191' id='Page_191'></span> +evening, miss,” in his own dialect. But to-night, +with the eyes of those two mothers +fixed stonily on my face, I confess I trembled +lest he should rise in his seat, wave one hairy +hand, and call out loudly across the intervening +rows, “Allow me to introduce my fee-on-say +to you, Miss Appleton!” I looked +away hastily, not before he had caught my +eye. I expected to see his goggle eyes fall +out and drop upon the floor: he was so +evidently surprised at my transfigured appearance. +The last time he had parted from me +it was beneath the golden symbol of St. +Nicholas at the shop in the Strand; to light +upon me there that night, dressed like a lady, +surrounded by a little court, made much of by +the men, and flushed from the Savoy, might +naturally astonish him.</p> + +<p>However, he behaved with better taste +than I could have anticipated. He nudged +his companion, and whispered in her ear, +but kept his face averted. He was puzzled, +I felt sure; still he had sense enough to know +that this greeting would be ill-timed, and +good feeling enough to prevent him from +forcing himself upon my notice.</p> + +<p>When the play was over Romeo led me to +the door. I was still hot and uncertain. So +<span class='pageno' title='192' id='Page_192'></span> +far as he was concerned this evening was for +me a great triumph; every man and woman +there, save only the two mothers, had paid +me much attention, and, I will even venture +to add, admired me. I had looked and talked +my best, and I was satisfied with my performance. +But the two elder women hung +like black clouds lowering in the rear; I +could feel them disapproving of me with +various degrees of rancour. One feared for +her son, the other for her daughter.</p> + +<p>Very natural, I knew; but so too was my +own attitude. No woman is born to be merely +a type-writer.</p> + +<p>At the door Romeo led me by myself into +a well-appointed brougham. Then I knew +what had happened. Cornelia had written +across to him that she declined to take me +back in her carriage to Soho; and Romeo, to +save me the knowledge of that slight, had +slipped away at the hotel, and ordered another +carriage to await me at the theatre. He held +my hand in his own for a brief space after he +put me into it.</p> + +<p>“It was so good of you to come,” he said. +“I have so much enjoyed this talk with you.”</p> + +<p>But the two mothers hardly gave me the +tips of their fingers, and bowed distantly +<span class='pageno' title='193' id='Page_193'></span> +as I drove away alone, with chilly politeness.</p> + +<p>When I got back to my room my feelings +were mixed. The jealous Gods thus alloy +our triumphs. Romeo had seen me at last as +I really was. But I had innocently disturbed +the peace of two families.</p> + +<p>I did what every other woman would have +done in my place—sat down to a good cry +and thought about Romeo.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='194' id='Page_194'></span>CHAPTER XVIII.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>AN AUTUMN HOLIDAY.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>I have</span> large estates in Hertfordshire and the +adjoining counties, free of land tax. Some +noble marquis, I am assured, lays claim to +the bare loam, the ploughed fields, the +turnips; but who counts mere mud? The +rest is mine, to do as I will with. He may +keep his rents: ’tis for me to enjoy the green +lawns, the huge buttressed beech-trees, the +broad circles of shade where drowsy sheep +lie huddled: I own the stripling streams that +break against sharp stones in the sloping +stickles, or expand on the shallows between +into placid pools, skimmed over by water-beetles +who dart and dance nimbly in interlacing +whirligigs. The sky overhead is +mine, mine the road under foot; the scent +of rain-wetted earth; the broken song of the +thrushes, the startled scream of the jay as he +bursts through the rustling oak-leaves, the +long sweep of the swift launching himself on +<span class='pageno' title='195' id='Page_195'></span> +the air from the battlements of the church-tower. +All these I own, by virtue of my +freehold in the saddle of my bicycle.</p> + +<p>Such a Sabine farm costs nought to +manage; it gives pure delight without counter-poise +of trouble. I visited mine often, both +on summer evenings and on Saturday afternoons +or Sundays. Early in my time at +Romeo’s a whimsical fancy seized me (being +ever irresponsible) to spend my Sabbath +mornings in such churches within easy reach +of London as were dedicated to my chosen +ally, St. Nicholas. I ran them down with +care in an Anglican Directory. If the day +were doubtful, I strayed no farther afield +than to St. Nicholas Cole Abbey, in the +City, where in a dark bay of the aisle I +prayed the prayer now nearest to my heart, +which I leave you to guess. Often as my +patron had failed me at a pinch, still oftener +had he proved kind; I was prepared to give +him one more chance of distinguishing himself. +But if the day promised to be fair, +I got under weigh betimes, and was spinning +down the roads that lead northward out +of town while the smocked milkman still +stood balanced by frothing pails in the +meadows. London lay, a vast blur, behind +<span class='pageno' title='196' id='Page_196'></span> +me. Cows on the common chewed the cud +of penury. Their eye was pensive. Commissioner +Lin showed a nasty Jack-in-office +disposition to disturb them. He was called +to heel with difficulty. Then I would seek +some country church, with low tower and +wooden lych-gate, where St. Nicholas still +bore sway, spite of iconoclast or Puritan, +to pour out my heart’s wish to I know not +what Power that compels the universe.</p> + +<p>It was my wont to lean the bicycle meanwhile +against the churchyard yew or some +convenient tombstone, leaving the Commissioner +in charge. He was well fitted for +the task by his unregenerate monopolist views +on private property, backed up by a fine row +of persuasive white arguments.</p> + +<p>These weekly trips made me careless of +holiday. I waited to take my summer outing +till it should suit Romeo’s convenience. I +was so much his personal secretary that +I must delay my vacation till he could take +his; and it had long been arranged that he +should put it off till late September—his +partner having desired to go away in August.</p> + +<p>Romeo never alluded again to that evening +at the Savoy; but I knew it had brought him +nought but disappointment. He had desired +<span class='pageno' title='197' id='Page_197'></span> +to include me within his mother’s sphere, and +Cornelia, gathering up her Roman robe, had +declined. Yet from that time he was more +deferential and more courteous, if possible, +than even his wont.</p> + +<p>It was decided that his holiday should +begin on the fifteenth of September. As the +time drew near, Romeo grew visibly distressed +and depressed. The spring failed in his +step. I fancied he was suffering some internal +conflict. His manner was distraught; +he sat at times as if he hardly heard what +was passing. It was plain to see he was +struggling within himself; irreconcilable +feelings drew him alternately in opposite +directions.</p> + +<p>On the fourteenth he came down to the +office as usual, but sat gloomy and moody. +He did not tell us whither he was bound: +nay, more, he gave orders that no letters +should follow him. He made some mystery +of his destination. At three o’clock he +went home, bidding me good-bye with more +reserve than was his wont. He kept his +glance averted. I could see he was fighting +hard to avoid breaking down. This holiday +must mean much to him. He could not look +me in the face to bid me good-bye. The +<span class='pageno' title='198' id='Page_198'></span> +tremor of his eyelids was as of one who holds +back tears with difficulty. I wished him +a pleasant trip. He answered a hurried +“Thank you,” and rushed out to his carriage.</p> + +<p>If I had known where he was going I +think I should have followed him.</p> + +<p>As the thought passed through my mind, +Puck came in for some money out of hand. +It was my duty to keep the petty cash for +Romeo’s personal office expenditure. “I +want nine shillings, miss,” the boy said; +“Baedeker’s ‘North Italy’ and Hare’s +‘Venice.’ ”</p> + +<p>My heart gave a quick bound. I had surprised +his objective. I am an erratic creature. +In one second my mind was made up. I +should follow him.</p> + +<p>I had still the twelve guineas I had received +for my story. Thank heaven, I am +improvident. The <span class='it'>bourgeois</span> vice of thrift is +one from which my family has never suffered: +the Puritan blood in our veins must have +been too generously diluted. Besides, have +I not learned from more modern political +economy that saving is the source of all the +evils of capitalism?—and do I not give thanks +daily that I show not the faintest tendency to +develop in that direction? I have made up +<span class='pageno' title='199' id='Page_199'></span> +my mind never to be a capitalist; and, up to +date, I see every chance of my keeping my +resolution. So I decided to spend my twelve +guineas like a man, to please myself, leaving +Providence or St. Nicholas to make good the +deficiency. This is called faith, and is a cardinal +virtue.</p> + +<p>I gave Romeo two clear days’ start, lest I +should travel along with him and seem to be +dogging him; then I set out alone on my +way to Venice.</p> + +<p>I am nothing, if not frank. Therefore I do +not seek to deny the truth that I went to +Italy on purpose to follow Romeo.</p> + +<p>“Unwomanly!” you say. What a false +convention!</p> + +<p>Yes, I am always frank; I think the day +has almost come for frankness. Men novelists +have depicted us as men wish us to be; we +have meekly and obediently accepted their +portrait: to some extent, even, we have +striven, against the grain, to model ourselves +upon it. A man’s ideal is the girl that +shrinks; the sweetly unconscious girl, who +scarce knows she loves, till his strong arm +glides round her, and he clasps her to his +heart: then, with a sudden awakening, she +awakens to the truth, and knows she has +<span class='pageno' title='200' id='Page_200'></span> +loved him long, loved him from the beginning. +That, I say, is a man’s woman. Her purity, +her maidenly modesty, are quite unapproachable +by concrete feminine humanity. She is +too delicate in mind ever to dream that she +can love spontaneously, of her own mere +motion. She loiters in the shade; she waits +to be wooed; she is coy, undecided, shrinking, +timid.</p> + +<p>There was a time, I suppose, when such +women were common. I do not know—for +have I not Shakespeare to the contrary? +But the type was once true, I dare say, +and widely distributed. Still, has not time +altered it? In the world in which we live +men are no longer ardent. We scarce affect +to conceal the fact that they grow shy of +marriage. As a necessary consequence, +women have changed too; the woman of this +age often knows she loves, knows it poignantly, +breathlessly, and must use those +weapons which the world allows her if she +would gain the affection of the man who has +taken her maiden fancy. She cannot by open +means pursue him, I admit; but she has recourse +to the immemorial feminine devices of +ruse and stratagem.</p> + +<p>I have Shakespeare on my side, I say, +<span class='pageno' title='201' id='Page_201'></span> +because I remember Rosalind. A man drew +her; yet I see in her pure woman. She +loves; she knows she loves; she longs +frankly for her lover. And that is the way +with women as I have found them.</p> + +<p>Why did I follow Romeo? Why did +Rosalind fly to the forest of Arden? Only +once—scarcely once—had Romeo seen me +as I was: that evening of the dinner. At the +office, what was I but the type-writer girl? +If I could meet him in Italy, he would know +me as myself; we could talk more freely; he +might pluck up heart of grace to break the +ice, and tell me he loved me.</p> + +<p>For I knew he was fond of me. I could +not now doubt it. When he talked to me, it +was with those unmistakable sidelong glances +which a woman’s heart can interpret. Often +he broke off suddenly. But his mother was +against me; his mother wished him to marry +Lady Donisthorpe’s dear Meta. In London, +I knew, I had little chance to prevail over +that perfect lady. But in Venice—ah, what +miracles may not happen in Venice!</p> + +<p>Mirage of the lagoons, you show men +everything!</p> + +<p>I had not set foot in the enchanted city +since my father took me when I was a girl of +<span class='pageno' title='202' id='Page_202'></span> +sixteen; but I remembered it well; I knew +every refluent ditch of it. I could have found +my way, on foot, through little aimless lanes +that wander in and out, from the Piazza to +the Ghetto.</p> + +<p>If Romeo met me there by accident—if we +loitered together among those churches and +galleries—if I told him of my saints, if I +pointed him out my best-beloved pictures, +surely the struggle within him would be +settled in my favour. He would prefer my +wayward Gypsy-American fantasy to dear +Meta’s insipid graces of the perfect lady. He +would know which he preferred, in spite +of his mother and Lady Donisthorpe’s crude +advertisements.</p> + +<p>My one regret was, that I could not take +Mr. Commissioner and Elsie with me.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='203' id='Page_203'></span>CHAPTER XIX.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>“O, ROMEO, ROMEO!”</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>When Linnæus</span> first saw gorse in blossom +he fell on his knees and thanked God. Our +modern Pharisees, who say grace before +meat, never, I fancy, say grace before Venice.</p> + +<p>And yet there is only one Venice.</p> + +<p>From the moment you arrive in the dusk +at the station, and stroll down slippery steps +to your gondola, to glide with stealthy movement +along the lesser canals, under mysterious +bridges where mysterious bystanders lean +over to watch you, unknown forms that creep +from dark doors in unknown streets—do you +not thank God, like Linnæus, that he has +brought you to Venice? And does not this +feeling of gratitude and wonder for that living +romance deepen on you each day that you +remain? Do you not long to float for ever +down those noiseless ways, to gaze up for +ever at those water-stained palaces, to dream +for all time among those innocent-faced St. +<span class='pageno' title='204' id='Page_204'></span> +Ursulas? Mint, anise, and cumin, indeed, +when God has given us Venice! The +country or the south! I pine in London.</p> + +<p>I had loitered on my way out, breaking my +nights at Lucerne and Milan, that Romeo +might have time to reach his journey’s end +with certainty before my arrival. And on my +first morning of freedom by the motionless +lagoons, I set out early to renew my acquaintance +with Venice.</p> + +<p>I did not know where Romeo was stopping; +nor did I seek to find out. I left everything +to St. Nicholas. If chance should throw me +in my Romeo’s way, well and good; if chance +chose to be unkind, better so than that I +should track him. Besides, in Venice, you +cannot long fail to meet whoever else is there. +All the world gravitates towards the centre +of the Piazza. Sooner or later, you must +needs cross the path of everyone in the +city.</p> + +<p>I set out from my hotel on foot; I love +footing it in Venice; I love the intricate +tangle of narrow paved alleys, overhung by +stone sills and rusty iron balconies, by which +the walker threads his way through the mazes +of the city. Millionaires in gondolas never +know it. You must ramble to see Venice. +<span class='pageno' title='205' id='Page_205'></span> +Past little dim shops where red water-melons, +sliced open, and strings of yellow carrots +adorn the slabs; past odours of salt fish and +rank whiffs of garlic; past cavernous recesses +where, from murky Tintoretto-like gloom, the +light of a little lamp just serves to throw up +the tinsel crown of Our Lady. So suddenly +at once, under the columns of a portico, into +the open sky of the great square, the thronging +turmoil of pigeons, the liberal flood of southern +sunshine, the strong shadow of the campanile +flung like a fallen obelisk on the floor of the +Piazza, the mighty flagstaffs of the dead +republic, and beyond them all, low and squat, +a riot of white domes, the fantastic, many-pinnacled +carven front of St. Mark’s, glowing +golden in the pellucid air of morning.</p> + +<p>I stood still and drew a deep breath. It +was even as I thought. Grace before St. +Mark’s: “For what we are about to receive——” +There is but one Venice.</p> + +<p>Holding my breath all the while, I drew +near the great porches, with their round-arched +tops, and gazed up at the mosaics. +My soul steeped herself in beauty. I revelled +in an orgy of jasper and porphyry. How +gross to give thanks for beef and pudding, +but none for Carpaccio, Bellini, Titian!</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='206' id='Page_206'></span> +Slowly, out of the great dream of form and +colour, bit by bit, as I gazed, distinct visions +framed themselves—palm-leaves and lilies, +robed shapes of angels, half-translucent alabaster +shafts or capitals, rich foliage of +acanthus, wandering lines of tracery. In the +midst of it all, one little relief held my eye at +last—a flat relief of quaint Romanesque workmanship, +beautiful with the winning beauty of +infantile art; two birds that faced one another, +and pecked at a bunch of grapes—when, all +at once, I was aware of a start of surprise +beside me. I turned round. My heart fluttered +for a second. It was Romeo.</p> + +<p>Venice faded. Though I had come out to +him, I was taken aback at his presence.</p> + +<p>He gave a little gasp. “What, <span class='it'>you</span> here,” +he faltered out—“Miss Appleton—Juliet?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I answered assuming an air of unconcern; +“I thirsted for a breath of Italy again. +It is nearly five years since I have been out +of England.”</p> + +<p>“But—this is fate!” he blurted out. “I—I +came here—to avoid you.”</p> + +<p>I was in a mischievous mood. “I can go +away again,” I answered, looking deep into +his eyes, and half curtseying. “It is not for +me to interfere with my employer’s holiday.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='207' id='Page_207'></span> +He cast me an imploring look. “Juliet,” +he cried, “do not jest. Do not break my +heart. This is no time for pleasantry. My +child, my child, I have suffered.”</p> + +<p>I saw it in his face. And yet I could not +conceive what was his trouble. Could a +mother count for so much? I had never +known mine. “You look ill,” I said; “so +different from what you looked last week in +London. Can I do anything for you? I—I +will really go away—at once—if you desire it.”</p> + +<p>He restrained himself with an effort from +seizing my hands, then and there, in the +open Piazza. “<span class='it'>Go away?</span>” he cried. “<span class='it'>Go +away?</span> No, <span class='it'>that</span> is not my trouble. I wish +you <span class='it'>not</span> to go away. I wish you to stay with +me always. Juliet, you must have guessed +it; you must have known it in London. Do +not tell me you did not know. You <span class='it'>saw</span> that +I loved you!”</p> + +<p>“I thought so, at times,” I answered in a +very low voice. “But—why then did you +wish to run away from me?”</p> + +<p>He glanced about him with uneasy eyes. +“Now this has come,” he burst forth, “I +must fight it out boldly. I must face it like a +man. Juliet, where can we go? I <span class='it'>must</span> talk—alone—with +you.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='208' id='Page_208'></span> +“Let us take a gondola,” I suggested, my +heart throbbing high with joy; for I felt I +had triumphed now; his mother, and dear +Meta, and ox-eyed Lady Donisthorpe were +wholly forgotten.</p> + +<p>“A gondola!” he echoed. “A gondola! +Ah, how clever you are! Of course! I never +thought of that. There we can talk uninterrupted.”</p> + +<p>We moved towards the Molo. I hailed a +gondolier. “Put up the felze,” I said, “so +that we may not be overlooked.” The man +raised the little black box, and shut us in as +in a sedan-chair. Romeo gazed admiration +again. “And you talk Italian!”</p> + +<p>“Whither, signore?” the gondolier +asked.</p> + +<p>“Where shall we go?” Romeo inquired, +turning to me.</p> + +<p>“Where you will,” I answered; “it is all +Venice.” I did not add that with him by my +side all the world would be Venice.</p> + +<p>He pointed towards the open, where we +would be less observed. The gondolier +nodded. Then the old fancy seized me. “To +San Nicolò di Lido!” I cried. It seemed like +an omen. My patron saint had always +brought me luck, and his church lay before +<span class='pageno' title='209' id='Page_209'></span> +me. In this crisis of my fate I would commend +myself to his favour.</p> + +<p>I told Romeo why I chose that way. He +smiled, a little sadly. “May it turn out as +you wish,” he exclaimed. “May St. Nicholas +help us!”</p> + +<p>I sat by his side on the soft black cushions, +never uttering a word—placidly, quietly +happy. I was in no hurry to speak; the +sense that I had Romeo alone to myself at +last was joy enough for me. He took my +hand in his. I let it lie there, unresisting.</p> + +<p>Words only spoil such first thrills of fruition. +Touch is the mother-sense of love; it +needs no interpreter.</p> + +<p>At last Romeo broke the charmed silence. +I gave a little sigh as he broke it. “Oh, why +so soon?” I asked. But, like a man, he was +eager to speak and explain himself. They <span class='it'>are</span> +so precipitate!</p> + +<p>“What am I to do, Juliet?” he cried, burying +his face in his hands. “Your coming has +thrown me back upon my first resolve; it has +driven me from my stronghold. When I tore +myself away from you in London and no longer +saw your eyes—those great magnetic uncomplaining +eyes of yours, those eyes that have +bewitched me—I made up my mind that I +<span class='pageno' title='210' id='Page_210'></span> +must go through with it now, and try to forget +you. Not try, but pretend; for it would +be all pretence. Since the first day you +came, daily and daily you have meant +more and more to me. It was hard to +break away from you, but I broke away +and came here, so that I might be free from +the spell; for while I saw your eyes I could +think of nothing else; and now chance has +thrown you in my path again, and—I cannot +go through with it.”</p> + +<p>“Not chance,” I murmured low; “not +chance—but St. Nicholas! I have come with +the money that my story brought me.”</p> + +<p>He smiled at my little conceit, for I had +told him in London of my half-fanciful cult of +the poor maids’ saint, and I had called my +little tale “A Ward of St. Nicholas.”</p> + +<p>“You are a brownie!” he cried, gazing at +me. “You wild thing, what brought you +here?”</p> + +<p>I laughed. “The Gotthard railway—and +my love of adventure. I was sickening of +England; I had a migratory instinct, like birds +when they gather on the telegraph wires in +autumn, or restless Spanish sheep in spring, +when they herd and leap, uneasy to be driven +to their pastures in the mountains.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='211' id='Page_211'></span> +“What a wild thing you are!” he repeated. +“A brownie, a brownie! I wonder where +you got it from?”</p> + +<p>“From my gypsy ancestry, I suppose,” I +answered.</p> + +<p>“Gypsy—but I thought you told me you +were American?”</p> + +<p>“On my father’s side, yes; but on my +mother’s Lowland Scot or Anglo-Indian. She +was a Baillie of the Borders; and I suspect all +borderers of sharing the blood of the Faas +and the Petulengros. There was plenty of +intermarriage.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt,” he mused. “The difference +must have been slight between a moss-trooper +and a gypsy. Each had much the +same gentility. And, indeed, I remember the +‘Lord and Earl of Little Egypt’ was summoned +to Edinburgh as a peer of parliament.”</p> + +<p>“At any rate,” I said gaily, “whether ’tis +true or false, it accounts, to my mind, for the +Meg Merrilies vein in me. I was born a +random vagrant in the world, a peripatetic +philosopher. I love movement, I love freedom—Bohemia. +Why, I could tell your fortune +now if you cared to cross my hand with +silver.”</p> + +<p>He gazed into my eyes. “I do not doubt +<span class='pageno' title='212' id='Page_212'></span> +it,” he answered, “for it lies in your hands +to-day.”</p> + +<p>I thrilled and was still. The gondola +glided over the glassy water.</p> + +<p>Soon he began again. “Gypsy, I want +your help. You must <span class='it'>make</span> my fortune, not +tell it. Show me how to act. Show me how +to get free. What can I do in this crisis, +Juliet—my Juliet?”</p> + +<p>“How can I answer?” I replied. “ ’Tis for +your own heart to say. I know you are fond +of me. But—your mother has money, I suppose, +and you prefer your mother.”</p> + +<p>He withdrew the arm that lay half round +me, and sat up facing me in surprise. “My +mother!” he cried. “My mother! Why, +Juliet, my child, what do you mean? It is +not my mother I think of—not her, but poor +Meta!”</p> + +<p>A pang darted through me. “Then you love +her!” I exclaimed; “that woman’s daughter!”</p> + +<p>“Love her? I do not say that. Yet, +Juliet, consider; put yourself in her place: +I have been five years engaged to her!”</p> + +<p>It burst upon me like a thunderbolt. Why +had I never guessed it? From the first day +we met I had taken it for granted—unreservedly, +unthinkingly—that Romeo was +<span class='pageno' title='213' id='Page_213'></span> +heart-free and unfettered as I was. Even +when I met Lady Donisthorpe I imagined too +fast that she was flinging Meta openly at his +head, but not that he was betrothed to her. +My own heart must have blinded me. Now +that I realised it all, I stood aghast at the +way woman’s instinct had failed me. How +had I managed to misunderstand? I saw in +a flash that the conflict I had observed in +Romeo before he left London was a conflict +in his soul between love and honour.</p> + +<p>He seized my hand again. “It is <span class='it'>that</span> that +made it so difficult,” he whispered. “From +the first day <span class='it'>you</span> came I began to love you. +I fought against it hard, oh! so hard; I tried +to talk little with you. Day after day I +felt you sitting there, with your great gypsy +eyes fixed ever steadily on your sheet of +paper, and your heart going forth to me. I +knew it went forth to me. I could feel it in +the room. A subtle wave or thrill throbbed +ever between us. I began to love you; and +still I fought hard. But the more we talked +together the more did I feel you were the +woman God made for me, and that Meta was +not. At last I had a great struggle—a great +struggle with my heart, and came out of it as +I thought victorious. I fled from you here, +<span class='pageno' title='214' id='Page_214'></span> +where the Donisthorpes had come, to remain +with Meta till the day I married her. It was +what honour demanded; I made love yield to +honour.”</p> + +<p>I withdrew my hand slowly. “Give me +time to think this out. It has burst upon +me so suddenly. Oh, Romeo, till this moment +I never dreamt you were engaged to +her.”</p> + +<p>“Why <span class='it'>Romeo</span>?”</p> + +<p>I smiled, though my heart was aching. I +remembered that he did not know what I +had always called him. Now I told him my +fancy. “You have never been anything but +<span class='it'>Romeo</span> to me,” I murmured.</p> + +<p>He seized my hand again. “Juliet, I <span class='it'>am</span> +your Romeo. I felt it from the first. We +were meant for one another.”</p> + +<p>“I know it!” I cried. “I know it! And +this woman, who is not yours, has stolen you +from me. You are mine by natural fitness; +and she took you, <span class='it'>she</span> took you!”</p> + +<p>We leaned back on the seats and mused. +The gondolier sang low to himself a soft +Venetian love-song.</p> + +<p>After some minutes I began again. “Of +course,” I murmured, “it is Lady Donisthorpe’s +daughter.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='215' id='Page_215'></span> +“Of course. Five years ago I proposed to +her.”</p> + +<p>“Then <span class='it'>why</span> did you not marry?” I cried +vehemently. “I <span class='it'>hate</span> these long engagements! +They are vile for everybody!”</p> + +<p>“Her stepfather would not permit it till she +came of age. She is a ward in Chancery, and +he has influence with the court. Till her +marriage her mother has some interest in +the property, and Sir Everard, to preserve it, +being fabulously rich already, made an excuse +that a publisher was hardly the person to whom +she might expect to aspire—though he permitted, +or rather encouraged the engagement.”</p> + +<p>“And she is not yet of age?”</p> + +<p>“In October.”</p> + +<p>I gave an impatient wave of the hand. +“But she was a child when you proposed to +her!”</p> + +<p>“A child? We were both children. We +did not know our own minds. The Nemesis +of it is that I know mine now, while she +remains still at the childish standpoint.”</p> + +<p>“She loves you?”</p> + +<p>“In her baby way—yes; else it were all +easy. But it would break her poor heart. +Such a trusting little creature!”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='216' id='Page_216'></span> +“And <span class='it'>you</span> love <span class='it'>her</span>?”</p> + +<p>“Juliet, I thought I did once. But then, +I had not learnt what love meant. She was +only my Rosaline. I did not know the world +of difference between a sweet little wax doll, +with masses of light yellow tow for hair, and +a woman, a thinking woman, with heart, soul, +brain, courage—a woman who could face life +full of intrepid self-reliance; a woman with +nerve, audacity, spirit; a woman with Homeric +love of danger and adventure; a woman made +dearer by her sense of humour, the merry +twinkle of her eye, her gay laugh at misfortune. +I feel now that I need a comrade +and a helpmeet for me. Someone who +could brace me up for the battle of life; +someone with great thoughts, fine fibre, noble +impulses. I cannot go back to Meta. I +could have done it last night. This morning, +with you by my side, I feel it, I know it, impossible.”</p> + +<p>He drew a long breath. I lay back on +the cushion. “Romeo,” I said, pleading my +rival’s cause, “you <span class='it'>must</span> go back to her.”</p> + +<p>“Never!” he answered, “never!”</p> + +<p>I temporised. “This is not a question to +decide all at once. Let us think it over slowly; +let us lay it—before St. Nicholas!”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='217' id='Page_217'></span> +“If I lay it before St. Nicholas,” he cried, +“with you beside me, the oracle can give but +one answer, I warrant. For I want you; I +need you; my whole being cries out for +you.”</p> + +<p>We paused again. The water was cat’s-eye +green. The inexorable gondola glided +on towards the Lido.</p> + +<p>We talked it over clause by clause. A +light began to break upon me. The nearer +I drew to San Nicolò the clearer grew the +light. Ought a man to wreck two lives—his +own and the girl’s whom he means to marry +(for my private fate I ignored)—in order +to satisfy a false sense of honour? What, +after all, was this honour? A bugbear +dressed up to frighten us from the truth. +And what was the truth? That Romeo was +rushing madly into marriage with a girl for +whom he was not fit, and who was not fit for +him.</p> + +<p>“Romeo,” I said at last, “could you make +her happy?”</p> + +<p>“That’s the rub,” he answered. “It could +hardly be for long. I could give her my hand, +but not my heart; for my heart, my heart, +Juliet, is yours—yours only.”</p> + +<p>“Then for <span class='it'>her</span> sake set her free,” I cried. +<span class='pageno' title='218' id='Page_218'></span> +“The whole man—body, soul, and spirit—or +nothing.”</p> + +<p>“So I think,” he murmured. “The question +is, when one has made a mistake, a mistake +that involves final ruin for two lives, +which is the better, after all: to repair it beforehand, +while repair is still possible, or bow to +an antiquated ideal of honour, an ideal that +comes to us from an age when women were +toys, all alike, and run one’s head into a noose +from which there will be no escaping? For +her sake, as well as my own and yours, ought +I not to tell her, frankly but gently, that this +marriage she desires must mean misery for +both of us?”</p> + +<p>I tried to be impartial, though impartiality +is hard when your own love and life lie +trembling in the balance. “You ought,” I +answered, “if you feel sure you cannot truly +love her.”</p> + +<p>“Juliet, I can never love anyone but you. +I know you for my counterpart. My love +did not come suddenly; it grew up by +degrees from living so near you; and +it has grown, grown, grown, like a vast +growth in my heart, till it has absorbed my +nature. I have watched you every day, talked +with you, listened to you. You know me and +<span class='pageno' title='219' id='Page_219'></span> +you understand me. But Meta, dear little +soul, she seems to me like a child. I cannot +share life with her. I can only take care of +her. You have originality, initiative; Meta’s +soul has the shape that her mother has put +upon it. Look how you loved and appreciated +my verses! Your criticism, your help, were +of infinite use to me. In each word that you +altered I felt you were right. Your suggestion +of ‘harmonious’ in that last line +where I had written ‘consistent’ made a full +close for the sonnet, in sonorous organ music, +and turned my prose into poetry. Whereas, +when I gave Meta my book she read it +through, and then kissed me. ‘How clever of +you, you dear boy, to be able to write verses!’ +Would <span class='it'>such</span> a help be meet for me?”</p> + +<p>I clung to his hand; it was hard to decide; +but in a very low voice I faltered out, “I +think not, Romeo.”</p> + +<p>He talked of my poor attempts at writing +stories; he praised them, as he had always +done. “You will be famous yet, my child; +and I shall be proud, whatever comes, that I +was the first to encourage you.” He appreciated +me, I appreciated him; surely, if marriages +are made in heaven, we two were +moulded for one another. Not alike, but complementary. +<span class='pageno' title='220' id='Page_220'></span> +And then, how rash to dream +of marrying one woman when, even before +marriage, you love another better! Is <span class='it'>that</span> +the way to insure a happy home? Is that the +safe path to a life of wedded confidence?</p> + +<p>We drew near to San Nicolò at last. “Let +us go in,” I said seriously, “and submit ourselves +to the saint. His body lies within. +We will kneel together before it.”</p> + +<p>“But I thought you told me St. Nicholas +lay throned in a gorgeous shrine at Bari?” he +objected.</p> + +<p>“Why, of course,” I answered. “What is +the use of being a saint if you cannot have +two bodies, and be in two places at once? +And what is the use of faith if it does not +enable you to believe the impossible?”</p> + +<p>“I <span class='it'>do</span> believe it,” he answered; “since I +came to Venice to be out of your enchantment, +and found you here, more deliciously +enchanting than ever. The fascination of +your eyes——”</p> + +<p>I cut him short with a gesture; but I was +glad he praised them.</p> + +<p>We landed by the steps, and entered the +sailors’ church. I led Romeo up to a scalloped +niche by the tribune, where I had often +prayed as a girl with my father. We knelt +<span class='pageno' title='221' id='Page_221'></span> +down, side by side, before the jewelled shrine +that contains the blessed dust of St. Nicholas +of Myra, I hope not irreverently. I may be +what the Warden at our Guild was fond of +calling me, “an amiable heathen,” but at least +I am sincere. Tears stole down my cheek. +I asked with an earnest heart for light, for +guidance. We know not, indeed, whose +saintly bones repose at peace within that +sculptured marble altar-tomb; nor does it +matter to me much whether they be or be not +those of the benign bishop of Myra. I accepted +them as the symbol of that Power, +above ourselves, to which our hearts go forth +at moments of doubt, of fear, of anguish; and +to such a Power I prayed unfeignedly, that at +this turning-point of my life I might be led +aright, might form the just judgment, unbiassed +by self-profit, holding an equal scale +between myself and my rival.</p> + +<p>As I knelt there a single flashing ray of +light beat down through a little window above +upon San Nicolò’s altar-slab. It gilt the +niche for a moment; it fell in gold on the tessellated +floor; then it passed away as a cloud +covered the sun. Rightly or wrongly, I accepted +the omen. Tears stood in my eyes +still, but they were tears of gladness. “St. +<span class='pageno' title='222' id='Page_222'></span> +Nicholas has answered,” I whispered. “What +did he say to you, Romeo?”</p> + +<p>Romeo looked me in the face solemnly as +he made reply. “He said, ‘Better tell her +early than tell her too late. Save her while +she can be saved, and let three hearts be +lightened.’ ”</p> + +<p>Venice hung like a haze. The row back to +the Molo was a lane in Paradise.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='223' id='Page_223'></span>CHAPTER XX.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>“WHEREFORE ART THOU ROMEO?”</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>At</span> the Molo we parted. The Donisthorpes, +Romeo said, must long have been expecting +him, fidgeting that he did not arrive; he +knew not what lame excuse he could rake up +to satisfy them. It was agreed on both sides, +however, and impressed with last words, that +he must not break poor Meta’s heart prematurely, +by too abrupt an avowal of his new +decision. We were to break it by degrees—to +give her three days of purgatory. Meanwhile, +Romeo promised he would not see +me again, at least to speak together; though +he asked leave, wistfully, to pass under my +window once each morning and smile at me, +just so as to make sure of my presence. I +wanted this interval; I wished to see whether +he would remain firm to his purpose when he +was removed for a day or two from that +“magnetism” of my eyes on which he dwelt +so strongly.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='224' id='Page_224'></span> +I spent the three days of grace in wandering +about Venice. For the most part, I +avoided the great square, St. Mark’s, the +Academy—all the familiar tourist haunts—because +I did not desire collision with the +Donisthorpes. Most of my time I devoted +to the out-of-the-way streets and the out-of-the-way +sights, which are so infinitely +amusing; the funny little alleys where +the true Venetians stroll; the funny little +<span class='it'>campi</span>, where old men and children lie +stretched in the shade on the north side +of some small church, as fallow-deer huddle +on the north side of the domed oaks in a park +at noontide. Every turn revealed some passing +picture. As I had said to Romeo, it was +all Venice. Not a remote sunless lane, with +walls of peeling plaster, tufted with pellitory, +that is not dear to my heart; not a sluggish +side canal, into whose stagnant green water +branches of acacia and trailing sprays of Virginia +creeper hang from beyond the mouldering +garden grill, but I love and cherish it. +Little Romanesque windows, high up on some +red-washed steeple, with twin round arches, +tall and narrow, held apart in the midst by +one twisted column; great patches of sunlight +falling through quatrefoils in dazzling relief +<span class='pageno' title='225' id='Page_225'></span> +on the deep recessed gloom of the loggia; +wee bridges that rise, arched like a cat’s back, +over streams strewn with cabbage-leaves, +where market boats from Mestre, laden high +with pumpkins, crawl slowly down the channel—do +I not know them all? Are they not +etched on my brain by some fadeless process +of mental photography?</p> + +<p>In spite of my haunting these remoter by-ways, +however, I did once by accident catch +sight of the Donisthorpes. They were seated +with the prebendary at a <span class='it'>café</span> in the great +Piazza, as I crossed it one afternoon on my +way home from San Zaccaria, where I had +been feasting on saints in the placid enjoyment +of every form of martyrdom. Sir +Everard, leaning back on his chair and sipping +black coffee, with a small brown cap +pushed well off his forehead, a brown tourist +suit, and a capacious yellow waistcoat, amply +displayed in front of him, looked more absurdly +like a fat toad than ever. Lady +Donisthorpe, smiling sweetly upon Venice +in general, with her lady-like softness, her +mechanical amiability, her pouter-pigeon +suavity, yet showed marks about the eyes of +some inner dissatisfaction. They did not observe +me; I stole close behind them, anxious +<span class='pageno' title='226' id='Page_226'></span> +to see the immaculate colourless Meta; I +wished to know for myself what manner of +girl she might be; but she was not with +them—gone off, no doubt, for a stroll round +the square with Romeo. That thought drove +me quickly home; like a frightened rabbit, I +rushed under the clock-tower and along the +thronged Merceria to my hotel on a side canal; +I could not have endured to see them together +like lovers.</p> + +<p>Had I no qualms meanwhile? Aye, +marry, had I? Do you think I slept much +through those three long nights of suspense +and torture? If I tramped from church to +church and picture to picture during the day, +’twas but to escape from my own stinging +thoughts for a moment. I argued it all out +over and over again with myself. When we +two had been seated side by side in the gondola—Romeo’s +arm half stealing round my +waist, my head half pillowed one second on +Romeo’s shoulder—the question of ethics had +been translucent as crystal. We saw quite +clearly our course was mapped out for us by +eternal equities. Even in Meta’s interest, I +was advising him for the best. “The whole +man,” I had said—“body, soul, and spirit—or +else nothing!” That was woman’s full +<span class='pageno' title='227' id='Page_227'></span> +gospel of the new dispensation. Less than +that could be no true marriage. And “is it +not better, under such conditions, to change +one’s mind early than to change it too late? +Is it not better for you to speak the truth, +even at great risk of pain and humiliation to a +woman you have loved, than to tie her for +life to a man who cannot give her his whole +heart unreservedly, enthusiastically? Is it +not better for her to be made miserable once +than to be made miserable for ever?” In +advising Romeo to break off this one-sided +engagement, was I not advising him most of +all in Meta Donisthorpe’s interest?</p> + +<p>At times I even felt as if I had succeeded +in doing a great favour, unasked, to +Meta.</p> + +<p>But in the dead hour of night, when all +Venice slept, and the last “Stalì!” had +answered the last “Premè!” under my bedroom +window, one stanza of “In Memoriam” +kept ever recurring most inopportunely to my +mind; I heard it in the creaking of the vane +on the Dogana, in the lap of the water against +the honeycombed walls, in the sigh of the +wind through the arches of the belfry. It +was a reproachful sound—the voice of that +conscience which I flattered myself the +<span class='pageno' title='228' id='Page_228'></span> +generation of whom I am one had analysed +away for ever.</p> + + + <div class='poetry-container' style=''> + <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> +<div class='stanza-outer'> +<p class='line0'>“Hold thou the good; define it well;</p> +<p class='line0'>  For fear divine Philosophy</p> +<p class='line0'>  Should push beyond her mark, and be</p> +<p class='line0'> Procuress to the Lords of Hell.”</p> +</div> +</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> + +<p>The Lords of Hell! The Lords of Hell! +It clanged with the hour from the great Campanile! +Was that where my sophisms were +taking me, I wondered? The Lords of Hell! +The Lords of Hell! Had I advised Romeo +aright, as the woman who loves a man should +strive to advise him at dangerous passes?</p> + +<p>On the third day of the three I rose early +from my sleepless bed—tired of tossing off +the quilt—and wandered out by myself eastward +through the tortuous labyrinth of elbow-bending +streets that spreads between St. +Mark’s and St. George of the Slavonians. I +was bound no whither in particular; I let +each narrow flagged alley, each canal-side +causeway, lead me onward where it would; +but, without design on my part, I found myself +at last on the small paved platform with +the slimy green steps that catches the morning +sun, in front of San Giorgio degli Schiavoni. +“San Giorgio!” I thought to myself; +“I must stray in here for awhile for rest and +<span class='pageno' title='229' id='Page_229'></span> +meditation. After Nicholas of Myra, has not +the ever-blessed George been most of all my +patron? Let me lay before him my doubts—a +poor maiden’s doubts; it may be that the +courteous young saint will resolve them.”</p> + +<p>I pushed aside the padded curtain, and sat +down on one of the seats. Venetian women +were there with their babies, praying—dark-haired, +dusky-eyed, poorly-clad, eager-spirited. +For a while my eyes strayed to those ever-exquisite +Carpaccios, high ranged on the left-hand +wall, which tell the pretty tale of the +tutelary saint with naïve Venetian idealistic +realism. I scarce knew which of the two chief +actors I admired the more—in the episode of +the slaying of the dragon, so familiar to me +from my own life, the beautiful, graceful youth, +with his loose golden hair rippling free on the +wind; or, in the scene of the baptism, the +kneeling Princess Cleodolind, her long, fair +tresses flowing richly down her back as she +bends to receive the sacrament of the font at the +hands of her chivalrous and devout deliverer. +St. George, I fancied, in his earnest, clear +face, somehow recalled my Romeo; but the +Princess—I shuddered: what ill-omen was +this? The Princess whom he baptised was a +fair-haired maiden. I knew Meta was fair—had +<span class='pageno' title='230' id='Page_230'></span> +he not spoken of her “masses of yellow +tow”? A cold thrill ran down my spine. +Oh, St. Nicholas—oh, St. George, avert the +omen!</p> + +<p>I pulled out my little silver crucifix, and, +clasping it tight, decided to lay my case before +the Madonna herself, who reigns in the altar-piece. +Am I a Catholic, then? you ask. +That is alien to this story. There are three +subjects which I decline to discuss: bimetallism, +the sex question, and my religious +convictions.</p> + +<p>As I bent my knee before Our Lady on the +shrine a low sob by my side distracted my attention. +It came from a young girl a little +apart in the gloom. Her face lay hidden in +her hands—small gloved hands, like a lady’s; +but her fine-fibred hair was golden and luxuriantly +abundant. I glanced from her to the +Carpaccio, and from the Carpaccio to her. +Yes, it could not be gainsaid—this was the +Princess Cleodolind.</p> + +<p>Had her St. George proved untrue? She +was crying bitterly.</p> + +<p>I knew at once that was the right explanation. +The sound of her sobs betrayed it. +For there are species in crying. There is +the cry of the mother for the loss of her son; +<span class='pageno' title='231' id='Page_231'></span> +there is the cry of the wife for the faithlessness +of her husband; there is the +cry of the maiden for the defection of +her lover. Each has its own note, recognisable +at the first sound to those who have +once heard it. We talk in such cases of +woman’s intuition; it were truer, I think, to +call it inference, for inference it is from +delicate observation. All women observe +keenly the symptoms of emotion; at moments +of exaltation or passion they observe them +with an almost miraculous acuteness. I knew +in a second that Cleodolind had lost her lover’s +heart; and I guessed in a flash that Cleodolind +was Meta.</p> + +<p>She was dressed like a lady; and out at +this early hour; when she and I, alone of our +class, driven from our beds by alternative +aspects of the self-same problem, were abroad +among the fisherwomen.</p> + +<p>I gazed at her with the respect one always +accords to sorrow. My heart misgave me. +How easy it was in the gondola to philosophise +in the abstract; but here, on dry land, +and in sight of this poor child with the breaking +heart—philosophy in the concrete seemed +to present its own fresh difficulties.</p> + +<p>Of a sudden she raised her face, and glanced +<span class='pageno' title='232' id='Page_232'></span> +across at me, piteously. Her eyes met mine. +I started. The wisp of a figure, the pathetic +blue eyes, the sunny fluff of hair: it was +Michaela.</p> + +<p>I took it in with a great gulp. Michaela +was Meta, then, and Meta Michaela.</p> + +<p>I could not understand it, for the inscription +on her card said, not Donisthorpe, but “Miss +Allardyce”; and had she not told me that her +Christian name was Margaret? But I had +no time to think it out just then. With a +little cry of pleasure, she came over to me, +still weeping.</p> + +<p>“You dear thing!” she whispered, holding +out her gloved hand, “what a comfort to see +you! I want to have a talk with you. You +were so good to me at Holmwood.”</p> + +<p>I saw it was inevitable. I must face Meta +now. I took her hand in mine, with a deep +sense of repentant treachery. “Come out +with me, dear,” I said, for she melted my +heart. “Tell me all your trouble.”</p> + +<p>She pressed my hand in return. “I knew +you would be good to me,” she answered. +“You are odd, but oh, so good. I saw it in +your big eyes the first day I met you. Do +you know, your eyes are magnetic; they seem +to draw one.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='233' id='Page_233'></span> +“So I have been told,” I answered bitterly.</p> + +<p>“Where can we go to talk?” she asked. +She had a caressing voice. “I am sure you +will do me good. And I do so want to talk +this over with somebody else besides mamma. +Mamma is like a feather-bed. She is kind in +her way, but so soft and comfortable. Nothing +seems to make a dint in her.”</p> + +<p>Inventiveness forsook me. I had no suggestion +to offer except another gondola. And +even at that moment, when the world whirled +round madly with myself for pivot, I was +dimly conscious, as one is often conscious +of such trifles at a great crisis, that always +in Venice, when people wanted a <span class='it'>tête-à-tête</span>, +they must have taken a gondola. Nowhere +else in that tangle of narrow streets and small +squares could one go unobserved for a second.</p> + +<p>We called a gondolier. “Where shall we +tell him to take us?” Michaela asked. It +was not in her nature to suggest a route +spontaneously.</p> + +<p>“Out on the open,” I replied. “We shall +be less overlooked there.” Then I added a +little morosely, “If you are not afraid I shall +drown you.”</p> + +<p>She smiled through her tears. “You were +always so queer,” she said, “but so kind.” +<span class='pageno' title='234' id='Page_234'></span> +She did not guess how much more reason I +had now for drowning her. She jumped lightly +into the boat; she was a light little atomy; +you could have blown her away with a good +puff, like thistledown.</p> + +<p>The gondolier took us across by San +Giorgio Maggiore. Michaela sat by my side, +holding my hand in hers. If ever in my life, +I felt guilty that minute.</p> + +<p>So all those months I had been doing in +earnest what I had said in jest—unconsciously +playing Carmen to her Michaela. I had +stolen away her Don José—and had never +known it!</p> + +<p>She told me hurriedly how the man to +whom she was engaged had always seemed +to love her, oh, so much—till five months +ago; how, since that time, his love had been +gradually fading; how it had faded all away, +till she was wretched, hopeless!</p> + +<p>She cried so intensely that I laid her head +on my shoulder. ’Twas a soft little head. +I felt like a man to her as I tried to comfort +her.</p> + +<p>“Five years,” she sobbed out: “five +years—all forgotten!”</p> + +<p>“You must have been a child at the time +when you began to love him,” I murmured.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='235' id='Page_235'></span> +She raised her head. “Yes, a child. +That’s what makes it so much worse! We +have loved and been loved since we were +both children. Every thought, every pleasure, +we have shared with one another. I +was cycling with him that day when I first +met you. We have grown up together. He +has grown into my heart—ever closer and +closer.”</p> + +<p>“What is his name?” I asked, trembling.</p> + +<p>She told me. I hardly needed to ask +it.</p> + +<p>“Why, I know him a little,” I said. +“But I thought—he was engaged to a +daughter of Lady Donisthorpe’s.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course. Lady Donisthorpe is my +mother.”</p> + +<p>“But—her name is Meta; and you are +Margaret Allardyce?”</p> + +<p>“Mamma married again; I told you I had +a stepfather.”</p> + +<p>She went on with her story. She loved +him more and more. Her heart was bound +up with him. After so long a time, too! If +he had told her three years ago—— But +five years—you could never make five years +seem nothing.</p> + +<p>“And can you account for it?” I inquired, +<span class='pageno' title='236' id='Page_236'></span> +to see how much she knew, stroking her +sunny hair with my hand as I did so.</p> + +<p>“You <span class='it'>dear</span> thing! How sweetly sympathetic +you are! Oh, yes, but it is almost too +dreadful to tell. A hateful woman—a type-writer +girl at his office! Could you ever have +believed a person like <span class='it'>that</span> would come between +us?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” I ventured to suggest, “she did +not mean it.”</p> + +<p>“Did not mean it? Oh, she did: the dreadful +creature, she has bewitched him! He +loves <span class='it'>her</span> best now. And yet, you would +think that the years must count; the years +must count!” She sobbed, and became inaudible.</p> + +<p>“Has he told you of her?” I faltered.</p> + +<p>“Oh! no; he says nothing. He only lets +me feel it. But mamma met her once at a +dinner Toto gave at the Savoy—a hateful +vulgar creature! Mamma and his mother both +spoke to him of the way he treated her—the +attention he paid her—bringing a woman +like that to dine with ladies, it was unpardonable.”</p> + +<p>“Some type-writers <span class='it'>are</span> ladies, Michaela,” +I put in softly. “I am a type-writer myself.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! yes, but that is different! you are so +<span class='pageno' title='237' id='Page_237'></span> +sweet, so gentle. You know so much; you +have been brought up like a lady; you have +sympathy and magnetism. This other creature—mother +said it was horrid to be in the +same room with her. So loud, so noisy! +And she’s here now, she’s here; she has followed +him to Venice on purpose to thwart us. +He came out to stay with me till the day we +were to be married. And this woman, when +she saw her hold on him was failing, rushed +after him to prevent it. Can you believe such +wickedness? Mamma saw her with him in a +gondola. Oh! I can’t bear to say it, dear, in +a gondola, near the Riva, with his arm around +her!”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” I hazarded, “when she came +here she did not know he was engaged. Perhaps, +if we could speak to her we might play +upon some chord in her better nature.”</p> + +<p>Michaela looked up at me admiringly. “You +beautiful, broad-minded person,” she cried; +“how good you are, how tolerant! You +make allowances and excuses for everyone, +I declare! How I wish I was like you! But +she <span class='it'>has</span> no better nature, I believe. Mamma +says she is a person lost to all sense of shame. +Why, the stories she told at that dinner of +Toto’s about the places she had been in and +<span class='pageno' title='238' id='Page_238'></span> +the people she had met were quite beyond, +you know, quite beyond; oh, too dreadful for +anything.”</p> + +<p>I risked another card. “My dear little +friend,” I said, “I speak of the thing that I +know: she <span class='it'>has</span> a better nature.” (Oh, God, how +it was battling now against love of Romeo in +her heart; how it was grappling and struggling!) +“I am almost sure I have met this +girl of whom you speak. There is a type-writer +stopping at the same hotel as myself, +and I think she was out in a gondola the other +day with your Romeo—let us call him Romeo; +it is ‘more real and agreeable,’ as Dick Swiveller +said to the Marchioness, and ’tis the +only way in which I can talk about people.” +I maundered on, to gain time, for though +outwardly I was jesting, within I was fighting +wild beasts at Ephesus. “Now, she has +talked to me of your Romeo, and I assure +you solemnly, when she arrived in Venice she +had not an idea he was engaged—of that I am +confident.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but she knows it now, I am sure; +and yet, she bewitches him!”</p> + +<p>I played one card still, a more doubtful +and dangerous card than any. “Perhaps,” I +answered. “But the years must count. You +<span class='pageno' title='239' id='Page_239'></span> +are right in that. Remember, as you say, I +am (I hope) broad-minded. I try to see +things from everybody’s point of view. From +yours, I see now that Romeo is behaving—cruelly. +From the type-writer girl’s, I see +that she loves him deeply, very deeply; but +’tis a new love, fresh grown; however firmly +it may have rooted itself, it has no claim on +the score of age as against yours; and if she +is told so calmly and frankly, she may perhaps +realise it. From Romeo’s, I see—well, +more than I like to tell you.” I paused and +hesitated. The effort to gain time made me +didactic. “Life is the interaction of individualities,” +I said, “each seeing things its +own way. Justice is the attempt to reconcile +them. Let us try here if we can make this +type-writer girl see something a little beyond +her own point of view—see, as you say, that +the years must count. She is not wholly bad, +whatever Lady Donisthorpe may tell you. I +will be your ambassador. I will speak to +<span class='it'>her</span>; I will speak to Romeo. I will try to +make them feel what you have made me feel—that +the years should count. And I will +come to San Giorgio of the Slavonians to +tell you what success I have had in my embassy +at this time to-morrow.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='240' id='Page_240'></span> +She brightened up at the idea. She +thanked me profusely. “He loves me still,” +she said, “a little; only, this girl bewitches +him. Oh, I have read about her eyes and +her hair in his verses. He thought no one +knew; he put it so darkly—all wrapped up in +words; but I could see they were hers, +though he thinks me so silly. I am clever +enough where one’s heart is concerned; I +can catch at a straw then. But if <span class='it'>she</span> were +once away, I am sure he would come back to +me.” She nestled into my shoulder. “You +<span class='it'>dear</span> thing!” she cried again, grinding her +teeth with affection, “you have put fresh +hope in me.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, dear,” I answered. “Do +you remember at Holmwood I called you +Michaela, because you were so fair, like the +girl in the opera? Now, this type-writer girl +is dark, and she has been playing Carmen +to you—stealing your love away from you by +her clever ways and her blandishments. She +has gypsy attractiveness. But, Michaela, I +am sure she did not mean it. If she had +known of you, if she might have seen you, +she could not have wronged you. Do you +recollect what I said to you in the train that +day—‘You dear little thing, no one could ever +<span class='pageno' title='241' id='Page_241'></span> +hurt you!’? Well, I am sure the type-writer +woman would feel as I do—if she knew +you. But I want to make you promise me +one thing—if I bring you back your Romeo, +you will forgive her?—you will never again +call her a horrid creature?”</p> + +<p>She soothed my hand in turn. “I could +promise you anything,” she said. “I never +knew anyone so tender and helpful.”</p> + +<p>We bid the gondolier turn. She held my +hand still; blue sky in her eyes shone after +the rain. “Only to think,” she cried, “I +have met you three times—no more; and +yet I feel you are a dear friend—the sort +of friend who would do anything for one.”</p> + +<p>“You have reason,” I answered.</p> + +<p>We returned to the Molo. A crushed heart +and a doubtful one had embarked in that gondola; +a crushed heart and a doubtful one +disembarked from it again. But they had +changed places.</p> + +<p>Three days ago I had seen through the +gates of Paradise. To-day an angel with a +flaming sword stood to bar my entrance. +And, worst of all, I knew his name was +Justice.</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='242' id='Page_242'></span>CHAPTER XXI.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>ENVOY PLENIPOTENTIARY.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>I trailed</span> back to my hotel, surely the most +abject soul in Venice. Michaela’s misapprehension +of my motives I did not resent; the +American eagle in my breast had scarce a +flap left—a more draggle-plumed bird I had +seldom seen. But all was at an end. I had +lost my Romeo.</p> + +<p>My interview with the first of the two +delinquents whom I had engaged to lure back +to the path of rectitude I got over quickly on +my way home. It was not a hard one. The +culprit, sitting meekly on the penitent’s bench, +listened to all my blame with a contrite heart; +and in consideration of her contrition I condoned +her evil deeds. It was easy to condone, +for here I knew all, and to know all is +to forgive all. Michaela would have forgiven +had she seen into that poor mangled heart as +I did.</p> + +<p>Looking back over my life dispassionately +<span class='pageno' title='243' id='Page_243'></span> +from the calm height of twenty-three, as if I +were looking at some other woman’s life, I +think I can say I have never acted wrong—grossly +and unforgivably wrong—given the +circumstances. It is those alone that others +fail to understand. If they understood, they +must sympathise where now they blame us.</p> + +<p>Could Michaela have watched, stage by +stage, the slow organic growth of my love for +Romeo; could she have felt the inevitability, +the consecutiveness of the way it unfolded; +could she have realised its foregone certainty +as an outcome of two natures, I think, dear +little soul, even she would have hesitated to +call me “that horrid woman.”</p> + +<p>But it was all past now, and she had regained +her Romeo.</p> + +<p>One culprit had recanted. I had still to +face my embassy to the second high contracting +party.</p> + +<p>I sat by the balconied open window of my +bedroom and looked down into the canal. It +was almost the hour for Romeo’s daily passage. +Slow barges with firewood drifted lazily by, +then a boat-load of purple egg-fruit and +heaped golden melons, with a gondola or two +loitering on the look out for passengers, like +our London crawlers.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='244' id='Page_244'></span> +At last my heart began to beat, not high as +it had beaten the two previous mornings, but +with a low foreboding. Another gondola +swung with a graceful curve round the huge +bosses of the corner palace; in it, a familiar +crush Tyrolese hat, and beneath the hat, +Romeo.</p> + +<p>He gazed up at me, smiled, and waved one +hand; but his look was anxious.</p> + +<p>I leaned out and called to him: “Romeo, +Romeo, Romeo!”</p> + +<p>He rose and glanced at me with checked +breath and eager eyes.</p> + +<p>“Come up here,” I faltered; “I want to +speak with you.”</p> + +<p>“In your room?” he cried, hesitating.</p> + +<p>I felt it was no moment to stand on false +convention. “Yes, in my room,” I answered. +“Have I not told you I have confidence in +myself and my guardian angel?”</p> + +<p>He waved the gondolier to the steps, +leaped lightly out, English athlete that he +was, and was with me in a moment.</p> + +<p>I might have treated the situation melodramatically +and hissed out at him “Traitor!” +(But then, it is true, I unconsciously shared +his treachery.) Instead of that I treated it +like a woman, and burst into tears before him.</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='245' id='Page_245'></span> +He drew a chair by my side. His white +face quivered. “You have seen Meta?” he +faltered out.</p> + +<p>I could feel his heart throb.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I answered, “I have seen her, and—I +find I know her. Romeo, we were all +wrong. We were deceiving our own hearts +with specious sophisms. She said to me in +her soft small voice, all choked with tears, +‘The years must count; the years must +count!’—and—she was right when she said +it!”</p> + +<p>He flung himself upon me. “Juliet!” he +cried, “dear Juliet, I too have suffered. I have +battled with my own soul. The beast has +fought the angel and the angel the man in me. +When I see her, when I am with her—so +gentle, so childish, so cruelly hurt by my +coldness, or what she thinks my coldness—how +can I have the heart to break to her the +resolution we formed? Yet the moment I +leave her I know it is the right one. It +would be wrong of me to marry her now, +having found my true mate—wrong for her +own sake. ‘The whole man—body, soul, +and spirit—or nothing.’ Do not go back +on your own words. It would be treason +to the eternal cause of woman.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='246' id='Page_246'></span> +He spoke so vehemently that I faltered.</p> + +<p>Then Michaela’s pale face, with the gentle +blue eyes swollen red from weeping, came up +like a mist before me. “You shall not wrong +that child!” I cried. “Much as I love you, +Romeo, not even for my sake will I allow +you to wrong her. She is right and we +are wrong; the years must count. She has +grown up with your love inextricably twined +by rootlets and tendrils through the fibre of +her being; to tear it away now were to tear +her very heart out. She lives on your affection. +To see is to understand; before I saw +her I thought as we thought at the Lido. +Now I know better. I will not allow you to +wrong her.”</p> + +<p>He drew away a step and looked me over +with his keen eyes from head to foot. I +quailed before his glance, so full it was of +admiration. “My Juliet!” he cried. “Why +talk? I love you for <span class='it'>this</span> better than I have +ever loved you! That you can contemplate +such a sacrifice for honour’s sake and for +justice—the greater to the less, you to Meta—shows +me you are more worthy to be loved +than even I thought you. I <span class='it'>cannot</span> marry anyone +but you. You, you, you! O, God,” he +flung himself upon me in an ecstasy, “to +<span class='pageno' title='247' id='Page_247'></span> +think that in a world which holds such a +woman as you they should call upon me to +content myself with that wax doll of a Meta!”</p> + +<p>I untwined his arms quietly. I was fighting +now the battle of my sex, and I almost forgot +myself in my advocacy of Michaela. “You +shall not speak so of her!” I cried; “the girl +whom you have loved for years—the girl to +whom you have uttered such vows, on whom +you have bestowed such kisses. It is an +insult to our sex. The years must count—the +years and the endearments.”</p> + +<p>He stood away and began again. “Juliet,” +he murmured, in caressing tones, and in his +flute-like voice, as if he loved to repeat my +name, “there is one woman in the world +supremely fitted for me. She has courage, +she has wit, imagination, fancy. She can +hold her own; vivacious, brave, strenuous. +One of her stray black elf-locks is worth all +Meta’s loose gold. Yet she has high purpose +enough to plead another woman’s cause +against her own heart, her own happiness. +Her brain is alert; her eye electric; her soul +womanly. The more she argues, the more +does she make me admire her, reverence her, +worship her. Go on pleading if you will, dear +heart; I love to hear you, to watch you; but +<span class='pageno' title='248' id='Page_248'></span> +every word you say, every hand you move, +for Meta, only strengthens my resolve that +you I will have, or I will have nobody. +Against your will, I will make you happy.”</p> + +<p>He sat down by my side again, and bent +towards me coaxingly. In his low sweet +voice he began to reason. I listened while +he said over again every argument we had +used together by the shrine of St. Nicholas, +with others like them. If he married Meta, +how could she hold his heart? She would +be the mistress of his house, a sort of superior +pet bird, to be tricked out in fine feathers, to +be coaxed, stroked, fondled; but not a wife. +If he married me, we should go through the +world together, equally paired, soul-wedded, +each mirroring the other’s mind, each respecting, +admiring, reinforcing the other. We +two were natural complements. Why seek +to throw him back from the higher upon the +lower?</p> + +<p>I listened and trembled. What he said +was so flattering to one’s own inner vanity, +seemed so exactly what one thought in private +when one dared to be frank with oneself, +had such a show of eternal and immutable +reason, that the temptation to go back on my +word and accept his argument as true was +<span class='pageno' title='249' id='Page_249'></span> +almost irresistible. If I had not seen Michaela, +I think I should have yielded. Love, one’s own +heart, the man one adores at one’s feet, these +are dangerous assailants. But I closed my +eyes, and there Michaela’s blue eyes rose up, +appealing to me in the gondola, with that +piteous cry, “The years must count; the +years must count!” wailed out ever from her +heart; and I knew I was fighting the common +battle of womanhood. If I were to turn +traitor now, I should turn traitor to whatever +I had within me best worth calling a conviction.</p> + +<p>He seized my hand and kissed it. When +the lips of the man you love touch you, it is +hard to refuse. But I drew the hand away. +He followed it up. His breath was warm +upon my cheek. My bosom rose in a tumult. +I began to fear I had presumed too much +upon my guardian angel. If Romeo pressed +me hard now, I must throw Michaela overboard—I +must forget his honour, the years +that count, the battle of my sex, all that is +sacred on earth, everything save myself and +Romeo. If he asked me, I must say, “Yes; +let the white girl go; I will be yours, my +Romeo.”</p> + +<p>Then, conscious of my own weakness—with +<span class='pageno' title='250' id='Page_250'></span> +an impulse as if from without, of a +sudden I flung myself on my knees, and +prayed silently and earnestly for strength to +do right, strength to refrain from betraying +Michaela.</p> + +<p>Romeo stood off with clasped hands, observing +me in dead silence.</p> + +<p>I rose from my knees another woman. The +soul of womanhood found voice within me. +“Romeo, dear Romeo,” I cried, facing him, +and speaking like one inspired, “it is not a +question for you; it is a question for me. I +love you with all my soul; but I refuse to +marry you. I will not be a traitor; the years +must count: go back to Meta!”</p> + +<p>He caught my hand in his. I let it lie like +a stone. “Do not send me away,” he implored. +“Let me stop with you a little!”</p> + +<p>I sank into a chair. He did the same. “But +remember,” I gasped, between two sighs, +“this is final.”</p> + +<p>Tears rose to his eyes. He began to speak +once more. “You must not think, dearest,” +he said, “I have not felt for Meta. Not all +these nights have I slept; but, honestly, in +the dark, I thought it out, and I came to the +conclusion it would be best in the end—even +for Meta.”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='251' id='Page_251'></span> +“Romeo,” I said, raising my eyes, “do you +love me?”</p> + +<p>He made a hasty gesture as if he would +fling himself upon me once more.</p> + +<p>I waved him off with one open palm. +“Then promise me, promise me, you will go +back to Meta.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot!” he cried. “I love you.”</p> + +<p>“Will you go back to Meta?”</p> + +<p>It was a hard, long struggle. We parried, +thrust, marched, countermarched, evaded; but +I had taken it in hand, and I determined to +finish it. Inch by inch falling back, but still +fighting, he gave way. He saw I was in +earnest. Behind each line of defence, each +logical hedge, he tried to argue it out again. I +cut him short with a hasty gesture. “A man, +yes, he can forget the years; but a woman—never!”</p> + +<p>At last, worn out, he promised. In the +agony of my excitement I took his yielding +as a personal triumph. I had asked of my +lover a difficult gift, and by dint of woman’s +armoury, had prevailed on him to grant +it.</p> + +<p>“But—you will stop on at the office?” he +asked at last, holding his breath.</p> + +<p>I turned on him. “How could I? For +<span class='pageno' title='252' id='Page_252'></span> +Meta’s sake, impossible; for my own, an +infamy.”</p> + +<p>“And—I must never see you again?”</p> + +<p>I bowed my head. “These things are +made so. It is <span class='it'>yes</span> or <span class='it'>no</span>. If <span class='it'>yes</span>, for life; if +<span class='it'>no</span>, then never.”</p> + +<p>He advanced towards me, with his lips +trembling visibly. “I may say good-bye?” +he faltered.</p> + +<p>My heart leaped to break its strings. I +knew not what to say. At last—“Yes, if it +is good-bye, and if you go back to Meta.”</p> + +<p>He seized me in his arms. I will not deny +that for one whole minute I lay there sobbing, +happy. It is little, for a lifetime. Then I +moved him away softly. He clung to me, +panting. “Now you must go,” I whispered. +“Do not tell her it was <span class='it'>I</span>. Keep my secret!”</p> + +<p>I opened the door. For a second he lingered. +I waved him away. I could endure it +no longer. Looking back and breathing hard, +he passed through into the passage. I turned +the key in the lock to satisfy myself that that +embassy was fulfilled; then I fell on the bed, +and cried a low cry, “Romeo! Romeo!”</p> + +<h2><span class='pageno' title='253' id='Page_253'></span>CHAPTER XXII.<br/> <span class='sub-head'>I CLING TO THE RIGGING.</span></h2> + +<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'>So</span> my poor little Odyssey had come to an end +in shipwreck! Mr. Samuel Butler must be +wrong, after all. I doubt a woman’s ability +to handle these sustained epics. I was to get +no farther on my way to Ithaca than the +episode of Phæacia. Nor would any Nausicaa +come forth to aid me.</p> + +<p>After I had cried my heart’s full—cried till +that point when you begin to leave off and to +laugh like a child at nothing, for pure weariness—the +humorous element, which inevitably +enters into all human tragedy, pressed itself +upon me. On the stage, art never lets these +incongruous incidents intervene at critical +moments to disturb the current: in real life, +they <span class='it'>will</span> obtrude their faces, like Paul Pry; +and ’tis my misfortune and my good luck +that, with some grain of Heine in my composition, +I cannot shut my eyes to them. So +here, the comic muse, masquerading as Common +<span class='pageno' title='254' id='Page_254'></span> +Sense, stepped in with one grotesque reminder: +“You have no money to pay your way back +to London.”</p> + +<p>Now, gypsy or American or Anglo-Indian +or what you will, I am true Briton in this, +that whatever misfortune lowers, I see one +path of safety—the road home to London. +“If only I could get back to London!” is the +Briton’s heart-felt cry of distress in a foreign +land. He can starve in comfort, so he may +starve in Piccadilly.</p> + +<p>I have already explained that I am wholly +free from the vile vice of prudence. To take +no thought for the morrow is to me an article +of religion, though ’tis rare among those who +profess to accept it as a divine injunction. +Acting on this principle, I had bought a single +second-class ticket to Venice, as my funds +were insufficient to pay for a return. It was +my idea, when I started, to trust for my +journey home to the saint who lies at the Lido. +Now, however, I found myself in an awkward +predicament. St. Nicholas had played me a +last bad turn. I had bought perforce a new +travelling costume before I left England, for +I recognised that my rational dress with the +knickerbockers would harmonise ill with the +genius of Venice; the rest of my cash in +<span class='pageno' title='255' id='Page_255'></span> +hand had gone for beds at Lucerne or Milan, +and passing necessaries. I stood face to face +with an Italian court of bankruptcy; liabilities, +my hotel bill; assets, five paper lire.</p> + +<p>To borrow from Romeo was now clearly +impossible. And the canals are so redolent +of thirty generations of Venetian refuse that +suicide does not offer here its normal allurements.</p> + +<p>This brought the revulsion. I lay on my +bed and laughed to think that, broken heart +or not, I could not get away from Venice.</p> + +<p>By evening, I had a headache. I was crying +once more. But the worst of headache is +that it never kills.</p> + +<p>Early next morning I woke from a short +snatch of sleep with a dull pain in my left +side. It was moral, not physical. I rose, to +ease it by action. <span class='it'>Oubliez; voyagez!</span> I had +still qualms of conscience—I who fancied I +had dissected conscience out of existence: +but this time they were reversed. Had I +done right, after all, in speeding Romeo to his +fate? Would Michaela be a mate for him? +Was it not better as it was before—for the +greatest happiness of the greatest number +at least? St. Nicholas, help! John Stuart +Mill, stand by me!</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='256' id='Page_256'></span> +I dressed, bathed my red eyes, and went +out to keep my appointment. I was early at +San Giorgio, but Michaela was before me. +As I lifted the heavy curtain, her eyes shone +happiness. In her radiant countenance I read +my doom. She was calmly, serenely joyous. +I beckoned her to the <span class='it'>campo</span>. She flitted out, +and with a charming baby impulse flung her +arms around me.</p> + +<p>Tears rose in my eyes. It was sweet to see +her happy. I held her hand and said nothing.</p> + +<p>“Well, he has explained all,” she whispered. +“You were a dear to speak to him.”</p> + +<p>“Explained!” I cried. How true it is that +explanations explain nothing!</p> + +<p>“Yes, he told mamma he did not know the +type-writer girl was coming to Venice. He +went out with her in a gondola because he met +her by accident—and it was such a surprise to +him; and he wanted to avoid mamma. But he +is not going to see her again, and I believe he +will dismiss her.”</p> + +<p>“No, dear,” I said gently, unable to restrain +myself, “he will <span class='it'>not</span> dismiss her, because—she +will go away of her own accord. She +does not intend to remain with him. I have +seen her, and I can assure you she is better +than you think. She did not know Romeo +<span class='pageno' title='257' id='Page_257'></span> +was engaged; and when she fully realised it +she relinquished all claim to him, or rather +admitted she had never had one. Michaela, +dear child, you must not be hard upon her. +You promised to forgive her. I feel sure she +has suffered, for she loved him devotedly.”</p> + +<p>“How good you are!” Michaela cried. +“You sympathise so with everyone!”</p> + +<p>“She has promised me,” I went on, “that +she will never again see him, that she will +avoid him with care, that she will not speak +to him nor write to him. She will try to forget +him, though to forget him is as impossible for +her as for you. But she will be true to you; +she will keep her word. I can answer for +her as I could answer for myself; she spoke +with such earnestness. She is tearing out +her heart; but because she thinks it right she +will tear it out ruthlessly.”</p> + +<p>Michaela smiled a tranquil smile. “And it +is all right now,” she said. “We are to be +married in October, as we arranged originally.”</p> + +<p>We walked along the canal. We walked +side by side, but great gulfs separated us. +At last I spoke again. “You forgive her, +Michaela?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! yes, dear, I forgive her. If she did +<span class='pageno' title='258' id='Page_258'></span> +not know, of course it was natural. He <span class='it'>is</span> +such a dear! She could not help falling in +love with him!”</p> + +<p>“So I feel,” I said. She glanced up at me +with inquiring blue eyes. I think for a +second she half suspected the truth, for I had +spoken too deeply.</p> + +<p>We walked on in silence a little farther. +Then Michaela began again, brimming over +with her happiness. “I haven’t a quarter +thanked you. But I <span class='it'>am</span> so grateful! You +were a sweet to see them both. You will +come to my wedding?”</p> + +<p>“No, dearest,” I answered, driving back the +tears with a fierce effort. “If so, I should +be breaking a solemn promise.”</p> + +<p>Again she seemed to suspect, and again the +doubt went from her.</p> + +<p>“It was all a mistake,” she continued, in a +childish, sunny way, “a passing cloud. And +Toto seemed so distressed, I couldn’t help feeling +sorry to see him so sorry for me. It has +touched him very deep. He cried a great deal. +He has been crying all the time. But it is all +right now. We shall be quite happy!”</p> + +<p>I swallowed a lump. What a child it was! +And <span class='it'>there</span> lay the irony. I think I could have +spared Romeo better had I felt I was sparing +<span class='pageno' title='259' id='Page_259'></span> +him to more of a woman. Self-sacrifice for +some great soul would be easy: but for a bit +of thistledown! And yet I loved her.</p> + +<p>“I told mamma how kind you had been,” +Michaela went on, quite guilelessly, “and she +wants to see you so much. You must come and +dine with us at our hotel. How long do you +stop in Venice?”</p> + +<p>I paused and reflected. I had done her a +service—a very great service; what need to +stand on trifles? For I do not share the +vulgar dread of putting myself under an +obligation.</p> + +<p>“Dear little Michaela,” I said, spanning her +arm with one hand—it was so fairy-like and +tiny—and drawing her towards me, “I will +confess the truth. I am travelling with that +type-writer girl. I know her intimately. +Now, I want to spirit her away from Venice +at once, so that she may not see Romeo, and +that Romeo may not see her. It would be +awkward for both of them. But I have no +money. I borrowed from you once and repaid +you faithfully; if I borrow from you +again I will repay in like manner. This is a +worse strait than Holmwood. I shall need +six or seven pounds. My dear, can you lend +it to me?”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='260' id='Page_260'></span> +She drew out the dainty purse. “Why, +of course, dear, if I have it. Fifty, a hundred +and fifty, two hundred lire; will that be +enough for you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my child,” I gasped out, taking the +crumpled notes and crushing them in my +folded hand. “If I work my fingers to the +bone you shall have it back.”</p> + +<p>We walked on towards the Molo. O grey, +grey Venice! The greatest happiness of the +greatest number. Back, back, Stuart Mill! +Get thee behind me, Satan! A gondola +approached. I hailed it.</p> + +<p>“Where are you going?” she cried, surprised.</p> + +<p>“Away,” I said, “at once. It is better—safer! +I will give the devil no chances.” +Then to the gondolier, “Hold off a little!”</p> + +<p>He held off beyond jumping distance. +Michaela hung over on the bridge close by, +wondering.</p> + +<p>“Michaela,” I cried, “now I will tell you!” +An impulse came over me; I could no longer +resist it. “It was <span class='it'>I</span> who stole your Romeo’s +heart by mistake! It was <span class='it'>I</span> who played Carmen +and beguiled your Don José. It was <span class='it'>I</span> +who sent him back. <span class='it'>I</span> am the type-writer +girl!”</p> + +<p><span class='pageno' title='261' id='Page_261'></span> +“You!” she cried, waving to me to return. +“Oh, you dear thing, come back! If it was +you, how good you have been! Why, I can +see it in your face. You have suffered for +my sake! Come back, and let me kiss you!”</p> + +<p>“No, dearest,” I said, melting. “I must +go. I dare not trust myself. Good-bye for +ever! Good-bye to you; good-bye to Romeo. +Give him that message for me; I will never +again see him.” I turned to the gondolier. +“Quick, row for all you are worth! To my +hotel first, then on to the railway station!”</p> + +<hr class='tbk'/> + +<p>If this book succeeds I mean to repay +Michaela. Meanwhile, in any case, I am +saving up daily every farthing to repay her. +For I am still a type-writer girl—at another +office.</p> + +<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:2em;font-size:1.5em;'>THE END</p> + +<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:6em;margin-bottom:4em;'><span class='it'>Malcomson & Co., Ltd., Printers, Redhill.</span></p> + +<hr class='pbk'/> + +<div class='lgc' style='margin-top:3em;margin-bottom:1em;'> <!-- rend=';' --> +<p class='line'>NEW 3s. 3d. FICTION.</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line'>_____</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line'><span style='font-size:smaller'>H. G. WELLS’ NEW ROMANCE.</span></p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='bold'>THE INVISIBLE MAN.</span></span></p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line'>By the Author of “The Time Machine.” Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 3s. 6d.</p> +</div> <!-- end rend --> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>Other writers have treated this theme, but they have generally given the invisible man a power +which it was something more than a satisfaction for him to have. Mr. Wells, however, is original +in all things, and shows us in this story what a disadvantage it is to become invisible. He describes +how, if a man becomes invisible, it does not follow that the clothes he wears become invisible also, +and on this supposition has woven a story that will hold the reader with breathless interest from +start to finish.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>The Duke and the Damsel.</span> By <span class='sc'>Richard Marsh</span>, Author of the “Devil’s +Diamonds,” &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>In this story Mr. Richard Marsh devotes himself to a series of light-comedy incidents, relieved by +a few touches of strong feeling. The scene is laid at Monte Carlo, and the whole tale is a study of +modern men (and women) and manners.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>Fortune’s Footballs.</span> By <span class='sc'>G. B. Burgin</span>, Author of “Old Man’s Marriage,” +&c., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>In this story Mr. Burgin forsakes his customary Canadian and Turkish haunts in favour of +“dramatic life” in London. The plot deals with a strolling vagabond who has stolen the half-finished +play of a great dramatic author and afterwords produces it as his own. He is tracked by +the daughter of the dead dramatist, and ultimately meets with his deserts. There is a boy-and-girl +love-story in the subsidiary plot, and a “new thing” in villains in the shape of a greasy Canadian +philanthropist.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>Her Royal Highness’s Love Affairs.</span> By <span class='sc'>J. Maclaren Cobban</span>, Author of +“The Cure of Souls,” “The Red Sultan,” &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>In his new story, Mr. Maclaren Cobban follows Mr. Wells’ example and makes a hero of a shopman. +Unlike Mr. Wells, however, the shopman in question is of good family, and sells lace for a West-End +firm. He first meets the heroine (the Princess) when she is bicycling, and out of the <span class='it'>rencontre</span> Mr. +Maclaren Cobban spins a very dainty love-story.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>The Iron Cross.</span> By <span class='sc'>R. H. Sherard</span>, Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>Mr. Sherard has laid the scene of this story in an old French village, and deals with a search for +hidden treasure in a thoroughly novel and interesting way. The mystery of the hidden treasure is +well maintained up to the last chapter.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>John of Strathbourne.</span> By <span class='sc'>R. D. Chetwode</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>In this story Mr. Chetwode challenges comparison with Mr. Stanley Weyman in his most dramatic +moments. He has fully caught the romantic spirit of the time when “The Thousand Devils” +flourished in Old France, and furnishes a very pretty love-story as a set-off to the foibles of the +villains whom he depicts.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>The Skipper’s Wooing.</span> By <span class='sc'>W. W. Jacobs</span>, Author of “Many Cargoes,” &c. +Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>It will be remembered that Mr. Jacobs made an instantaneous success with his first book of short +stories. Mr. Jacobs is now following up that success with a long novel, the scene of which is laid +among the semi-seafaring folk with whose peculiarities he is so familiar. “The Skipper’s Wooing” +deals with the adventures of a Captain in search of his sweetheart’s father, who has disappeared +under a cloud. Despairing of the success of his own exertions, the Captain offers a reward to all the +members of his crew to help him. They set forth in different directions on the same quest, and meet +with many ludicrous misadventures by the way. The book is written with all the high spirits of +youth, and should more than confirm Mr. Jacobs’ previous success.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>When the Birds Begin to Sing.</span> By <span class='sc'>Winifred Graham</span>, Author of “On the +Down Grade.” With 16 illustrations by <span class='sc'>Harold Piffard</span>. Square crown +8vo. Price 3s. 6d.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>“A striking and interesting tale. The authoress has evidently a strong imagination and a gift for +story-telling.”—<span class='it'>Dundee Courier.</span></p> + +</div> + +<hr class='pbk'/> + +<div class='lgc' style='margin-top:3em;margin-bottom:1em;'> <!-- rend=';' --> +<p class='line'>NEW 6s. NOVELS.</p> +<p class='line'> </p> +<p class='line'>_____</p> +</div> <!-- end rend --> + +<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>COMPANION VOLUME TO “THE FINAL WAR.”</p> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>An American Emperor.</span> By <span class='sc'>Louis Tracy</span>. Square crown 8vo, cloth, 16 full-page +illustrations. Price 6s.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>It is a long time since such a daring book as “An American Emperor” has been produced. +Mr. Tracy has taken for his theme the power of money, and the work is written in his best and +most graphic style. All through runs a vein of romance, mingled with stirring adventure and +with tragedy. And throughout there is nothing improbable, nothing which outsteps the possibilities +of such a power as unlimited millions would bestow. With a cheque-book Mr. Tracy’s +hero performs what Napoleon accomplished with an army.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'><span class='it'>BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</span></p> + +<p class='hang'><span class='it'>THE FINAL WAR.—A Story of the Great Betrayal. Illustrated +by Ernest F. Sherie. Square crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s.</span></p> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>Queen of the Jesters.</span> By <span class='sc'>Max Pemberton</span>, Author of “Christine of the +Hills,” &c., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, illustrated, 6s.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>This is a collection of the stories by Mr. Pemberton which have been delighting all England +for the last few months. They are full of stirring adventure, and written with Mr. Pemberton’s +customary skill in depicting strong emotion and dramatic incident.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>The Raid of the “Detrimental.”</span> By the <span class='sc'>Earl of Desart</span>, Author of “Lord +and Lady Piccadilly,” &c., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>In this story the Earl of Desart has made a new departure. The tale deals with the True +History of the Great Disappearance of 1862, and is related by several of those implicated and +others. The story is so fantastic and novel, the dialogue so brilliant, that it recalls the former +successes of the author in the particular field which is almost his own.</p> + +</div> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>The Zone of Fire.</span> By <span class='sc'>Headon Hill</span>, Author of “Guilty Gold,” “The +Rajah’s Second Wife,” &c., &c. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p> + +<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'><span class='it'>BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</span></p> + +<p class='hang'><span class='it'>GUILTY GOLD.—A Romance of Financial Fraud and City Crime. +Illustrated by Raymond Potter. Square crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s.</span></p> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>Valdar—The Oft-Born: A Saga of Seven Ages.</span> By <span class='sc'>George Griffith</span>, +Author of “The Angel of the Revolution,” &c., &c. Illustrated by +<span class='sc'>Harold Piffard</span>. Square crown 8vo, cloth. Price 6s.</p> + +<p class='hang'><span class='bold'>The Impudent Comedian, and Others.</span> By <span class='sc'>Frankfort Moore</span>. Illustrated +by <span class='sc'>Robert Sauber</span>. Large crown 8vo, cloth. Price 5s.</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p>“Really Mr. Frankfort Moore ought to write for the theatres. He has not only an uncommon +talent for dramatic dialogue—dialogue, that is to say, which contributes at the same time to +the development of character and the conduct of a plot—he is also particularly cunning in +devising a telling situation. There are two or three stories in his new book, ‘The Impudent +Comedian,’ which may be turned into plays as easily as pork may be made into sausages—the +same thing in another form.”—<span class='it'>The Referee.</span></p> + +</div> + +<hr class='pbk'/> + +<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:4em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:1.2em;'>TRANSCRIBER NOTES</p> + +<div class='blockquote'> + +<p class='noindent'>Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. +Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been +employed.</p> + +<p class='line'> </p> + +<p class='noindent'>Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious +printer errors occur.</p> + +<p class='line'> </p> + +<p class='noindent'>Book cover illustration was taken from Wikipedia Commons. +The resulting cover is placed in the public domain.</p> + +<p class='line'> </p> + +<p class='noindent'>[The end of <span class='it'>The Type-writer Girl</span>, by Grant Allen.]</p> + +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78662 ***</div> +</body> +<!-- created with fpgen.py 4.67a on 2026-05-12 01:13:20 GMT --> +</html> diff --git a/78662-h/images/cover.jpg b/78662-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..96c407e --- /dev/null +++ b/78662-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1413be5 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78662 +(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78662) |
