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diff --git a/9363-h/9363-h.htm b/9363-h/9363-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70df5b7 --- /dev/null +++ b/9363-h/9363-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,17322 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!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"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + The Best British Short Stories of 1922 + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre> +Project Gutenberg's The Best British Short Stories of 1922, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Best British Short Stories of 1922 + +Author: Various + +Editor: Edward J. O'Brien + John Cournos + +Posting Date: November 29, 2011 [EBook #9363] +Release Date: November, 2005 +First Posted: September 24, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES, 1922 *** + + + + +Etext produced by Stan Goodman, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES<br /><br /> OF 1922 + </h1> + <h3> + Edited By Edward J. O'brien And John Cournos + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + TO STACY AUMONIER + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + BY WAY OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT + </h2> + <p> + Grateful acknowledgement for permission to include the stories and other + material in this volume is made to the following authors, editors, + literary agents, and publishers: + </p> + <p> + To the Editor of <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>, the Editor of <i>The + Dial</i>, the Editor of <i>The Freeman</i>, the Editor of <i>The English + Review</i>, the Editor of <i>The Century Magazine</i>, the Editor of <i>Harpers' + Bazar</i>, the Editor of <i>The Ladies' Home Journal</i>, the Editor of <i>The + Chicago Tribune</i> Syndicate Service, Alfred A. Knopf, The Golden + Cockerel Press, B.W. Huebsch, The Talbot Press, Dodd, Mead and Co., Stacy + Aumonier, J.D. Beresford, Algernon Blackwood, Harold Brighouse, William + Caine, A.E. Coppard, Miss R.C. Lamburn, Walter de la Mare, Miss Dorothy + Easton, Miss May Edginton, John Galsworthy, Alan Graham, Holloway Horn, + Rowland Kenney, Miss Rosamond Langbridge, Mrs. Mary St. Leger Harrison, + Mrs. J. Middleton Murry, Mrs. Elinor Mordaunt, Max Pemberton, Roland + Pertwee, Miss May Sinclair, Sidney Southgate, Mrs. Geoffrey Holdsworth, + Mrs. Basil Hargrave, and Hugh Walpole; to Curtis Brown, Ltd., as agent for + Stacy Aumonier, May Edginton, Elinor Mordaunt, Roland Pertwee, and May + Sinclair; to J.B. Pinker as agent for J.D. Beresford, Walter de la Mare, + John Galsworthy, G.B. Stern, and Hugh Walpole; to A.P. Watt and Son as + agent for Algernon Blackwood and Lucas Malet; to Andrew H. Dakers as agent + for A.E. Coppard; to Cotterill and Cromb as agent for Alan Graham; and to + Christy and Moore, Ltd., as agent for Holloway Horn. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_ACKN" id="link2H_ACKN"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Acknowledgements are specially due to <i>The Boston Evening Transcript</i> + </h2> + <p> + for permission to reprint the large body of material previously published + in its pages. We ask pardon of any one whose rights we may have + accidentally overlooked. + </p> + <p> + We shall be grateful to our readers for corrections, and particularly for + suggestions leading to the wider usefulness of this annual volume. We + shall particularly welcome the receipt from authors, editors, agents, and + publishers, of stories printed during the year beginning July 1, 1922, + which have qualities of distinction but yet are not published in + periodicals falling under our regular notice. Such communications may be + addressed to <i>Edward J. O'Brien, Forest Hill, Oxfordshire</i>. + </p> + <h3> + E.J.O. + </h3> + <h3> + J.C. + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1922 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? — By STACY AUMONIER + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE LOOKING GLASS — By J.D. BERESFORD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE OLIVE — By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ONCE A HERO — By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE PENSIONER — By WILLIAM CAINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> BROADSHEET BALLAD — By A.E. COPPARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT — By RICHMAL + CROMPTON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> SEATON'S AUNT By WALTER DE LA MARE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> THE REAPER — By DOROTHY EASTON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE SONG — By MAY EDGINTON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> A HEDONIST — By JOHN GALSWORTHY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE BAT AND BELFRY INN — By ALAN GRAHAM + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> THE LIE — By HOLLOWAY HORN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> A GIRL IN IT — By ROWLAND KENNEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE BACKSTAIRS OF THE MIND — By ROSAMOND + LANGBRIDGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE BIRTH OF A MASTERPIECE — By LUCAS + MALET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> "GENIUS" — By ELINOR MORDAUNT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE DEVIL TO PAY — By MAX PEMBERTON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> EMPTY ARMS — By ROLAND PERTWEE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> LENA WRACE — By MAY SINCLAIR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE DICE THROWER — By SIDNEY SOUTHGATE + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> THE STRANGER WOMAN — By G.B. STERN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE WOMAN WHO SAT STILL — By PARRY + TRUSCOTT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> MAJOR WILBRAHAM — By HUGH WALPOLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE YEARBOOK OF THE BRITISH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> ADDRESSES OF PERIODICALS PUBLISHING SHORT + STORIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE ROLL OF HONOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> A LIST OF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + When Edward J. O'Brien asked me to cooperate with him in choosing each + year's best English short stories, to be published as a companion volume + to his annual selection of the best American short stories, I had not + realized that at the end of my arduous task, which has involved the + reading of many hundreds of stories in the English magazines of an entire + year, I should find myself asking the simple question: What is a short + story? + </p> + <p> + I do not suppose that a hundred years ago such a question could have + occurred to any one. Then all that a story was and could be was implied in + the simple phrase: "Tell me a story...." We all know what that means. How + many stories published today would stand this simple if final test of + being told by word of mouth? I doubt whether fifty per cent would. Surely + the universality of the printing press and the linotype machine have done + something to alter the character of literature, just as the train and the + telephone have done not a little to abolish polite correspondence. Most + stories of today are to be read, not told. Hence great importance must be + attached to the manner of writing; in some instances, the whole effect of + a modern tale is dependent on the manner of presentation. Henry James is, + possibly, an extreme example. Has any one ever attempted to tell a tale in + the Henry James manner by word of mouth, even when the manner pretends to + be conversational? I, for one, have yet to experience this pleasure, + though I have listened to a good many able and experienced tale-tellers in + my time. + </p> + <p> + Now, there is a great connection between the manner or method of a writer + and the matter upon which he works his manner or method. Henry James was + not an accident. Life, as he found it, was full of trivialities and polite + surfaces; and a great deal of manner—style, if you like—is + needful to give life and meaning to trivial things. + </p> + <p> + And James was, by no means, an isolated phenomenon. In Russia Chekhov was + creating an artistic significance out of the uneventful lives of the petty + bourgeoisie, whose hitherto small numbers had vastly increased with the + advent of machinery and the industrialization of the country; as the + villages became towns, the last vestiges of the "romantic" and "heroic" + elements seemed to have departed from contemporary Russian literature. As + widely divergent as the two writers were in their choice of materials and + methods of expression, they yet met on common ground in their devotion to + form, their painstaking perfecting of their expressions; and this tense + effort alone was often enough the very life and soul of their adventure. + They were like magicians creating marvels with the flimsiest of materials; + they did not complain of the poverty of life, but as often as not created + bricks without straw. Not for them Herman Melville's dictum, to be found + in <i>Moby Dick</i>: "To produce a mighty book you must choose a mighty + theme." + </p> + <p> + Roughly, then, there are two schools of creative literature, and round + them there have grown up two schools of criticism. The one maintains that + form is everything, that not only is perfect form essential, and + interesting material non-essential, but that actually interesting material + is a deterrent to perfect expression, inasmuch as material from life, + inherently imaginative, fantastic or romantic, is likely to make an author + lazy and negligent and cause him to throw his whole dependence on + objective facts rather than on his ingenuity in creating an individual + atmosphere and vibrant patterns of his own making. The other school + maintains with equal emphasis that form is not enough, that it wants a + real and exciting story, that where a man's materials are rich and "big" + the necessity for perfection is obviated; indeed, "rough edges" are a + virtue. As one English novelist tersely put it to me: "I don't care for + the carving of orange pips. All I ask of a writer is that his stuff should + be big." Undoubtedly, some people prefer a cultivated garden, others + nature in all her wildness. Nature, it is true, may exercise no selection; + unfortunately it is too often forgotten that she is all art in the wealth + and minuteness of her detail. + </p> + <p> + It seems to me that both theories are equally fallacious. I do not see how + either can be wholly satisfying. There is no reason at all why a story + should not contain both form and matter, a form, I should say, suited to + the matter. Among the painters Vermeer is admittedly perfect; has then + Rembrandt no art? Among the writers Turgenev is perfect. George Moore has + compared his perfection to that of the Greeks; is it then justifiable to + call Dostoevsky journalese, as some have called him? Indeed, it takes a + great artist to write about great things, though, it is true, a great + artist is often pardoned for lapses in style, where a minor artist can + afford no such lapses. It was in such a light, with the true honesty and + humility of a fine artist, that Flaubert, than whom none sought greater + perfection, regarded himself before the towering Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + This preamble is no digression, but is quite pertinent to any + consideration of the contemporary short story, for I must admit that + however fallacious is either of the prevalent theories which I have + outlined, in practice both work out with an appalling accuracy. Of the + hundreds of stories which I have had to read the number possessing a sense + of form is relatively small, and of these only a few are rich in content; + strictly speaking, most of them stick to the facts of everyday life, to + the intimate realities of urban and suburban existence. Other stories, and + these are more numerous, possibly as a reaction and in response to the + human craving for the fairy tale, are concerned with the most impossible + adventure and fantastic unreality, Romance with the capital R. They are + often attractive in plot, able in construction, happy in invention, and + their general tendency may be to fall within the definition of "life's + little ironies"; yet, in spite of these admirable qualifications, the + majority of these stories are unconvincing, lacking in balance, in + plausibility, in that virtue which may be defined as "the writer's + imagination," whose lack is something more than careless writing. How + often one puts down a story with the feeling that it would take little to + make it a "rattling good tale," but alas, that little is everything. A + story-teller's craft depends not only on a sense of style, that is, form + and good writing, but also on the creation of an atmosphere, shall we say + hypnotic in effect, and capable of persuading the reader that he is a + temporary inhabitant of the world the writer is describing, however remote + in time or space that world may be from the world of the reader's own + experience. And the more enlightened and culturally emotional the reader, + the greater the power of seduction is a writer called upon to exercise. + For it is obvious that all these hundreds of crude Arabian Nights tales + and jungle tales and all sorts of tales of impossible adventure appearing + in the pages of our periodicals would not be written if they were not in + demand by the large public. + </p> + <p> + The question arises: Why is it that authors who deal with the intimate + realities of our dull, everyday life are, on the whole, so much better as + writers than those who attempt to portray the more glamorous existence of + the East, of the jungle, of, so to speak, other worlds? I have a theory of + my own to offer in explanation, and it is this: + </p> + <p> + <i>A</i>, let us say, is a writer who has stayed at home. Let us suppose + that his experience has been largely limited to London, or still more + precisely, to the East End of London. He has either lived or spent a great + deal of time here, and without having actively participated in the lives + of the natives and denizens of the district has observed them to good + purpose and saturated himself with their atmosphere. He has, in an + intimate sense, secured not only his scene, but also, either actually or + potentially, his characters. English—of a sort—is the language + of his community; and the temper of this community, except in petty + externals, is, after all, but little different from his own. He has lost + no time in either travelling or in learning another's language, he has had + a great deal of time for developing his technique. He has, indeed, spent + the greater part of his time in working out his form. He is, as you may + guess, anything but a superlative genius; certainly, we may venture to + assume that he is, at all events, a fine talent, a careful observer, a + painstaking worker, possessed of inventive powers within limitations. He + knows his genre and his milieu, and he knows his job. He observes his + people with an artistic sympathy. He is an etcher, loving his line, rather + than a photographer. Vast mural decorations are beyond him. + </p> + <p> + Then there is <i>B</i>. <i>B</i> is a traveller, something of an + adventurer too. His <i>wanderlust</i>, or possibly his occupation as a + minor government official, journalist, or representative for some + commercial firm, has taken him East. He has spent some time in Shanghai or + Hong Kong, in Calcutta or Rangoon, in Tokyo or Nagasaki. He has lived + chiefly in the foreign quarter and occasionally sallied out to seek + adventure in the native habitat. He has secured a smattering of the native + tongue, and has even taken unto himself a temporary native wife. A bold + man, he has, in his way, lived dangerously and intensely. He has besides + heard men of his own race living in the quarter tell weird tales of + romantic nature, perhaps of a white girl who came out East, or of a native + girl who had won the heart of an Englishman to his undoing. At last <i>B</i> + has had enough of it, and has come home to the old country, his England, + and sits down to his new job, the exploitation of his knowledge and + experience of the East. Possibly a few friends who had listened to his + tales urged him to set them down on paper, and <i>B</i>, who had not + thought of it before, thinks it is not such a bad idea, and getting a + supply of paper and a typewriter launches forth on a career as a writer. + He is intent on turning out a good tale, and does remarkably well for a + novice, but his inexperience as a writer, his lack of form and technique + and deliberateness will hinder his progress, though now and then he will + turn out a tolerable tale by sheer accident. The really great man will, of + course, break through the double barrier, and then you have a Conrad: that + is to say, you have a man who has lived abundantly and has been able to + apply an abundance of art to his abundance of material. But that is, + indeed, rare nowadays, and the whole moral of the little parable of <i>A</i> + and <i>B</i> is that in our own time it is given but to few men to do + both. The one has specialized in writing, the other in living. And the + comparison may be applied, of course, to the two writers who have stayed + at home, even in the same district. <i>A</i> hasn't much to say, but what + he says he says well, because writing means to him something as a thing in + itself; he finds compensation in the quality of his writings for his lack + of rich material; the whole content of his art is in his form, and that, + if not wholly satisfying, is surely no mean achievement. <i>B</i>, on the + other hand, may have a great deal to say, and says it badly. He thinks his + material will carry him through. He does not understand that the function + of art is to crystallize; synthesize the materials at hand, to distil the + essences of life, to formalize natural shapes. There should be no + confusing of nature and art. A mountain is nature, a pyramid is art. We + have no man in the short story today who has synthesized his age, who has + thrown a light on the peculiar many-sided adventure of modernity, who has + achieved a sense of universality. Maupassant came near to it in his own + time. Never before have men had such opportunities for knowing the world, + never before has it been so easy to cover space, our means of + communication have never been so rapid; yet there is an almost maddening + contradiction in the fact that every man who writes is content in + describing but a single facet of the great adventure of life. Our age is + an age of specialization, and many a man spends a life in trying to + visualize for us a fragment of existence in multitudinous variations. An + Empire may be said to stand for a universalizing tendency, yet the + extraordinary fact about the mass of English stories today is that, far + from being expressive of any tendency to unity, they are mostly concerned + with presenting the specialized atmospheres of so many individual + localities and vocations. We have writers who do not go beyond Dartmoor, + or Park Lane, or the East End of London; we have writers of sea stories, + jungle stories, detective stories, lost jewel stories, slum stories, and + we have writers who seldom stray from the cricket field or the prize ring, + or Freudian complexes. + </p> + <p> + Yet, in putting on record these individual tendencies of the short story, + I should be overdrawing the picture if I did not call attention to what + general tendencies are in the ascendent. The supernatural element is + prominent among these. Stories of ghosts, spiritualism and reincarnation + are becoming increasingly popular with authors, especially with the type I + have described as <i>A</i>. This is interesting, since it evinces a + healthy desire to get away from the banal facts of one's standardized + atmosphere, the atmosphere of suburbia. It may be both a reaction and an + escape, and may express a desire for a more spiritual life than is + vouchsafed us. The love of adventure and the love of love will, of course, + remain with us as long as men live and love a tale, and nine tenths of the + stories still deal with the favored hero and the inevitable girl. + </p> + <p> + This book is to be an annual venture and its object is the same as that of + Mr. O'Brien's annual selection of American stories. It is to gather and + save from obscurity every year those tales by English authors which are + published in English and American periodicals and are worth preserving in + permanent form. It is well known that short-story writers in Anglo-Saxon + countries have not the same chance of publishing their wares in book form + as their more fortunate colleagues, the novelists. This prejudice against + the publication of short stories in book form is not to be justified, and + it does not exist on the Continent. Most of the fine fiction, for example, + published in Russia since Chekhov made the form popular, took precisely + the form of the short story. It is a good form and should be encouraged. + It is also the object of this volume to call attention to new writers who + show promise and to help to create a demand for their work by publishing + their efforts side by side with those already accepted and established. + </p> + <p> + It has been the custom to dedicate Mr. O'Brien's annual selection of + American stories to some author who has distinguished himself in the + particular year by his valuable contribution to the art of the short + story. We propose to adopt it with regard to our English selections. We + are glad of the opportunity to associate this year's collection with the + name of Stacy Aumonier. As for the stories selected for this volume, that + is to some degree a matter of personal judgement; it is quite possible + that other editors would, in some instances, have made a different choice. + </p> + <h3> + JOHN COURNOS. + </h3> + <p> + An additional word may be added on the principles which have governed our + choice. We have set ourselves the task of disengaging the essential human + qualities in our contemporary fiction which, when chronicled + conscientiously by our literary artists, may fairly be called a criticism + of life. We are not at all interested in formulae, and organised criticism + at its best would be nothing more than dead criticism, as all dogmatic + interpretation of life is always dead. What has interested us, to the + exclusion of other things, is the fresh living current which flows through + the best British and Irish work, and the psychological and imaginative + reality which writers have conferred upon it. + </p> + <p> + No substance is of importance in fiction, unless it is organic substance, + that is to say, substance in which the pulse of life is beating. Inorganic + fiction has been our curse in the past, and bids fair to remain so, unless + we exercise much greater artistic discrimination than we display at + present. + </p> + <p> + The present record covers the period from July, 1921, to June, 1922, + inclusive. During this period we have sought to select from the stories + published in British and American periodicals those stories by British and + Irish authors which have rendered life imaginatively in organic substance + and artistic form. Substance is something achieved by the artist in every + act of creation, rather than something already present, and accordingly a + fact or a group of facts in a story only attain substantial embodiment + when the artist's power of compelling imaginative persuasion transforms + them into a living truth. The first test of a short story, therefore, in + any qualitative analysis is to report upon how vitally compelling the + writer makes his selected facts or incidents. This test may be + conveniently called the test of substance. + </p> + <p> + But a second test is necessary if the story is to take rank above other + stories. The true artist will seek to shape this living substance into the + most beautiful and satisfying form, by skillful selection and arrangement + of his materials, and by the most direct and appealing presentation of it + in portrayal and characterization. + </p> + <p> + The short stories which we have examined in this study have fallen + naturally into three groups. The first consists of those stories which + fail, in our opinion, to survive both the test of substance and the test + of form. These we have not chronicled. + </p> + <p> + The second group includes such narratives as may lay convincing claim to + further consideration, because each of them has survived in a measure both + tests, the test of substance and the test of form. Stories included in + this group are chronicled in the list which immediately follows the "Roll + of Honour." + </p> + <p> + Finally we have recorded the names of a smaller group of stories which + possess, we believe, the distinction of uniting genuine substance and + artistic form in a closely woven pattern with such sincerity that they are + worthy of being reprinted. If all of these stories were republished, they + would not occupy more space than six or seven novels of average length. + Our selection of them does not imply the critical belief that they are + great stories. A year which produced one great story would be an + exceptional one. It is simply to be taken as meaning that we have found + the equivalent of six or seven volumes worthy of republication among all + the stories published during the period under consideration. These stories + are listed in the special "Roll of Honour." In compiling these lists we + have permitted no personal preference or prejudice to consciously + influence our judgement. The general and particular results of our study + will be found explained and carefully detailed in the supplementary part + of the volume. Mr. Cournos has read the English periodicals, and I have + read the American periodicals. We have then compared our judgements. + </p> + <h3> + EDWARD J. O'BRIEN. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1922 + </h1> + <p> + NOTE—The order in which the stories in this volume are printed is + not intended as an indication of their comparative excellence; the + arrangement is alphabetical by authors. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? — By STACY AUMONIER + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Strand Magazine</i> and <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1921, 1922 + </h3> + <p> + In the public bar of the Wagtail, in Wapping, four men and a woman were + drinking beer and discussing diseases. It was not a pretty subject, and + the company was certainly not a handsome one. It was a dark November + evening, and the dingy lighting of the bar seemed but to emphasize the + bleak exterior. Drifts of fog and damp from without mingled with the smoke + of shag. The sanded floor was kicked into a muddy morass not unlike the + surface of the pavement. An old lady down the street had died from + pneumonia the previous evening, and the event supplied a fruitful topic of + conversation. The things that one could get! Everywhere were germs eager + to destroy one. At any minute the symptoms might break out. And so—one + foregathered in a cheerful spot amidst friends, and drank forgetfulness. + </p> + <p> + Prominent in this little group was Baldwin Meadows, a sallow-faced villain + with battered features and prominent cheek-bones, his face cut and scarred + by a hundred fights. Ex-seaman, ex-boxer, ex-fish-porter —indeed, to + every one's knowledge, ex-everything. No one knew how he lived. By his + side lurched an enormous coloured man who went by the name of Harry Jones. + Grinning above a tankard sat a pimply-faced young man who was known as The + Agent. Silver rings adorned his fingers. He had no other name, and most + emphatically no address, but he "arranged things" for people, and appeared + to thrive upon it in a scrambling, fugitive manner. The other two people + were Mr. and Mrs. Dawes. Mr. Dawes was an entirely negative person, but + Mrs. Dawes shone by virtue of a high, whining, insistent voice, keyed to + within half a note of hysteria. + </p> + <p> + Then, at one point, the conversation suddenly took a peculiar turn. It + came about through Mrs. Dawes mentioning that her aunt, who died from + eating tinned lobster, used to work in a corset shop in Wych Street. When + she said that, The Agent, whose right eye appeared to survey the ceiling, + whilst his left eye looked over the other side of his tankard, remarked: + </p> + <p> + "Where was Wych Street, ma?" + </p> + <p> + "Lord!" exclaimed Mrs. Dawes. "Don't you know, dearie? You must be a young + 'un, you must. Why, when I was a gal every one knew Wych Street. It was + just down there where they built the Kingsway, like." + </p> + <p> + Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat, and said: + </p> + <p> + "Wych Street used to be a turnin' runnin' from Long Acre into Wellington + Street." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, no, old boy," chipped in Mr. Dawes, who always treated the ex-man + with great deference. "If you'll excuse me, Wych Street was a narrow lane + at the back of the old Globe Theatre, that used to pass by the church." + </p> + <p> + "I know what I'm talkin' about," growled Meadows. Mrs. Dawes's high nasal + whine broke in: + </p> + <p> + "Hi, Mr. Booth, you used ter know yer wye abaht. Where was Wych Street?" + </p> + <p> + Mr. Booth, the proprietor, was polishing a tap. He looked up. + </p> + <p> + "Wych Street? Yus, of course I knoo Wych Street. Used to go there with + some of the boys—when I was Covent Garden way. It was at right + angles to the Strand, just east of Wellington Street." + </p> + <p> + "No, it warn't. It were alongside the Strand, before yer come to + Wellington Street." + </p> + <p> + The coloured man took no part in the discussion, one street and one city + being alike to him, provided he could obtain the material comforts dear to + his heart; but the others carried it on with a certain amount of acerbity. + </p> + <p> + Before any agreement had been arrived at three other men entered the bar. + The quick eye of Meadows recognized them at once as three of what was + known at that time as "The Gallows Ring." Every member of "The Gallows + Ring" had done time, but they still carried on a lucrative industry + devoted to blackmail, intimidation, shoplifting, and some of the clumsier + recreations. Their leader, Ben Orming, had served seven years for bashing + a Chinaman down at Rotherhithe. + </p> + <p> + "The Gallows Ring" was not popular in Wapping, for the reason that many of + their depredations had been inflicted upon their own class. When Meadows + and Harry Jones took it into their heads to do a little wild prancing they + took the trouble to go up into the West-end. They considered "The Gallows + Ring" an ungentlemanly set; nevertheless, they always treated them with a + certain external deference—an unpleasant crowd to quarrel with. + </p> + <p> + Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, and they leant against the + bar and whispered in sullen accents. Something had evidently miscarried + with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine above the general drone of + the bar. Suddenly she said: + </p> + <p> + "Ben, you're a hot old devil, you are. We was just 'aving a discussion + like. Where was Wych Street?" + </p> + <p> + Ben scowled at her, and she continued: + </p> + <p> + "Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I <i>know</i> where + it was, 'cors my aunt what died from blood p'ison, after eatin' tinned + lobster, used to work at a corset shop——" + </p> + <p> + "Yus," barked Ben, emphatically. "I know where Wych Street was—it + was just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station." + </p> + <p> + It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no part + in the discussion, thought fit to intervene. + </p> + <p> + "Nope. You's all wrong, cap'n. Wych Street were alongside de church, way + over where the Strand takes a side-line up west." + </p> + <p> + Ben turned on him fiercely. + </p> + <p> + "What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I've told yer + where Wych Street was." + </p> + <p> + "Yus, and I know where it was," interposed Meadows. + </p> + <p> + "Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre into + Wellington Street." + </p> + <p> + "I didn't ask yer what <i>you</i> thought," growled Ben. + </p> + <p> + "Well, I suppose I've a right to an opinion?" + </p> + <p> + "You always think you know everything, you do." + </p> + <p> + "You can just keep yer mouth shut." + </p> + <p> + "It 'ud take more'n you to shut it." + </p> + <p> + Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the bar: + </p> + <p> + "Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling—please." + </p> + <p> + The affair might have been subsided at that point, but for Mrs. Dawes. Her + emotions over the death of the old lady in the street had been so stirred + that she had been, almost unconsciously, drinking too much gin. She + suddenly screamed out: + </p> + <p> + "Don't you take no lip from 'im, Mr. Medders. The dirty, thieving devil, + 'e always thinks 'e's goin' to come it over every one." + </p> + <p> + She stood up threateningly, and one of Ben's supporters gave her a gentle + push backwards. In three minutes the bar was in a complete state of + pandemonium. The three members of "The Gallows Ring" fought two men and a + woman, for Mr. Dawes merely stood in a corner and screamed out: + </p> + <p> + "Don't! Don't!" + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dawes stabbed the man who had pushed her through the wrist with a + hatpin. Meadows and Ben Orming closed on each other and fought savagely + with the naked fists. A lucky blow early in the encounter sent Meadows + reeling against the wall, with blood streaming down his temple. Then the + coloured man hurled a pewter tankard straight at Ben and it hit him on the + knuckles. The pain maddened him to a frenzy. His other supporter had + immediately got to grips with Harry Jones, and picked up one of the high + stools and, seizing an opportunity, brought it down crash on to the + coloured man's skull. + </p> + <p> + The whole affair was a matter of minutes. Mr. Booth was bawling out in the + street. A whistle sounded. People were running in all directions. + </p> + <p> + "Beat it! Beat it for God's sake!" called the man who had been stabbed + through the wrist. His face was very white, and he was obviously about to + faint. + </p> + <p> + Ben and the other man, whose name was Toller, dashed to the door. On the + pavement there was a confused scramble. Blows were struck + indiscriminately. Two policemen appeared. One was laid <i>hors de combat</i> + by a kick on the knee-cap from Toller. The two men fled into the darkness, + followed by a hue-and-cry. Born and bred in the locality, they took every + advantage of their knowledge. They tacked through alleys and raced down + dark mews, and clambered over walls. Fortunately for them, the people they + passed, who might have tripped them up or aided in the pursuit, merely + fled indoors. The people in Wapping are not always on the side of the + pursuer. But the police held on. At last Ben and Toller slipped through + the door of an empty house in Aztec Street barely ten yards ahead of their + nearest pursuer. Blows rained on the door, but they slipped the bolts, and + then fell panting to the floor. When Ben could speak, he said: + </p> + <p> + "If they cop us, it means swinging." + </p> + <p> + "Was the nigger done in?" + </p> + <p> + "I think so. But even if 'e wasn't, there was that other affair the night + before last. The game's up." + </p> + <p> + The ground-floor rooms were shuttered and bolted, but they knew that the + police would probably force the front door. At the back there was no + escape, only a narrow stable yard, where lanterns were already flashing. + The roof only extended thirty yards either way and the police would + probably take possession of it. They made a round of the house, which was + sketchily furnished. There was a loaf, a small piece of mutton, and a + bottle of pickles, and—the most precious possession—three + bottles of whisky. Each man drank half a glass of neat whisky; then Ben + said: "We'll be able to keep 'em quiet for a bit, anyway," and he went and + fetched an old twelve-bore gun and a case of cartridges. Toller was + opposed to this last desperate resort, but Ben continued to murmur, "It + means swinging, anyway." + </p> + <p> + And thus began the notorious siege of Aztec Street. It lasted three days + and four nights. You may remember that, on forcing a panel of the front + door, Sub-Inspector Wraithe, of the V Division, was shot through the + chest. The police then tried other methods. A hose was brought into play + without effect. Two policemen were killed and four wounded. The military + was requisitioned. The street was picketed. Snipers occupied windows of + the houses opposite. A distinguished member of the Cabinet drove down in a + motor-car, and directed operations in a top-hat. It was the introduction + of poison-gas which was the ultimate cause of the downfall of the citadel. + The body of Ben Orming was never found, but that of Toller was discovered + near the front door with a bullet through his heart. The medical officer + to the Court pronounced that the man had been dead three days, but whether + killed by a chance bullet from a sniper or whether killed deliberately by + his fellow-criminal was never revealed. For when the end came Orming had + apparently planned a final act of venom. It was known that in the basement + a considerable quantity of petrol had been stored. The contents had + probably been carefully distributed over the most inflammable materials in + the top rooms. The fire broke out, as one witness described it, "almost + like an explosion." Orming must have perished in this. The roof blazed up, + and the sparks carried across the yard and started a stack of light timber + in the annexe of Messrs. Morrel's piano-factory. The factory and two + blocks of tenement buildings were burnt to the ground. The estimated cost + of the destruction was one hundred and eighty thousand pounds. The + casualties amounted to seven killed and fifteen wounded. + </p> + <p> + At the inquiry held under Chief Justice Pengammon various odd interesting + facts were revealed. Mr. Lowes-Parlby, the brilliant young K.C., + distinguished himself by his searching cross-examination of many + witnesses. At one point a certain Mrs. Dawes was put in the box. + </p> + <p> + "Now," said Mr. Lowes-Parlby, "I understand that on the evening in + question, Mrs. Dawes, you, and the victims, and these other people who + have been mentioned, were all seated in the public bar of the Wagtail, + enjoying its no doubt excellent hospitality and indulging in a friendly + discussion. Is that so?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir." + </p> + <p> + "Now, will you tell his lordship what you were discussing?" + </p> + <p> + "Diseases, sir." + </p> + <p> + "Diseases! And did the argument become acrimonious?" + </p> + <p> + "Pardon?" + </p> + <p> + "Was there a serious dispute about diseases?" + </p> + <p> + "No, sir." + </p> + <p> + "Well, what was the subject of the dispute?" + </p> + <p> + "We was arguin' as to where Wych Street was, sir." + </p> + <p> + "What's that?" said his lordship. + </p> + <p> + "The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing as to where Wych + Street was." + </p> + <p> + "Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir." + </p> + <p> + "You mean the narrow old street that used to run across the site of what + is now the Gaiety Theatre?" + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming manner. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, my lord, I believe the witness refers to the same street you + mention, though, if I may be allowed to qualify your lordship's + description of the locality, may I suggest that it was a little further + east—at the side of the old Globe Theatre, which was adjacent to St. + Martin's in the Strand? That is the street you were all arguing about, + isn't it, Mrs. Dawes?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, sir, my aunt who died from eating tinned lobster used to work at a + corset-shop. I ought to know." + </p> + <p> + His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to the counsel rather + peevishly. + </p> + <p> + "Mr. Lowes-Parlby, when I was your age I used to pass through Wych Street + every day of my life. I did so for nearly twelve years. I think it hardly + necessary for you to contradict me." + </p> + <p> + The counsel bowed. It was not his place to dispute with a chief justice, + although that chief justice be a hopeless old fool; but another eminent + K.C., an elderly man with a tawny beard, rose in the body of the court, + and said: + </p> + <p> + "If I may be allowed to interpose, your lordship, I also spent a great + deal of my youth passing through Wych Street. I have gone into the matter, + comparing past and present ordnance survey maps. If I am not mistaken, the + street the witness was referring to began near the hoarding at the + entrance to Kingsway and ended at the back of what is now the Aldwych + Theatre." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, no, Mr. Backer!" exclaimed Lowes-Parlby. + </p> + <p> + His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out: + </p> + <p> + "The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case." + </p> + <p> + It certainly was, but the brief passage-of-arms left an unpleasant tang of + bitterness behind. It was observed that Mr. Lowes-Parlby never again quite + got the prehensile grip upon his cross-examination that he had shown in + his treatment of the earlier witnesses. The coloured man, Harry Jones, had + died in hospital, but Mr. Booth, the proprietor of the Wagtail, Baldwin + Meadows, Mr. Dawes, and the man who was stabbed in the wrist, all gave + evidence of a rather nugatory character. Lowes-Parlby could do nothing + with it. The findings of this Special Inquiry do not concern us. It is + sufficient to say that the witnesses already mentioned all returned to + Wapping. The man who had received the thrust of a hatpin through his wrist + did not think it advisable to take any action against Mrs. Dawes. He was + pleasantly relieved to find that he was only required as a witness of an + abortive discussion. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + In a few weeks' time the great Aztec Street siege remained only a romantic + memory to the majority of Londoners. To Lowes-Parlby the little dispute + with Chief Justice Pengammon rankled unreasonably. It is annoying to be + publicly snubbed for making a statement which you know to be absolutely + true, and which you have even taken pains to verify. And Lowes-Parlby was + a young man accustomed to score. He made a point of looking everything up, + of being prepared for an adversary thoroughly. He liked to give the + appearance of knowing everything. The brilliant career just ahead of him + at times dazzled him. He was one of the darlings of the gods. Everything + came to Lowes-Parlby. His father had distinguished himself at the bar + before him, and had amassed a modest fortune. He was an only son. At + Oxford he had carried off every possible degree. He was already being + spoken of for very high political honours. But the most sparkling jewel in + the crown of his successes was Lady Adela Charters, the daughter of Lord + Vermeer, the Minister for Foreign Affairs. She was his <i>fiancée</i>, and + it was considered the most brilliant match of the season. She was young + and almost pretty, and Lord Vermeer was immensely wealthy and one of the + most influential men in Great Britain. Such a combination was + irresistible. There seemed to be nothing missing in the life of Francis + Lowes-Parlby, K.C. + </p> + <p> + One of the most regular and absorbed spectators at the Aztec Street + inquiry was old Stephen Garrit. Stephen Garrit held a unique but quite + inconspicuous position in the legal world at that time. He was a friend of + judges, a specialist at various abstruse legal rulings, a man of + remarkable memory, and yet—an amateur. He had never taken sick, + never eaten the requisite dinners, never passed an examination in his + life; but the law of evidence was meat and drink to him. He passed his + life in the Temple, where he had chambers. Some of the most eminent + counsel in the world would take his opinion, or come to him for advice. He + was very old, very silent, and very absorbed. He attended every meeting of + the Aztec Street inquiry, but from beginning to end he never volunteered + an opinion. + </p> + <p> + After the inquiry was over he went and visited an old friend at the London + Survey Office. He spent two mornings examining maps. After that he spent + two mornings pottering about the Strand, Kingsway, and Aldwych; then he + worked out some careful calculations on a ruled chart. He entered the + particulars in a little book which he kept for purposes of that kind, and + then retired to his chambers to study other matters. But before doing so, + he entered a little apophthegm in another book. It was apparently a book + in which he intended to compile a summary of his legal experiences. The + sentence ran: + </p> + <p> + "The basic trouble is that people make statements without sufficient + data." + </p> + <p> + Old Stephen need not have appeared in this story at all, except for the + fact that he was present at the dinner at Lord Vermeer's, where a rather + deplorable incident occurred. And you must acknowledge that in the + circumstances it is useful to have such a valuable and efficient witness. + </p> + <p> + Lord Vermeer was a competent, forceful man, a little quick-tempered and + autocratic. He came from Lancashire, and before entering politics had made + an enormous fortune out of borax, artificial manure, and starch. + </p> + <p> + It was a small dinner-party, with a motive behind it. His principal guest + was Mr. Sandeman, the London agent of the Ameer of Bakkan. Lord Vermeer + was very anxious to impress Mr. Sandeman and to be very friendly with him: + the reasons will appear later. Mr. Sandeman was a self-confessed + cosmopolitan. He spoke seven languages and professed to be equally at home + in any capital in Europe. London had been his headquarters for over twenty + years. Lord Vermeer also invited Mr. Arthur Toombs, a colleague in the + Cabinet, his prospective son-in-law, Lowes-Parlby, K.C., James Trolley, a + very tame Socialist M.P., and Sir Henry and Lady Breyd, the two latter + being invited, not because Sir Henry was of any use, but because Lady + Breyd was a pretty and brilliant woman who might amuse his principal + guest. The sixth guest was Stephen Garrit. + </p> + <p> + The dinner was a great success. When the succession of courses eventually + came to a stop, and the ladies had retired, Lord Vermeer conducted his + male guests into another room for a ten minutes' smoke before rejoining + them. It was then that the unfortunate incident occurred. There was no + love lost between Lowes-Parlby and Mr. Sandeman. It is difficult to + ascribe the real reason of their mutual animosity, but on the several + occasions when they had met there had invariably passed a certain sardonic + by-play. They were both clever, both comparatively young, each a little + suspect and jealous of the other; moreover, it was said in some quarters + that Mr. Sandeman had had intentions himself with regard to Lord Vermeer's + daughter, that he had been on the point of a proposal when Lowes-Parlby + had butted in and forestalled him. Mr. Sandeman had dined well, and he was + in the mood to dazzle with a display of his varied knowledge and + experiences. The conversation drifted from a discussion of the rival + claims of great cities to the slow, inevitable removal of old landmarks. + There had been a slightly acrimonious disagreement between Lowes-Parlby + and Mr. Sandeman as to the claims of Budapest and Lisbon, and Mr. Sandeman + had scored because he extracted from his rival a confession that, though + he had spent two months in Budapest, he had only spent two days in Lisbon. + Mr. Sandeman had lived for four years in either city. Lowes-Parlby changed + the subject abruptly. + </p> + <p> + "Talking of landmarks," he said, "we had a queer point arise in that Aztec + Street inquiry. The original dispute arose owing to a discussion between a + crowd of people in a pub as to where Wych Street was." + </p> + <p> + "I remember," said Lord Vermeer. "A perfectly absurd discussion. Why, I + should have thought that any man over forty would remember exactly where + it was." + </p> + <p> + "Where would you say it was, sir?" asked Lowes-Parlby. + </p> + <p> + "Why to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended at the + second turning after the Law Courts, going west." + </p> + <p> + Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat and + said, in his supercilious, oily voice: + </p> + <p> + "Excuse me, my lord. I know my Paris, and Vienna, and Lisbon, every brick + and stone, but I look upon London as my home. I know my London even + better. I have a perfectly clear recollection of Wych Street. When I was a + student I used to visit there to buy books. It ran parallel to New Oxford + Street on the south side, just between it and Lincoln's Inn Fields." + </p> + <p> + There was something about this assertion that infuriated Lowes-Parlby. In + the first place, it was so hopelessly wrong and so insufferably asserted. + In the second place, he was already smarting under the indignity of being + shown up about Lisbon. And then there suddenly flashed through his mind + the wretched incident when he had been publicly snubbed by Justice + Pengammon about the very same point; and he knew that he was right each + time. Damn Wych Street! He turned on Mr. Sandeman. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, nonsense! You may know something about these—eastern cities; + you certainly know nothing about London if you make a statement like that. + Wych Street was a little further east of what is now the Gaiety Theatre. + It used to run by the side of the old Globe Theatre, parallel to the + Strand." + </p> + <p> + The dark moustache of Mr. Sandeman shot upwards, revealing a narrow line + of yellow teeth. He uttered a sound that was a mingling of contempt and + derision; then he drawled out: + </p> + <p> + "Really? How wonderful—to have such comprehensive knowledge!" + </p> + <p> + He laughed, and his small eyes fixed his rival. Lowes-Parlby flushed a + deep red. He gulped down half a glass of port and muttered just above a + whisper: "Damned impudence!" Then, in the rudest manner he could display, + he turned his back deliberately on Sandeman and walked out of the room. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little contretemps. The + whole thing was so absurd—so utterly undignified. As though <i>he</i> + didn't know! It was the little accumulation of pin-pricks all arising out + of that one argument. The result had suddenly goaded him to—well, + being rude, to say the least of it. It wasn't that Sandeman mattered. To + the devil with Sandeman! But what would his future father-in-law think? He + had never before given way to any show of ill-temper before him. He forced + himself into a mood of rather fatuous jocularity. Adela was at her best in + those moods. They would have lots of fun together in the days to come. Her + almost pretty, not too clever face was dimpled with kittenish glee. Life + was a tremendous rag to her. They were expecting Toccata, the famous + opera-singer. She had been engaged at a very high fee to come on from + Covent Garden. Mr. Sandeman was very fond of music. Adela was laughing, + and discussing which was the most honourable position for the great + Sandeman to occupy. There came to Lowes-Parlby a sudden abrupt misgiving. + What sort of wife would this be to him when they were not just fooling? He + immediately dismissed the curious, furtive little stab of doubt. The + splendid proportions of the room calmed his senses. A huge bowl of dark + red roses quickened his perceptions. His career.... The door opened. But + it was not La Toccata. It was one of the household flunkies. Lowes-Parlby + turned again to his inamorata. + </p> + <p> + "Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly go and see him in the + library?" + </p> + <p> + Lowes-Parlby regarded the messenger, and his heart beat quickly. An + uncontrollable presage of evil racked his nerve-centres. Something had + gone wrong; and yet the whole thing was so absurd, trivial. In a crisis—well, + he could always apologize. He smiled confidently at Adela, and said: + </p> + <p> + "Why, of course; with pleasure. Please excuse me, dear." He followed the + impressive servant out of the room. His foot had barely touched the carpet + of the library when he realized that his worst apprehensions were to be + plumbed to the depths. For a moment he thought Lord Vermeer was alone, + then he observed old Stephen Garrit, lying in an easy-chair in the corner + like a piece of crumpled parchment. Lord Vermeer did not beat about the + bush. When the door was closed, he bawled out, savagely: + </p> + <p> + "What the devil have you done?" + </p> + <p> + "Excuse me, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand. Is it Sandeman—?" + </p> + <p> + "Sandeman has gone." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I'm sorry." + </p> + <p> + "Sorry! By God, I should think you might be sorry! You insulted him. My + prospective son-in-law insulted him in my own house!" + </p> + <p> + "I'm awfully sorry. I didn't realize—" + </p> + <p> + "Realize! Sit down, and don't assume for one moment that you continue to + be my prospective son-in-law. Your insult was a most intolerable piece of + effrontery, not only to him, but to me." + </p> + <p> + "But I—" + </p> + <p> + "Listen to me. Do you know that the government were on the verge of + concluding a most far-reaching treaty with that man? Do you know that the + position was just touch-and-go? The concessions we were prepared to make + would have cost the State thirty million pounds, and it would have been + cheap. Do you hear that? It would have been cheap! Bakkan is one of the + most vulnerable outposts of the Empire. It is a terrible danger-zone. If + certain powers can usurp our authority—and, mark you, the whole + blamed place is already riddled with this new pernicious doctrine—you + know what I mean—before we know where we are the whole East will be + in a blaze. India! My God! This contract we were negotiating would have + countered this outward thrust. And you, you blockhead, you come here and + insult the man upon whose word the whole thing depends." + </p> + <p> + "I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this." + </p> + <p> + "You can't see it! But, you fool, you seemed to go out of your way. You + insulted him about the merest quibble—in my house!" + </p> + <p> + "He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I corrected + him." + </p> + <p> + "Wych Street! Wych Street be damned! If he said Wych Street was in the + moon, you should have agreed with him. There was no call to act in the way + you did. And you—you think of going into politics!" + </p> + <p> + The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed. Lowes-Parlby + was too unnerved. He mumbled: + </p> + <p> + "I'm very sorry." + </p> + <p> + "I don't want your sorrow. I want something more practical." + </p> + <p> + "What's that, sir?" + </p> + <p> + "You will drive straight to Mr. Sandeman's, find him, and apologize. Tell + him you find that he was right about Wych Street after all. If you can't + find him to-night, you must find him to-morrow morning. I give you till + midday to-morrow. If by that time you have not offered a handsome apology + to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this house again, you do not see my + daughter again. Moreover, all the power I possess will be devoted to + hounding you out of that profession you have dishonoured. Now you can go." + </p> + <p> + Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to his flat at Knightsbridge. + Before acting he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer had given him till + to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was done should be done after a + night's reflection. The fundamental purposes of his being were to be + tested. He knew that. He was at a great crossing. Some deep instinct + within him was grossly outraged. Is it that a point comes when success + demands that a man shall sell his soul? It was all so absurdly trivial—a + mere argument about the position of a street that had ceased to exist. As + Lord Vermeer said, what did it matter about Wych Street? + </p> + <p> + Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so, but would + a man sacrifice everything on account of some footling argument about a + street? + </p> + <p> + In his own rooms, Lowes-Parlby put on a dressing-gown, and, lighting a + pipe, he sat before the fire. He would have given anything for + companionship at such a moment—the right companionship. How lovely + it would be to have—a woman, just the right woman, to talk this all + over with; some one who understood and sympathized. A sudden vision came + to him of Adela's face grinning about the prospective visit of La Toccata, + and again the low voice of misgiving whispered in his ears. Would Adela be—just + the right woman? In very truth, did he really love Adela? Or was it all—a + rag? Was life a rag—a game played by lawyers, politicians, and + people? + </p> + <p> + The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit thinking, his mind + principally occupied with the dazzling visions of the future. It was past + midnight when he suddenly muttered a low "Damn!" and walked to the bureau. + He took up a pen and wrote: + </p> + <p> + "<i>Dear Mr. Sandeman</i>,—I must apologize for acting so rudely to + you last night. It was quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since + find, on going into the matter, that you were quite right about the + position of Wych Street. I can't think how I made the mistake. Please + forgive me. + </p> + <p> + "Yours cordially, + </p> + <h3> + "FRANCIS LOWES-PARLBY." + </h3> + <p> + Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. One might have imagined at + that point that the matter was finished. But there are certain little + greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of stilling, and they kept + Lowes-Parlby awake more than half the night. He kept on repeating to + himself, "It's all positively absurd!" But the little greedy demons + pranced around the bed, and they began to group things into two definite + issues. On the one side, the great appearances; on the other, something at + the back of it all, something deep, fundamental, something that could only + be expressed by one word—truth. If he had <i>really</i> loved Adela—if + he weren't so absolutely certain that Sandeman was wrong and he was right—why + should he have to say that Wych Street was where it wasn't? "Isn't there, + after all," said one of the little demons, "something which makes for + greater happiness than success? Confess this, and we'll let you sleep." + </p> + <p> + Perhaps that is one of the most potent weapons the little demons possess. + However full our lives may be, we ever long for moments of tranquillity. + And conscience holds before our eyes some mirror of an ultimate + tranquillity. Lowes-Parlby was certainly not himself. The gay, debonair, + and brilliant egoist was tortured, and tortured almost beyond control; and + it had all apparently risen through the ridiculous discussion about a + street. At a quarter past three in the morning he arose from his bed with + a groan, and, going into the other room, he tore the letter to Mr. + Sandeman to pieces. + </p> + <p> + Three weeks later old Stephen Garrit was lunching with the Lord Chief + Justice. They were old friends, and they never found it incumbent to be + very conversational. The lunch was an excellent, but frugal, meal. They + both ate slowly and thoughtfully, and their drink was water. It was not + till they reached the dessert stage that his lordship indulged in any very + informative comment, and then he recounted to Stephen the details of a + recent case in which he considered that the presiding judge had, by an + unprecedented paralogy, misinterpreted the law of evidence. Stephen + listened with absorbed attention. He took two cob-nuts from the silver + dish, and turned them over meditatively, without cracking them. When his + lordship had completely stated his opinion and peeled a pear, Stephen + mumbled: + </p> + <p> + "I have been impressed, very impressed indeed. Even in my own field of—limited + observation—the opinion of an outsider, you may say—so often + it happens—the trouble caused by an affirmation without sufficiently + established data. I have seen lives lost, ruin brought about, endless + suffering. Only last week, a young man—a brilliant career—almost + shattered. People make statements without—" + </p> + <p> + He put the nuts back on the dish, and then, in an apparently irrelevant + manner, he said abruptly: + </p> + <p> + "Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?" + </p> + <p> + The Lord Chief justice grunted. + </p> + <p> + "Wych Street! Of course I do." + </p> + <p> + "Where would you say it was, my lord?" + </p> + <p> + "Why, here, of course." + </p> + <p> + His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and sketched a plan on the + tablecloth. + </p> + <p> + "It used to run from there to here." + </p> + <p> + Stephen adjusted his glasses and carefully examined the plan. He took a + long time to do this, and when he had finished his hand instinctively went + towards a breast pocket where he kept a note-book with little squared + pages. Then he stopped and sighed. After all, why argue with the law? The + law was like that—an excellent thing, not infallible, of course + (even the plan of the Lord Chief justice was a quarter of a mile out), but + still an excellent, a wonderful thing. He examined the bony knuckles of + his hands and yawned slightly. + </p> + <p> + "Do you remember it?" said the Lord Chief justice. + </p> + <p> + Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to come from a long way off: + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy little street." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOOKING GLASS — By J.D. BERESFORD + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Cornhill Magazine</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1921, 1922 + </h3> + <p> + This was the first communication that had come from her aunt in Rachel's + lifetime. + </p> + <p> + "I think your aunt has forgiven me, at last," her father said as he passed + the letter across the table. + </p> + <p> + Rachel looked first at the signature. It seemed strange to see her own + name there. It was as if her individuality, her very identity, was + impugned by the fact that there should be two Rachel Deanes. Moreover + there was a likeness between her aunt's autograph and her own, a + characteristic turn in the looping of the letters, a hint of the same + decisiveness and precision. If Rachel had been educated fifty years + earlier, she might have written her name in just that manner. + </p> + <p> + "You're very like her in some ways," her father said, as she still stared + at the signature. + </p> + <p> + Rachel's eyelids drooped and her expression indicated a faint, suppressed + intolerance of her father's remark. He said the same things so often, and + in so precisely the same tone, that she had formed a habit of + automatically rejecting the truth of certain of his statements. He had + always appeared to her as senile. He had been over fifty when she was + born, and ever since she could remember she had doubted the correctness of + his information. She was, she had often told herself, "a born sceptic; an + ultra-modern." She had a certain veneration for the more distant past, but + none for her father's period. "Victorianism" was to her a term of abuse. + She had long since condemned alike the ethic and the aesthetic of the + nineteenth century as represented by her father's opinions; so, that, even + now, when his familiar comment coincided so queerly with her own thought, + she instinctively disbelieved him. Yet, as always, she was gentle in her + answer. She condescended from the heights of her youth and vigour to pity + him. + </p> + <p> + "I should think you must almost have forgotten what Aunt Rachel was like, + dear," she said. "How many years is it since you've seen her?" + </p> + <p> + "More than forty; more than forty," her father said, ruminating + profoundly. "We disagreed, we invariably disagreed. Rachel always prided + herself on being so modern. She read Huxley and Darwin and things like + that. Altogether beyond me, I admit. Still, it seems to me that the old + truths have endured, and will—in spite of all—in spite of + all." + </p> + <p> + Rachel straightened her shoulders and lifted her head; there was disdain + in her face, but none in her voice as she replied: + </p> + <p> + "And so it seems that she wants to see me." + </p> + <p> + She was excited at the thought of meeting this traditional, this almost + mythical aunt whom she had so often heard about. Sometimes she had + wondered if the personality of this remarkable relative had not been a + figment of her father's imagination, long pondered, and reconstructed out + of half-forgotten material. But this letter of hers that now lay on the + breakfast table was admirable in character. There was something of + condescension and intolerance expressed in the very restraint of its tone. + She had written a kindly letter, but the kindliness had an air of pity. It + was all consistent enough with what her father had told her. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Deane came out of his reminiscences with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes; she wants to see you, my dear," he said. "I think you had + better accept this invitation to stay with her. She—she is rich, + almost wealthy; and I, as you know, have practically nothing to leave you—practically + nothing. If she took a fancy to you...." + </p> + <p> + He sighed again, and Rachel knew that for the hundredth time he was + regretting his own past weakness. He had been so foolish in money matters, + frittering away his once considerable capital in aimless speculations. He + and his sister had shared equally under their father's will, but while he + had been at last compelled to sink the greater part of what was left to + him in an annuity, she had probably increased her original inheritance. + </p> + <p> + "I'll certainly go, if you can spare me for a whole fortnight," Rachel + said. "I'm all curiosity to see this remarkable aunt. By the way, how old + is she?" + </p> + <p> + "There were only fifteen months between us," Mr. Deane said, "so she must + be,—dear me, yes;—she must be seventy-three. Dear, dear. Fancy + Rachel being seventy-three! I always think of her as being about your age. + It seems so absurd to think of her as <i>old</i>...." + </p> + <p> + He continued his reflections, but Rachel was not listening. He was asking + for the understanding of the young; quite unaware of his senility, + reaching out over half a century to try to touch the comprehension and + sympathy of his daughter. But she was already bent on her own adventure, + looking forward eagerly to a visit to London that promised delights other + than the inspection of the mysterious, traditional aunt whom she had so + long known by report. + </p> + <p> + For this invitation had come very aptly. Rachel pondered that, later in + the morning, with a glow of ecstatic resignation to her charming fate. She + found the guiding hand of a romantic inevitability in the fact that she + and Adrian Flemming were to meet so soon. It had seemed so unlikely that + they would see each other again for many months. They had only met three + times; but they <i>knew</i>, although their friendship had been too green + for either of them to admit the knowledge before he had gone back to town. + He had, indeed, hinted far more in his two letters than he had ever dared + to say. He was sensitive, he lacked self-confidence; but Rachel adored him + for just those failings she criticised so hardly in her father. She took + out her letters and re-read them, thrilling with the realisation that in + her answer she would have such a perfectly amazing surprise for him. She + would refer to it quite casually, somewhere near the end. She would write: + "By the way, it's just possible that we may meet again before long as I am + going to stay with my aunt, Miss Deane, in Tavistock Square." He would + understand all that lay behind such an apparently careless reference, for + she had told him that she "never went to London," had only once in her + life ever been there. + </p> + <p> + She was in her own room, and she stood, now, before the cheval glass and + studied herself; raising her chin and slightly pursing her lips, staring + superciliously at her own image under half-lowered eyelids. Candidly, she + admired herself; but she could not help that assumption of a disdainful + criticism. It seemed to give her confidence in her own integrity; hiding + that annoying shadow of doubt which sometimes fell upon her when she + caught sight of her reflection by chance and unexpectedly. + </p> + <p> + But no thought of doubt flawed her satisfaction this morning. A sense of + power came to her, a tranquil realisation that she could charm Adrian as + she would. With a graceful, habitual gesture she put up her hand and + lightly touched her cheek with a soft, caressing movement of her + finger-tips. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The elderly parlour-maid showed Rachel straight to her bedroom when she + arrived at Tavistock Square, indicating on the way the extensive-looking + first-floor drawing-room, in which tea and her first sight of the + wonderful aunt would await Rachel in half an hour. She had been eager and + excited. The air and promise of London had thrilled her, but she found + some influence in the atmosphere of the big house that was vaguely + repellent, almost sinister. + </p> + <p> + Her bedroom was expensively furnished and beautifully kept; some of the + pieces were, she supposed, genuine antiques, perhaps immensely valuable. + But how could she ever feel at home there? She was hampered by the + necessity for moving circumspectly among this aged delicate stuff; so + wonderfully preserved and yet surely fragile and decrepit at the heart. + That spindling escritoire, for instance, and that mincing Louis Quinze + settee, ought to be taking their well-earned leisure in some museum. It + would be indecent to write at the one or sit on the other. They were + relics of the past, foolishly pretending an ability for service when their + life had been sapped by dry-rot and their original functions outlived. + </p> + <p> + "Well, if ever I have a house of my own," Rachel thought regarding these + ancient splendours, "I'll furnish it with something I shan't be afraid + of." + </p> + <p> + With a gesture of dismissal she turned and looked out of the window. From + the square came the sounds of a motor drawing up at a neighbouring house; + she heard the throbbing of the engine, the slam of the door, and then the + strong, sonorous tones of a man's voice. That was her proper <i>milieu</i>, + she reflected, among the strong vital things. Even after twenty minutes in + that bedroom she had begun to feel enervated, as if she herself were also + beginning to suffer from dry-rot.... + </p> + <p> + She was anxious and uneasy as she went slowly downstairs to the + drawing-room. Her anticipations of this meeting with her intimidating, + wealthy aunt had changed within the last half-hour. Her first idea of Miss + Deane had been of a robust, stout woman, frank in her speech and inclined + to be very critical of the newly found niece whom she had chosen to + inspect. Now, she was prepared rather to expect a fragile, rather + querulous old lady, older even than her years; an aunt to be talked to in + a lowered voice and treated with the same delicate care that must be + extended to her furniture. + </p> + <p> + Rachel paused with her hand on the drawing-room door, and sighed at the + thought of all the repressions and nervous strains that this visit might + have in store for her. + </p> + <p> + She entered the room almost on tiptoe, and then stood stock-still, + suddenly shocked and bewildered with surprise. Whatever she had expected, + it was not this. For a moment she was unable to believe that the + sprightly, painted and bedizened figure before her could possibly be that + of her aunt. Her head was crowned with an exuberant brown wig, her heavy + eyebrows were grotesquely blackened, her hollow cheeks stiff with powder, + her lips brightened to a fantastic scarlet. And she was posed there, + standing before the tea-table with her head a little back, looking at her + niece with a tolerant condescension, with the air of a superb young + beauty, self-conscious and proud of her charms. + </p> + <p> + "Hm! So you're my semi-mythical niece," she said, putting up her + lorgnette. "I'm glad at any rate to find that you're not, after all, a + fabulous creature." She spoke in a high, rather thin voice that produced + an effect of effort, as if she were playing on the top octave of a flute. + </p> + <p> + Rachel had never in her life felt so gauche and awkward. + </p> + <p> + "Yes—I—you know, aunt, I had begun to wonder if you were not + fabulous, too," she tried, desperately anxious to seem at ease. She was + afraid to look at that, to her, grotesque figure, afraid to show by some + unconscious reflex her dislike for its ugliness. As she took the bony, + ring-bedecked hand that was held out to her, she kept her eyes away from + her aunt's face. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane, however, would not permit that evasion. + </p> + <p> + "Hold your head up, my dear, I want to look at you," she said, and when + Rachel reluctantly obeyed, continued, "Yes, you're more like my father + than your own, which means that you're like me, for I took after him, too, + so every one said." + </p> + <p> + Rachel drew in her breath with a little gasp. Was it possible that her + aunt could imagine for one instant that there was any likeness between + them? + </p> + <p> + "Our—our names are the same," she said nervously. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane nodded. "There's more in it than that," she said with a touch + of complacence; "and there's no reason why there shouldn't be. It's good + Mendelism that you should take after an aunt rather than either of your + parents." + </p> + <p> + "And you really think that we are alike?" Rachel asked feebly, looking in + vain for any sign of a quizzical humour in her aunt's face. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane looked down under her half-lowered eyelids with a proud air of + tolerance. "Ah, well, a little without doubt," she said, as though the + advantages of the difference were on her own side. "Now sit down and have + your tea, my dear." + </p> + <p> + Rachel obeyed with a vague wonder in her mind as to why that look of + tolerance should be so familiar. It seemed to her as if it was something + she had felt rather than seen; and as tea progressed she found herself + half furtively studying the raddled ugliness of her aunt's face in the + search for possible relics of a beautiful youth. + </p> + <p> + "Ah, I think you're beginning to see it, too," Miss Deane said, marking + her niece's scrutiny. "It grows on one, doesn't it?" + </p> + <p> + Rachel shivered slightly. "Yes, it does," she said experimentally, + watching her aunt's face for some indication of a malicious teasing + humour. It seemed to her so incredible that this hideous parody of her own + youth could honestly believe that any physical likeness <i>still</i> + existed. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane, however, was faintly simpering. "I have been told that I've + changed very little," she said; and Rachel suppressed a sigh of impatience + at the reflection that she was expected to play up to this absurd fantasy. + </p> + <p> + "Of course, I can't judge of that," she said, "as we met for the first + time five minutes ago." + </p> + <p> + "No, no, you can't judge of <i>that</i>," her aunt replied, with the + half-bashful emphasis of one who awaits a compliment. + </p> + <p> + Rachel decided to plunge. "But you do look extraordinarily young for your + age still," she lied desperately. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane straightened her back and toyed with a teaspoon. "I have always + taken great care of myself," she said. + </p> + <p> + Unquestionably she believed it, Rachel decided. This was no pose, but a + horrible piece of self-deception. This raddled, repulsive creature had + actually persuaded herself into the delusion that she still had the + appearance of a young girl. Heaven help her if that delusion were ever + shattered! + </p> + <p> + Yet outside this one obsession Miss Deane, as Rachel soon discovered, had + a clear and well-balanced mind. For, now that she had received her desired + assurance from this new quarter, she began to talk of other things. Her + boasted "modernism," it is true, had a smack of the stiff, broadcloth + savour of the eighties, but she had a point of view that coincided far + more nearly with Rachel's own than did that of her father. Her aunt, at + least, had outlived the worst superstitions and inanities of the + mid-Victorians. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, by the time tea was finished Rachel's spirits were beginning to + revive. She would have to be very careful in her treatment of her aunt, + but on the whole it would not perhaps be so bad; and presently she would + see Adrian again. She would almost certainly get a letter from him by the + last post, making some appointment to meet her, and after that she would + introduce him to Miss Deane. She had a feeling that Miss Deane would not + raise any objection; that she might even welcome the visit of a young man + to her house. + </p> + <p> + The time was passing so easily that Rachel was surprised when she heard + the gong sound. + </p> + <p> + "Does that mean it's time to dress already?" she asked. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane nodded. "You've an hour before dinner," she said, "but I'll go + up now. I like to be leisurely over my toilet." + </p> + <p> + She rose as she spoke, but as she crossed the room, she paused with what + seemed to be a little jerk of surprise as she caught sight of her own + reflection in a tall mirror above one of the gilt-legged console tables + against the wall. Then she deliberately stopped, turned and surveyed + herself, half contemptuously, under lowered eyelids, with a set of her + head and back that belied plainly enough the pout of her critical lips. + And having admired that haggard image, she lifted her wasted hand and + delicately touched her whitened, hollow cheeks with the tips of her + heavily jewelled fingers. + </p> + <p> + Rachel stared in horror. It seemed to her just then as if the reflection + of her aunt in the mirror was indeed that of herself grown instantly and + mysteriously old. For now, whether because the reversal of the image by + the mirror or because of that perfect duplication of her own + characteristic pose and gesture, the likeness had flashed out clear and + unmistakable. She saw that her father had been right. Once, incalculable + ages ago, this repulsive old woman might have been very like herself. + </p> + <p> + She slipped quickly out of the room and ran upstairs. She felt that she + must instantly put that question to the test; search herself for the signs + of coming age as she had so recently searched her aunt's face for the + indications of her former youth. + </p> + <p> + But when, with an effect of challenge, she scrutinised her reflection in + the tall cheval glass, the likeness appeared to have vanished. She saw her + head thrust a little forward, her arms stiff, and in her whole pose an air + of vigorous defiance. She was prepared to admit that she was ugly at that + moment, if the ugliness was of another kind than that she had seen + downstairs. No! She drew herself up, more than a little relieved by the + result of her test. The likeness was all a fancy, the result of + suggestions, first by her father and then by Miss Deane herself. And she + need at least have no fear that she was ugly. Why.... + </p> + <p> + She paused suddenly, and the light died out of her face. Her image was + looking back at her stiffly, superciliously, with, so it seemed to her, + the contemptible simper of one who still fatuously admires the thing that + has long since lost its charm. She caught her breath and clenched her + hands, drawing down her rather heavy eyebrows in an expression of angry + scorn. "Oh! never, never, never again, will I look at myself like that," + Rachel vowed fiercely. + </p> + <p> + She was to find, however, before this first evening was over, that the + mere avoidance of that one pose before the mirror would not suffice to lay + the ghost of the suspicion that was beginning to haunt her. + </p> + <p> + At the very outset a new version of the likeness was presented to her + when, during the first course of dinner, Miss Deane, with a lowering frown + of her blackened eyebrows, found occasion to reprimand the elderly + parlour-maid. For a moment Rachel was again puzzled by the intriguing + sense of the familiar, before she remembered her own scowl at the + looking-glass an hour before. "Do I really frown like that?" she thought. + And on the instant found herself <i>feeling</i> like her aunt. + </p> + <p> + That, indeed, was the horror that, despite every effort of resistance, + deepened steadily as the evening wore on. Miss Deane had, without + question, lost every trace of her beauty; but her character, her spirit + was unchanged, and it was, so Rachel increasingly believed, the very spit + and replica of her own. + </p> + <p> + They had the same characteristic gestures and expressions; the look of + kindly tolerance with which her aunt regarded Rachel was precisely the + same as that with which Rachel regarded her father. When her aunt's voice + dropped in speaking from the rather shrill, strained tone that was + obviously not natural to her, Rachel heard the inflexions of her own + voice. And as her knowledge of Miss Deane grew, so, also, did that + haunting unpleasant feeling of looking and speaking in precisely the same + manner. It seemed to her as if she were being invaded by an alien + personality; as if the character she had known and cherished all her life + were no longer her own, but merely a casual inheritance from some unknown + ancestor. Her very integrity was threatened by her consciousness of that + likeness, her pride of individuality. She was not, after all, a unique + personality, but merely another version—if she were even that?—of + a Miss Rachel Deane born in the middle of the previous century. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, with that growing recognition of likeness in character, there + came the thought that she in time might look even as her aunt looked at + this present moment. She also would lose her beauty, until no facial + resemblance could be traced between the hag she was and the beauty she had + once been. For, through all her torment, Rachel proudly clung to the + certainty that, physically at least, there was no sort of likeness between + her aunt and herself. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane's belief in that matter, however, was soon proved to be + otherwise; for when they were alone together in the drawing-room after + dinner, and the topic so inevitably present to both their minds came to + the surface of conversation, she unexpectedly said: "But we're evidently + the poles apart in character and manner, my dear." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! do you think so?" Rachel exclaimed. "I—it's a queer thing to + say perhaps—but I curiously feel like you, aunt; when you speak + sometimes and—and when I watch the way you do things." + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane shook her head. "I admit the physical resemblance," she said; + "otherwise, my dear, we are utterly different." + </p> + <p> + Did she too, Rachel wondered, resent the aspersion of her integrity? + </p> + <p> + By the last post Rachel received her expected letter from Adrian Flemming. + Her aunt separated it from the others brought in by her maid and passed it + across to her niece with a slight hint of displeasure in her face. "Miss + Rachel Deane, <i>junior</i>," she said. "Really, it hadn't occurred to me + how difficult it will be to distinguish our letters. I hope my friends + won't take to addressing me as Miss Deane, <i>senior</i>. Properly, of + course, I am Miss Deane, and you Miss Rachel, but I'll admit there's sure + to be some confusion. Now, my dear, I expect you're tired. You'd better + run up to bed." + </p> + <p> + Rachel was willing enough to go. She was glad to have an opportunity to + read her letter in solitude; she was even more glad to get away from the + company of this living echo of herself. "I believe I should go mad if I + had to live with her," she reflected. "I should get into the way of + copying her. I should begin to grow old before my time." + </p> + <p> + When she reached her bedroom, she put down her letter unopened on the + toilet-table and once more stared searchingly at her own reflection in the + mirror. Was there any least trace of a physical likeness, she asked + herself; and began in imagination to follow the possible stages of the + change that time would inevitably work upon her. She shrugged her + shoulders. If there were indeed any sort of facial resemblance between + herself and her aunt, no one would ever see it except in Miss Deane, and + she was obsessed with a senile vanity. Yet was it, after all, Rachel began + to wonder, an unnatural obsession? Might she not in time suffer from it + herself? The change would be so slow, so infinitely gradual; and always + one would be cherishing the old, loved image of youth and beauty, falling + in love with it, like a deluded Hyacinth, and coming to be deceived by the + fantasy of an unchanging appearance of youth. Looking always for the + desired thing, she would suffer from the hallucination that the thing + existed in fact, and imagine that the only artifice needed to perfect the + illusion was a touch of paint and powder. No doubt her aunt—perhaps + searching her own image in the mirror at this moment—saw not herself + but a picture of her niece. She was hypnotised by the suggestion of a pose + and the desire of her own mind. In time, Rachel herself might also become + the victim of a similar illusion! + </p> + <p> + Oh! it was horrible! With a shudder, she picked up her letter and turned + away from the looking-glass. She would forget that ghastly warning in the + thought of the joys proper to her youth. She would think of Adrian and of + her next meeting with him. She opened her letter to find that he had, + rather timorously, suggested that she should meet him the next afternoon—at + the Marble Arch at three o'clock, if he heard nothing from her in the + meantime. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes she lost herself in delighted anticipation, and then + slowly, insidiously, a new speculation crept into her mind. What would be + the effect upon Adrian if he saw her and her aunt together? Would he + recognise the likeness and, anticipating the movement of more than half a + century, see her in one amazing moment as she would presently become? And, + in any case, what a terrible train of suggestion might not be started in + his mind by the impression left upon him by the old woman? Once he had + seen Miss Deane, Rachel's every gesture would serve to remind him of that + repulsive image of raddled, deluded age. It might well be that, in time, + he would come to see Rachel as she would presently be rather than as she + was. It would be a hideous reversal of the old romance; instead of seeing + the girl in the old woman, he would foresee the harridan in the girl! + </p> + <p> + That picture presented itself to Rachel with a quite appalling effect of + conviction. She suddenly remembered a case she had known that had + remarkable points of resemblance—the case of a rather pretty girl + with an unpleasant younger brother who, so she had heard it said, "put men + off his sister" because of the facial likeness between them. She was + pretty and he was ugly, but they were unmistakably brother and sister. + </p> + <p> + Oh! it would be nothing less than folly to let Adrian and her aunt meet, + Rachel decided. In imagination, she could follow the process of his + growing dismay; she could see his puzzled stare as he watched Miss Deane, + and struggled to fix that tantalising suggestion of likeness to some one + he knew; his flash of illumination as he solved the puzzle and turned with + that gentle, winning smile of his to herself; and then the progress of his + disillusionment as, day by day, he realised more plainly the intriguing + similarities of expression and gesture, until he felt that he was making + love to the spirit of an aged spinster temporarily disguised behind the + appearance of beauty. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Rachel had believed on the first night of her arrival in Tavistock Square + that, so far as her love affair was concerned, she would be able to avoid + all danger by keeping her lover and her aunt unknown to each other. She + very soon found, however, that the spell Miss Deane seemed to have put + upon her was not to be laid by any effect of mere distance. + </p> + <p> + She and Adrian met rather shyly at their first appointment. Both of them + were a little conscious of having been overbold, one for having suggested, + and the other for having agreed to so significant an assignation. And for + the first few minutes their talk was nothing but a quick, nervous + reminiscence of their earlier meetings. They had to recover the lost + ground on which they had parted before they could go on to any more + intimate knowledge of each other. But for some reason she had not yet + realised, Rachel found it very difficult to recover that lost ground. She + knew that she was being unnecessarily distant and cold, and though she + inwardly accused herself of "putting on absurd airs," her manner, as she + was uncomfortably aware, remained at once stilted and detached. + </p> + <p> + "I suppose it's because I'm self-conscious before all these people," she + thought, and, indeed, Hyde Park was very full that afternoon. + </p> + <p> + And it was Adrian who first, a little desperately, tried to reach across + the barrier that was dividing them. + </p> + <p> + "You're different, rather, in town," he began shyly. "Is it the effect of + your aunt's grandeurs?" + </p> + <p> + "Am I different? I feel exactly the same," Rachel replied mechanically. + </p> + <p> + "You didn't think it was rather impudent of me to ask you to meet me here, + did you?" he went on anxiously. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head emphatically. "Oh! no, it wasn't that," she said. + </p> + <p> + "But then you admit that it was—something?" he pleaded. + </p> + <p> + "The people, perhaps," she admitted. "I—I feel so exposed to the + public view." + </p> + <p> + "We might walk across the Park if you preferred it," he suggested; "and + have tea at that place in Kensington Gardens? It would be quieter there." + </p> + <p> + She agreed to that willingly. She wanted to be alone with him. The crowd + made her nervous and self-conscious this afternoon. Always before, she had + delighted in moving among a crowd, appreciating and enjoying the casual + glances of admiration she received. Today she was afraid of being noticed. + She had a queer feeling that these smart, clever people in the Park might + see through her, if they stared too closely. Just what they would discover + she did not know; but she suffered a disquieting qualm of uneasiness + whenever she saw any one observing her with attention. + </p> + <p> + They cut across the grass and, leaving the Serpentine on their left, found + two chairs in a quiet spot under the trees. Here, at least, they were + quite unwatched, but still Rachel found it impossible to regain the + relations that had existed between her and Adrian when they had parted a + month earlier. And Adrian, too, it seemed, was staring at her with a new, + inquisitive scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + "Why do you look at me like that?" she broke out at last. "Do you notice + any difference in me, or what? You—you've been staring so!" + </p> + <p> + "Difference!" he repeated. "Well, I told you just now, didn't I, that you + were different this afternoon?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but in what way?" she asked. "Do I—do I look different?" + </p> + <p> + He paused a little judiciously over his answer. "N—no," he + hesitated. "There's something, though. Don't be offended, will you, if I + say that you don't seem to be quite yourself to-day; not quite natural. I + miss a rather characteristic expression of yours. You've never once looked + at me with that rather tolerating air you used to put on." + </p> + <p> + "It was a horrid air," she said sharply. "I've made up my mind to cure + myself of it." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! no, don't," he protested. "It wasn't at all horrid. It was—don't + think I'm trying to pay you a compliment—it was, well, charming. + I've missed it dreadfully." + </p> + <p> + She turned and looked at him, determined to try an experiment. "This sort + of air, do you mean?" she asked, and with a sickening sensation of + presenting the very gestures and appearance of her aunt, she regarded him + under lowered eyelids with an expression of faintly supercilious approval. + </p> + <p> + His smile at once thanked and answered her. + </p> + <p> + "But it's an abominable look," she exclaimed. "The look of an old, old, + painted woman, vain, ridiculous." + </p> + <p> + He stared at her in amazement. "How absurd!" he protested. "Why, it's <i>you</i>; + and you're certainly not old or painted nor unduly vain, and no one could + say you were ridiculous." + </p> + <p> + "And you want me to look like that?" she asked. + </p> + <p> + "It's—it's so <i>you</i>," he said shyly. + </p> + <p> + "But, just suppose," she cried, "that I went on looking like that after + I'd grown old and ugly. Think how hateful it would be to see a hideous old + woman posturing and pretending and making eyes. And, you see, if one gets + a habit, it's so hard to get rid of it. Think of me at seventy, all + painted and powdered, trying to seem as if I hadn't altered and really + believing that I hadn't." + </p> + <p> + He laughed that pleasant, kind laugh of his which had been one of the + first things in him that had so attracted her. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! I'll chance the future," he said. "Besides if—if it could ever + happen that—that your growing old came to me gradually, that I + should be seeing you every day, I mean, I shouldn't notice it. I should be + old too; and <i>I</i> should think you hadn't altered either." He was + afraid, as yet, to be too plain spoken, but his tone made it quite clear + that he asked for no greater happiness than that of seeing her grow old + beside him. + </p> + <p> + She did not pretend to misunderstand him. "Would you? Perhaps you would," + she said. "But, all the same, I don't think you need insist on that + particular—pose." + </p> + <p> + He passed that by, too eager at the moment to claim the concession she had + offered him. "Is there any hope that I may be allowed to—to watch + you growing old?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "Perhaps—if you'll let me do it in my own way," Rachel said. + </p> + <p> + Adrian shyly took her hand. "You mean that you will—that you don't + mind?" He put the question as if he had no doubt of its intelligibility—to + her. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + "When did you begin to know?" he asked, awed by the wonder of this + stupendous thing that had happened to him. + </p> + <p> + "From the beginning, I think," Rachel murmured. + </p> + <p> + "So did I, from the very beginning—" he agreed, and from that they + dropped into sacred reminiscences and comparisons concerning the + innumerable things they had adoringly seen in each other and had had as + yet no opportunity to glory in. + </p> + <p> + And in the midst of all these new and bewildering, embarrassing, + delightful revelations and discoveries, Rachel completely forgot the + shadow that was haunting her, forgot how she looked or felt or acted, + forgot that there was or had ever been a terrible old woman who lived in + Tavistock Square and whose hold on life was maintained by her horrible + mimicry of youth. And then, in a moment, she was lifted out of her dream + and cruelly set down on the hard, unsympathetic earth by the sound of her + lover's voice. + </p> + <p> + "I suppose I'll have to meet your aunt?" he was saying. "Shall we go back + there now, and tell her?" + </p> + <p> + Rachel flushed, as if he had suggested some startling invasion of her + secret life. "Oh! no," she ejaculated impulsively. + </p> + <p> + Adrian looked his surprise. "But why not?" he asked. "I'm—I'm a + perfectly respectable, eligible party." + </p> + <p> + "I wasn't thinking of that," Rachel said. + </p> + <p> + "Is she a terrible dragon?" he inquired with a smile. + </p> + <p> + Rachel shook her head, rejecting the excuse offered in favour of a more + probable modification. "She's odd rather. She might prefer my giving her + some kind of notice," she said. + </p> + <p> + He accepted that without hesitation. "Will you warn her then?" he replied. + "And I'll come and do my duty to-morrow. I understand she's a lady to be + propitiated." + </p> + <p> + "Not to-morrow," Rachel said. + </p> + <p> + The irk and disgust of it all had returned to her with renewed force at + the first mention of her aunt's name. The thought of Miss Deane had + revived the repulsive sense of acting, speaking, looking like that aged + caricature of herself. Yet she wanted strangely enough, to get back to + Tavistock Square; for only there, it seemed to her, was she safe from the + examination of an inquisitive stare that might at any moment penetrate her + secret and reveal her as a posturing hag masquerading in the alluring + freshness of a young girl. + </p> + <p> + "I ought to be going back to her now," she said. + </p> + <p> + "But you promised that we should have tea together," Adrian remonstrated. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I know; but please don't pester me. I'll see you again to-morrow," + Rachel returned with a touch of elderly hauteur. And, despite all his + entreaties, she would not be persuaded to change her mind. Already he was + looking at her with a touch of suspicion, she thought; and as she checked + his remonstrances, she was aware of doing it with the air, the tone, the + very look that were her inheritance from endless generations of precisely + similar ancestors. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + If she could but have lived a double life, Rachel thought, her present + position might have been endurable, and then, in a few months or even + weeks, the problem would be solved for ever by her marriage with Adrian + and the final obliteration of Miss Deane from her memory. But she could + not live a double life. Day by day, as her intimacy with her aunt + increased, Rachel found it more difficult to forget her when she was away + from Tavistock Square. In the deepest and most beautiful moments of her + intercourse with Adrian, she was aware now of practising upon him a subtle + deception, of pretending that she was other than she was in reality—an + awareness that was constantly pricked and stimulated by the continually + growing consciousness of her likeness to Miss Deane. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane on her part evidently took a great pleasure in her niece's + society. The fortnight of her original invitation had already been + exceeded, but she would not hear of Rachel's return to Devonshire. + </p> + <p> + "Why should you go back?" she demanded scornfully. "Your father doesn't + want you—Richard is one of those slip-shod people who prefer to live + alone. I used to try to stir him up, and he ran away from me. He'll run + away from you, my dear, in a few years' time. He hasn't the courage to + stand up to women like us." + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane unquestionably wanted her niece to stay with her. She was even + beginning to hint at the desirability of making the present arrangement a + permanent one. + </p> + <p> + Rachel, however, was not flattered by this display of pleasure in her + society. She knew that it was due to no individual charm of her own, but + to the fact that she had become her aunt's mirror. For Miss Deane no + longer, in Rachel's presence at least, gazed at herself in the + looking-glass; she gazed at her niece instead. And as Rachel endured the + posings and simperings, the alternate adoration and fond contempt with + which her aunt regarded her, she was unable to resist the impulse to + reflect them. Every day she fell a little lower in that weakness, and + however slight the likeness had once been, she knew that now it must be + patent to every observer. She copied her aunt, mimicked, duplicated her. + It was easier to do that than fight the resemblance, against her aunt's + determination; and so, by unnoticed degrees, she had permitted herself to + become a lay figure upon which was dressed the image of Miss Deane's + youth. She had even come to desire the look of almost sensual + gratification on her aunt's face when she saw her niece so perfectly + reflecting her own well-remembered airs. + </p> + <p> + And Rachel, too, had come to avoid the looking-glass, dreading to see + there the poses and gesticulations of the old, repulsive woman whose every + feature and expression had become so sickeningly familiar. + </p> + <p> + And, in all that time, Adrian had not once been to the house in Tavistock + Square. Rachel had kept him away by what she felt had become all too + transparent excuses. That terror, at least, she felt must be kept at bay. + For she could not conceive it possible that, once he had seen her and her + aunt together, he could retain one spark of his admiration. He would, he + must, see her then as she was, see that her contemptible vanity was the + essential enduring thing, all that would remain when time had stripped her + of youth's allurement. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, the day came when Rachel could no longer endure to deceive + him. He had challenged her, at last, with hiding something from him. + Inevitably, he had become increasingly curious about her strange + reticences concerning the Miss Deane whom he, in turn, had grown to regard + as almost mythical; and all his suppressed suspicions had suddenly found + expression in a question. + </p> + <p> + "What are you hiding? Do you really live with your aunt in Tavistock + Square?" he had asked that day, with all the fierce intensity of a jealous + lover. + </p> + <p> + Rachel had been stirred to a quick response. "Oh, if you don't believe me, + you'd better come and see for yourself," she had said. "Come this + afternoon—to tea." And afterwards, even when Adrian had humbly + sought to make amends for his unwarrantable jealousy, she had stuck to + that invitation. The moment that she had issued it, she had had a sense of + relief, a sense of having gratefully confessed her weakness. Adrian's + visit would consummate that confession, and thereafter she would have no + further secrets from him. And if he found that he could no longer love her + after he had seen her as she was, well, it would be better in the end than + that he should marry a simulacrum and make the discovery by slow degrees. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, come this afternoon. We'll expect you about four" had been her last + words to him. And, now, she had to tell her aunt, who was still unaware + that such a person as Adrian Flemming existed. Rachel postponed the + telling until after lunch. Her knowledge of Miss Deane, though in some + respects it equalled her knowledge of her own mind, did not tell her how + her aunt would take this particular piece of news. She might possibly, + Rachel thought, be annoyed, fearful lest her beloved looking-glass should + be stolen from her. But she could wait no longer. In half an hour Miss + Deane would go upstairs to rest, and Adrian himself would be in the house + before she appeared again. + </p> + <p> + "I've something to tell you, aunt," Rachel began abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane put up her lorgnette and surveyed her lovely portrait with an + interested air. + </p> + <p> + "Aunt—I've never told you and I know I ought to have," Rachel + blurted out. "But I'm—I'm engaged to a Mr. Adrian Flemming, and he's + coming here to call on you—to call on us, this afternoon at four + o'clock." + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane closed her eyes and gave a little sigh. + </p> + <p> + "You might have given me <i>rather</i> longer notice, dear," she said. + </p> + <p> + "It isn't two yet," Rachel replied. "There are more than two hours to get + ready for him." + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane bridled slightly. "I must have my rest before he comes," she + said, and added: "I suppose you've told him about us, dear?" + </p> + <p> + "About <i>you</i>?" Rachel asked. + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane nodded, complacently. + </p> + <p> + "Well, not very much," Rachel admitted. + </p> + <p> + Miss Dean's look, as she playfully threatened Rachel with her long-handled + lorgnette, was distinctly sly. + </p> + <p> + "Then he doesn't know yet that there are two of us?" she simpered. "Won't + it be just a little bit of a shock to him, my dear?" + </p> + <p> + Rachel drew a long breath and leaned back in her chair. "Yes," she said + curtly, "I expect it will." + </p> + <p> + Never before had the realisation of that strange likeness seemed so + intolerable as at that moment. Even now her aunt was looking at her with + the very air and gesture which had once charmed her in her own reflection, + and that she knew still charmed and fascinated her lover. It was an air + and gesture of which she could never break herself. It was natural to her, + a true expression of something ineradicable in her being. Indeed, one of + the worst penalties imposed upon her during the past month had been the + omission of those pleasant ceremonies before the mirror. She had somehow + missed herself, lost the sweetest and most adorable of companions! + </p> + <p> + Miss Deane got up, and holding herself very erect, moved with a little + mincing step towards the tall mirror over the console table. Rachel held + her breath. She saw that her aunt, suddenly aroused by this thought of the + coming lover, was returning mechanically to her old habit of + self-admiration. Was it possible, Rachel wondered, that the sight of the + image she would see in the looking-glass, contrasted now with the memories + of the living reflection she had so intimately studied for the past four + weeks, might shock her into a realisation of the starkly hideous truth? + </p> + <p> + But it seemed that the aged woman must be blind. She gave no start of + surprise as she paused before the glass; she showed no sign of anxiety + concerning the vision she saw there. Her left hand, in which she held her + lorgnette, had fallen to her side, and with the finger-tips of her right + she daintily caressed the hollows of her sunken cheeks. She stayed there + until Rachel, unable to endure the sight any longer, and with some vague + purpose of defiance in her mind, jumped to her feet, crossed the room and + stood shoulder by shoulder with her aunt staring into the glass. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Miss Deane did not move; then, with a queer hesitation, she + dropped her right hand and slowly lifted her lorgnette. + </p> + <p> + Rachel felt a cold chill of horror invading her. Something fearful and + terrible was happening before her eyes; her aunt was shrinking, withering, + growing old in a moment. The stiffness had gone out of her pose, her head + had begun to droop; the proud contempt in her face was giving way to the + moping, resentful reminiscence of the aged. She still held up her + lorgnette, still stared half fearfully at the glaring contrast that was + presented to her, but her hand and arm had begun to tremble under the + strain, and, instant by, instant, all life and vigour seemed to be + draining away from her. + </p> + <p> + Then, suddenly, with a fierce effort she turned away her head, + straightened herself, and walked over to the door, passing out with a + high, thin cackle of laughter that had in it the suggestion of a vehement, + petulant derision; of a bitterness outmastering control. + </p> + <p> + Rachel shivered, but held her ground before the mirror. She had nothing to + fear from that contemplation. As for her aunt, she had had her day. It was + time she knew the truth. + </p> + <p> + "She <i>had</i> to know," Rachel repeated, addressing the dear likeness + that so proudly reflected her. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + She found consolation in that thought. Her aunt <i>had</i> to know and + Rachel herself was only the chance instrument of the revelation. She had + not <i>meant</i>, so she persisted, to do more than vindicate her own + integrity. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, her own passionate problem was not yet solved. Her aunt + would not, so Rachel believed, give way without a struggle. Had she not + made a gallant effort at recovery even as she left the room, and would she + not make a still greater effort while Adrian was there; assert her rivalry + if only in revenge? + </p> + <p> + She must meet that, Rachel decided, by presenting a contrast. She would be + meek and humble in her aunt's presence. Adrian might recognise the admired + airs and gestures in those of the old woman, but he should at least have + no opportunity to compare them.... + </p> + <p> + And it was with this thought and intention in her mind that Rachel + received him, when he arrived with a lover's promptness a little before + four o'clock. + </p> + <p> + "Are you so dreadfully nervous?" he asked her, when they were alone + together in the drawing-room. "You're like you were the first day we met + in town—different from your usual self." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! What a memory you have for my looks and behaviour," she replied + pettishly. "Of course, I'm nervous." + </p> + <p> + He tried to argue with her, questioning her as to Miss Deane's probable + reception of him, but she refused to answer. "You'll see for yourself in a + few minutes," she said; but the minutes passed and still Miss Deane did + not come. + </p> + <p> + At a quarter to five the elderly parlour-maid brought in tea. "Miss Deane + said you were not to wait for her, Miss Rachel," was the message she + delivered. "She'll be down presently, I was to say." + </p> + <p> + Rachel could not suppress a scornful twist of her mouth. She had no doubt + that her aunt was taking very special pains with her toilet; trying to + obliterate, perhaps, her recent vision before the console glass. Rachel + saw her entrance in imagination, stiff-necked and proud, defying the + criticisms of youth and the suggestions of age. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! why doesn't she come and let me get it over?" she passionately + demanded, and even as she spoke she heard the sounds of some one coming + down the stairs, not the accustomed sounds of her aunt's finicking, + high-heeled steps, but a shuffling and creaking, accompanied by the + murmurs of a weak, protesting voice. + </p> + <p> + Rachel jumped to her feet. She knew everything then—before the door + opened, and she saw first of all the shocked, scared face of the elderly + parlour-maid who supported the crumpled, palsied figure of the old, old + woman who, three hours before, had been so miraculously young, magically + upheld and supported then by the omnipotent strength of an idea. + </p> + <p> + She only stayed in the drawing-room for five minutes; a querulous, + resentful old lady, malignantly jealous, so it seemed, of their vigour and + impatient of their sympathy. + </p> + <p> + When the parlour-maid had been sent for and Miss Deane had gone, Rachel + stood up and looked down at Adrian with all her old hauteur. + </p> + <p> + "Can you realise," she asked, "that once my aunt was supposed to be very, + very like me?" + </p> + <p> + He smiled and shook his head, as if the possibility was too absurd to + contemplate. + </p> + <p> + Rachel turned and looked at herself in the glass, raising her chin and + slightly pursing her lips, staring superciliously at her own image under + half-lowered eyelids. + </p> + <p> + "Some day I may be as she is now," she said, with the superb contemptuous + arrogance of youth. + </p> + <p> + Adrian was watching her with adoration. "You will never grow old," he + said. + </p> + <p> + "So long as one does not get the idea of growing old into one's head," + Rachel began speculatively.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + But Miss Deane had got the idea so strongly now that she died that night. + </p> + <p> + Rachel was with her at the last. + </p> + <p> + The old woman was trying to mouth a text from the Bible. + </p> + <p> + "What did you say, dear?" Rachel murmured, bending over her, and caught + enough of the answer to guess that Miss Deane was mumbling again and + again: "Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OLIVE — By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>Pearson's Magazine</i>, London) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + He laughed involuntarily as the olive rolled towards his chair across the + shiny parquet floor of the hotel dining-room. + </p> + <p> + His table in the cavernous <i>salle à manger</i> was apart: he sat alone, + a solitary guest; the table from which the olive fell and rolled towards + him was some distance away. The angle, however, made him an unlikely + objective. Yet the lob-sided, juicy thing, after hesitating once or twice + <i>en route</i> as it plopped along, came to rest finally against his + feet. + </p> + <p> + It settled with an inviting, almost an aggressive air. And he stooped and + picked it up, putting it rather self-consciously, because of the girl from + whose table it had come, on the white tablecloth beside his plate. + </p> + <p> + Then, looking up, he caught her eye, and saw that she too was laughing, + though not a bit self-consciously. As she helped herself to the <i>hors + d'oeuvres</i> a false move had sent it flying. She watched him pick the + olive up and set it beside his plate. Her eyes then suddenly looked away + again—at her mother—questioningly. + </p> + <p> + The incident was closed. But the little oblong, succulent olive lay beside + his plate, so that his fingers played with it. He fingered it + automatically from time to time until his lonely meal was finished. + </p> + <p> + When no one was looking he slipped it into his pocket, as though, having + taken the trouble to pick it up, this was the very least he could do with + it. Heaven alone knows why, but he then took it upstairs with him, setting + it on the marble mantelpiece among his field glasses, tobacco tins, + ink-bottles, pipes and candlestick. At any rate, he kept it—the + moist, shiny, lob-sided, juicy little oblong olive. The hotel lounge + wearied him; he came to his room after dinner to smoke at his ease, his + coat off and his feet on a chair; to read another chapter of Freud, to + write a letter or two he didn't in the least want to write, and then go to + bed at ten o'clock. But this evening the olive kept rolling between him + and the thing he read; it rolled between the paragraphs, between the + lines; the olive was more vital than the interest of these eternal + "complexes" and "suppressed desires." + </p> + <p> + The truth was that he kept seeing the eyes of the laughing girl beyond the + bouncing olive. She had smiled at him in such a natural, spontaneous, + friendly way before her mother's glance had checked her—a smile, he + felt, that might lead to acquaintance on the morrow. + </p> + <p> + He wondered! A thrill of possible adventure ran through him. + </p> + <p> + She was a merry-looking sort of girl, with a happy, half-roguish face that + seemed on the lookout for somebody to play with. Her mother, like most of + the people in the big hotel, was an invalid; the girl, a dutiful and + patient daughter. They had arrived that very day apparently. A laugh is a + revealing thing, he thought as he fell asleep to dream of a lob-sided + olive rolling consciously towards him, and of a girl's eyes that watched + its awkward movements, then looked up into his own and laughed. In his + dream the olive had been deliberately and cleverly dispatched upon its + uncertain journey. It was a message. + </p> + <p> + He did not know, of course, that the mother, chiding her daughter's + awkwardness, had muttered: + </p> + <p> + "There you are again, child! True to your name, you never see an olive + without doing something queer and odd with it!" + </p> + <p> + A youngish man, whose knowledge of chemistry, including invisible inks and + such-like mysteries, had proved so valuable to the Censor's Department + that for five years he had overworked without a holiday, the Italian + Riviera had attracted him, and he had come out for a two months' rest. It + was his first visit. Sun, mimosa, blue seas and brilliant skies had + tempted him; exchange made a pound worth forty, fifty, sixty and seventy + shillings. He found the place lovely, but somewhat untenanted. + </p> + <p> + Having chosen at random, he had come to a spot where the companionship he + hoped to find did not exist. The place languished after the war, slow to + recover; the colony of resident English was scattered still; travellers + preferred the coast of France with Mentone and Monte Carlo to enliven + them. The country, moreover, was distracted by strikes. The electric light + failed one week, letters the next, and as soon as the electricians and + postal-workers resumed, the railways stopped running. Few visitors came, + and the few who came soon left. + </p> + <p> + He stayed on, however, caught by the sunshine and the good exchange, also + without the physical energy to discover a better, livelier place. He went + for walks among the olive groves, he sat beside the sea and palms, he + visited shops and bought things he did not want because the exchange made + them seem cheap, he paid immense "extras" in his weekly bill, then + chuckled as he reduced them to shillings and found that a few pence + covered them; he lay with a book for hours among the olive groves. + </p> + <p> + The olive groves! His daily life could not escape the olive groves; to + olive groves, sooner or later, his walks, his expeditions, his meanderings + by the sea, his shopping—all led him to these ubiquitous olive + groves. + </p> + <p> + If he bought a picture postcard to send home, there was sure to be an + olive grove in one corner of it. The whole place was smothered with olive + groves, the people owed their incomes and existence to these irrepressible + trees. The villages among the hills swam roof-deep in them. They swarmed + even in the hotel gardens. + </p> + <p> + The guide books praised them as persistently as the residents brought + them, sooner or later, into every conversation. They grew lyrical over + them: + </p> + <p> + "And how do you like our olive trees? Ah, you think them pretty. At first, + most people are disappointed. They grow on one." + </p> + <p> + "They do," he agreed. + </p> + <p> + "I'm glad you appreciate them. I find them the embodiment of grace. And + when the wind lifts the under-leaves across a whole mountain slope—why, + it's wonderful, isn't it? One realises the meaning of 'olive-green'." + </p> + <p> + "One does," he sighed. "But all the same I should like to get one to eat—an + olive, I mean." + </p> + <p> + "Ah, to eat, yes. That's not so easy. You see, the crop is—" + </p> + <p> + "Exactly," he interrupted impatiently, weary of the habitual and evasive + explanations. "But I should like to taste the <i>fruit</i>. I should like + to enjoy one." + </p> + <p> + For, after a stay of six weeks, he had never once seen an olive on the + table, in the shops, nor even on the street barrows at the market place. + He had never tasted one. No one sold olives, though olive trees were a + drug in the place; no one bought them, no one asked for them; it seemed + that no one wanted them. The trees, when he looked closely, were thick + with a dark little berry that seemed more like a sour sloe than the + succulent, delicious spicy fruit associated with its name. + </p> + <p> + Men climbed the trunks, everywhere shaking the laden branches and hitting + them with long bamboo poles to knock the fruit off, while women and + children, squatting on their haunches, spent laborious hours filling + baskets underneath, then loading mules and donkeys with their daily + "catch." But an olive to eat was unobtainable. He had never cared for + olives, but now he craved with all his soul to feel his teeth in one. + </p> + <p> + "Ach! But it is the Spanish olive that you <i>eat</i>," explained the head + waiter, a German "from Basel." "These are for oil only." After which he + disliked the olive more than ever—until that night when he saw the + first eatable specimen rolling across the shiny parquet floor, propelled + towards him by the careless hand of a pretty girl, who then looked up into + his eyes and smiled. + </p> + <p> + He was convinced that Eve, similarly, had rolled the apple towards Adam + across the emerald sward of the first garden in the world. + </p> + <p> + He slept usually like the dead. It must have been something very real that + made him open his eyes and sit up in bed alertly. There was a noise + against his door. He listened. The room was still quite dark. It was early + morning. The noise was not repeated. + </p> + <p> + "Who's there?" he asked in a sleepy whisper. "What is it?" + </p> + <p> + The noise came again. Some one was scratching on the door. No, it was + somebody tapping. + </p> + <p> + "What do you want?" he demanded in a louder voice. "Come in," he added, + wondering sleepily whether he was presentable. Either the hotel was on + fire or the porter was waking the wrong person for some sunrise + expedition. + </p> + <p> + Nothing happened. Wide awake now, he turned the switch on, but no light + flooded the room. The electricians, he remembered with a curse, were out + on strike. He fumbled for the matches, and as he did so a voice in the + corridor became distinctly audible. It was just outside his door. + </p> + <p> + "Aren't you ready?" he heard. "You sleep for ever." + </p> + <p> + And the voice, although never having heard it before, he could not have + recognised it, belonged, he knew suddenly, to the girl who had let the + olive fall. In an instant he was out of bed. He lit a candle. + </p> + <p> + "I'm coming," he called softly, as he slipped rapidly into some clothes. + "I'm sorry I've kept you. I shan't be a minute." + </p> + <p> + "Be quick then!" he heard, while the candle flame slowly grew, and he + found his garments. Less than three minutes later he opened the door and, + candle in hand, peered into the dark passage. + </p> + <p> + "Blow it out!" came a peremptory whisper. He obeyed, but not quick enough. + A pair of red lips emerged from the shadows. There was a puff, and the + candle was extinguished. "I've got my reputation to consider. We mustn't + be seen, of course!" + </p> + <p> + The face vanished in the darkness, but he had recognised it—the + shining skin, the bright glancing eyes. The sweet breath touched his + cheek. The candlestick was taken from him by a swift, deft movement. He + heard it knock the wainscoting as it was set down. He went out into a + pitch-black corridor, where a soft hand seized his own and led him—by + a back door, it seemed—out into the open air of the hill-side + immediately behind the hotel. + </p> + <p> + He saw the stars. The morning was cool and fragrant, the sharp air waked + him, and the last vestiges of sleep went flying. He had been drowsy and + confused, had obeyed the summons without thinking. He now realised + suddenly that he was engaged in an act of madness. + </p> + <p> + The girl, dressed in some flimsy material thrown loosely about her head + and body, stood a few feet away, looking, he thought, like some figure + called out of dreams and slumber of a forgotten world, out of legend + almost. He saw her evening shoes peep out; he divined an evening dress + beneath the gauzy covering. The light wind blew it close against her + figure. He thought of a nymph. + </p> + <p> + "I say—but haven't you been to bed?" he asked stupidly. He had meant + to expostulate, to apologise for his foolish rashness, to scold and say + they must go back at once. Instead, this sentence came. He guessed she had + been sitting up all night. He stood still a second, staring in mute + admiration, his eyes full of bewildered question. + </p> + <p> + "Watching the stars," she met his thought with a happy laugh. "Orion has + touched the horizon. I came for you at once. We've got just four hours!" + The voice, the smile, the eyes, the reference to Orion, swept him off his + feet. Something in him broke loose, and flew wildly, recklessly to the + stars. + </p> + <p> + "Let us be off!" he cried, "before the Bear tilts down. Already Alcyone + begins to fade. I'm ready. Come!" + </p> + <p> + She laughed. The wind blew the gauze aside to show two ivory white limbs. + She caught his hand again, and they scampered together up the steep + hill-side towards the woods. Soon the big hotel, the villas, the white + houses of the little town where natives and visitors still lay soundly + sleeping, were out of sight. The farther sky came down to meet them. The + stars were paling, but no sign of actual dawn was yet visible. The + freshness stung their cheeks. + </p> + <p> + Slowly, the heavens grew lighter, the east turned rose, the outline of the + trees defined themselves, there was a stirring of the silvery green + leaves. They were among olive groves—but the spirits of the trees + were dancing. Far below them, a pool of deep colour, they saw the ancient + sea. They saw the tiny specks of distant fishing-boats. The sailors were + singing to the dawn, and birds among the mimosa of the hanging gardens + answered them. + </p> + <p> + Pausing a moment at length beneath a gaunt old tree, whose struggle to + leave the clinging earth had tortured its great writhing arms and trunk, + they took their breath, gazing at one another with eyes full of happy + dreams. + </p> + <p> + "You understood so quickly," said the girl, "my little message. I knew by + your eyes and ears you would." And she first tweaked his ears with two + slender fingers mischievously, then laid her soft palm with a momentary + light pressure on both eyes. + </p> + <p> + "You're half-and-half, at any rate," she added, looking him up and down + for a swift instant of appraisement, "if you're not altogether." The + laughter showed her white, even little teeth. + </p> + <p> + "You know how to play, and that's something," she added. Then, as if to + herself, "You'll be altogether before I've done with you." + </p> + <p> + "Shall I?" he stammered, afraid to look at her. + </p> + <p> + Puzzled, some spirit of compromise still lingering in him, he knew not + what she meant; he knew only that the current of life flowed increasingly + through his veins, but that her eyes confused him. + </p> + <p> + "I'm longing for it," he added. "How wonderfully you did it! They roll so + awkwardly——" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, that!" She peered at him through a wisp of hair. "You've kept it, I + hope." + </p> + <p> + "Rather. It's on my mantelpiece——" + </p> + <p> + "You're sure you haven't eaten it?" and she made a delicious mimicry with + her red lips, so that he saw the tip of a small pointed tongue. + </p> + <p> + "I shall keep it," he swore, "as long as these arms have life in them," + and he seized her just as she was crouching to escape, and covered her + with kisses. + </p> + <p> + "I knew you longed to play," she panted, when he released her. "Still, it + was sweet of you to pick it up before another got it." + </p> + <p> + "Another!" he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + "The gods decide. It's a lob-sided thing, remember. It can't roll + straight." She looked oddly mischievous, elusive. + </p> + <p> + He stared at her. + </p> + <p> + "If it had rolled elsewhere—and another had picked it up——?" + he began. + </p> + <p> + "I should be with that other now!" And this time she was off and away + before he could prevent her, and the sound of her silvery laughter mocked + him among the olive trees beyond. He was up and after her in a second, + following her slim whiteness in and out of the old-world grove, as she + flitted lightly, her hair flying in the wind, her figure flashing like a + ray of sunlight or the race of foaming water—till at last he caught + her and drew her down upon his knees, and kissed her wildly, forgetting + who and where and what he was. + </p> + <p> + "Hark!" she whispered breathlessly, one arm close about his neck. "I hear + their footsteps. Listen! It is the pipe!" + </p> + <p> + "The pipe——!" he repeated, conscious of a tiny but delicious + shudder. + </p> + <p> + For a sudden chill ran through him as she said it. He gazed at her. The + hair fell loose about her cheeks, flushed and rosy with his hot kisses. + Her eyes were bright and wild for all their softness. Her face, turned + sideways to him as she listened, wore an extraordinary look that for an + instant made his blood run cold. He saw the parted lips, the small white + teeth, the slim neck of ivory, the young bosom panting from his + tempestuous embrace. Of an unearthly loveliness and brightness she seemed + to him, yet with this strange, remote expression that touched his soul + with sudden terror. + </p> + <p> + Her face turned slowly. + </p> + <p> + "Who <i>are</i> you?" he whispered. He sprang to his feet without waiting + for her answer. + </p> + <p> + He was young and agile; strong, too, with that quick response of muscle + they have who keep their bodies well; but he was no match for her. Her + speed and agility out-classed his own with ease. She leapt. Before he had + moved one leg forward towards escape, she was clinging with soft, supple + arms and limbs about him, so that he could not free himself, and as her + weight bore him downwards to the ground, her lips found his own and kissed + them into silence. She lay buried again in his embrace, her hair across + his eyes, her heart against his heart, and he forgot his question, forgot + his little fear, forgot the very world he knew.... + </p> + <p> + "They come, they come," she cried gaily. "The Dawn is here. Are you + ready?" + </p> + <p> + "I've been ready for five thousand years," he answered, leaping to his + feet beside her. + </p> + <p> + "Altogether!" came upon a sparkling laugh that was like wind among the + olive leaves. + </p> + <p> + Shaking her last gauzy covering from her, she snatched his hand, and they + ran forward together to join the dancing throng now crowding up the slope + beneath the trees. Their happy singing filled the sky. Decked with vine + and ivy, and trailing silvery green branches, they poured in a flood of + radiant life along the mountain side. Slowly they melted away into the + blue distance of the breaking dawn, and, as the last figure disappeared, + the sun came up slowly out of a purple sea. + </p> + <p> + They came to the place he knew—the deserted earthquake village—and + a faint memory stirred in him. He did not actually recall that he had + visited it already, had eaten his sandwiches with "hotel friends" beneath + its crumbling walls; but there was a dim troubling sense of familiarity—nothing + more. The houses still stood, but pigeons lived in them, and weasels, + stoats and snakes had their uncertain homes in ancient bedrooms. Not + twenty years ago the peasants thronged its narrow streets, through which + the dawn now peered and cool wind breathed among dew-laden brambles. + </p> + <p> + "I know the house," she cried, "the house where we would live!" and raced, + a flying form of air and sunlight, into a tumbled cottage that had no + roof, no floor or windows. Wild bees had hung a nest against the broken + wall. + </p> + <p> + He followed her. There was sunlight in the room, and there were flowers. + Upon a rude, simple table lay a bowl of cream, with eggs and honey and + butter close against a home-made loaf. They sank into each other's arms + upon a couch of fragrant grass and boughs against the window where wild + roses bloomed ... and the bees flew in and out. + </p> + <p> + It was Bussana, the so-called earthquake village, because a sudden + earthquake had fallen on it one summer morning when all the inhabitants + were at church. The crashing roof killed sixty, the tumbling walls another + hundred, and the rest had left it where it stood. + </p> + <p> + "The Church," he said, vaguely remembering the story. "They were at prayer——" + </p> + <p> + The girl laughed carelessly in his ear, setting his blood in a rush and + quiver of delicious joy. He felt himself untamed, wild as the wind and + animals. "The true God claimed His own," she whispered. "He came back. Ah, + they were not ready—the old priests had seen to that. But he came. + They heard his music. Then his tread shook the olive groves, the old + ground danced, the hills leapt for joy——" + </p> + <p> + "And the houses crumbled," he laughed as he pressed her closer to his + heart— + </p> + <p> + "And now we've come back!" she cried merrily. "We've come back to worship + and be glad!" She nestled into him, while the sun rose higher. + </p> + <p> + "I hear them—hark!" she cried, and again leapt, dancing from his + side. Again he followed her like wind. Through the broken window they saw + the naked fauns and nymphs and satyrs rolling, dancing, shaking their soft + hoofs amid the ferns and brambles. Towards the appalling, ruptured church + they sped with feet of light and air. A roar of happy song and laughter + rose. + </p> + <p> + "Come!" he cried. "We must go too." + </p> + <p> + Hand in hand they raced to join the tumbling, dancing throng. She was in + his arms and on his back and flung across his shoulders, as he ran. They + reached the broken building, its whole roof gone sliding years ago, its + walls a-tremble still, its shattered shrines alive with nesting birds. + </p> + <p> + "Hush!" she whispered in a tone of awe, yet pleasure. "He is there!" She + pointed, her bare arm outstretched above the bending heads. + </p> + <p> + There, in the empty space, where once stood sacred Host and Cup, he sat, + filling the niche sublimely and with awful power. His shaggy form, benign + yet terrible, rose through the broken stone. The great eyes shone and + smiled. The feet were lost in brambles. + </p> + <p> + "God!" cried a wild, frightened voice yet with deep worship in it—and + the old familiar panic came with portentous swiftness. The great Figure + rose. + </p> + <p> + The birds flew screaming, the animals sought holes, the worshippers, + laughing and glad a moment ago, rushed tumbling over one another for the + doors. + </p> + <p> + "He goes again! Who called? Who called like that? His feet shake the + ground!" + </p> + <p> + "It is the earthquake!" screamed a woman's shrill accents in ghastly + terror. + </p> + <p> + "Kiss me—one kiss before we forget again...!" sighed a laughing, + passionate voice against his ear. "Once more your arms, your heart beating + on my lips...! You recognised his power. You are now altogether! We shall + remember!" + </p> + <p> + But he woke, with the heavy bed-clothes stuffed against his mouth and the + wind of early morning sighing mournfully about the hotel walls. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + "Have they left again—those ladies?" he inquired casually of the + head waiter, pointing to the table. "They were here last night at dinner." + </p> + <p> + "Who do you mean?" replied the man, stupidly, gazing at the spot indicated + with a face quite blank. "Last night—at dinner?" He tried to think. + </p> + <p> + "An English lady, elderly, with—her daughter——" at which + moment precisely the girl came in alone. Lunch was over, the room empty. + There was a second's difficult pause. It seemed ridiculous not to speak. + Their eyes met. The girl blushed furiously. + </p> + <p> + He was very quick for an Englishman. "I was allowing myself to ask after + your mother," he began. "I was afraid"—he glanced at the table laid + for one—"she was not well, perhaps?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, but that's very kind of you, I'm sure." She smiled. He saw the small + white even teeth.... + </p> + <p> + And before three days had passed, he was so deeply in love that he simply + couldn't help himself. + </p> + <p> + "I believe," he said lamely, "this is yours. You dropped it, you know. Er—may + I keep it? It's only an olive." + </p> + <p> + They were, of course, in an olive grove when he asked it, and the sun was + setting. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, looked him up and down, looked at his ears, his eyes. + He felt that in another second her little fingers would slip up and tweak + the first, or close the second with a soft pressure—— + </p> + <p> + "Tell me," he begged: "did you dream anything—that first night I saw + you?" + </p> + <p> + She took a quick step backwards. "No," she said, as he followed her more + quickly still, "I don't think I did. But," she went on breathlessly as he + caught her up, "I knew—from the way you picked it up——" + </p> + <p> + "Knew what?" he demanded, holding her tightly so that she could not get + away again. + </p> + <p> + "That you were already half and half, but would soon be altogether." + </p> + <p> + And, as he kissed her, he felt her soft little fingers tweak his ears. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONCE A HERO — By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>Pan</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + Standing in a sheltered doorway a tramp, with a slouch hat crammed low + over a notably unwashed face, watched the outside of the new works canteen + of the Sir William Rumbold Ltd., Engineering Company. Perhaps because they + were workers while he was a tramp, he had an air of compassionate cynicism + as the audience assembled and thronged into the building, which, as + prodigally advertised throughout Calderside, was to be opened that night + by Sir William in person. + </p> + <p> + There being no one to observe him, the tramp could be frank with his + cynicism; but inside the building, in the platform ante-room, Mr. Edward + Fosdike, who was Sir William's locally resident secretary, had to + discipline his private feelings to a suave concurrence in his employer's + florid enthusiasm. Fosdike served Sir William well, but no man is a hero + to his (male) secretary. + </p> + <p> + "I hope you will find the arrangements satisfactory," Fosdike was saying, + tugging nervously at his maltreated moustache. "You speak at seven and + declare the canteen open. Then there's a meal." He hesitated. "Perhaps I + should have warned you to dine before you came." + </p> + <p> + Sir William was aware of being a very gallant gentleman. "Not at all," he + said heroically, "not at all. I have not spared my purse over this War + Memorial. Why should I spare my feelings? Well, now, you've seen about the + Press?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes. The reporters are coming. There'll be flash-light photographs. + Everything quite as usual when you make a public appearance, sir." + </p> + <p> + Sir William wondered if this resident secretary of his were quite + adequate. Busy in London, he had left all arrangements in his local + factotum's hands, and he was doubting whether those hands had grasped the + situation competently. "Only as usual?" he said sharply. "This War + Memorial has cost me ten thousand pounds." + </p> + <p> + "The amount," Fosdike hastened to assure him, "has been circulated, with + appropriate tribute to your generosity." + </p> + <p> + "Generosity," criticised Rumbold. "I hope you didn't use that word." + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fosdike referred to his notebook. "We said," he read, "'the cost, + though amounting to ten thousand pounds, is entirely beside the point. Sir + William felt that no expense was excessive that would result in a fitting + and permanent expression of our gratitude to the glorious dead.'" + </p> + <p> + "Thank you, Fosdike. That is exactly my feeling," said the gratified Sir + William, paying Fosdike the unspoken compliment of thinking him less of a + fool than he looked. "It is," he went on, "from no egotistic motive that I + wish the Press to be strongly represented to-night. I believe that in + deciding that Calderside's War Memorial should take the form of a Works + Canteen, I am setting an example of enlightenment which other employers + would do well to follow. I have erected a monument, not in stone, but in + goodwill, a club-house for both sexes to serve as a centre of social + activities for the firm's employees, wherein the great spirit of the noble + work carried out at the Front by by the Y.M.C.A. will be recaptured and + adapted to peace conditions in our local organisation in the Martlow Works + Canteen. What are you taking notes for?" + </p> + <p> + "I thought——" began Fosdike. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, well, perhaps you are right. Reporters have been known to miss one's + point, and a little first aid, eh? By the way, I sent you some notes from + town of what I intended to say in my speech. I just sent them ahead in + case there was any local point I'd got wrong." + </p> + <p> + He put it as a question, but actually it was an assertion and a challenge. + It asserted that by no possible chance could there be anything injudicious + in the proposed speech, and it challenged Fosdike to deny that assertion + if he dared. + </p> + <p> + And Fosdike had to dare; he had to accuse himself of assuming too easily + that Rumbold's memory of local Calderside detail was as fresh as the + memory of the man on the spot. + </p> + <p> + "I did want to suggest a modification, sir," he hazarded timidly. + </p> + <p> + "Really?"—quite below zero—"Really? I felt very contented with + the speech." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, sir, it's masterly. But on the spot here——" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, agreed. Quite right, Fosdike. I am speaking to-night to the world—no; + let me guard against exaggeration. The world includes the Polynesians and + Esquimaux—I am speaking to the English-speaking races of the world, + but first and foremost to Calderside. My own people. Yes? You have a + little something to suggest? Some happy local allusion?" + </p> + <p> + "It's about Martlow," said Fosdike shortly. + </p> + <p> + Sir William took him up. "Ah, now you're talking," he approved. "Yes, + indeed, anything you can add to my notes about Martlow will be most + welcome. I have noted much, but too much is not enough for such an + illustrious example of conspicuous gallantry, so noble a life, so great a + deed, and so self-sacrificing an end. Any details you can add about + Timothy Martlow will indeed——" + </p> + <p> + Fosdike coughed. "Excuse me, sir, that's just the point. If you talk like + that about Martlow down here, they'll laugh at you." + </p> + <p> + "Laugh?" gasped Rumbold, his sense of propriety outraged. "My dear + Fosdike, what's come to you? I celebrate a hero. Our hero. Why, I'm + calling the Canteen after Martlow when I might have given it my own name. + That speaks volumes." It did. + </p> + <p> + But Fosdike knew too well what would be the attitude of a Calderside + audience if he allowed his chief to sing in top-notes an unreserved eulogy + of Tim Martlow. Calderside knew Tim, the civilian, if it had also heard of + Tim, the soldier. "Don't you remember Martlow, sir? Before the war, I + mean." + </p> + <p> + "No. Ought I to?" + </p> + <p> + "Not on the bench?" + </p> + <p> + "Martlow? Yes, now I think of the name in connection with the old days, + there was a drunken fellow. To be sure, an awful blackguard, continually + before the bench. Dear me! Well, well, but a man is not responsible for + his undesirable relations, I hope." + </p> + <p> + "No, sir. But that was Martlow. The same man. You really can't speak to + Calderside of his as an ennobling life and a great example. The war + changed him, but—well, in peace, Tim was absolutely the local bad + man, and they all know it. I thought you did, or——" + </p> + <p> + Sir William turned a face expressive of awe-struck wonder. "Fosdike," he + said with deep sincerity, "this is the most amazing thing I've heard of + the war. I never connected Martlow the hero with—well, well <i>de + mortuis</i>." He quoted: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "'Nothing in his life + Became him like the leaving it; he died + As one that had been studied in his death + To throw away the dearest thing he owed + As 'there a careless trifle.' +</pre> + <p> + "Appropriate, I think? I shall use that." + </p> + <p> + It was, at least, a magnificent recovery from an unexpected blow, + administered by the very man whose duty it was to guard Sir William + against just that sort of blow. If Fosdike was not the local watch-dog, he + was nothing; and here was an occasion when the dog had omitted to bark + until the last minute of the eleventh hour. + </p> + <p> + "Very apt quotation, sir, though there have never been any exact details + of Martlow's death." + </p> + <p> + Sir William meditated. "Do you recall the name of the saint who was a + regular rip before he got religion?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "I think that applies to most of them," said Fosdike. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but the one in particular. Francis. That's it." He filled his chest. + "Timothy Martlow," he pronounced impressively, "is the St. Francis of the + Great War, and this Canteen is his shrine. Now, I think I will go into the + hall. It is early, but I shall chat with the people. Oh, one last thought. + When you mentioned Martlow, I thought you were going to tell me of some + undesirable connections. There are none?" + </p> + <p> + "There is his mother. A widow. You remember the Board voted her an + addition to her pension." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes. And she?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, most grateful. She will be with you on the platform. I have seen + myself that she is—fittingly attired." + </p> + <p> + "I think I can congratulate you, Fosdike," said Sir William magnanimously. + "You've managed very well. I look forward to a pleasant evening, a widely + reported speech, and—" + </p> + <p> + Then Dolly Wainwright came into the ante-room. + </p> + <p> + "If you please, sir," she said, "what's going to be done about me?" + </p> + <p> + Two gentlemen who had all but reached the smug bathos of a mutual + admiration society turned astonished eyes at the intruder. + </p> + <p> + She wore a tam, and a check blanket coat, which she unbuttoned as they + watched her. Beneath it, suitable to the occasion, was a white dress, and + Sir William, looking at it, felt a glow of tenderness for this artless + child who had blundered into the privacy of the ante-room. Something + daintily virginal in Dolly's face appealed to him; he caught himself + thinking that her frock was more than a miracle in bleached cotton—it + was moonshine shot with alabaster; and the improbability of that + combination had hardly struck him when Fosdike's voice forced itself + harshly on his ears. + </p> + <p> + "How did you get in here?" + </p> + <p> + Sir William moved to defend the girl from the anger of his secretary, but + when she said, with a certain challenge, "Through the door," he doubted if + she were so defenceless as she seemed. + </p> + <p> + "But there's a doorkeeper at the bottom," said Fosdike. "I gave him my + orders." + </p> + <p> + "I gave him my smile," said Dolly. "I won." + </p> + <p> + "Upon my word—" Fosdike began. + </p> + <p> + "Well, well," interrupted Sir William, "what can I do for you?" + </p> + <p> + The reply was indirect, but caused Sir William still further to readjust + his estimate of her. + </p> + <p> + "I've got friends in the meeting to-night," she concluded. "They'll speak + up for me, too, if I'm not righted. So I'm telling you." + </p> + <p> + "Don't threaten me, my girl," said Sir William without severity. "I am + always ready to pay attention to any legitimate grievance, but——" + </p> + <p> + "Legitimate?" she interrupted. "Well, mine's not legitimate. So there!" + </p> + <p> + "I beg your pardon?" She puzzled Sir William. "Come now," he went on in + his most patriarchal manner, "don't assume I'm not going to listen to you. + I am. To-night there is no thought in my mind except the welfare of + Calderside." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, well," she said apologetically, "I'm sorry if I riled you, but it's a + bit awkward to speak it out to a man. Only" (the unconscious cruelty of + youth—or was it conscious?) "you're both old, so perhaps I can get + through. It's about Tim Martlow." + </p> + <p> + "Ah," said Sir William encouragingly, "our glorious hero." + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said Dolly. "I'm the mother of his child." + </p> + <p> + We are all balloons dancing our lives amongst pins. Therefore, be + compassionate towards Sir William. He collapsed speechlessly on a hard + chair. + </p> + <p> + Fosdike reacted more alertly. "This is the first I've heard of Martlow's + being married," he said aggressively. + </p> + <p> + Dolly looked up at him indignantly. "You ain't heard it now, have you?" + she protested. "I said it wasn't legitimate. I don't say we'd not have got + married if there'd been time, but you can't do everything on short leave." + </p> + <p> + There seemed an obvious retort. Rumbold and Fosdike looked at each other, + and neither made the retort. Instead, Fosdike asked: "Are you employed in + the works here?" + </p> + <p> + "I was here, on munitions," she said, "and then on doles." + </p> + <p> + "And now you're on the make," he sneered. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I dunno," she said. "All this fuss about Tim Martlow. I ought to have + my bit out of it." + </p> + <p> + "Deplorable," grieved Sir William. "The crass materialism of it all. This + is so sad. How old are you?" + </p> + <p> + "Twenty," said Dolly. "Twenty, with a child to keep, and his father's name + up in gold lettering in that hall there. I say somebody ought to do + something." + </p> + <p> + "I suppose now, Miss——" Fosdike baulked. + </p> + <p> + "Wainwright, Dolly Wainwright, though it ought to be Martlow." + </p> + <p> + "I suppose you loved Tim very dearly?" + </p> + <p> + "I liked him well enough. He was good-looking in his khaki." + </p> + <p> + "Liked him? I'm sure it was more than that." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I dunno. Why?" asked the girl, who said she was the mother of + Martlow's child. + </p> + <p> + "I am sure," said Fosdike gravely, "you would never do anything to bring a + stain upon his memory." + </p> + <p> + Dolly proposed a bargain. "If I'm rightly done by," she said, "I'll do + right by him." + </p> + <p> + "Anything that marred the harmony of to-night's ceremony, Miss Wainwright, + would be unthinkable," said Sir William, coming to his lieutenant's + support. + </p> + <p> + "Right," said Dolly cheerfully. "If you'll take steps according, I'm sure + I've no desire to make a scene." + </p> + <p> + "A scene," gasped Sir William. + </p> + <p> + "Though," she pointed out, "it's a lot to ask of any one, you know. Giving + up the certain chance of getting my photograph in the papers. I make a + good picture, too. Some do and some don't, but I take well and when you + know you've got the looks to carry off a scene, it's asking something of + me to give up the idea." + </p> + <p> + "But you said you'd no desire to make a scene." + </p> + <p> + "Poor girls have often got to do what they don't wish to. I wouldn't make + a scene in the usual way. Hysterics and all that. Hysterics means cold + water in your face and your dress messed up and no sympathy. But with + scenes, the greater the occasion the greater the reward, and there's no + denying this is an occasion, is there? You're making a big to-do about Tim + Martlow and the reward would be according. I don't know if you've noticed + that if a girl makes a scene and she's got the looks for it, she gets + offers of marriage, like they do in the police-court when they've been + wronged and the magistrate passes all the men's letters on to the court + missionary and the girl and the missionary go through them and choose the + likeliest fellow out of the bunch?" + </p> + <p> + "But my dear young lady——" Fosdike began. + </p> + <p> + She silenced him. "Oh, it's all right. I don't know that I want to get + married." + </p> + <p> + "Then you ought to," said Sir William virtuously. + </p> + <p> + "There's better things in life than getting married," Dolly said. "I've + weighed up marriage, and I don't see what there is in it for a girl + nowadays." + </p> + <p> + "In your case, I should have thought there was everything." + </p> + <p> + Dolly sniffed. "There isn't liberty," she said. "And we won the fight for + liberty, didn't we? No; if I made that scene it 'ud be to get my + photograph in the papers where the film people could see it. I've the + right face for the pictures, and my romantic history will do the rest." + </p> + <p> + "Good heavens, girl," cried the scandalised Sir William, "have you no + reverence at all? The pictures! You'd turn all my disinterested efforts to + ridicule. You'd—oh, but there! You're not going to make a scene?" + </p> + <p> + "That's a matter of arrangement, of course," said the cool lady. "I'm only + showing you what a big chance I shall miss if I oblige you. Suppose I pipe + up my tale of woe just when you're on the platform with the Union Jack + behind you and the reporters in front of you, and that tablet in there + that says Tim is the greatest glory of Calderside——" + </p> + <p> + Sir William nearly screamed. "Be quiet, girl. Fosdike," he snarled, + turning viciously on his secretary, "what the deuce do you mean by + pretending to keep an eye on local affairs when you miss a thing like + this?" + </p> + <p> + "'Tisn't his fault," said Dolly. "I've been saving this up for you." + </p> + <p> + "Oh," he groaned, "and I'd felt so happy about to-night." He took out a + fountain pen. "Well, I suppose there's no help for it. Fosdike, what's the + amount of the pension we allow Martlow's mother?" + </p> + <p> + "Double it, add a pound a week, and what's the answer, Mr. Fosdike?" asked + Dolly quickly. + </p> + <p> + Sir William gasped ludicrously. + </p> + <p> + "I mean to say," said Dolly, conferring on his gasp the honour of an + explanation, "she's old and didn't go on munitions, and didn't get used to + wangling income tax on her wages, and never had no ambitions to go on the + pictures, neither. What's compensation to her isn't compensation to me. + I've got a higher standard." + </p> + <p> + "The less you say about your standards, the better, my girl," retorted Sir + William. "Do you know that this is blackmail?" + </p> + <p> + "No, it isn't. Not when I ain't asked you for nothing. And if I pass the + remark how that three pounds a week is my idea of a minimum wage, it isn't + blackmail to state the fact." + </p> + <p> + Sir William paused in the act of tearing a page out of Fosdike's + note-book. "Three pounds a week!" + </p> + <p> + "Well," said Dolly reasonably, "I didn't depreciate the currency. Three + pounds a week is little enough these times for the girl who fell from + grace through the chief glory of Calderside." + </p> + <p> + "But suppose you marry," suggested Mr. Fosdike. + </p> + <p> + "Then I marry well," she said, "having means of my own. And I ought to, + seeing I'm kind of widow to the chief glory of—" + </p> + <p> + Sir William looked up sharply from the table. "If you use that phrase + again," he said, "I'll tear this paper up." + </p> + <p> + "Widow to Tim Martlow," she amended it, defiantly. He handed her the + document he had drawn up. It was an undertaking in brief, unambiguous + terms to pay her three pounds a week for life. As she read it, exulting, + the door was kicked open. + </p> + <p> + The tramp, whose name was Timothy Martlow, came in and turning, spoke + through the doorway to the janitor below. "Call out," he said, "and I'll + come back and knock you down again." Then he locked the door. + </p> + <p> + Fosdike went courageously towards him. "What do you mean by this + intrusion? Who are you?" + </p> + <p> + The tramp assured himself that his hat was well pulled down over his face. + He put his hands in his pockets and looked quizzically at the advancing + Mr. Fosdike. "So far," he said, "I'm the man that locked the door." + </p> + <p> + Fosdike started for the second door, which led directly to the platform. + The tramp reached it first, and locked it, shouldering Fosdike from him. + "Now," he said, Sir William was searching the wall, "are there no bells?" + he asked desperately. + </p> + <p> + "No." + </p> + <p> + "No?" jeered the tramp. "No bell. No telephone. No nothing. You're + scotched without your rifle this time." + </p> + <p> + Fosdike consulted Sir William. "I might shout for the police," he + suggested. + </p> + <p> + "It's risky," commented the tramp. "They sometimes come when they're + called." + </p> + <p> + "Then——" began the secretary. + </p> + <p> + "It's your risk," emphasised the tramp. "And, I don't advise it. I've gone + to a lot of trouble this last week to keep out of sight of the Calderside + police. They'd identify me easy, and Sir William wouldn't like that." + </p> + <p> + "I wouldn't like?" said Rumbold. "I? Who are you?" + </p> + <p> + "Wounded and missing, believed dead," quoted the tramp. "Only there's been + a lot of beliefs upset in this war, and I'm one of them." + </p> + <p> + "One of what?" + </p> + <p> + "I'm telling you. One of the strayed sheep that got mislaid and come home + at the awkwardest times." He snatched his hat off. "Have a good look at + that face, your worship." + </p> + <p> + "Timothy Martlow," cried Sir William. + </p> + <p> + Fosdike staggered to a chair while Dolly, who had shown nothing but + amusement at the tramp, now gave a quick cry and shrank back against the + wall, exhibiting every symptom of the liveliest terror. Of the trio, Sir + William, for whom surely this inopportune return had the most serious + implications, alone stood his ground, and Martlow grimly appreciated his + pluck. + </p> + <p> + "It's very near made a stretcher-case of him," he said, indicating the + prostrated Fosdike. "You're cooler. Walking wounded." + </p> + <p> + "I ... really...." + </p> + <p> + "Shake hands, old cock," said Martlow, "I know you've got it writ up in + there——" he jerked his head towards the hall—"that I'm + the chief glory of Calderside, but damme if you're not the second best + yourself, and I'll condescend to shake your hand if it's only to show you + I'm not a ghost." + </p> + <p> + Sir William decided that it was politic to humour this visitor. He shook + hands. "Then, if you know," he said, "if you know what this building is, + it isn't accident that brings you here to-night." + </p> + <p> + "The sort of accident you set with a time-fuse," said Martlow grimly. "I + told you I'd been dodging the police for a week lest any of my old pals + should recognise me. I was waiting to get you to-night, and sitting tight + and listening. The things I heard! Nearly made me take my hat off to + myself. But not quite. Not quite. I kept my hat on and I kept my hair on. + It's a mistake to act premature on information received. If I'd sprung + this too soon, the wrong thing might have happened to me." + </p> + <p> + "What wrong thing, Martlow?" asked Sir William with some indignation. If + the fellow meant anything, it was that he would have been spirited away by + Sir William. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, anything," replied Martlow. "Anything would be wrong that made me + miss this pleasure. You and me conversing affable here. Not a bit like it + was in the old days before I rose to being the chief glory of Calderside. + Conversation was one-sided then, and all on your side instead of mine. + 'Here again, Martlow,' you'd say, and then they'd gabble the evidence, and + you'd say 'fourteen days' or 'twenty-one days,' if you'd got up peevish + and that's all there was to our friendly intercourse. This time, I make no + doubt you'll be asking me to stay at the Towers to-night. And," he went on + blandly, enjoying every wince that twisted Sir William's face in spite of + his efforts to appear unmoved, "I don't know that I'll refuse. It's a + levelling thing, war. I've read that war makes us all conscious we're + members of one brotherhood, and I know it's true now. Consequently the + chief glory of the place ain't got no right to be too high and mighty to + accept your humble invitation. The best guest-room for Sergeant Martlow, + you'll say. See there's a hot water-bottle in his bed, you'll say, and in + case he's thirsty in the night, you'll tell them to put the whisky by his + side." + </p> + <p> + After all, a man does not rise to become Sir William Rumbold by being + flabby. Sir William struck the table heavily. Somehow he had to put a + period to this mocking harangue. "Martlow," he said, "how many people know + you're here?" + </p> + <p> + Tim gave a good imitation of Sir William's gesture. He, too, could strike + a table. "Rumbold," he retorted, "what's the value of a secret when it's + not a secret? You three in this room know, and not another soul in + Calderside." + </p> + <p> + "Not even your mother?" queried Rumbold. + </p> + <p> + "No. I been a bad son to her in the past. I'm a good one now I'm dead. + She's got a bit o' pension, and I'll not disturb that. I'll stay dead—to + her," he added forcibly, dashing the hope which leapt in Rumbold. + </p> + <p> + "Why have you come here? Here—to-night?" + </p> + <p> + The easy mockery renewed itself in Martlow's voice. "People's ideas of fun + vary," he stated. "The fly's idea ain't the same as the spider's. This + 'ere is my idea—shaking your hand and sitting cosy with the bloke + that's sent me down more times than I can think. And the fun 'ull grow + furious when you and I walk arm in arm on to that platform, and you tell + them all I'm resurrected." + </p> + <p> + "Like this?" The proper Mr. Fosdike interjected. + </p> + <p> + "Eh?" said Tim. "Like what?" + </p> + <p> + "You can't go on to the platform in those clothes, Martlow. Have you + looked in a mirror lately? Do you know what you look like? This is a + respectable occasion, man." + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said Tim drily. "It's an occasion for showing respect to me. I'll + do as I am, not having had time to go to the tailor's for my dress suit + yet." + </p> + <p> + "Martlow," said Sir William briskly, "time's short. I'm due on that + platform." + </p> + <p> + "Right, I'm with you." Tim moved towards the platform door. + </p> + <p> + Sir William, with a serene air of triumph, played his trump card. He took + out his cheque-book. "No," he said. "You're not coming. Instead—" + </p> + <p> + He shrank back hastily as a huge fist was projected vehemently towards his + face. But the fist swerved and opened. The cheque-book, not Sir William's + person, was its objective. "Instead be damned," said Tim Martlow, pitching + the cheque-book to the floor. "To hell with your money. Thought I was + after money, did you?" + </p> + <p> + Sir William met his eye. "Yes, I did," he said hardily. + </p> + <p> + "That's the sort of mean idea you would have, Sir William Rumbold. They + say scum rises. You grew a handle to your name during the war, but you + ain't grown manners to go with it. War changes them that's changeable. + T'others are too set to change." + </p> + <p> + Sir William felt a strange glow of appreciation for this man who, with so + easy an opportunity to grow rich, refused money. "It's changed you," he + said with ungrudging admiration that had no tincture of diplomacy in it. + </p> + <p> + "Has it?" mused Tim. "From what?" + </p> + <p> + "Well—" Sir William was embarrassed. "From what you were." + </p> + <p> + "What was I?" demanded Tim. "Go on, spit it out. What sort of character + would you have given me then?" "I'd have called you," said Sir William + boldly, "a disreputable drunken loafer who never did an honest day's work + in his life." Which had the merit of truth, and, he thought, the demerit + of rashness. + </p> + <p> + To his surprise he found that Tim was looking at him with undisguised + admiration. "Lummy," he said, "you've got guts. Yes, that's right. + 'Disreputable drunken loafer.' And if I came back now?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "You were magnificent in the war, Martlow." + </p> + <p> + "First thing I did when I got civvies on was to get blind and skinned. + Drink and civvies go together in my mind." + </p> + <p> + "You'll get over that," said Sir William encouragingly; but he was puzzled + by the curiously wistful note which had replaced Tim's hectoring. + </p> + <p> + "There's a chance," admitted Tim. "A bare chance. Not a chance I'd gamble + on. Not when I've a bigger chance than that. You wouldn't say, weighing me + up now, that I've got a reformed look, would you?" + </p> + <p> + Sir William couldn't. "But you'll pull yourself together. You'll remember—" + </p> + <p> + "I'll remember the taste of beer," said Tim with fierce conviction. "No, I + never had a chance before, but I've got one now, and, by heaven, I'm + taking it." Sir William's apprehension grew acute; if money was not the + question, what outrageous demand was about to be made of him? Tim went on, + "I'm nothing but a dirty, drunken tramp to-day. Yes, drunk when I can get + it and craving when I can't. That's Tim Martlow when he's living. Tim + Martlow dead's a different thing. He's a man with his name wrote up in + letters of gold in a dry canteen. Dry! By God, that's funny! He's + somebody, honoured in Calderside for ever and ever, amen. And we won't + spoil a good thing by taking chances on my reformation. I'm dead. I'll + stay dead." He paused in enjoying the effect he made. + </p> + <p> + Sir William stooped to pick his cheque-book from the floor. "Don't do + that," said Tim sharply. "It isn't out of your mind yet that money's what + I came for. Fun's one thing that brought me. Just for the treat of showing + you myself and watching your quick-change faces while I did it. And I've + had my fun." His voice grew menacing. "The other thing I came for isn't + fun. It's this." Dolly screamed as he took her arm and jerked her to her + feet from the corner where she had sought obscurity. He shook her + urgently. "You've been telling tales about me. I've heard of it. You hear + all the news when you lie quiet yourself and let other people do the + talking. You came in here to-night to spin a yarn. I watched you in. Well, + is it true?" + </p> + <p> + "No," said Dolly, gasping for breath. "I mean—" he insisted, "what + you said about you and me. That isn't true?" + </p> + <p> + She repeated her denial. "No," he said, releasing her, "it 'ud have a job + to be seeing this is the first time I've had the pleasure of meeting you. + That'll do." He opened the platform door politely. "I hope I haven't made + you late on the platform, sir," he said. + </p> + <p> + Both Sir William and the secretary stared fascinated at Dolly, the + enterprising young person who had so successfully bluffed them. "I repeat, + don't let me make you late," said Tim from the now wide open door. + </p> + <p> + Rumbold checked Fosdike who was, apparently, bent on doing Dolly a + personal violence. "That can wait," he said. "What can't wait is this." He + held out his hand to Martlow. "In all sincerity, I beg the honour." + </p> + <p> + Tim shook his hand, and Rumbold turned to the door. Fosdike ran after him + with the notes of his speech. "Your speech, sir." + </p> + <p> + Sir William turned on him angrily. "Man," he said, "haven't you heard? + That muck won't do now. I have to try to do Martlow justice." He went out + to the platform, Fosdike after him. + </p> + <p> + Tim Martlow sat at the table and took a bottle from his pocket. He drew + the cork with his teeth, then felt a light touch on his arm. "I was + forgetting you," he said, replacing the bottle. + </p> + <p> + "I ain't likely to forget you," said Dolly ruefully. + </p> + <p> + He gripped her hard. "But you are going to forget me, my girl," he said. + "Tim Martlow's dead, and his letters of gold ain't going to be blotted by + the likes of you. You that's been putting it about Calderside I'm the + father of your child, and I ain't never seen you in my life till + to-night." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but you're getting this all wrong," she blubbered. "I didn't have a + baby. I was going to borrow one if they'd claimed to see it." + </p> + <p> + "What? No baby? And you put it across old Rumbold?" Laughter and sheer + admiration of her audacity were mingled in his voice. With a baby it was a + good bluff; without one, the girl's ingenuity seemed to him to touch + genius. + </p> + <p> + "He gave me that paper," she said, pride subduing tears as she handed him + her splendid trophy. + </p> + <p> + "Three pounds a week for life," he read, with profound reverence. "If you + ain't a blinkin' marvel." He complimented her, giving her the paper back. + Then he realised that, through him, her gains were lost. + </p> + <p> + "Gawd, I done wrong. I got no right to mess up a thing like that. I didn't + know. See, I'll tell him I made you lie. I'll own the baby's mine." + </p> + <p> + "But there ain't no baby," she persisted. + </p> + <p> + "There's plenty of babies looking for a mother with three pounds a week," + he said. + </p> + <p> + She tore the paper up. "Then they'll not find me," she said. "Three pounds + a week's gone. And your letters of gold, Mr. Martlow, remain." + </p> + <p> + The practised voice of Sir William Rumbold, speaking on the platform, + filled the ante-room, not with the rhetorician's counterfeit of sincerity, + but, unmistakably, with sincerity itself. "I had prepared a speech," he + was saying. "A prepared speech is useless in face of the emotion I feel at + the life of Timothy Martlow. I say advisedly to you that when I think of + Martlow, I know myself for a worm. He was despised and rejected. What had + England done for him that he should give his life for her? We wronged him. + We made an outcast of him. I personally wronged him from the magistrate's + bench, and he pays us back like this, rising from an undeserved obscurity + to a height where he rests secure for ever, a reproach to us, and a great + example of the man who won. And against what odds he played it out to a + supreme end, and——" + </p> + <p> + "You're right," said Tim Martlow, motioning the girl to close the door. He + wasn't used to hearing panegyrics on himself, nor was he aware that, + mechanically, he had raised the bottle to his lips. + </p> + <p> + Dolly meant to close the door discreetly; instead, she threw it from her + and jumped at the bottle. Tim was conscious of a double crash, putting an + emphatic stop to the sound of Sir William's eulogy—the crash of the + door and the bottle which Dolly snatched from him and pitched against the + wall. + </p> + <p> + "Letters of gold," she panted, "and you shan't tarnish them. I'll see to + that." + </p> + <p> + He gaped for a moment at the liquor flowing from the bottle, then raised + his eyes to hers. "You?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "I haven't got a baby to look after," said Dolly. "But—I've you. + Where were you thinking of going now?" + </p> + <p> + His eyes went to the door behind which Sir William was, presumably, still + praising him, and his head jerked resolutely. "Playing it out," he said. + "I've got to vanish good, and sure after that. I'll play it out, by God. I + was a hero once, I'll be a hero still." His foot crunched broken glass as + he moved. "I'm going to America, my girl. It's dry." + </p> + <p> + Perhaps she distrusted the absolute dryness of America, and perhaps that + had nothing to do with Dolly. She examined her hand minutely. "Going to + the Isle of Man on a rough day, I wasn't a bit ill," she said casually. + "I'm a good sailor." + </p> + <p> + "You put it across Sir William," he said. "You're a blinkin' marvel." + </p> + <p> + "No," she said, "but a thing that's worth doing is worth doing well. I'm + not a marvel, but I might be the metal polish in those gold letters of + yours if you think it worth while." + </p> + <p> + His trampish squalor seemed to him suddenly appalling. "There, don't do + that," he protested—her arm had found its way into his. "My sleeve's + dirty." + </p> + <p> + "Idiot!" said Dolly Wainwright, drawing him to the door. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PENSIONER — By WILLIAM CAINE + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Graphic</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + Miss Crewe was born in the year 1821. She received a sort of education, + and at the age of twenty became the governess of a little girl, eight + years old, called Martha Bond. She was Martha's governess for the next ten + years. Then Martha came out and Miss Crewe went to be the governess of + somebody else. Martha married Mr. William Harper. A year later she gave + birth to a son, who was named Edward. This brings us to the year 1853. + </p> + <p> + When Edward was six, Miss Crewe came back, to be his governess. Four years + later he went to school and Miss Crewe went away to be the governess of + somebody else. She was now forty-two years old. + </p> + <p> + Twelve years passed and Mrs. Harper died, recommending Miss Crewe to her + husband's care, for Miss Crewe had recently been smitten by an incurable + disease which made it impossible for her to be a governess any longer. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Harper, who had passionately loved his wife, gave instructions to his + solicitor to pay Miss Crewe the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds + annually. He had some thoughts of buying her an annuity, but she seemed so + ill that he didn't. Edward was now twenty-two. + </p> + <p> + In the year 1888, Mr. Harper died after a very short illness. He had + expected Miss Crewe to die any day during the past thirteen years, but + since she hadn't he thought it proper now to recommend her to Edward's + care. This is how he did it. + </p> + <p> + "That confounded old Crewe, Eddie. You'll have to see to her. Let her have + her money as before, but for the Lord's sake don't go and buy her an + annuity now. If you do, she'll die on your hands in a week!" Shortly + afterwards the old gentleman passed away. + </p> + <p> + Edward was now thirty-five. Miss Crewe was sixty-seven and reported to be + in an almost desperate state. Edward followed his father's advice. He + bought no annuity for Miss Crewe. Her one hundred and fifty pounds + continued to be paid each year into her bank; but by Edward, not by his + late father's solicitors. + </p> + <p> + Edward had his own ideas of managing the considerable fortune which he had + inherited. These ideas were unsound. The first of them was that he should + assume the entire direction of his own affairs. Accordingly he instructed + his solicitors to realise all the mortgages and railway-stock and other + admirable securities in which his money was invested and hand over the + cash to him. He then went in for the highest rate of interest which anyone + would promise him. The consequence was that, within twelve years, he was + almost a poor man, his annual income having dwindled from about three + thousand to about four hundred pounds. + </p> + <p> + Though he was a fool he was an honourable man, and so he continued to pay + Miss Crewe her one hundred and fifty pounds each year. This left him about + two hundred and fifty for himself. The capital which his so reduced income + represented was invested in a Mexican brewery in which he had implicit + faith. Nevertheless, he began to think that he might do well were he to + try to earn a little extra money. + </p> + <p> + The only thing he could do was to paint, not at all well, in + water-colours. He became the pupil, quite seriously, of a young artist + whom he knew. He was now forty-seven years old, while Miss Crewe was + seventy-nine. The year was 1900. + </p> + <p> + To everybody's amazement Edward soon began to make quite good progress in + his painting. Yes, his pictures were not at all unpleasant little things. + He sent one of them to the Academy. It was accepted. It was, as I live, + sold for ten pounds. Edward was an artist. + </p> + <p> + Soon he was making between thirty and forty pounds a year. Then he was + making over a hundred. Then two hundred. Then the Mexican brewery failed, + General Malefico having burned it to the ground for a lark. + </p> + <p> + This happened in the spring of 1914 when Edward was sixty-one and Miss + Crewe was ninety-three. Edward, after paying her money to Miss Crewe, + might flatter himself on the possibility of having some fifty pounds a + year for himself, that is to say, if his picture sales did not decline. A + single man can, however, get along, more or less, on fifty pounds more or + less. + </p> + <p> + Then the Great War broke out. + </p> + <p> + It has been said that in the autumn of 1914 the Old Men came into their + kingdom. As the fields of Britain were gradually stripped bare of their + valid toilers, the Fathers of each village assumed, at good wages, the + burden of agriculture. From their offices the juniors departed or were + torn; the senior clerks carried on desperately until the Girls were + introduced. No man was any longer too old at forty. Octogenarians could + command a salary. The very cinemas were glad to dress up ancient fellows + in uniform and post them on their doorsteps. + </p> + <p> + Edward could do nothing but paint rather agreeable water-colours, and that + was all. The market for his kind of work was shut. A patriotic nation was + economising in order to get five per cent on the War Loans. People were + not giving inexpensive little water-colours away to one another as wedding + gifts any longer. Only the painters of high reputation, whose work was + regarded as a real investment, could dispose of their wares. + </p> + <p> + Starvation stared Edward in the face, not only his own starvation, you + understand, but Miss Crewe's. And Edward was a man of honour. + </p> + <p> + He hated Miss Crewe intensely, but he had undertaken to provide for her, + and provide for her he must—even if he failed to provide for + himself. + </p> + <p> + He wrapped some samples of his paintings in brown paper, and began to seek + for a job among the wholesale stationers. He offered himself as one who + was prepared to design Christmas-cards and calendars, and things of the + kind. + </p> + <p> + Adversity had sharpened his wits. Even the wholesale stationers were not + turning white-headed men from their portals. To Edward was accorded the + privilege of displaying the rather agreeable contents of his parcel. After + he had unpacked it and packed it up again some thirty times he was offered + work. His pictures were really rather agreeable. It was piecework, and he + was to do it off the premises, no matter where. By toiling day and night + he might be able to earn as much as £4 a week. He went away and toiled. + His employers were pleased with what, each Monday, he brought them. They + did not offer to increase his remuneration, but they encouraged him to + produce, and took practically everything he offered. Edward was very + fortunate. + </p> + <p> + During the first year of the war he lived like a beast, worked like a + slave, and earned exactly enough to keep his soul in his body and pay Miss + Crewe her one hundred and fifty pounds. During the second year of the war + he did it again. The fourth year of the war found him still alive and + still punctual to his obligations towards Miss Crewe. + </p> + <p> + Miss Crewe, however, found one hundred and fifty pounds no longer what it + had been. Prices were rising in every direction. She wrote to Edward + pointing this out, and asking him if he couldn't see his way to increasing + her allowance. She invoked the memory of his dear mother and father, added + something about the happy hours that he and she had spent together in the + dear old school-room, and signed herself his affectionately. + </p> + <p> + Edward petitioned for an increase of pay. He pointed out to his firm of + wholesale stationers that prices were rising in every direction. The firm, + who knew when they had a marketable thing cheap, granted his petition. + Henceforth Edward was able to earn five pounds a week. He increased Miss + Crewe's allowance by fifty pounds, and continued to live more like a beast + than ever, for the price of paper and paints was soaring. He worked + practically without ceasing, save to sleep (which he could not do) and to + eat (which he could not afford). He was now sixty-four, while Miss Crewe + was rising ninety-seven. + </p> + <p> + Edward had been ailing for a long time. On Armistice Day he struck work + for an hour in order to walk about in the streets and share in the general + rejoicing. He caught a severe cold, and the next day, instead of staying + between his blankets (he had no sheets), he went up to the City with some + designs which he had just completed. That night he was feverish. The next + night he was delirious. The third night he was dead, and there was an end + of him. + </p> + <p> + He had, however, managed, before he died (two days before), to send to + Miss Crewe a money order for her quarter's allowance of fifty pounds. This + had left him with precisely four shillings and twopence in the Post Office + Savings Bank. + </p> + <p> + He was, consequently, buried by the parish. + </p> + <p> + Miss Crewe received her money. She was delighted to have it, and at once + wrote to Edward her customary letter of grateful and affectionate thanks. + She added in a post-script that if he <i>could</i> find it in his generous + heart to let her have a still little more next quarter it would be most + acceptable, because every day seemed to make it harder and harder for her + to get along. + </p> + <p> + Edward was dead when this letter was delivered. + </p> + <p> + Miss Crewe sent her money order to her bank, asking that it might be + placed to her deposit account. This she reminded the bank, would bring up + the amount of her deposit to exactly two thousand pounds. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BROADSHEET BALLAD — By A.E. COPPARD + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Dial</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + At noon the tiler and the mason stepped down from the roof of the village + church which they were repairing and crossed over the road to the tavern + to eat their dinner. It had been a nice little morning, but there were + clouds massing in the south; Sam the tiler remarked that it looked like + thunder. The two men sat in the dim little tap-room eating, Bob the mason + at the same time reading from a newspaper an account of a trial for + murder. + </p> + <p> + "I dunno what thunder looks like," Bob said, "but I reckon this chap is + going to be hung, though I can't rightly say for why. To my thinking he + didn't do it at all: but murder's a bloody thing and someone ought to + suffer for it." + </p> + <p> + "I don't think," spluttered Sam as he impaled a flat piece of beet-root on + the point of a pocket-knife and prepared to contemplate it with patience + until his stuffed mouth was ready to receive it, "he ought to be hung." + </p> + <p> + "There can be no other end for him though, with a mob of lawyers like + that, and a judge like that, and a jury too ... why the rope's half round + his neck this minute; he'll be in glory within a month, they only have + three Sundays, you know, between the sentence and the execution. Well, + hark at that rain then!" + </p> + <p> + A shower that began as a playful sprinkle grew to a powerful steady summer + downpour. It splashed in the open window and the dim room grew more dim, + and cool. + </p> + <p> + "Hanging's a dreadful thing," continued Sam, "and 'tis often unjust I've + no doubt, I've no doubt at all." + </p> + <p> + "Unjust! I tell you ... at majority of trials those who give their + evidence mostly knows nothing at all about the matter; them as knows a lot—they + stays at home and don't budge, not likely!" + </p> + <p> + "No? But why?" + </p> + <p> + "Why? They has their reasons. I know that, I knows it for truth ... hark + at that rain, it's made the room feel cold." + </p> + <p> + They watched the downfall in complete silence for some moments. + </p> + <p> + "Hanging's a dreadful thing," Sam at length repeated, with almost a sigh. + </p> + <p> + "I can tell you a tale about that, Sam, in a minute," said the other. He + began to fill his pipe from Sam's brass box which was labelled cough + lozenges and smelled of paregoric. + </p> + <p> + "Just about ten years ago I was working over in Cotswold country. I + remember I'd been into Gloucester one Saturday afternoon and it rained. I + was jogging along home in a carrier's van; I never seen it rain like that + afore, no, nor never afterwards, not like that. B-r-r-r-r! it came down + ... bashing! And we came to a cross-roads where there's a public house + called The Wheel of Fortune, very lonely and onsheltered it is just there. + I see'd a young woman standing in the porch awaiting us, but the carrier + was wet and tired and angry or something and wouldn't stop. 'No room'—he + bawled out to her—'full up, can't take you!' and he drove on. 'For + the love o' God, mate,' I says, 'pull up and take that young creature! + She's ... she's ... can't you see!' 'But I'm all behind as 'tis'—he + shouts to me—'You knows your gospel, don't you: time and tide wait + for no man?' 'Ah, but dammit all, they always call for a feller'—I + says. With that he turned round and we drove back for the girl. She clumb + in and sat on my knees; I squat on a tub of vinegar, there was nowhere + else and I was right and all, she was going on for a birth. Well, the old + van rattled away for six or seven miles; whenever it stopped you could + hear the rain clattering on the tarpaulin, or sounding outside on the + grass as if it was breathing hard, and the old horse steamed and shivered + with it. I had knowed the girl once in a friendly way, a pretty young + creature, but now she was white and sorrowful and wouldn't say much. By + and bye we came to another cross-roads near a village, and she got out + there. 'Good day, my gal'—I says, affable like, and 'Thank you sir,'—says + she, and off she popped in the rain with her umbrella up. A rare pretty + girl, quite young, I'd met her before, a girl you could get uncommon fond + of, you know, but I didn't meet her afterwards: she was mixed up in a bad + business. It all happened in the next six months while I was working round + those parts. Everybody knew of it. This girl's name was Edith and she had + a younger sister Agnes. Their father was old Harry Mallerton, kept The + British Oak at North Quainy; he stuttered. Well, this Edith had a love + affair with a young chap William, and having a very loving nature she + behaved foolish. Then she couldn't bring the chap up to the scratch nohow + by herself, and of course she was afraid to tell her mother or father: you + know how girls are after being so pesky natural, they fear, O they do + fear! But soon it couldn't be hidden any longer as she was living at home + with them all, so she wrote a letter to her mother. 'Dear Mother,' she + wrote, and told her all about her trouble. + </p> + <p> + "By all accounts the mother was angry as an old lion, but Harry took it + calm like and sent for young William, who'd not come at first. He lived + close by in the village so they went down at last and fetched him. + </p> + <p> + "'Alright, yes,' he said, 'I'll do what's lawful to be done. There you + are, I can't say no fairer, that I can't.' + </p> + <p> + "'No,' they said, 'you can't.' + </p> + <p> + "So he kissed the girl and off he went, promising to call in and settle + affairs in a day or two. The next day Agnes, which was the younger girl, + she also wrote a note to her mother telling her some more strange news: + </p> + <p> + "'God above!' the mother cried out, 'can it be true, both of you girls, my + own daughters, and by the same man! Oh, whatever were you thinking on, + both of ye! Whatever can be done now!" + </p> + <p> + "What!" ejaculated Sam, "both on 'em, both on 'em!" + </p> + <p> + "As true as God's my mercy—both on 'em—same chap. Ah! Mrs. + Mallerton was afraid to tell her husband at first, for old Harry was the + devil born again when he were roused up, so she sent for young William + herself, who'd not come again, of course, not likely. But they made him + come, O yes, when they told the girl's father. + </p> + <p> + "'Well may I go to my d-d-d-damnation at once!' roared old Harry—he + stuttered you know—'at once, if that ain't a good one!' So he took + off his coat, he took up a stick, he walked down street to William and cut + him off his legs. Then he beat him till he howled for his mercy, but you + couldn't stop old Harry once he were roused up—he was the devil born + again. They do say as he beat him for a solid hour; I can't say as to + that, but then old Harry picked him up and carried him off to The British + Oak on his own back, and threw him down in his own kitchen between his own + two girls like a dead dog. They do say that the little one Agnes flew at + her father like a raging cat until he knocked her senseless with a clout + over head; rough man he was." + </p> + <p> + "Well, a' called for it sure," commented Sam. + </p> + <p> + "Her did," agreed Bob, "but she was the quietest known girl for miles + round those parts, very shy and quiet." + </p> + <p> + "A shady lane breeds mud," said Sam. + </p> + <p> + "What do you say?—O ah!—mud, yes. But pretty girls both, girls + you could get very fond of, skin like apple bloom, and as like as two + pinks they were. They had to decide which of them William was to marry." + </p> + <p> + "Of course, ah!" + </p> + <p> + "I'll marry Agnes'—says he. + </p> + <p> + "'You'll not'—says the old man—'you'll marry Edie.' + </p> + <p> + "'No I won't'—William says—'it's Agnes I love and I'll be + married to her or I won't be married to e'er of 'em.' All the time Edith + sat quiet, dumb as a shovel, never a word, crying a bit; but they do say + the young one went on like a ... a young ... Jew." + </p> + <p> + "The jezebel!" commented Sam. + </p> + <p> + "You may say it; but wait, my man, just wait. Another cup of beer? We + can't go back to church until this humbugging rain have stopped." + </p> + <p> + "No, that we can't." + </p> + <p> + "It's my belief the 'bugging rain won't stop this side of four." + </p> + <p> + "And if the roof don't hold it off it 'ull spoil the Lord's Commandments + that's just done up on the chancel front." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, they be dry by now," spoke Bob reassuringly and then continued his + tale. "'I'll marry Agnes or I won't marry nobody'—William says—and + they couldn't budge him. No, old Harry cracked on, but he wouldn't have + it, and at last Harry says: 'It's like this.' He pulls a half-crown out of + his pocket and 'Heads it's Agnes,' he says, 'or tails it's Edith,' he + says." + </p> + <p> + "Never! Ha! ha!" cried Sam. + </p> + <p> + "Heads it's Agnes, tails it's Edie, so help me God. And it come down + Agnes, yes, heads it was—Agnes—and so there they were." + </p> + <p> + "And they lived happy ever after?" + </p> + <p> + "Happy! You don't know your human nature, Sam; wherever was you brought + up? 'Heads it's Agnes,' said old Harry, and at that Agnes flung her arms + round William's neck and was for going off with him then and there, ha! + But this is how it happened about that. William hadn't any kindred, he was + a lodger in the village, and his landlady wouldn't have him in her house + one mortal hour when she heard all of it; give him the right-about there + and then. He couldn't get lodgings anywhere else, nobody would have + anything to do with him, so of course, for safety's sake, old Harry had to + take him, and there they all lived together at The British Oak—all + in one happy family. But they girls couldn't bide the sight of each other, + so their father cleaned up an old outhouse in his yard that was used for + carts and hens and put William and his Agnes out in it. And there they had + to bide. They had a couple of chairs, a sofa, and a bed and that kind of + thing, and the young one made it quite snug." + </p> + <p> + "'Twas a hard thing for that other, that Edie, Bob." + </p> + <p> + "It was hard, Sam, in a way, and all this was happening just afore I met + her in the carrier's van. She was very sad and solemn then; a pretty girl, + one you could like. Ah, you may choke me, but there they lived together. + Edie never opened her lips to either of them again, and her father sided + with her, too. What was worse, it came out after the marriage that Agnes + was quite free of trouble—it was only a trumped-up game between her + and this William because he fancied her better than the other one. And + they never had no child, them two, though when poor Edie's mischance come + along I be damned if Agnes weren't fonder of it than its own mother, a + jolly sight more fonder, and William—he fair worshipped it." + </p> + <p> + "You don't say!" + </p> + <p> + "I do. 'Twas a rum go, that, and Agnes worshipped it, a fact, can prove it + by scores o' people to this day, scores, in them parts. William and Agnes + worshipped it, and Edie—she just looked on, long of it all, in the + same house with them, though she never opened her lips again to her young + sister to the day of her death." + </p> + <p> + "Ah, she died? Well, it's the only way out of such a tangle, poor woman." + </p> + <p> + "You're sympathizing with the wrong party." Bob filled his pipe again from + the brass box; he ignited it with deliberation; going to the open window + he spat into a puddle in the road. "The wrong party, Sam; 'twas Agnes that + died. She was found on the sofa one morning stone dead, dead as a adder." + </p> + <p> + "God bless me," murmured Sam. + </p> + <p> + "Poisoned," added Bob, puffing serenely. + </p> + <p> + "Poisoned!" + </p> + <p> + Bob repeated the word poisoned. "This was the way of it," he continued. + "One morning the mother went out in the yard to collect her eggs, and she + began calling out 'Edie, Edie, here a minute, come and look where that hen + have laid her egg; I would never have believed it'—she says. And + when Edie went out her mother led her round the back of the outhouse, and + there on the top of a wall this hen had laid an egg. 'I would never have + believed it, Edie'—she says—'scooped out a nest there + beautiful, ain't she; I wondered where her was laying. T'other morning the + dog brought an egg round in his mouth and laid it on the doormat. There + now, Aggie, Aggie, here a minute, come and look where the hen have laid + that egg.' And as Aggie didn't answer the mother went in and found her on + the sofa in the outhouse, stone dead." + </p> + <p> + "How'd they account for it?" asked Sam, after a brief interval. + </p> + <p> + "That's what brings me to the point about this young feller that's going + to be hung," said Bob, tapping the newspaper that lay upon the bench. "I + don't know what would lie between two young women in a wrangle of that + sort; some would get over it quick, but some would never sleep soundly any + more not for a minute of their mortal lives. Edie must have been one of + that sort. There's people living there now as could tell a lot if they'd a + mind to it. Some knowed all about it, could tell you the very shop where + Edith managed to get hold of the poison, and could describe to me or to + you just how she administrated it in a glass of barley water. Old Harry + knew all about it, he knew all about everything, but he favoured Edith and + he never budged a word. Clever old chap was Harry, and nothing came out + against Edie at the inquest—nor the trial either." "Was there a + trial then?" + </p> + <p> + "There was a kind of a trial. Naturally. A beautiful trial. The police + came and fetched poor William, they took him away and in due course he was + hanged." + </p> + <p> + "William! But what had he got to do with it?" + </p> + <p> + "Nothing. It was rough on him, but he hadn't played straight and so nobody + struck up for him. They made out a case against him—there was some + onlucky bit of evidence which I'll take my oath old Harry knew something + about—and William was done for. Ah, when things take a turn against + you it's as certain as twelve o'clock, when they take a turn; you get no + more chance than a rabbit from a weasel. It's like dropping your matches + into a stream, you needn't waste the bending of your back to pick them out—they're + no good on, they'll never strike again. And Edith, she sat in court + through it all, very white and trembling and sorrowful, but when the judge + put his black cap on they do say she blushed and looked across at William + and gave a bit of a smile. Well, she had to suffer for his doings, so why + shouldn't he suffer for hers. That's how I look at it...." + </p> + <p> + "But God-a-mighty...!" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, God-a-mighty knows. Pretty girls they were, both, and as like as two + pinks." + </p> + <p> + There was quiet for some moments while the tiler and the mason emptied + their cups of beer. "I think," said Sam then, "the rain's give over now." + </p> + <p> + "Ah, that it has," cried Bob. "Let's go and do a bit more on this 'bugging + church or she won't be done afore Christmas." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT — By RICHMAL CROMPTON + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>Truth</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + Mary Clay looked out of the window of the old farmhouse. The view was + dreary enough—hill and field and woodland, bare, colourless, + mist-covered—with no other house in sight. She had never been a + woman to crave for company. She liked sewing. She was passionately fond of + reading. She was not fond of talking. Probably she could have been very + happy at Cromb Farm—alone. Before her marriage she had looked + forward to the long evenings with her sewing and reading. She knew that + she would be busy enough in the day, for the farmhouse was old and + rambling, and she was to have no help in the housework. But she looked + forward to quiet, peaceful, lamplit evenings; and only lately, after ten + years of married life, had she reluctantly given up the hope of them. For + peace was far enough from the old farm kitchen in the evening. It was + driven away by John Clay's loud voice, raised always in orders or + complaints, or in the stumbling, incoherent reading aloud of his + newspaper. + </p> + <p> + Mary was a silent woman herself and a lover of silence. But John liked to + hear the sound of his voice; he liked to shout at her; to call for her + from one room to another; above all, he liked to hear his voice reading + the paper out loud to her in the evening. She dreaded that most of all. It + had lately seemed to jar on her nerves till she felt she must scream + aloud. His voice going on and on, raucous and sing-song, became + unspeakably irritating. His "Mary!" summoning her from her household work + to wherever he happened to be, his "Get my slippers," or "Bring me my + pipe," exasperated her almost to the point of rebellion. "Get your own + slippers" had trembled on her lips, but had never passed them, for she was + a woman who could not bear anger. Noise of any kind appalled her. + </p> + <p> + She had borne it for ten years, so surely she could go on with it. Yet + today, as she gazed hopelessly at the wintry country side, she became + acutely conscious that she could not go on with it. Something must happen. + Yet what was there that could happen? + </p> + <p> + It was Christmas next week. She smiled ironically at the thought. Then she + noticed the figure of her husband coming up the road. He came in at the + gate and round to the side-door. + </p> + <p> + "Mary!" + </p> + <p> + She went slowly in answer to the summons. He held a letter in his hand. + </p> + <p> + "Met the postman," he said. "From your aunt." + </p> + <p> + She opened the letter and read it in silence. Both of them knew quite well + what it contained. + </p> + <p> + "She wants us to go over for Christmas again," said Mary. + </p> + <p> + He began to grumble. + </p> + <p> + "She's as deaf as a post. She's 'most as deaf as her mother was. She ought + to know better than to ask folks over when she can't hear a word any one + says." + </p> + <p> + Mary said nothing. He always grumbled about the invitation at first, but + really he wanted to go. He liked to talk with her uncle. He liked the + change of going down to the village for a few days and hearing all its + gossip. He could quite well leave the farm to the "hands" for that time. + </p> + <p> + The Crewe deafness was proverbial. Mary's great-grandmother had gone stone + deaf at the age of thirty-five; her daughter had inherited the affliction + and her grand-daughter, the aunt with whom Mary had spent her childhood, + had inherited it also at exactly the same age. + </p> + <p> + "All right," he said at last, grudgingly, as though in answer to her + silence, "we'd better go. Write and say we'll go." + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It was Christmas Eve. They were in the kitchen of her uncle's farmhouse. + The deaf old woman sat in her chair by the fire knitting. Upon her sunken + face there was a curious sardonic smile that was her habitual expression. + The two men stood in the doorway. Mary sat at the table looking aimlessly + out of the window. Outside, the snow fell in blinding showers. Inside, the + fire gleamed on to the copper pots and pans, the crockery on the old oak + dresser, the hams hanging from the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly James turned. + </p> + <p> + "Jane!" he said. + </p> + <p> + The deaf woman never stirred. + </p> + <p> + "Jane!" + </p> + <p> + Still there was no response upon the enigmatic old face by the fireside. + </p> + <p> + "<i>Jane</i>!" + </p> + <p> + She turned slightly towards the voice. + </p> + <p> + "Get them photos from upstairs to show John," he bawled. + </p> + <p> + "What about boats?" she said. + </p> + <p> + "<i>Photos</i>!" roared her husband. + </p> + <p> + "Coats?" she quavered. + </p> + <p> + Mary looked from one to the other. The man made a gesture of irritation + and went from the room. + </p> + <p> + He came back with a pile of picture postcards in his hand. + </p> + <p> + "It's quicker to do a thing oneself," he grumbled. "They're what my + brother sent from Switzerland, where he's working now. It's a fine land, + to judge from the views of it." + </p> + <p> + John took them from his hand. "She gets worse?" he said nodding towards + the old woman. + </p> + <p> + She was sitting gazing at the fire, her lips curved into the curious + smile. + </p> + <p> + Her husband shrugged his shoulders. "Aye. She's nigh as bad as her mother + was." + </p> + <p> + "And her grandmother." + </p> + <p> + "Aye. It takes longer to tell her to do something than to do it myself. + And deaf folks get a bit stupid, too. Can't see what you mean. They're + best let alone." + </p> + <p> + The other man nodded and lit his pipe. Then James opened the door. + </p> + <p> + "The snow's stopped," he said. "Shall we go to the end of the village and + back?" + </p> + <p> + The other nodded, and took his cap from behind the door. A gust of cold + air filled the room as they went out. + </p> + <p> + Mary took a paper-backed book from the table and came over to the + fireplace. + </p> + <p> + "Mary!" + </p> + <p> + She started. It was not the sharp, querulous voice of the deaf old woman, + it was more like the voice of the young aunt whom Mary remembered in + childhood. The old woman was leaning forward, looking at her intently. + </p> + <p> + "Mary! A happy Christmas to 'ee." + </p> + <p> + And, as if in spite of herself, Mary answered in her ordinary low tones. + </p> + <p> + "The same to you, auntie." + </p> + <p> + "Thank 'ee. Thank 'ee." + </p> + <p> + Mary gasped. + </p> + <p> + "Aunt! Can you hear me speaking like this?" + </p> + <p> + The old woman laughed, silently, rocking to and fro in her chair as if + with pent-up merriment of years. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I can hear 'ee, child. I've allus heard 'ee." + </p> + <p> + Mary clasped her hand eagerly. + </p> + <p> + "Then—you're cured, Aunt—" + </p> + <p> + "Ay. I'm cured as far as there was ever anything to be cured." + </p> + <p> + "You—?" + </p> + <p> + "I was never deaf, child, nor never will be, please God. I've took you all + in fine." + </p> + <p> + Mary stood up in bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + "You? Never deaf?" + </p> + <p> + The old woman chuckled again. + </p> + <p> + "No, nor my mother—nor her mother neither." + </p> + <p> + Mary shrank back from her. + </p> + <p> + "I—I don't know what you mean," she said, unsteadily. "Have you been—pretending?" + </p> + <p> + "I'll make you a Christmas present of it, dearie," said the old woman. "My + mother made me a Christmas present of it when I was your age, and her + mother made her one. I haven't a lass of my own to give it to, so I give + it to you. It can come on quite sudden like, if you want it, and then you + can hear what you choose and not hear what you choose. Do you see?" She + leant nearer and whispered, "You're shut out of it all—of having to + fetch and carry for 'em, answer their daft questions and run their errands + like a dog. I've watched you, my lass. You don't get much peace, do you?" + </p> + <p> + Mary was trembling. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I don't know what to think," she said. "I—I couldn't do it." + </p> + <p> + "Do what you like," said the old woman. "Take it as a present, anyways—the + Crewe deafness for a Christmas present," she chuckled. "Use it or not as + you like. You'll find it main amusin', anyways." + </p> + <p> + And into the old face there came again that curious smile as if she + carried in her heart some jest fit for the gods on Olympus. + </p> + <p> + The door opened suddenly with another gust of cold air, and the two men + came in again, covered with fine snow. + </p> + <p> + "I—I'll not do it," whispered Mary, trembling. + </p> + <p> + "We didn't get far. It's coming on again," remarked John, hanging up his + cap. + </p> + <p> + The old woman rose and began to lay the supper, silently and deftly, + moving from cupboard to table without looking up. Mary sat by the fire, + motionless and speechless, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals. + </p> + <p> + "Any signs o' the deafness in her?" whispered James, looking towards Mary. + "It come on my wife jus' when she was that age." + </p> + <p> + "Aye. So I've heered." + </p> + <p> + Then he said loudly, "Mary!" + </p> + <p> + A faint pink colour came into her cheeks, but she did not show by look or + movement that she had heard. James looked significantly at her husband. + </p> + <p> + The old woman stood still for a minute with a cup in each hand and smiled + her slow, subtle smile. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SEATON'S AUNT By WALTER DE LA MARE + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The London Mercury</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + I had heard rumours of Seaton's Aunt long before I actually encountered + her. Seaton, in the hush of confidence, or at any little show of + toleration on our part, would remark, "My aunt," or "My old aunt, you + know," as if his relative might be a kind of cement to an <i>entente + cordiale</i>. + </p> + <p> + He had an unusual quantity of pocket-money; or, at any rate, it was + bestowed on him in unusually large amounts; and he spent it freely, though + none of us would have described him as an "awfully generous chap." "Hullo, + Seaton," he would say, "the old Begum?" At the beginning of term, too, he + used to bring back surprising and exotic dainties in a box with a trick + padlock that accompanied him from his first appearance at Gummidge's in a + billycock hat to the rather abrupt conclusion of his school-days. + </p> + <p> + From a boy's point of view he looked distastefully foreign, with his + yellow skin, and slow chocolate-coloured eyes, and lean weak figure. + Merely for his looks he was treated by most of us true-blue Englishmen + with condescension, hostility, or contempt. We used to call him "Pongo," + but without any better excuse for the nickname than his skin. He was, that + is, in one sense of the term what he assuredly was not in the other sense, + a sport. + </p> + <p> + Seaton and I were never in any sense intimate at school, our orbits only + intersected in class. I kept instinctively aloof from him. I felt vaguely + he was a sneak, and remained quite unmollified by advances on his side, + which, in a boy's barbarous fashion, unless it suited me to be + magnanimous, I haughtily ignored. + </p> + <p> + We were both of us quick-footed, and at Prisoner's Base used occasionally + to hide together. And so I best remember Seaton—his narrow watchful + face in the dusk of summer evening; his peculiar crouch, and his + inarticulate whisperings and mumblings. Otherwise he played all games + slackly and limply; used to stand and feed at his locker with a crony or + two until his "tuck" gave out; or waste his money on some outlandish fancy + or other. He bought, for instance, a silver bangle, which he wore above + his left elbow, until some of the fellows showed their masterly contempt + of the practice by dropping it nearly red-hot down his neck. + </p> + <p> + It needed, therefore, a rather peculiar taste, a rather rare kind of + schoolboy courage and indifference to criticism, to be much associated + with him. And I had neither the taste nor the courage. None the less, he + did make advances, and on one memorable occasion went to the length of + bestowing on me a whole pot of some outlandish mulberry-coloured jelly + that had been duplicated in his term's supplies. In the exuberance of my + gratitude I promised to spend the next half-term holiday with him at his + aunt's house. + </p> + <p> + I had clean forgotten my promise when, two or three days before the + holiday, he came up and triumphantly reminded me of it. + </p> + <p> + "Well, to tell you the honest truth, Seaton, old chap——" I + began graciously; but he cut me short. + </p> + <p> + "My aunt expects you," he said; "she is very glad you are coming. She's + sure to be quite decent to <i>you</i>, Withers." + </p> + <p> + I looked at him in some astonishment; the emphasis was unexpected. It + seemed to suggest an aunt not hitherto hinted at, and a friendly feeling + on Seaton's side that was more disconcerting than welcome. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + We reached his home partly by train, partly by a lift in an empty + farm-cart, and partly by walking. It was a whole-day holiday, and we were + to sleep the night; he lent me extraordinary night-gear, I remember. The + village street was unusually wide, and was fed from a green by two + converging roads, with an inn, and a high green sign at the corner. About + a hundred yards down the street was a chemist's shop—Mr. Tanner's. + We descended the two steps into his dusky and odorous interior to buy, I + remember, some rat poison. A little beyond the chemist's was the forge. + You then walked along a very narrow path, under a fairly high wall, + nodding here and there with weeds and tufts of grass, and so came to the + iron garden-gates, and saw the high flat house behind its huge sycamore. A + coach-house stood on the left of the house, and on the right a gate led + into a kind of rambling orchard. The lawn lay away over to the left again, + and at the bottom (for the whole garden sloped gently to a sluggish and + rushy pond-like stream) was a meadow. + </p> + <p> + We arrived at noon, and entered the gates out of the hot dust beneath the + glitter of the dark-curtained windows. Seaton led me at once through the + little garden-gate to show me his tadpole pond, swarming with what, being + myself not the least bit of a naturalist, I considered the most horrible + creatures—of all shapes, consistencies, and sizes, but with whom + Seaton seemed to be on the most intimate of terms. I can see his absorbed + face now as he sat on his heels and fished the slimy things out in his + sallow palms. Wearying at last of his pets, we loitered about awhile in an + aimless fashion. Seaton seemed to be listening, or at any rate waiting, + for something to happen or for some one to come. But nothing did happen + and no one came. + </p> + <p> + That was just like Seaton. Anyhow, the first view I got of his aunt was + when, at the summons of a distant gong, we turned from the garden, very + hungry and thirsty, to go into luncheon. We were approaching the house + when Seaton suddenly came to a standstill. Indeed, I have always had the + impression that he plucked at my sleeve. Something, at least, seemed to + catch me back, as it were, as he cried, "Look out, there she is!" + </p> + <p> + She was standing in an upper window which opened wide on a hinge, and at + first sight she looked an excessively tall and overwhelming figure. This, + however, was mainly because the window reached all but to the floor of her + bedroom. She was in reality rather an under-sized woman, in spite of her + long face and big head. She must have stood, I think, unusually still, + with eyes fixed on us, though this impression may be due to Seaton's + sudden warning and to my consciousness of the cautious and subdued air + that had fallen on him at sight of her. I know that without the least + reason in the world I felt a kind of guiltiness, as if I had been + "caught." There was a silvery star pattern sprinkled on her black silk + dress, and even from the ground I could see the immense coils of her hair + and the rings on her left hand which was held fingering the small jet + buttons of her bodice. She watched our united advance without stirring, + until, imperceptibly, her eyes raised and lost themselves in the distance, + so that it was out of an assumed reverie that she appeared suddenly to + awaken to our presence beneath her when we drew close to the house. + </p> + <p> + "So this is your friend, Mr. Smithers, I suppose?" she said, bobbing to + me. + </p> + <p> + "Withers, aunt," said Seaton. + </p> + <p> + "It's much the same," she said, with eyes fixed on me. "Come in, Mr. + Withers, and bring him along with you." + </p> + <p> + She continued to gaze at me—at least, I think she did so. I know + that the fixity of her scrutiny and her ironical "Mr." made me feel + peculiarly uncomfortable. But she was extremely kind and attentive to me, + though perhaps her kindness and attention showed up more vividly against + her complete neglect of Seaton. Only one remark that I have any + recollection of she made to him: "When I look on my nephew, Mr. Smithers, + I realise that dust we are, and dust shall become. You are hot, dirty, and + incorrigible, Arthur." + </p> + <p> + She sat at the head of the table, Seaton at the foot, and I, before a wide + waste of damask tablecloth, between them. It was an old and rather close + dining-room, with windows thrown wide to the green garden and a wonderful + cascade of fading roses. Miss Seaton's great chair faced this window, so + that its rose-reflected light shone full on her yellowish face, and on + just such chocolate eyes as my schoolfellow's, except that hers were more + than half-covered by unusually long and heavy lids. + </p> + <p> + There she sat, eating, with those sluggish eyes fixed for the most part on + my face; above them stood the deep-lined fork between her eyebrows; and + above that the wide expanse of a remarkable brow beneath its strange steep + bank of hair. The lunch was copious, and consisted, I remember, of all + such dishes as are generally considered mischievous and too good for the + schoolboy digestion—lobster mayonnaise, cold game sausages, an + immense veal and ham pie farced with eggs and numberless delicious + flavours; besides sauces, kickshaws, creams, and sweetmeats. We even had + wine, a half-glass of old darkish sherry each. + </p> + <p> + Miss Seaton enjoyed and indulged an enormous appetite. Her example and a + natural schoolboy voracity soon overcame my nervousness of her, even to + the extent of allowing me to enjoy to the best of my bent so rare a + "spread." Seaton was singularly modest; the greater part of his meal + consisted of almonds and raisins, which he nibbled surreptitiously and as + if he found difficulty in swallowing them. + </p> + <p> + I don't mean that Miss Seaton "conversed" with me. She merely scattered + trenchant remarks and now and then twinkled a baited question over my + head. But her face was like a dense and involved accompaniment to her + talk. She presently dropped the "Mr.," to my intense relief, and called me + now Withers, or Wither, now Smithers, and even once towards the close of + the meal distinctly Johnson, though how on earth my name suggested it, or + whose face mine had reanimated in memory, I cannot conceive. + </p> + <p> + "And is Arthur a good boy at school, Mr. Wither?" was one of her many + questions. "Does he please his masters? Is he first in his class? What + does the reverend Dr. Gummidge think of him, eh?" + </p> + <p> + I knew she was jeering at him, but her face was adamant against the least + flicker of sarcasm or facetiousness. I gazed fixedly at a blushing + crescent of lobster. + </p> + <p> + "I think you're eighth, aren't you, Seaton?" + </p> + <p> + Seaton moved his small pupils towards his aunt. But she continued to gaze + with a kind of concentrated detachment at me. + </p> + <p> + "Arthur will never make a brilliant scholar, I fear," she said, lifting a + dexterously-burdened fork to her wide mouth.... + </p> + <p> + After luncheon she preceded me up to my bedroom. It was a jolly little + bedroom, with a brass fender and rugs and a polished floor, on which it + was possible, I afterwards found, to play "snow-shoes." Over the washstand + was a little black-framed water-colour drawing, depicting a large eye with + an extremely fishlike intensity in the spark of light on the dark pupil; + and in "illuminated" lettering beneath was printed very minutely, "Thou + God Seest ME," followed by a long looped monogram, "S.S.," in the corner. + The other pictures were all of the sea: brigs on blue water; a schooner + overtopping chalk cliffs; a rocky island of prodigious steepness, with two + tiny sailors dragging a monstrous boat up a shelf of beach. + </p> + <p> + "This is the room, Withers, my brother William died in when a boy. Admire + the view!" + </p> + <p> + I looked out of the window across the tree-tops. It was a day hot with + sunshine over the green fields, and the cattle were standing swishing + their tails in the shallow water. But the view at the moment was only + exaggeratedly vivid because I was horribly dreading that she would + presently enquire after my luggage, and I had not brought even a + toothbrush. I need have had no fear. Hers was not that highly-civilised + type of mind that is stuffed with sharp material details. Nor could her + ample presence be described as in the least motherly. + </p> + <p> + "I would never consent to question a schoolfellow behind my nephew's + back," she said, standing in the middle of the room, "but tell me, + Smithers, why is Arthur so unpopular? You, I understand, are his only + close friend." She stood in a dazzle of sun, and out of it her eyes + regarded me with such leaden penetration beneath their thick lids that I + doubt if my face concealed the least thought from her. "But there, there," + she added very suavely, stooping her head a little, "don't trouble to + answer me. I never extort an answer. Boys are queer fish. Brains might + perhaps have suggested his washing his hands before luncheon; but—not + my choice, Smithers. God forbid! And now, perhaps, you would like to go + into the garden again. I cannot actually see from here, but I should not + be surprised if Arthur is now skulking behind that hedge." + </p> + <p> + He was. I saw his head come out and take a rapid glance at the windows. + </p> + <p> + "Join him, Mr. Smithers; we shall meet again, I hope, at the tea-table. + The afternoon I spend in retirement." + </p> + <p> + Whether or not, Seaton and I had not been long engaged with the aid of two + green switches in riding round and round a lumbering old gray horse we + found in the meadow, before a rather bunched-up figure appeared, walking + along the field-path on the other side of the water, with a magenta + parasol studiously lowered in our direction throughout her slow progress, + as if that were the magnetic needle and we the fixed pole. Seaton at once + lost all nerve in his riding. At the next lurch of the old mare's heels he + toppled over into the grass, and I slid off the sleek broad back to join + him where he stood, rubbing his shoulder and sourly watching the rather + pompous figure till it was out of sight. + </p> + <p> + "Was that your aunt, Seaton?" I enquired; but not till then. + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + "Why didn't she take any notice of us, then?" + </p> + <p> + "She never does." + </p> + <p> + "Why not?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, she knows all right, without; that's the dam awful part of it." + Seaton was about the only fellow at Gummidge's who ever had the + ostentation to use bad language. He had suffered for it, too. But it + wasn't, I think, bravado. I believe he really felt certain things more + intensely than most of the other fellows, and they were generally things + that fortunate and average people do not feel at all—the peculiar + quality, for instance, of the British schoolboy's imagination. + </p> + <p> + "I tell you, Withers," he went on moodily, slinking across the meadow with + his hands covered up in his pockets, "she sees everything. And what she + doesn't see she knows without." + </p> + <p> + "But how?" I said, not because I was much interested, but because the + afternoon was so hot and tiresome and purposeless, and it seemed more of a + bore to remain silent. Seaton turned gloomily and spoke in a very low + voice. + </p> + <p> + "Don't appear to be talking of her, if you wouldn't mind. It's—because + she's in league with the devil." He nodded his head and stooped to pick up + a round flat pebble. "I tell you," he said, still stooping, "you fellows + don't realise what it is. I know I'm a bit close and all that. But so + would you be if you had that old hag listening to every thought you + think." + </p> + <p> + I looked at him, then turned and surveyed one by one the windows of the + house. + </p> + <p> + "Where's your <i>pater</i>?" I said awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + "Dead, ages and ages ago, and my mother too. She's not my aunt by rights." + </p> + <p> + "What is she, then?" + </p> + <p> + "I mean she's not my mother's sister, because my grandmother married + twice; and she's one of the first lot. I don't know what you call her, but + anyhow she's not my real aunt." + </p> + <p> + "She gives you plenty of pocket-money." + </p> + <p> + Seaton looked steadfastly at me out of his flat eyes. "She can't give me + what's mine. When I come of age half of the whole lot will be mine; and + what's more"—he turned his back on the house—"I'll make her + hand over every blessed shilling of it." + </p> + <p> + I put my hands in my pockets and stared at Seaton. "Is it much?" + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + "Who told you?" He got suddenly very angry; a darkish red came into his + cheeks, his eyes glistened, but he made no answer, and we loitered + listlessly about the garden until it was time for tea.... + </p> + <p> + Seaton's aunt was wearing an extraordinary kind of lace jacket when we + sidled sheepishly into the drawing-room together. She greeted me with a + heavy and protracted smile, and bade me bring a chair close to the little + table. + </p> + <p> + "I hope Arthur has made you feel at home," she said as she handed me my + cup in her crooked hand. "He don't talk much to me; but then I'm an old + woman. You must come again, Wither, and draw him out of his shell. You old + snail!" She wagged her head at Seaton, who sat munching cake and watching + her intently. + </p> + <p> + "And we must correspond, perhaps." She nearly shut her eyes at me. "You + must write and tell me everything behind the creature's back." I confess I + found her rather disquieting company. The evening drew on. Lamps were + brought by a man with a nondescript face and very quiet footsteps. Seaton + was told to bring out the chess-men. And we played a game, she and I, with + her big chin thrust over the board at every move as she gloated over the + pieces and occasionally croaked "Check!" after which she would sit back + inscrutably staring at me. But the game was never finished. She simply + hemmed me defencelessly in with a cloud of men that held me impotent, and + yet one and all refused to administer to my poor flustered old king a + merciful <i>coup de grâce</i>. + </p> + <p> + "There," she said, as the clock struck ten—"a drawn game, Withers. + We are very evenly matched. A very creditable defence, Withers. You know + your room. There's supper on a tray in the dining-room. Don't let the + creature over-eat himself. The gong will sound three-quarters of an hour + before a punctual breakfast." She held out her cheek to Seaton, and he + kissed it with obvious perfunctoriness. With me she shook hands. + </p> + <p> + "An excellent game," she said cordially, "but my memory is poor, and"—she + swept the pieces helter-skelter into the box—"the result will never + be known." She raised her great head far back. "Eh?" + </p> + <p> + It was a kind of challenge, and I could only murmur: "Oh, I was absolutely + in a hole, you know!" when she burst out laughing and waved us both out of + the room. + </p> + <p> + Seaton and I stood and ate our supper, with one candlestick to light us, + in a corner of the dining-room. "Well, and how would you like it?" he said + very softly, after cautiously poking his head round the doorway. + </p> + <p> + "Like what?" + </p> + <p> + "Being spied on—every blessed thing you do and think?" + </p> + <p> + "I shouldn't like it at all," I said, "if she does." + </p> + <p> + "And yet you let her smash you up at chess!" + </p> + <p> + "I didn't let her!" I said indignantly. + </p> + <p> + "Well, you funked it, then." + </p> + <p> + "And I didn't funk it either," I said; "she's so jolly clever with her + knights." Seaton stared fixedly at the candle. "You wait, that's all," he + said slowly. And we went upstairs to bed. + </p> + <p> + I had not been long in bed, I think, when I was cautiously awakened by a + touch on my shoulder. And there was Seaton's face in the candlelight and + his eyes looking into mine. + </p> + <p> + "What's up?" I said, rising quickly to my elbow. + </p> + <p> + "Don't scurry," he whispered, "or she'll hear. I'm sorry for waking you, + but I didn't think you'd be asleep so soon." + </p> + <p> + "Why, what's the time, then?" Seaton wore, what was then rather unusual, a + night-suit, and he hauled his big silver watch out of the pocket in his + jacket. + </p> + <p> + "It's a quarter to twelve. I never get to sleep before twelve—not + here." + </p> + <p> + "What do you do, then?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I read and listen." + </p> + <p> + "Listen?" + </p> + <p> + Seaton stared into his candle-flame as if he were listening even then. + "You can't guess what it is. All you read in ghost stories, that's all + rot. You can't see much, Withers, but you know all the same." + </p> + <p> + "Know what?" + </p> + <p> + "Why, that they're there." + </p> + <p> + "Who's there?" I asked fretfully, glancing at the door. + </p> + <p> + "Why, in the house. It swarms with 'em. Just you stand still and listen + outside my bedroom door in the middle of the night. I have, dozens of + times; they're all over the place." + </p> + <p> + "Look here, Seaton," I said, "you asked me to come here, and I didn't mind + chucking up a leave just to oblige you and because I'd promised; but don't + get talking a lot of rot, that's all, or you'll know the difference when + we get back." + </p> + <p> + "Don't fret," he said coldly, turning away. "I shan't be at school long. + And what's more, you're here now, and there isn't anybody else to talk to. + I'll chance the other." + </p> + <p> + "Look here, Seaton," I said, "you may think you're going to scare me with + a lot of stuff about voices and all that. But I'll just thank you to clear + out; and you may please yourself about pottering about all night." + </p> + <p> + He made no answer; he was standing by the dressing-table looking across + his candle into the looking-glass; he turned and stared slowly round the + walls. + </p> + <p> + "Even this room's nothing more than a coffin. I suppose she told you—'It's + all exactly the same as when my brother William died'—trust her for + that! And good luck to him, say I. Look at that." He raised his candle + close to the little water-colour I have mentioned. "There's hundreds of + eyes like that in the house; and even if God does see you, he takes + precious good care you don't see Him. And it's just the same with them. I + tell you what, Withers, I'm getting sick of all this. I shan't stand it + much longer." + </p> + <p> + The house was silent within and without, and even in the yellowish + radiance of the candle a faint silver showed through the open window on my + blind. I slipped off the bedclothes, wide awake, and sat irresolute on the + bedside. + </p> + <p> + "I know you're only guying me," I said angrily, "but why is the house full + of—what you say? Why do you hear—what you <i>do</i> hear? Tell + me that, you silly foal!" + </p> + <p> + Seaton sat down on a chair and rested his candlestick on his knee. He + blinked at me calmly. "She brings them," he said, with lifted eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + "Who? Your aunt?" + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + "How?" + </p> + <p> + "I told you," he answered pettishly. "She's in league. You don't know. She + as good as killed my mother; I know that. But it's not only her by a long + chalk. She just sucks you dry. I know. And that's what she'll do for me; + because I'm like her—like my mother, I mean. She simply hates to see + me alive. I wouldn't be like that old she-wolf for a million pounds. And + so"—he broke off, with a comprehensive wave of his candlestick—"they're + always here. Ah, my boy, wait till she's dead! She'll hear something then, + I can tell you. It's all very well now, but wait till then! I wouldn't be + in her shoes when she has to clear out—for something. Don't you go + and believe I care for ghosts, or whatever you like to call them. We're + all in the same box. We're all under her thumb." + </p> + <p> + He was looking almost nonchalantly at the ceiling at the moment, when I + saw his face change, saw his eyes suddenly drop like shot birds and fix + themselves on the cranny of the door he had just left ajar. Even from + where I sat I could see his colour change; he went greenish. He crouched + without stirring, simply fixed. And I, scarcely daring to breathe, sat + with creeping skin, simply watching him. His hands relaxed, and he gave a + kind of sigh. + </p> + <p> + "Was that one?" I whispered, with a timid show of jauntiness. He looked + round, opened his mouth, and nodded. "What?" I said. He jerked his thumb + with meaningful eyes, and I knew that he meant that his aunt had been + there listening at our door cranny. + </p> + <p> + "Look here, Seaton," I said once more, wriggling to my feet. "You may + think I'm a jolly noodle; just as you please. But your aunt has been civil + to me and all that, and I don't believe a word you say about her, that's + all, and never did. Every fellow's a bit off his pluck at night, and you + may think it a fine sport to try your rubbish on me. I heard your aunt + come upstairs before I fell asleep. And I'll bet you a level tanner she's + in bed now. What's more, you can keep your blessed ghosts to yourself. + It's a guilty conscience, I should think." + </p> + <p> + Seaton looked at me curiously, without answering for a moment. "I'm not a + liar, Withers; but I'm not going to quarrel either. You're the only chap I + care a button for; or, at any rate, you're the only chap that's ever come + here; and it's something to tell a fellow what you feel. I don't care a + fig for fifty thousand ghosts, although I swear on my solemn oath that I + know they're here. But she"—he turned deliberately—"you laid a + tanner she's in bed, Withers; well, I know different. She's never in bed + much of the night, and I'll prove it, too, just to show you I'm not such a + nolly as you think I am. Come on!" + </p> + <p> + "Come on where?" + </p> + <p> + "Why, to see." + </p> + <p> + I hesitated. He opened a large cupboard and took out a small dark + dressing-gown and a kind of shawl-jacket. He threw the jacket on the bed + and put on the gown. His dusky face was colourless, and I could see by the + way he fumbled at the sleeves he was shivering. But it was no good showing + the white feather now. So I threw the tasselled shawl over my shoulders + and, leaving our candle brightly burning on the chair, we went out + together and stood in the corridor. "Now then, listen!" Seaton whispered. + </p> + <p> + We stood leaning over the staircase. It was like leaning over a well, so + still and chill the air was all around us. But presently, as I suppose + happens in most old houses, began to echo and answer in my ears a medley + of infinite small stirrings and whisperings. Now out of the distance an + old timber would relax its fibers, or a scurry die away behind the + perishing wainscot. But amid and behind such sounds as these I seemed to + begin to be conscious, as it were, of the lightest of footfalls, sounds as + faint as the vanishing remembrance of voices in a dream. Seaton was all in + obscurity except his face; out of that his eyes gleamed darkly, watching + me. + </p> + <p> + "You'd hear, too, in time, my fine soldier," he muttered. "Come on!" + </p> + <p> + He descended the stairs, slipping his lean fingers lightly along the + balusters. He turned to the right at the loop, and I followed him + barefooted along a thickly-carpeted corridor. At the end stood a door + ajar. And from here we very stealthily and in complete blackness ascended + five narrow stairs. Seaton, with immense caution, slowly pushed open a + door and we stood together looking into a great pool of duskiness, out of + which, lit by the feeble clearness of a night-light, rose a vast bed. A + heap of clothes lay on the floor; beside them two slippers dozed, with + noses each to each, two yards apart. Somewhere a little clock ticked + huskily. There was a rather close smell of lavender and eau de Cologne, + mingled with the fragrance of ancient sachets, soap, and drugs. Yet it was + a scent even more peculiarly commingled than that. + </p> + <p> + And the bed! I stared warily in; it was mounded gigantically, and it was + empty. + </p> + <p> + Seaton turned a vague pale face, all shadows: "What did I say?" he + muttered. "Who's—who's the fool now, I say? How are we going to get + back without meeting her, I say? Answer me that! Oh, I wish to goodness + you hadn't come here, Withers." + </p> + <p> + He stood visibly shivering in his skimpy gown, and could hardly speak for + his teeth chattering. And very distinctly, in the hush that followed his + whisper, I heard approaching a faint unhurried voluminous rustle. Seaton + clutched my arm, dragged me to the right across the room to a large + cupboard, and drew the door close to on us. And, presently, as with + bursting lungs I peeped out into the long, low, curtained bedroom, waddled + in that wonderful great head and body. I can see her now, all patched and + lined with shadow, her tied-up hair (she must have had enormous quantities + of it for so old a woman), her heavy lids above those flat, slow, vigilant + eyes. She just passed across my ken in the vague dusk; but the bed was out + of sight. + </p> + <p> + We waited on and on, listening to the clock's muffled ticking. Not the + ghost of a sound rose up from the great bed. Either she lay archly + listening or slept a sleep serener than an infant's. And when, it seemed, + we had been hours in hiding and were cramped, chilled, and half + suffocated, we crept out on all fours, with terror knocking at our ribs, + and so down the five narrow stairs and back to the little candle-lit + blue-and-gold bedroom. + </p> + <p> + Once there, Seaton gave in. He sat livid on a chair with closed eyes. + </p> + <p> + "Here," I said, shaking his arm, "I'm going to bed; I've had enough of + this foolery; I'm going to bed." His lids quivered, but he made no answer. + I poured out some water into my basin and, with that cold pictured azure + eye fixed on us, bespattered Seaton's sallow face and forehead and dabbled + his hair. He presently sighed and opened fish-like eyes. + </p> + <p> + "Come on!" I said. "Don't get shamming, there's a good chap. Get on my + back, if you like, and I'll carry you into your bedroom." + </p> + <p> + He waved me away and stood up. So, with my candle in one hand, I took him + under the arm and walked him along according to his direction down the + corridor. His was a much dingier room than mine, and littered with boxes, + paper, cages, and clothes. I huddled him into bed and turned to go. And + suddenly, I can hardly explain it now, a kind of cold and deadly terror + swept over me. I almost ran out of the room, with eyes fixed rigidly in + front of me, blew out my candle, and buried my head under the bedclothes. + </p> + <p> + When I awoke, roused by a long-continued tapping at my door, sunlight was + raying in on cornice and bedpost, and birds were singing in the garden. I + got up, ashamed of the night's folly, dressed quickly, and went + downstairs. The breakfast-room was sweet with flowers and fruit and honey. + Seaton's aunt was standing in the garden beside the open French window, + feeding a great flutter of birds. I watched her for a moment, unseen. Her + face was set in a deep reverie beneath the shadow of a big loose sunhat. + It was deeply lined, crooked, and, in a way I can't describe, fixedly + vacant and strange. I coughed, and she turned at once with a prodigious + smile to inquire how I had slept. And in that mysterious way by which we + learn each other's secret thoughts without a sentence spoken I knew that + she had followed every word and movement of the night before, and was + triumphing over my affected innocence and ridiculing my friendly and too + easy advances. + </p> + <p> + We returned to school, Seaton and I, lavishly laden, and by rail all the + way. I made no reference to the obscure talk we had had, and resolutely + refused to meet his eyes or to take up the hints he let fall. I was + relieved—and yet I was sorry—to be going back, and strode on + as fast as I could from the station, with Seaton almost trotting at my + heels. But he insisted on buying more fruit and sweets—my share of + which I accepted with a very bad grace. It was uncomfortably like a bribe; + and, after all, I had no quarrel with his rum old aunt, and hadn't really + believed half the stuff he had told me. + </p> + <p> + I saw as little of him as I could after that. He never referred to our + visit or resumed his confidences, though in class I would sometimes catch + his eye fixed on mine, full of a mute understanding, which I easily + affected not to understand. He left Gummidge's, as I have said, rather + abruptly, though I never heard of anything to his discredit. And I did not + see him or have any news of him again till by chance we met one summer's + afternoon in the Strand. + </p> + <p> + He was dressed rather oddly in a coat too large for him and a bright silky + tie. But we instantly recognised one another under the awning of a cheap + jeweler's shop. He immediately attached himself to me and dragged me off, + not too cheerfully, to lunch with him at an Italian restaurant near by. He + chattered about our old school, which he remembered only with dislike and + disgust; told me cold-bloodedly of the disastrous fate of one or two of + the old fellows who had been among his chief tormentors; insisted on an + expensive wine and the whole gamut of the "rich" menu; and finally + informed me, with a good deal of niggling, that he had come up to town to + buy an engagement-ring. + </p> + <p> + And of course: "How is your aunt?" I enquired at last. + </p> + <p> + He seemed to have been awaiting the question. It fell like a stone into a + deep pool, so many expressions flitted across his long un-English face. + </p> + <p> + "She's aged a good deal," he said softly, and broke off. + </p> + <p> + "She's been very decent," he continued presently after, and paused again. + "In a way." He eyed me fleetingly. "I dare say you heard that she—that + is, that we—had lost a good deal of money." + </p> + <p> + "No," I said. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes!" said Seaton, and paused again. + </p> + <p> + And somehow, poor fellow, I knew in the clink and clatter of glass and + voices that he had lied to me; that he did not possess, and never had + possessed, a penny beyond what his aunt had squandered on his too ample + allowance of pocket-money. + </p> + <p> + "And the ghosts?" I enquired quizzically. He grew instantly solemn, and, + though it may have been my fancy, slightly yellowed. But "You are making + game of me, Withers," was all he said. + </p> + <p> + He asked for my address, and I rather reluctantly gave him my card. + </p> + <p> + "Look here, Withers," he said, as we stood in the sunlight on the + thronging kerb, saying good-bye, "here I am, and it's all very well; I'm + not perhaps as fanciful as I was. But you are practically the only friend + I have on earth—except Alice.... And there—to make a clean + breast of it, I'm not sure that my aunt cares much about my getting + married. She doesn't say so, of course. You know her well enough for + that." He looked sidelong at the rattling gaudy traffic. + </p> + <p> + "What I was going to say is this. Would you mind coming down? You needn't + stay the night unless you please, though, of course, you know you would be + awfully welcome. But I should like you to meet my—to meet Alice; and + then, perhaps, you might tell me your honest opinion of—of the other + too." + </p> + <p> + I vaguely demurred. He pressed me. And we parted with a half promise that + I would come. He waved his ball-topped cane at me and ran off in his long + jacket after a 'bus. + </p> + <p> + A letter arrived soon after, in his small weak handwriting, giving me full + particulars regarding route and trains. And without the least curiosity, + even, perhaps with some little annoyance that chance should have thrown us + together again, I accepted his invitation and arrived one hazy midday at + his out-of-the-way station to find him sitting on a low seat under a clump + of double hollyhocks, awaiting me. + </p> + <p> + His face looked absent and singularly listless; but he seemed, none the + less, pleased to see me. + </p> + <p> + We walked up the village street, past the little dingy apothecary's and + the empty forge, and, as on my first visit, skirted the house together, + and, instead of entering by the front door, made our way down the green + path into the garden at the back. A pale haze of cloud muffled the sun; + the garden lay in a grey shimmer—its old trees, its snap-dragoned + faintly glittering walls. But there seemed now an air of neglect where + before all had been neat and methodical. There was a patch of + shallowly-dug soil and a worn-down spade leaning against a tree. There was + an old broken wheelbarrow. The goddess of neglect was there. + </p> + <p> + "You ain't much of a gardener, Seaton," I said, with a sigh of ease. + </p> + <p> + "I think, do you know, I like it best like this," said Seaton. "We haven't + any gardener now, of course. Can't afford it." He stood staring at his + little dark square of freshly-turned earth. "And it always seems to me," + he went on ruminatingly, "that, after all, we are nothing better than + interlopers on the earth, disfiguring and staining wherever we go. I know + it's shocking blasphemy to say so, but then it's different here, you see. + We are farther away." + </p> + <p> + "To tell you the truth, Seaton, I don't quite see," I said; "but it isn't + a new philosophy, is it? Anyhow, it's a precious beastly one." + </p> + <p> + "It's only what I think," he replied, with all his odd old stubborn + meekness. + </p> + <p> + We wandered on together, talking little, and still with that expression of + uneasy vigilance on Seaton's face. He pulled out his watch as we stood + gazing idly over the green meadow and the dark motionless bulrushes. + </p> + <p> + "I think, perhaps, it's nearly time for lunch," he said. "Would you like + to come in?" + </p> + <p> + We turned and walked slowly towards the house, across whose windows I + confess my own eyes, too, went restlessly wandering in search of its + rather disconcerting inmate. There was a pathetic look of draggledness, of + want of means and care, rust and overgrowth and faded paint. Seaton's + aunt, a little to my relief, did not share our meal. Seaton carved the + cold meat, and dispatched a heaped-up plate by the elderly servant for his + aunt's private consumption. We talked little and in half-suppressed tones, + and sipped a bottle of Madeira which Seaton had rather heedfully fetched + out of the great mahogany sideboard. + </p> + <p> + I played him a dull and effortless game of chess, yawning between the + moves he generally made almost at haphazard, and with attention elsewhere + engaged. About five o'clock came the sound of a distant ring, and Seaton + jumped up, overturning the board, and so ending a game that else might + have fatuously continued to this day. He effusively excused himself, and + after some little while returned with a slim, dark, rather sallow girl of + about nineteen, in a white gown and hat, to whom I was presented with some + little nervousness as "his dear old friend and schoolfellow." + </p> + <p> + We talked on in the pale afternoon light, still, as it seemed to me, and + even in spite of real effort to be clear and gay, in a half-suppressed, + lack-lustre fashion. We all seemed, if it were not my fancy, to be + expectant, to be rather anxiously awaiting an arrival, the appearance of + someone who all but filled our collective consciousness. Seaton talked + least of all, and in a restless interjectory way, as he continually + fidgeted from chair to chair. At last he proposed a stroll in the garden + before the sun should have quite gone down. + </p> + <p> + Alice walked between us. Her hair and eyes were conspicuously dark against + the whiteness of her gown. She carried herself not ungracefully, and yet + without the least movement of her arms or body, and answered us both + without turning her head. There was a curious provocative reserve in that + impassive and rather long face, a half-unconscious strength of character. + </p> + <p> + And yet somehow I knew—I believe we all knew—that this walk, + this discussion of their future plans was a futility. I had nothing to + base such a cynicism on, except only a vague sense of oppression, the + foreboding remembrance of the inert invincible power in the background, to + whom optimistic plans and love-making and youth are as chaff and + thistledown. We came back, silent, in the last light. Seaton's aunt was + there—under an old brass lamp. Her hair was as barbarously massed + and curled as ever. Her eye-lids, I think, hung even a little heavier in + age over their slow-moving inscrutable pupils. We filed in softly out of + the evening, and I made my bow. + </p> + <p> + "In this short interval, Mr. Withers," she remarked amiably, "you have put + off youth, put on the man. Dear me, how sad it is to see the young days + vanishing! Sit down. My nephew tells me you met by chance—or act of + Providence, shall we call it?—and in my beloved Strand! You, I + understand, are to be best man—yes, best man, or am I divulging + secrets?" She surveyed Arthur and Alice with overwhelming graciousness. + They sat apart on two low chairs and smiled in return. + </p> + <p> + "And Arthur—how do you think Arthur is looking?" + </p> + <p> + "I think he looks very much in need of a change," I said deliberately. + </p> + <p> + "A change! Indeed?" She all but shut her eyes at me and with an + exaggerated sentimentality shook her head. "My dear Mr. Withers! Are we + not <i>all</i> in need of a change in this fleeting, fleeting world?" She + mused over the remark like a connoisseur. "And you," she continued, + turning abruptly to Alice, "I hope you pointed out to Mr. Withers all my + pretty bits?" + </p> + <p> + "We walked round the garden," said Alice, looking out of the window. "It's + a very beautiful evening." + </p> + <p> + "Is it?" said the old lady, starting up violently. "Then on this very + beautiful evening we will go in to supper. Mr. Withers, your arm; Arthur, + bring your bride." + </p> + <p> + I can scarcely describe with what curious ruminations I led the way into + the faded, heavy-aired dining-room, with this indefinable old creature + leaning weightily on my arm—the large flat bracelet on the + yellow-laced wrist. She fumed a little, breathed rather heavily, as if + with an effort of mind rather than of body; for she had grown much stouter + and yet little more proportionate. And to talk into that great white face, + so close to mine, was a queer experience in the dim light of the corridor, + and even in the twinkling crystal of the candles. She was naïve—appallingly + naïve; she was sudden and superficial; she was even arch; and all these in + the brief, rather puffy passage from one room to the other, with these two + tongue-tied children bringing up the rear. The meal was tremendous. I have + never seen such a monstrous salad. But the dishes were greasy and + over-spiced, and were indifferently cooked. One thing only was quite + unchanged—my hostess's appetite was as Gargantuan as ever. The old + solid candelabra that lighted us stood before her high-backed chair. + Seaton sat a little removed, with his plate almost in darkness. + </p> + <p> + And throughout this prodigious meal his aunt talked, mainly to me, mainly + at Seaton, with an occasional satirical courtesy to Alice and muttered + explosions of directions to the servant. She had aged, and yet, if it be + not nonsense to say so, seemed no older. I suppose to the Pyramids a + decade is but as the rustling down of a handful of dust. And she reminded + me of some such unshakable prehistoricism. She certainly was an amazing + talker—racy, extravagant, with a delivery that was perfectly + overwhelming. As for Seaton—her flashes of silence were for him. On + her enormous volubility would suddenly fall a hush: acid sarcasm would be + left implied; and she would sit softly moving her great head, with eyes + fixed full in a dreamy smile; but with her whole attention, one could see, + slowly, joyously absorbing his mute discomfiture. + </p> + <p> + She confided in us her views on a theme vaguely occupying at the moment, I + suppose, all our minds. "We have barbarous institutions, and so must put + up, I suppose, with a never-ending procession of fools—of fools <i>ad + infinitum</i>. Marriage, Mr. Withers, was instituted in the privacy of a + garden; <i>sub rosa</i>, as it were. Civilization flaunts it in the glare + of day. The dull marry the poor; the rich the effete; and so our New + Jerusalem is peopled with naturals, plain and coloured, at either end. I + detest folly; I detest still more (if I must be frank, dear Arthur) mere + cleverness. Mankind has simply become a tailless host of uninstinctive + animals. We should never have taken to Evolution, Mr. Withers. 'Natural + Selection!'—little gods and fishes!—the deaf for the dumb. We + should have used our brains—intellectual pride, the ecclesiastics + call it. And by brains I mean—what do I mean, Alice?—I mean, + my dear child," and she laid two gross fingers on Alice's narrow sleeve. + "I mean courage. Consider it, Arthur. I read that the scientific world is + once more beginning to be afraid of spiritual agencies. Spiritual agencies + that tap, and actually float, bless their hearts! I think just one more of + those mulberries—thank you. + </p> + <p> + "They talk about 'blind Love,'" she ran inconsequently on as she helped + herself, with eyes fixed on the dish, "but why blind? I think, do you + know, from weeping over its rickets. After all, it is we plain women that + triumph, Mr. Withers, beyond the mockery of time. Alice, now! Fleeting, + fleeting is youth, my child! What's that you were confiding to your plate, + Arthur? Satirical boy! He laughs at his old aunt: nay, but thou didst + laugh. He detests all sentiment. He whispers the most acid asides. Come, + my love, we will leave these cynics; we will go and commiserate with each + other on our sex. The choice of two evils, Mr. Smithers!" I opened the + door, and she swept out as if borne on a torrent of unintelligible + indignation; and Arthur and I were left in the clear four-flamed light + alone. + </p> + <p> + For a while we sat in silence. He shook his head at my cigarette-case, and + I lit a cigarette. Presently he fidgeted in his chair and poked his head + forward into the light. He paused to rise and shut again the shut door. + </p> + <p> + "How long will you be?" he said, standing by the table. + </p> + <p> + I laughed. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, it's not that!" he said, in some confusion. "Of course, I like to be + with her. But it's not that only. The truth is, Withers, I don't care + about leaving her too long with my aunt." + </p> + <p> + I hesitated. He looked at me questioningly. + </p> + <p> + "Look here, Seaton," I said, "you know well enough that I don't want to + interfere in your affairs, or to offer advice where it is not wanted. But + don't you think perhaps you may not treat your aunt quite in the right + way? As one gets old, you know, a little give and take. I have an old + godmother, or something. She talks, too.... A little allowance: it does no + harm. But, hang it all, I'm no talker." + </p> + <p> + He sat down with his hands in his pockets and still with his eyes fixed + almost incredulously on mine. "How?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "Well, my dear fellow, if I'm any judge—mind, I don't say that I am—but + I can't help thinking she thinks you don't care for her; and perhaps takes + your silence for—for bad temper. She has been very decent to you, + hasn't she?" + </p> + <p> + "'Decent'? My God!" said Seaton. + </p> + <p> + I smoked on in silence; but he still continued to look at me with that + peculiar concentration I remembered of old. + </p> + <p> + "I don't think, perhaps, Withers," he began presently, "I don't think you + quite understand. Perhaps you are not quite our kind. You always did, just + like the other fellows, guy me at school. You laughed at me that night you + came to stay here—about the voices and all that. But I don't mind + being laughed at—because I know." + </p> + <p> + "Know what?" It was the same old system of dull question and evasive + answer. + </p> + <p> + "I mean I know that what we see and hear is only the smallest fraction of + what is. I know she lives quite out of this. She <i>talks</i> to you; but + it's all make-believe. It's all a 'parlour game.' She's not really with + you; only pitting her outside wits against yours and enjoying the fooling. + She's living on inside, on what you're rotten without. That's what it is—a + cannibal feast. She's a spider. It does't much matter what you call it. It + means the same kind of thing. I tell you, Withers, she hates me; and you + can scarcely dream what that hatred means. I used to think I had an + inkling of the reason. It's oceans deeper than that. It just lies behind: + herself against myself. Why, after all, how much do we really understand + of anything? We don't even know our own histories, and not a tenth, not a + tenth of the reasons. What has life been to me?—nothing but a trap. + And when one is set free, it only begins again. I thought you might + understand; but you are on a different level: that's all." + </p> + <p> + "What on earth are you talking about?" I said, half contemptuously, in + spite of myself. + </p> + <p> + "I mean what I say," he said gutturally. "All this outside's only + make-believe—but there! what's the good of talking? So far as this + is concerned I'm as good as done. You wait." + </p> + <p> + Seaton blew out three of the candles and, leaving the vacant room in + semi-darkness, we groped our way along the corridor to the drawing-room. + There a full moon stood shining in at the long garden windows. Alice sat + stooping at the door, with her hands clasped, looking out, alone. + </p> + <p> + "Where is she?" Seaton asked in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + Alice looked up; their eyes met in a kind of instantaneous understanding, + and the door immediately afterwards opened behind us. + </p> + <p> + "<i>Such</i> a moon!" said a voice that, once heard, remained + unforgettably on the ear. "A night for lovers, Mr. Withers, if ever there + was one. Get a shawl, my dear Arthur, and take Alice for a little + promenade. I dare say we old cronies will manage to keep awake. Hasten, + hasten, Romeo! My poor, poor Alice, how laggard a lover!" + </p> + <p> + Seaton returned with a shawl. They drifted out into the moonlight. My + companion gazed after them till they were out of hearing, turned to me + gravely, and suddenly twisted her white face into such a convulsion of + contemptuous amusement that I could only stare blankly in reply. + </p> + <p> + "Dear innocent children!" she said, with inimitable unctuousness. "Well, + well, Mr. Withers, we poor seasoned old creatures must move with the + times. Do you sing?" + </p> + <p> + I scouted the idea. + </p> + <p> + "Then you must listen to my playing. Chess"—she clasped her forehead + with both cramped hands—"chess is now completely beyond my poor + wits." + </p> + <p> + She sat down at the piano and ran her fingers in a flourish over the keys. + "What shall it be? How shall we capture them, those passionate hearts? + That first fine careless rapture? Poetry itself." She gazed softly into + the garden a moment, and presently, with a shake of her body, began to + play the opening bars of Beethoven's "Moonlight" Sonata. The piano was old + and woolly. She played without music. The lamplight was rather dim. The + moonbeams from the window lay across the keys. Her head was in shadow. And + whether it was simply due to her personality or to some really occult + skill in her playing I cannot say: I only know that she gravely and + deliberately set herself to satirise the beautiful music. It brooded on + the air, disillusioned, charged with mockery and bitterness. I stood at + the window; far down the path I could see the white figure glimmering in + that pool of colourless light. A few faint stars shone; and still that + amazing woman behind me dragged out of the unwilling keys her wonderful + grotesquerie of youth and love and beauty. It came to an end. I knew the + player was watching me. "Please, please, go on!" I murmured, without + turning. "Please go on playing, Miss Seaton." + </p> + <p> + No answer was returned to my rather fluttering sarcasm, but I knew in some + indefinite way that I was being acutely scrutinised, when suddenly there + followed a procession of quiet, plaintive chords which broke at last + softly into the hymn, <i>A Few More Years Shall Roll</i>. + </p> + <p> + I confess it held me spellbound. There is a wistful strained, plangent + pathos in the tune; but beneath those masterly old hands it cried softly + and bitterly the solitude and desperate estrangement of the world. Arthur + and his lady-love vanished from my thoughts. No one could put into a + rather hackneyed old hymn-tune such an appeal who had never known the + meaning of the words. Their meaning, anyhow, isn't commonplace. I turned + very cautiously and glanced at the musician. She was leaning forward a + little over the keys, so that at the approach of my cautious glance she + had but to turn her face into the thin flood of moonlight for every + feature to become distinctly visible. And so, with the tune abruptly + terminated, we steadfastly regarded one another, and she broke into a + chuckle of laughter. + </p> + <p> + "Not quite so seasoned as I supposed, Mr. Withers. I see you are a real + lover of music. To me it is too painful. It evokes too much thought...." + </p> + <p> + I could scarcely see her little glittering eyes under their penthouse + lids. + </p> + <p> + "And now," she broke off crisply, "tell me, as a man of the world, what do + you think of my new niece?" + </p> + <p> + I was not a man of the world, nor was I much flattered in my stiff and + dullish way of looking at things by being called one; and I could answer + her without the least hesitation. + </p> + <p> + "I don't think, Miss Seaton, I'm much of a judge of character. She's very + charming." + </p> + <p> + "A brunette?" + </p> + <p> + "I think I prefer dark women." + </p> + <p> + "And why? Consider, Mr. Withers; dark hair, dark eyes, dark cloud, dark + night, dark vision, dark death, dark grave, dark DARK!" + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the climax would have rather thrilled Seaton, but I was too + thick-skinned. "I don't know much about all that," I answered rather + pompously. "Broad daylight's difficult enough for most of us." + </p> + <p> + "Ah," she said, with a sly inward burst of satirical laughter. + </p> + <p> + "And I suppose," I went on, perhaps a little nettled, "it isn't the actual + darkness one admires, its the contrast of the skin, and the colour of the + eyes, and—and their shining. Just as," I went blundering on, too + late to turn back, "just as you only see the stars in the dark. It would + be a long day without any evening. As for death and the grave, I don't + suppose we shall much notice that." Arthur and his sweetheart were slowly + returning along the dewy path. "I believe in making the best of things." + </p> + <p> + "How very interesting!" came the smooth answer. "I see you are a + philosopher, Mr. Withers. H'm! 'As for death and the grave, I don't + suppose we shall much notice that.' Very interesting.... And I'm sure," + she added in a particularly suave voice, "I profoundly hope so." She rose + slowly from her stool. "You will take pity on me again, I hope. You and I + would get on famously—kindred spirits—elective affinities. + And, of course, now that my nephew's going to leave me, now that his + affections are centred on another, I shall be a very lonely old woman.... + Shall I not, Arthur?" + </p> + <p> + Seaton blinked stupidly. "I didn't hear what you said, Aunt." + </p> + <p> + "I was telling our old friend, Arthur, that when you are gone I shall be a + very lonely old woman." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I don't think so;" he said in a strange voice. + </p> + <p> + "He means, Mr. Withers, he means, my dear child," she said, sweeping her + eyes over Alice, "he means that I shall have memory for company—heavenly + memory—the ghosts of other days. Sentimental boy! And did you enjoy + our music, Alice? Did I really stir that youthful heart?... O, O, O," + continued the horrible old creature, "you billers and cooers, I have been + listening to such flatteries, such confessions! Beware, beware, Arthur, + there's many a slip." She rolled her little eyes at me, she shrugged her + shoulders at Alice, and gazed an instant stonily into her nephew's face. + </p> + <p> + I held out my hand. "Good night, good night!" she cried. "'He that fights + and runs away.' Ah, good night, Mr. Withers; come again soon!" She thrust + out her cheek at Alice, and we all three filed slowly out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Black shadow darkened the porch and half the spreading sycamore. We walked + without speaking up the dusty village street. Here and there a crimson + window glowed. At the fork of the high-road I said good-bye. But I had + taken hardly more than a dozen paces when a sudden impulse seized me. + </p> + <p> + "Seaton!" I called. + </p> + <p> + He turned in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + "You have my address; if by any chance, you know, you should care to spend + a week or two in town between this and the—the Day, we should be + delighted to see you." + </p> + <p> + "Thank you, Withers, thank you," he said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + "I dare say"—I waved my stick gallantly to Alice—"I dare say + you will be doing some shopping; we could all meet," I added, laughing. + </p> + <p> + "Thank you, thank you, Withers—immensely;" he repeated. + </p> + <p> + And so we parted. + </p> + <p> + But they were out of the jog-trot of my prosaic life. And being of a + stolid and incurious nature, I left Seaton and his marriage, and even his + aunt, to themselves in my memory, and scarcely gave a thought to them + until one day I was walking up the Strand again, and passed the flashing + gloaming of the covered-in jeweller's shop where I had accidentally + encountered my old schoolfellow in the summer. It was one of those still + close autumnal days after a rainy night. I cannot say why, but a vivid + recollection returned to my mind of our meeting and of how suppressed + Seaton had seemed, and of how vainly he had endeavoured to appear assured + and eager. He must be married by now, and had doubtless returned from his + honeymoon. And I had clean forgotten my manners, had sent not a word of + congratulation, nor—as I might very well have done, and as I knew he + would have been immensely pleased at my doing—the ghost of a + wedding-present. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, I pleaded with myself, I had had no invitation. I + paused at the corner of Trafalgar Square, and at the bidding of one of + those caprices that seize occasionally on even an unimaginative mind, I + suddenly ran after a green 'bus that was passing, and found myself bound + on a visit I had not in the least foreseen. + </p> + <p> + All the colours of autumn were over the village when I arrived. A + beautiful late afternoon sunlight bathed thatch and meadow. But it was + close and hot. A child, two dogs, a very old woman with a heavy basket I + encountered. One or two incurious tradesmen looked idly up as I passed by. + It was all so rural and so still, my whimsical impulse had so much + flagged, that for a while I hesitated to venture under the shadow of the + sycamore-tree to enquire after the happy pair. I deliberately passed by + the faint-blue gates and continued my walk under the high green and tufted + wall. Hollyhocks had attained their topmost bud and seeded in the little + cottage gardens beyond; the Michaelmas daisies were in flower; a sweet + warm aromatic smell of fading leaves was in the air. Beyond the cottages + lay a field where cattle were grazing, and beyond that I came to a little + churchyard. Then the road wound on, pathless and houseless, among gorse + and bracken. I turned impatiently and walked quickly back to the house and + rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + The rather colourless elderly woman who answered my enquiry informed me + that Miss Seaton was at home, as if only taciturnity forbade her adding, + "But she doesn't want to see <i>you</i>." + </p> + <p> + "Might I, do you think, have Mr. Arthur's address?" I said. + </p> + <p> + She looked at me with quiet astonishment, as if waiting for an + explanation. Not the faintest of smiles came into her thin face. + </p> + <p> + "I will tell Miss Seaton," she said after a pause. "Please walk in." + </p> + <p> + She showed me into the dingy undusted drawing-room, filled with evening + sunshine and the green-dyed light that penetrated the leaves overhanging + the long French windows. I sat down and waited on and on, occasionally + aware of a creaking footfall overhead. At last the door opened a little, + and the great face I had once known peered round at me. For it was + enormously changed; mainly, I think, because the old eyes had rather + suddenly failed, and so a kind of stillness and darkness lay over its calm + and wrinkled pallor. + </p> + <p> + "Who is it?" she asked. + </p> + <p> + I explained myself and told her the occasion of my visit. + </p> + <p> + She came in and shut the door carefully after her and, though the fumbling + was scarcely perceptible, groped her way to a chair. She had on an old + dressing-gown, like a cassock, of a patterned cinnamon colour. + </p> + <p> + "What is it you want?" she said, seating herself and lifting her blank + face to mine. + </p> + <p> + "Might I just have Arthur's address?" I said deferentially. "I am so sorry + to have disturbed you." + </p> + <p> + "H'm. You have come to see my nephew?" + </p> + <p> + "Not necessarily to see him, only to hear how he is, and, of course, Mrs. + Seaton too. I am afraid my silence must have appeared...." + </p> + <p> + "He hasn't noticed your silence," croaked the old voice out of the great + mask; "besides, there isn't any Mrs. Seaton." + </p> + <p> + "Ah, then," I answered, after a momentary pause, "I have not seemed so + black as I painted myself! And how is Miss Outram?" + </p> + <p> + "She's gone into Yorkshire," answered Seaton's aunt. + </p> + <p> + "And Arthur too?" + </p> + <p> + She did not reply, but simply sat blinking at me with lifted chin, as if + listening, but certainly not for what I might have to say. I began to feel + rather at a loss. + </p> + <p> + "You were no close friend of my nephew's, Mr. Smithers?" she said + presently. + </p> + <p> + "No," I answered, welcoming the cue, "and yet, do you know, Miss Seaton, + he is one of the very few of my old schoolfellows I have come across in + the last few years, and I suppose as one gets older one begins to value + old associations...." My voice seemed to trail off into a vacuum. "I + thought Miss Outram," I hastily began again, "a particularly charming + girl. I hope they are both quite well." + </p> + <p> + Still the old face solemnly blinked at me in silence. + </p> + <p> + "You must find it very lonely, Miss Seaton, with Arthur away?" + </p> + <p> + "I was never lonely in my life," she said sourly. "I don't look to flesh + and blood for my company. When you've got to be my age, Mr. Smithers + (which God forbid), you'll find life a very different affair from what you + seem to think it is now. You won't seek company then, I'll be bound. It's + thrust on you." Her face edged round into the clear green light, and her + eyes, as it were, groped over my vacant, disconcerted face. "I dare say, + now," she said, composing her mouth, "I dare say my nephew told you a good + many tarradiddles in his time. Oh, yes, a good many, eh? He was always a + liar. What, now, did he say of me? Tell me, now." She leant forward as far + as she could, trembling, with an ingratiating smile. + </p> + <p> + "I think he is rather superstitious," I said coldly, "but, honestly, I + have a very poor memory, Miss Seaton." + </p> + <p> + "Why?" she said. "<i>I</i> haven't." + </p> + <p> + "The engagement hasn't been broken off, I hope." + </p> + <p> + "Well, between you and me," she said, shrinking up and with an immensely + confidential grimace, "it has." + </p> + <p> + "I'm sure I'm very sorry to hear it. And where is Arthur?" + </p> + <p> + "Eh?" + </p> + <p> + "Where is Arthur?" + </p> + <p> + We faced each other mutely among the dead old bygone furniture. Past all + my scrutiny was that large, flat, grey, cryptic countenance. And then, + suddenly, our eyes for the first time, really met. In some indescribable + way out of that thick-lidded obscurity a far small something stooped and + looked out at me for a mere instant of time that seemed of almost + intolerable protraction. Involuntarily I blinked and shook my head. She + muttered something with great rapidity, but quite inarticulately; rose and + hobbled to the door. I thought I heard, mingled in broken mutterings, + something about tea. + </p> + <p> + "Please, please, don't trouble," I began, but could say no more, for the + door was already shut between us. I stood and looked out on the + long-neglected garden. I could just see the bright greenness of Seaton's + old tadpole pond. I wandered about the room. Dusk began to gather, the + last birds in that dense shadowiness of trees had ceased to sing. And not + a sound was to be heard in the house. I waited on and on, vainly + speculating. I even attempted to ring the bell; but the wire was broken, + and only jangled loosely at my efforts. + </p> + <p> + I hesitated, unwilling to call or to venture out, and yet more unwilling + to linger on, waiting for a tea that promised to be an exceedingly + comfortless supper. And as darkness drew down, a feeling of the utmost + unease and disquietude came over me. All my talks with Seaton returned on + me with a suddenly enriched meaning. I recalled again his face as we had + stood hanging over the staircase, listening in the small hours to the + inexplicable stirrings of the night. There were no candles in the room; + every minute the autumnal darkness deepened. I cautiously opened the door + and listened, and with some little dismay withdrew, for I was uncertain of + my way out. I even tried the garden, but was confronted under a veritable + thicket of foliage by a padlocked gate. It would be a little too + ignominious to be caught scaling a friend's garden fence! + </p> + <p> + Cautiously returning into the still and musty drawing-room, I took out my + watch and gave the incredible old woman ten minutes in which to reappear. + And when that tedious ten minutes had ticked by I could scarcely + distinguish its hands. I determined to wait no longer, drew open the door, + and, trusting to my sense of direction, groped my way through the corridor + that I vaguely remembered led to the front of the house. + </p> + <p> + I mounted three or four stairs and, lifting a heavy curtain, found myself + facing the starry fanlight of the porch. Hence I glanced into the gloom of + the dining-room. My fingers were on the latch of the outer door when I + heard a faint stirring in the darkness above the hall. I looked up and + became conscious of, rather than saw, the huddled old figure looking down + on me. + </p> + <p> + There was an immense hushed pause. Then, "Arthur, Arthur," whispered an + inexpressively peevish, rasping voice, "is that you? Is that you, Arthur?" + </p> + <p> + I can scarcely say why, but the question horribly startled me. No + conceivable answer occurred to me. With head craned back, hand clenched on + my umbrella, I continued to stare up into the gloom, in this fatuous + confrontation. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, oh;" the voice croaked. "It is you, is it? <i>That</i> disgusting + man!... Go away out. Go away out." + </p> + <p> + Hesitating no longer, I caught open the door and, slamming it behind me, + ran out into the garden, under the gigantic old sycamore, and so out at + the open gate. + </p> + <p> + I found myself half up the village street before I stopped running. The + local butcher was sitting in his shop reading a piece of newspaper by the + light of a small oil-lamp. I crossed the road and enquired the way to the + station. And after he had with minute and needless care directed me, I + asked casually if Mr. Arthur Seaton still lived with his aunt at the big + house just beyond the village. He poked his head in at the little parlour + door. + </p> + <p> + "Here's a gentleman enquiring after young Mr. Seaton, Millie," he said. + "He's dead, ain't he?" + </p> + <p> + "Why, yes, bless you," replied a cheerful voice from within. "Dead and + buried these three months or more—young Mr. Seaton. And just before + he was to be married, don't you remember, Bob?" + </p> + <p> + I saw a fair young woman's face peer over the muslin of the little door at + me. + </p> + <p> + "Thank you," I replied, "then I go straight on?" + </p> + <p> + "That's it, sir; past the pond, bear up the hill a bit to the left, and + then there's the station lights before your eyes." + </p> + <p> + We looked intelligently into each other's faces in the beam of the smoky + lamp. But not one of the many questions in my mind could I put into words. + </p> + <p> + And again I paused irresolutely a few paces further on. It was not, I + fancy, merely a foolish apprehension of what the raw-boned butcher might + "think" that prevented my going back to see if I could find Seaton's grave + in the benighted churchyard. There was precious little use in pottering + about in the muddy dark merely to find where he was buried. And yet I felt + a little uneasy. My rather horrible thought was that, so far as I was + concerned—one of his esteemed few friends—he had never been + much better than "buried" in my mind. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE REAPER — By DOROTHY EASTON + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The English Review</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + Milgate is a rich farmer, owning his own machines; not like those poorer, + smaller men who hire an engine from a neighbour. He has his reaping + machine, a red and yellow "Walter Wood" Cleveland brand. Every morning + now, as soon as it's dry enough, about nine o'clock, the engine starts, + and from the farmer's Manor House its heavy, drowsy sounds are heard. For + those on the machine the noise is harder. The only human sound that + penetrates it is the old conductor's "Ohoy!" to the driver if the canvas + sticks, or if weeds are making a "block." Then the young man in front + slows his engine down, and wipes his forehead with his hand. Reaping goes + on until nine at night. + </p> + <p> + No strange workman sits on the reaper, but one of Milgate's best men, the + most trustworthy, most faithful—the waggoner; a man well over sixty, + with side-whiskers, grey eyes, a long nose, and forehead and chin carved + out of granite. On his head a flat "wide-awake" hat, on his bent back a + white jacket. When he speaks, his mouth moves sideways first; there's + always a spot of dried blood on his lip; when he smiles a tooth-stump + appears like an ancient fossil. He talks slowly, stopping to spit now and + then; every day of his life he gets up at half-past three. Now, mounted on + the high iron seat (a crumpled sack for saddle), he rides like some old + charioteer, a Hercules with great bowed back, head jutting out, chin + straight; a hard, weathered look about his face, and in his heart disgust—this + year, for the first time, they are using a motor engine to pull the reaper + round instead of horses. He lives for his horses; he's the "Waggoner," + they are his "job;" if one falls ill, he sleeps with it. He believes in + horses; but, speaking of the motor, he says: "She's arlraight—when + she's arlraight!" with a look which ends the sentence for him! In his + youth he had reaped with a scythe. + </p> + <p> + This "Walter Wood" is a neat arrangement, you can't deny that; one bit of + mechanism works as a divider, while a big, light kind of wooden windmill + arrangement, continually revolving, beats the corn down into a flat pan + from which it's carried, on a canvas slide, up an incline, then shot over + and down the other side in one continual long, flat stream like yellow + matting. And then the needle, the "threadle" as he calls it, nips in + somewhere, binding the flat mass into separate, neat, round sheaves, + pitched out every few moments with perfect precision by a three-pronged + iron fork. Above the one big, heavy central wheel the charioteer is shaken + and jolted from nine till nine. In front, on another iron seat by the + boxlike engine, the driver works. Behind runs a red-faced labourer + "clearing corners." The motor has to run out the full length of its cogged + iron wheel bands before it can turn, and sheaves dropped on the last round + get in the way; so at each corner they have to be lifted and set back. The + labourer "clears," then runs after the machine—now half-way up the + field—stops at the next corner, stoops once more to lift and shift + three sheaves, then runs again. + </p> + <p> + This labourer was a man of forty with a face as naïve as a boy of fifteen. + Though getting bald, his eyes were young; his mouth loose, untrained as a + child's. He's "touched," as we say, and had never really grown up. He + slept in an attic, ate in a kitchen, and worked, but was not + "responsible;" he was always given "light jobs"—walking with the + "clappers," weeding, cleaning sties, "clearing." His greatest friend was a + boy of twelve; on Sundays they'd laugh for an hour at nothing. Going to + the coast for the first time last year, he was so taken by a Punch and + Judy show that he never saw the sea. His smile was the most ridiculous + thing in the world. He blushed continually, panted, grinned like some boy + caught kissing, and was always apologetic. Lightning made him hide his + head, and he was afraid of engines—their regularity upset him. + Running behind the reaper—this quick-moving, noisy thing smelling of + oil, made up of sliding chains—appalled him; there were five wheels + at an angle, and all the time an oil-wet, black, flat, chain-band ran + round over them! Underneath, the heavy central wheel ran round and round! + To the imbecile the waggoner's courage appeared supernatural. + </p> + <p> + There should have been another man to take two corners, but all hands were + wanted; so the labourer had to run all day. It was hot, no wind, no shade. + If he looked up for a moment, the hills and distant elms appeared bright + blue. The big field itself was ablaze with colour; wheat like brown burnt + amber, poppies, small white daisies, thistles. When the engine stopped the + only sounds were plaintive, anxious bird-calls from the centre of the + field; sometimes a rabbit or a hare looked out, then bolted back. Once + five graceful, sleek, brown pheasants ran out towards the hedge, then lost + their nerve, turned and went running back. The sun shone steadily; sheaves + picked up by the labourer made his hands smell oily, their string band + raised a blister on his forefinger. Very often he grabbed hold of nettles + and sharp thistles, and the backs of his hands were swollen and covered + with stings. Blue butterflies twirled in front of his face, pale moths + flew out. When his hat fell off he had no time to get it. The sweat ran + down his egg-shaped forehead to his long, square, hairy chin (though he + could shave himself on Sundays, he looked a little like a monkey). + </p> + <p> + When the engine stuck, the waggoner asked in his slow, flat voice: + </p> + <p> + "Woan't she speak?" + </p> + <p> + "She's not comin' out!" was the youth's reply. + </p> + <p> + Once the driver was thrown up a foot when the motor went over a hole. He + yelled: "Men are often killed by the reaper." The imbecile got the + startled look of a child seeing snakes at the Zoo. Each time the engine + snorted, or the waggoner called out "Ohoy!" a spurt of sweat ran down his + spine; the blood was beating in his head; the sun shone mercilessly on his + pale, bald patch; the field began to bounce before his eyes, bloodshot + from stooping. When yards of bindweed shackled the machinery, the waggoner + just turned his head—a sign—for the labourer, who had to run, + had to catch and tear away the long green chains full of small pink + flowers. + </p> + <p> + By four o'clock they were overtaking him before he got round; the driver + had to turn more sharply, the canvas stuck. + </p> + <p> + "Doan you do that agen!" the old waggoner scolded with stern eye; "you'll + tourn us oover!" + </p> + <p> + The engine stuck when they tried to start again; for half an hour the + young driver tinkered with tools from the box, unscrewing small oily + "nuts," testing "wires," feeling "levers," and in desperation wiping his + black, dripping hands on his hair. Twenty times he turned the "starting + handle," but "she wouldn't speak!" Then, suddenly, with a sound like a + pistol-shot, the engine "fired," the machine ran backwards, upsetting the + labourer, and before he could move, the central wheel ran over his ankles. + </p> + <p> + When the imbecile came to himself they were still at the corner, his feet + were tied up in a jacket, he was suffering horribly, yet seemed unable to + focus it; but seeing the red and yellow reaper standing close beside his + head, some memory soaked his face with sweat; he fainted. + </p> + <p> + Brandy was fetched; they had lifted him on to a hurdle when he recovered + again. The whole group were still at the corner. His employer stood there, + stout, well-dressed, and anxious, in his grey felt hat, dark coat and + trousers; the driver stood there, too, and the old waggoner. Corn was + still "up" in the middle of the field. The labourer looked surprised at + seeing sky before him; as a rule when he stared he saw fields. He turned + his face; the men watching saw his round, boyish eyes project at sight of + something red and wet and sticky (like the mess they made out + sheep-killing) splashed on the stubble, while two broken boots lay oozing + the same stuff in a large pool of it. Following this look, the old + waggoner said slowly: + </p> + <p> + "Eh, me boy, they'm youers...." Tears were running down his stiff, dried + cheeks. + </p> + <p> + "How d'you feel?" asked the farmer. His labourer blushed, then whispered + to the waggoner: + </p> + <p> + "What's 'appened, Mister Collard?" + </p> + <p> + "Why, you've a-loarst your feet." + </p> + <p> + For yet another minute the imbecile lay panting, shy, self-conscious under + his master's eye—until an idea struck him; once more whispering to + the waggoner, he said: + </p> + <p> + "'Elp me oop. I'll get 'ome, Willy." + </p> + <p> + "You carn't walk," said the old man simply. "You carn't walk no moar." + </p> + <p> + Black hairs stiffened suddenly on the idiot's chin; he had understood that + in those bleeding, mangled boots his feet were lying; he began to cry. But + then, catching sight of his master, smiled as though to apologise—— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SONG — By MAY EDGINTON + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>Lloyd's Story Magazine</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + Charlie had no true vice in him. All the same, a man may be overtaxed, + over-harassed, over-routined, over-driven, over-pricked, over-preached and + over-starved right up to the edge; and then the fascination of the big + space below may easily pull him over. + </p> + <p> + But his wife's uncle's assertion that he must always, inwardly, have been + naturally wild and bad, was as wrong as such assertions usually are, for + he was no more truly vicious than his youngest baby was. + </p> + <p> + On the warm evening when he came home on that fateful autumn day, Charlie + had been pushed, in the course of years, right up to the edge, and was + looking into the abyss, though he was hardly aware of it, so well had he + been disciplined. He emerged from a third-class carriage of the usual + train without an evening paper because his wife had shown him the decency + of cutting down small personal expenses, and next morning's papers would + have the same news in anyway; he walked home up the suburban road for the + four thousandth five hundredth and fiftieth time; entered quietly not to + disturb the baby; rubbed his boots on the mat; answered his wife brightly + and manfully; washed his hands in cold water—the hot water being + saved for the baby's bath and the washing-up in the evenings—and sat + down to about the four thousandth five hundredth and fiftieth cold supper. + </p> + <p> + His wife said she was tired and seemed proud of it. + </p> + <p> + "But never mind," she said, "one must expect to be tired." He went on + eating without verbally questioning her; it was an assertion to which she + always held firmly. But in his soul something stirred vaguely, as if + mutinous currents fretted there. + </p> + <p> + "I have been thinking," she said, "that you really ought not to buy that + new suit you were considering if Maud is to go to a better school next + term. I have been looking over your pepper-and-salt, and there are those + people who turn suits like new. You can have that done." + </p> + <p> + "But——" he murmured. + </p> + <p> + "We ought not to think of ourselves," she added. + </p> + <p> + "I never have," said Charlie in rather a low voice. + </p> + <p> + "We ought to give a little subscription to the Parish Magazine," she + continued. "The Vicar is calling round for extra subscriptions." + </p> + <p> + Charlie nodded. He was wishing he knew the football results in the evening + paper. + </p> + <p> + His wife served a rice shape. She doled out jam with a careful hand and a + measuring eye. "We ought to see about the garden gate," she said. + </p> + <p> + "I'll mend it on Saturday," Charlie replied. + </p> + <p> + "I was thinking," she said presently, "that we ought to ask Uncle Henry + and Aunt round soon. They will be expecting it." + </p> + <p> + Charlie put his spoon and fork together, hesitated and then replied + slowly: "Life is nothing but 'ought.' 'Ought' to do this: 'Ought' to do + that." + </p> + <p> + His wife looked at him, astonished. He could see that she was grieved—or + rather, aggrieved—at his glimmer of anarchy. + </p> + <p> + "Of course," she explained at last. "People can't have what they like. + There's one's duty to do. Life isn't for enjoyment, Charlie. It's given to + us ... it is given to us...." + </p> + <p> + As she paused to crystallise an idea, Charlie cut in. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," he said, "it is given to us.... What for?" + </p> + <p> + He leaned his head on his hand. He was not looking at her. He was looking + at the cloth, weaving patterns upon it. And with this question something + of boyhood came upon him again, and he weaved visions upon the cloth. + </p> + <p> + "To do one's duty in," she replied gently, but rebukingly. + </p> + <p> + Charlie did not know the classic phrase, "Cui bono." He merely repeated: + </p> + <p> + "What for?" + </p> + <p> + After supper he helped her to wash up, for the daily help left early in + the afternoon; and then he asked her, idle as he knew the question to be, + if she would like to come for a walk—just a short walk up the road. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. "I ought not to leave the children." + </p> + <p> + "They're in bed," he argued, "and Maud's big enough to look after the + others for half-an-hour. Maud's twelve." + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. "I ought not to leave the house." + </p> + <p> + "But," he began slowly. + </p> + <p> + "I am not the kind of woman who leaves her house and children in the + evenings," she said gently, but finally. + </p> + <p> + Charlie took his hat. He turned it round and round in his hands, pinching + the crown in, and punching it out. He had a curious, almost uncontrollable + wish to cry. For a moment it was terrible. Before it was over, she was + speaking again. + </p> + <p> + "You ought not to mess your hats about like that; they don't last half as + long." + </p> + <p> + Charlie went out. + </p> + <p> + He knew other men who were as puzzled about life as himself, but mostly + they were of cruder stuff, and if things at home went beyond their bearing + they flung out of their houses, swearing, and went to play a hundred up at + the local club. Then they were philosophers again. But for Charlie this + evening there was no philosophy big enough, for he was looking, though he + did not know it, over the edge of that awful, but enchanting abyss. Its + depths were obscured by rolling clouds of mist, and it was only this mist + which he now saw, terrifying and confusing him. He was a little man, and + knew it. He was a poor man, and knew it. He was a weary man, and knew it. + He hated his wife, and knew it. He hated his children—whom she had + made like herself, prim, peeking and childishly censorious—and knew + it. + </p> + <p> + He had not meant it to be like this at all. + </p> + <p> + When he got married she was the starched daughter of starched parents from + a starched small house—like the one he came from—but she was + young, and her figure was pliant, and her hair curled rather sweetly. + </p> + <p> + He had dreamed of happy days, cosy days with laughter; little treats + together—Soho restaurants, Richmond Park, something colourful, + something for which he had vaguely and secretly longed all the dingy, + narrow, church-parading, humbugging days of his good little boyhood. But + he soon woke up to find he had married another hard holy woman like his + mother. + </p> + <p> + He walked along, thinking mistily and hotly. Supposing he had a baby who + roared with joy and stole the sugar ... but she wouldn't have babies like + that. The first coherent thing her babies learned to say was a text. + </p> + <p> + Babies.... He hadn't wanted three, because they couldn't afford them. He + tried to talk to her about it. She made him ashamed of himself, though he + didn't know why; and showed him how wicked he was, though he didn't know + why; and how good she was, though he didn't know why—then. But he + knew now that there are still many women who are gluttons for martyrdom, + who long to exalt themselves by a parrot righteousness, and who are only + happy when destroying natural joy in others. And he knew there were many + men like himself, married and done for; tied up to these pettifogging + saints; goaded under their stupid yoke; belittled through their narrow + eyes. + </p> + <p> + He thought all this mistily and hotly. + </p> + <p> + He had come to the end of the road; and the end of another road more + populous; and the end of another road, more populous. + </p> + <p> + At a corner of this road stood Kitty. + </p> + <p> + She was soft and colourful, painted to a perfect peachiness, young—twenty-four + and looking less; old as the world and wise. She was gay. She did not much + care if it snowed; she knew enough to wriggle in somewhere, somehow, out + of it. The years had not yet scared her. She was joy. + </p> + <p> + Charlie paused before he knew why. She looked at him. Then the mists + rolled away from the abyss below the tottering edge on which he had been + balanced for longer time than he guessed, and he saw the garden far below; + lotus flowers dreaming in the sun. He launched himself simply into space + towards them. + </p> + <p> + Kitty helped him. She knew how. + </p> + <p> + Charlie had, as it happened, his next week's personal allowance of seven + and sixpence in his pocket—for to-day had been pay day; and his + season ticket. The rest he had handed over to his wife at supper time. He + had also, however, the moral support of knowing that he had in the savings + bank the exact amount of his sickness and life insurance premiums due that + very week. So it did not embarrass him to take Kitty straight away up to + town—she, making a shrewd summary of him, did not object to + third-class travelling—and to stand her coffee and a sandwich at the + Monico. + </p> + <p> + "I don't happen to have much change on me, and my bank's closed," was the + explanation he offered, and she tactfully accepted of this modest + entertainment. + </p> + <p> + It was ten-thirty when she took him to see her tiny flat a stone's throw + away. She was looking for another supporter for that flat, and explained + her reason for being in Charlie's suburb that evening. She'd been trying + to find the house of a man friend—a rich friend—who lived + there, and might have helped her over a temporary difficulty, but when she + found the house the servants told her he was away. She confided these + things, leaning in Charlie's arms on a little striped divan by a gas fire. + She made him a drink, and showed him the cunning and luxurious little + contrivances for comfort about the flat. He loved it. She didn't try to + conceal from him her real vocation, for that would have been too silly. + Even Charlie might not have been such a fool as to believe her. But she + invested it with glamour; she made of it romance. Once more as in boyhood + he saw the world full of allurement. + </p> + <p> + So he went home, having promised her that to-morrow he would come again. + </p> + <p> + And going in quietly, so as not to disturb the baby, he undressed quietly + so as not to disturb his wife, and he crept cautiously into the double bed + that she decreed they must share for ever and ever, whatever their + feelings towards one another, because they were married; and he hoped to + fall asleep with enchantment unbroken. But she was awake, and waiting + patiently to speak. "Where have you been, Charlie?" + </p> + <p> + "At the club," he whispered back. "Watching two fellows play a billiard + match." + </p> + <p> + She sighed. + </p> + <p> + "Charlie," she said, "you ought to have more consideration for me. Maudie + said to me when I went in to look at them before I came to bed: 'Is daddy + still out?' she said. 'I do think he ought not to go out and leave you + alone, mamma.' She's such a sweet child, Charlie, and I do think you ought + to think more of her. Children often say little things in the innocence of + their hearts that do even us grown-up people good sometimes." + </p> + <p> + So the next morning Charlie left home with a suit-case—alleged to + contain the one suit for turning, but really crammed to bursting. His wife + being busy with the baby, Maud saw him off with her usual air of smug + reproof; and that evening he did not come back. He had written a letter to + his wife, on the journey to town, telling her his decision, which she + would receive by the afternoon post. But he gave her no address. + </p> + <p> + He drew out the whole amount in the savings bank, surrendered his life + insurance, realising £160; and he went home after the day's work to Kitty. + </p> + <p> + Little Kitty was looking for any kind of mug, pending better developments, + and she certainly had found one; but what a happy mug he was! Life was + warm and light, gay and uncritical. He spent even less on his own lunches—he + retained his seven and sixpence weekly personal allowance, though of + course he posted the rest of his salary home—so that he might have + an extra half-crown or so to buy chocolates for Kitty. It was nice to buy + chocolates instead of subscribing to the Vicar's Fund. And little Kitty, + who was wise, guessed he hadn't much and couldn't afford her long, so + pending better things, like a sensible person, she eked him out. + </p> + <p> + She made him so happy. They laughed. She sang— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm for ever blowing bubbles, + Pretty bubbles in the air. + They fly so high, nearly reach the sky.... +</pre> + <p> + She had a gramophone and she taught him to dance, and then he had to take + her to the best dancing place he could afford and they danced a long + evening through. He bought her a wonderful little woollen frock at one of + the small French shops in Shaftesbury Avenue, and she looked exactly what + she was in it; and he knew she was the most wonderful thing in the world. + When he propounded the frock question to her one morning when they woke + up, saying: "I would like to see you in a dress I'd bought, Kitty," she + did not tell him it was wrong to consider themselves, and she would have + her old black turned. She put a dear fat little arm round his neck, laid a + soft selfish cheek to his, and muttered cosily, "It shall buy her a frock + then. It shall." + </p> + <p> + She was sporting enough not to protest when she knew where his weekly pay + went. "Three kids must be fed," she said. In fact, according to her own + codes, she was not ungenerous towards the other woman. + </p> + <p> + All the while he knew: £160 can't last. What will happen when...? + </p> + <p> + Charlie's wife thought she was sure of what must happen pretty soon. So + did her Uncle Henry and Aunt, for whom she had sent a day or two after the + blow had fallen. + </p> + <p> + They found her cutting down Maud's oldest dress for the second child in + her tidy house. + </p> + <p> + "Charlie has left me for an immoral woman," she said, after preparing them + with preliminaries. + </p> + <p> + "What!" said Uncle Henry. He was a churchwarden at the church to which + Charlie, in a bowler hat, had had to take the critical Maud on Sundays. + </p> + <p> + "Fancy leaving <i>that</i>!" said Aunt, when they had digested and + credited the news. She pointed at her niece sewing diligently even through + this painful conversation. "Look at her scraping and economising and + contriving. And he leaves her!" + </p> + <p> + "He must be naturally wild and bad," said Uncle Henry. "Shall I speak to + the Vicar for you?" + </p> + <p> + "Have you written to his firm?" asked Aunt. + </p> + <p> + Charlie's wife spoke wisely, gently, and with perfection as ever. "No," + she said. "I have thought it over, and I think the best thing, for the + children's sake, is to say nothing. We ought not to consider ourselves. + Besides, I dare say it's my duty to forgive him." + </p> + <p> + "Always thinking of your duty!" murmured Aunt admiringly. + </p> + <p> + "If I wrote to his firm about it," said Charlie's wife, "they would + dismiss him." + </p> + <p> + "Ah! and he sends you his pay, you say?" said Uncle Henry, seizing the + point like a business man. + </p> + <p> + "What a position for a conscientious woman like you!" mourned Aunt. + </p> + <p> + "You are quite right, my dear," said Uncle Henry. "You have three children + and no other means of sustenance, and you cannot afford to do as I should + otherwise advise you." + </p> + <p> + "Besides, he will come back," said Charlie's wife gently. "Men are soon + sickened of these women." + </p> + <p> + "Of course," agreed Aunt. + </p> + <p> + "Well! Well!" said Uncle Henry, "you are very magnanimous, my dear, and + one day Charles will fully appreciate it. And I hope he will be duly + thankful to you for your great goodness. Yes! You will soon have Master + Charles creeping back, very ashamed of himself, and when he comes, I for + one, intend to give him the biggest talking to he has ever had in his + life. But I really think the Vicar too, should be told, in confidence, so + that he may decide upon the right course of action for himself." + </p> + <p> + "Because he could not allow your husband to communicate, my love," said + Aunt, "without being sure of his genuine repentance." + </p> + <p> + "I have been thinking of that too," said Charlie's wife. "It would not be + right." + </p> + <p> + "I wonder what he feels about himself, when he remembers his dear little + children," said Aunt. "Maud nearly old enough to understand, and all!" + </p> + <p> + So they lay for Charlie, while he basked and thrived in the abyss of the + lotus-flower; and the £160 dwindled. + </p> + <p> + It was towards the end of the second month that Charlie sensed a new + element in his precarious dream. All day when he was out, thinking of + Kitty through the routine of his work, he had no idea of what she was + doing. Sometimes he was afraid to think of what she might be doing, and + for fear of shattering the dream, he never dared to ask. Always she was + sweet and joyful towards him—save for petulant quarrels she raised + as if to make the ensuing sweetness and joyfulness the dearer—until + towards the close of the second month. Then one evening she was distrait; + one evening, critical; one night, cold; then she had a dinner and dance + engagement at the Savoy. Then he knew that his time had come. + </p> + <p> + He waited up for her. He had the gas fire lighted in the tiny + sitting-room, and little sugary cakes and wine on the table; and the gas + fire lighted in the bedroom to warm it for her, and the bed turned down, + and her nightgown and slippers, so frail, warming before the fire. + </p> + <p> + But he knew. + </p> + <p> + In the early dawn her key clicked in the lock, and she came in, followed + by a man. He was pale, sensual, moneyed, fashionable. Charlie got up + stoutly; but he was already beaten. + </p> + <p> + The Jew looked at him, and turned to Kitty. + </p> + <p> + "I told you," she said, stammering a little, "I told you how it was. By + to-morrow ... I told you...." + </p> + <p> + "I'll come again, to-morrow, then," said the man very meaningly, "fetch + you out——" + </p> + <p> + "At eight," she nodded firmly. + </p> + <p> + He kissed her on the mouth, while Charlie stood looking at them with eyes + that seemed to stare themselves out of his head, turned and went out. + </p> + <p> + "Nighty-night!" Kitty called after him. + </p> + <p> + After the front door clicked again there was a moment's silence. Kitty + advanced, shook off her cloak, took up one of the sugary cakes, and began + to munch it. She looked beautiful and careless and sorry and hard all at + once. + </p> + <p> + "What are you sitting up for, Charlie?" she asked. "I didn't expect to see + you. I brought that fellow in to talk." + </p> + <p> + "What about?" said Charlie in a hoarse desolate voice. + </p> + <p> + "Charlie," said Kitty, hurriedly, "you know this arrangement of ours can't + last, now, can it, dear? You haven't the cash for one thing, dear. Now, + have you? And I've got to think of myself a little; a girl's got to + provide. You've been awf'ly good to me. Let's part friends." + </p> + <p> + "'Part!'" he repeated. + </p> + <p> + His eyes seemed to start from his head. + </p> + <p> + "Let's part friends," wheedled Kitty. "Shall us?" + </p> + <p> + The night passed in a kind of evil vision of desolation, and Kitty was + asleep long before he had stopped his futile whisperings into her ear. + </p> + <p> + Before he went to the office in the morning, he asked her from a breaking + heart: "You mean it?" + </p> + <p> + "I've got to," she explained. She cried easily. "Dearie, you'll leave + peaceably? You won't make a row? Now, for my sake! To oblige me! While + you're out to-day I'll pack your suit-case and give it to the hall-porter + for you to call for. Shall I, Charlie? Kiss me, dear. Don't take your + latch-key. Good-bye. You've been awfully decent to me. We'll part friends, + shall us?" + </p> + <p> + He kissed her, and went out to work, speaking no more. He had said all the + things in his heart during the hours of that sleepless dawn. She knew how + he loved her ... though possibly she didn't quite believe. He realised her + position acutely, perhaps more acutely than his own. She had to live. And + yet.... + </p> + <p> + He had taken his latch-key the same as usual, and he found himself at the + end of the day, going the same as usual to the tiny flat that was home if + ever there was any place called home. He let himself in noiselessly. The + little hall was dark. He stood in a corner against the coat cupboard. The + flat was silent. He stood there a long while without moving and a clock + chimed seven. He heard her singing— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I'm for ever blowing bubbles.... + Lal-la! la! la!... la! la! la!..." +</pre> + <p> + She would be in her bedroom, sitting before the mirror in her diaphanous + underwear, touching up her face. The pauses in the song made him see + her.... Now she was using the eyebrow pencil.... The song went on and + broke again; now she would be half turning from the mirror, curved on the + gilt chair as he had so often seen her, hand-glass in hand, looking at the + back of her head, and her eyelashes, and her profile, fining away all hard + edges of rouge and lipstick. He felt quite peaceful as he imaged her. + </p> + <p> + Peace was shattered at a blast by the ringing of the front door bell. Then + light streamed from the opened bedroom door, was switched off, and Kitty + ran into the darkish hall. She clicked on the light by the front door, + opened the door, and the big man came in. + </p> + <p> + He kissed her on the mouth. + </p> + <p> + Then Charlie stepped from beside the coat cupboard, suddenly as though + some strong spring which held him there had been released, and the strong + spring was in his tense body alone. For the first time in his life he felt + all steel and wire and whipcord, and many fires. He threw himself on the + intruder and fought for his woman. + </p> + <p> + Kitty did not scream. She knew better. + </p> + <p> + "Oh Charlie!" she panted. "For —— sake go! Go! I can't have a + row here. Oh, Charlie, be a good boy, do." + </p> + <p> + "He <i>shall</i> go," said the other man. + </p> + <p> + He was a big man; and still young and lithe. Kitty opened the front door, + whispering: "Oh, Charlie! Oh! Charlie!" and the man pushed Charlie out. + The lift was not working at the moment, the landing was quiet, there was + not a soul on the stairway beside the liftshaft when the man flung Charlie + headlong down the first flight and broke him on the unyielding stone. + </p> + <p> + Charlie heard his own spine crack; but as the other, scared and pale, + reached him, he heard something else also; the voice of Kitty, who stood + above them, looking down, sobbing: "I c-c-can't have a row here. It'd + break me. Oh! Charlie! Oh Charlie! If you love me, go away!" + </p> + <p> + Charlie loved Kitty very much. "My back's broken," he whispered to the + enemy bending over him. "But if you get me under the armpits, lift me down + the stairs, and put me into the street, and if the hall-porter sees us go + out tell him I'm dead drunk——" + </p> + <p> + The man lifted him as instructed, an arm round him, just under the + shoulder-blades and armpits. Below he could feel the crumpled weight sway + and sag. He tried to be merciful in his handling. "D-d-do you no + g-g-good," he faltered as he lifted Charlie downstairs, "t-to get me into + a mess. I'm sorry. D-d-didn't mean.... But I've got a wife and don't want + hell raised.... You asked for it.... I'm sorry. I'm sorry...." When they + reached the ground floor the single-handed porter was just carrying a + passenger in the lift to the floor above, so they got unobserved into the + street, a quietish street, a cul-de-sac. + </p> + <p> + "Take me a f-f-few d-d-doors off, and put me down," said Charlie, and the + sweat of pain ran down his face, but when the man had put him down against + some area railings, and laid him straight, he was comfortable. + </p> + <p> + The other man simply vanished. + </p> + <p> + A taxi-driver found Charlie by-and-by, and the police fetched an ambulance + and took him to the hospital, and in a white bed he lay sleepily, + revealing nothing, all that night. But they found, searching for an + address in his pockets, the address of his family, and they sent a message + to his wife. + </p> + <p> + His wife received it early the next morning, and first she sent Maud for + Uncle Henry and Aunt, who found that all was turning out as they + prophesied, save for the slight deviation of Charlie's accident. + </p> + <p> + "They don't say exactly how bad he is?" said Uncle Henry. "Ah! but he was + well enough to send for you! He knows which side his bread's buttered. + Yes! we shall have Master Charles creeping back again, very thankful to be + in his home with every comfort, nursed by you; and I will give him the + worse talking to be has ever had in his life!" + </p> + <p> + "And if he's ill he can't prevent the Vicar visiting him too," said Aunt. + </p> + <p> + So Charlie's wife set out to do her duty. + </p> + <p> + But still earlier that morning, instructed by the tremendous peace which + was stealing over him that time was short, Charlie was making his first + request. Would they please ring up <i>Shaftesbury</i> 84 to ask for + "Kitty" and tell her "Charlie" just wanted to see her very urgently for a + few minutes at once, but not to be frightened, for everything would be + perfectly all right? + </p> + <p> + Pending her arrival, which in a faltering voice over the phone she + promised as soon as possible, Charlie asked the kindly Sister who was + hovering near to help him die: + </p> + <p> + "Sister, when a friend of mine comes in, a young lady who isn't used to—to + seeing—things, if I go off suddenly as it were-what I'm afraid of + is, she may be afraid if there's any kind of struggle—I saw a fellow + die once and he gave a sort of rattle—well, will you just pull the + bed-clothes up over me, so that she doesn't see?" + </p> + <p> + Kitty came in, wearing, perhaps incidentally, perhaps by some grace of + kindness, the woollen frock, and she crept, shaking, round the screen, and + stood beside Charlie, and said, "Oh Charlie! Oh Charlie!" opening his + closing eyes. + </p> + <p> + "Kitty!" he smiled, "sing 'Bubbles.'" + </p> + <p> + The look Sister—who had taken her right in—gave her, pried + Kitty's trembling mouth open like a crowbar, and leaning against Charlie's + cot she sang— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "When shadows creep, + When I'm asleep, + To lands of hope I stray, + Then at daybreak, when I awake...." +</pre> + <p> + The Sister drew the bed-clothes shadily round Charlie's face. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "... My blue bird flutters away, + I'm forever blowing bubbles.... + Pretty bubbles in the air...." +</pre> + <p> + Just then the good woman was brought into the ward, bearing with her + messages from Maud worthy of Little Eva herself; and full of holy + forgiveness; and at edge of the screen Sister met her. + </p> + <p> + "His wife?" said Sister. "A moment too late. I am sorry." The good woman + was looking at the bad woman by the bed, so Sister made a vague + explanation. + </p> + <p> + "He just wanted a song," she said. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A HEDONIST — By JOHN GALSWORTHY + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>Pears' Annual</i> and <i>The Century Magazine</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1921 + </h3> + <p> + Rupert K. Vaness remains freshly in my mind because he was so fine and + large, and because he summed up in his person and behavior a philosophy + which, budding before the war, hibernated during that distressing epoch, + and is now again in bloom. + </p> + <p> + He was a New-Yorker addicted to Italy. One often puzzled over the + composition of his blood. From his appearance, it was rich, and his name + fortified the conclusion. What the K. stood for, however, I never learned; + the three possibilities were equally intriguing. Had he a strain of + Highlander with Kenneth or Keith; a drop of German or Scandinavian with + Kurt or Knut; a blend of Syrian or Armenian with Kahalil or Kassim? The + blue in his fine eyes seemed to preclude the last, but there was an + encouraging curve in his nostrils and a raven gleam in his auburn hair, + which, by the way, was beginning to grizzle and recede when I knew him. + The flesh of his face, too, had sometimes a tired and pouchy appearance, + and his tall body looked a trifle rebellious within his extremely well-cut + clothes; but, after all, he was fifty-five. You felt that Vaness was a + philosopher, yet he never bored you with his views, and was content to let + you grasp his moving principle gradually through watching what he ate, + drank, smoked, wore, and how he encircled himself with the beautiful + things and people of this life. One presumed him rich, for one was never + aware of money in his presence. Life moved round him with a certain + noiseless ease or stood still at a perfect temperature, like the air in a + conservatory round a choice blossom which a draught might shrivel. + </p> + <p> + This image of a flower in relation to Rupert K. Vaness pleases me, because + of that little incident in Magnolia Gardens, near Charleston, South + Carolina. + </p> + <p> + Vaness was the sort of a man of whom one could never say with safety + whether he was revolving round a beautiful young woman or whether the + beautiful young woman was revolving round him. His looks, his wealth, his + taste, his reputation, invested him with a certain sun-like quality; but + his age, the recession of his locks, and the advancement of his waist were + beginning to dim his lustre, so that whether he was moth or candle was + becoming a moot point. It was moot to me, watching him and Miss Sabine + Monroy at Charleston throughout the month of March. The casual observer + would have said that she was "playing him up," as a young poet of my + acquaintance puts it; but I was not casual. For me Vaness had the + attraction of a theorem, and I was looking rather deeply into him and Miss + Monroy. + </p> + <p> + That girl had charm. She came, I think, from Baltimore, with a strain in + her, they said, of old Southern French blood. Tall and what is known as + willowy, with dark chestnut hair, very broad, dark eyebrows, very soft, + quick eyes, and a pretty mouth,—when she did not accentuate it with + lip-salve,—she had more sheer quiet vitality than any girl I ever + saw. It was delightful to watch her dance, ride, play tennis. She laughed + with her eyes; she talked with a savouring vivacity. She never seemed + tired or bored. She was, in one hackneyed word, attractive. And Vaness, + the connoisseur, was quite obviously attracted. Of men who professionally + admire beauty one can never tell offhand whether they definitely design to + add a pretty woman to their collection, or whether their dalliance is just + matter of habit. But he stood and sat about her, he drove and rode, + listened to music, and played cards with her; he did all but dance with + her, and even at times trembled on the brink of that. And his eyes, those + fine, lustrous eyes of his, followed her about. + </p> + <p> + How she had remained unmarried to the age of twenty-six was a mystery till + one reflected that with her power of enjoying life she could not yet have + had the time. Her perfect physique was at full stretch for eighteen hours + out of the twenty-four every day. Her sleep must have been like that of a + baby. One figured her sinking into dreamless rest the moment her head + touched the pillow, and never stirring till she sprang up into her bath. + </p> + <p> + As I say, for me Vaness, or rather his philosophy, <i>erat demonstrandum</i>. + I was philosophically in some distress just then. The microbe of fatalism, + already present in the brains of artists before the war, had been + considerably enlarged by that depressing occurrence. Could a civilization, + basing itself on the production of material advantages, do anything but + insure the desire for more and more material advantages? Could it promote + progress even of a material character except in countries whose resources + were still much in excess of their population? The war had seemed to me to + show that mankind was too combative an animal ever to recognize that the + good of all was the good of one. The coarse-fibred, pugnacious, and + self-seeking would, I had become sure, always carry too many guns for the + refined and kindly. + </p> + <p> + The march of science appeared, on the whole, to be carrying us backward. I + deeply suspected that there had been ages when the populations of this + earth, though less numerous and comfortable, had been proportionately + healthier than they were at present. As for religion, I had never had the + least faith in Providence rewarding the pitiable by giving them a future + life of bliss. The theory seemed to me illogical, for the more pitiable in + this life appeared to me the thick-skinned and successful, and these, as + we know, in the saying about the camel and the needle's eye, our religion + consigns wholesale to hell. Success, power, wealth, those aims of + profiteers and premiers, pedagogues and pandemoniacs, of all, in fact, who + could not see God in a dewdrop, hear Him in distant goat-bells, and scent + Him in a pepper-tree, had always appeared to me akin to dry rot. And yet + every day one saw more distinctly that they were the pea in the thimblerig + of life, the hub of a universe which, to the approbation of the majority + they represented, they were fast making uninhabitable. It did not even + seem of any use to help one's neighbors; all efforts at relief just gilded + the pill and encouraged our stubbornly contentious leaders to plunge us + all into fresh miseries. So I was searching right and left for something + to believe in, willing to accept even Rupert K. Vaness and his basking + philosophy. But could a man bask his life right out? Could just looking at + fine pictures, tasting rare fruits and wines, the mere listening to good + music, the scent of azaleas and the best tobacco, above all the society of + pretty women, keep salt in my bread, an ideal in my brain? Could they? + That's what I wanted to know. + </p> + <p> + Every one who goes to Charleston in the spring, soon or late, visits + Magnolia Gardens. A painter of flowers and trees, I specialize in gardens, + and freely assert that none in the world is so beautiful as this. Even + before the magnolias come out, it consigns the Boboli at Florence, the + Cinnamon Gardens of Colombo, Concepcion at Malaga, Versailles, Hampton + Court, the Generaliffe at Granada, and La Mortola to the category of "also + ran." Nothing so free and gracious, so lovely and wistful, nothing so + richly coloured, yet so ghostlike, exists, planted by the sons of men. It + is a kind of paradise which has wandered down, a miraculously enchanted + wilderness. Brilliant with azaleas, or magnolias, it centres round a pool + of dreamy water, overhung by tall trunks wanly festooned with the grey + Florida moss. Beyond anything I have ever seen, it is otherworldly. And I + went there day after day, drawn as one is drawn in youth by visions of the + Ionian Sea, of the East, or the Pacific Isles. I used to sit paralysed by + the absurdity of putting brush to canvas in front of that dream-pool. I + wanted to paint of it a picture like that of the fountain, by Helleu, + which hangs in the Luxembourg. But I knew I never should. + </p> + <p> + I was sitting there one sunny afternoon, with my back to a clump of + azaleas, watching an old coloured gardener—so old that he had + started life as an "owned" negro, they said, and certainly still retained + the familiar suavity of the old-time darky—I was watching him prune + the shrubs when I heard the voice of Rupert K. Vaness say, quite close: + </p> + <p> + "There's nothing for me but beauty, Miss Monroy." + </p> + <p> + The two were evidently just behind my azalea clump, perhaps four yards + away, yet as invisible as if in China. + </p> + <p> + "Beauty is a wide, wide word. Define it, Mr. Vaness." + </p> + <p> + "An ounce of fact is worth a ton of theory: it stands before me." + </p> + <p> + "Come, now, that's just a get-out. Is beauty of the flesh or of the + spirit?" + </p> + <p> + "What is the spirit, as you call it? I'm a pagan." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, so am I. But the Greeks were pagans." + </p> + <p> + "Well, spirit is only the refined side of sensuous appreciations." + </p> + <p> + "I wonder!" + </p> + <p> + "I have spent my life in finding that out." + </p> + <p> + "Then the feeling this garden rouses in me is purely sensuous?" + </p> + <p> + "Of course. If you were standing there blind and deaf, without the powers + of scent and touch, where would your feeling be?" + </p> + <p> + "You are very discouraging, Mr. Vaness." "No, madam; I face facts. When I + was a youngster I had plenty of fluffy aspiration towards I didn't know + what; I even used to write poetry." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! Mr. Vaness, was it good?" + </p> + <p> + "It was not. I very soon learned that a genuine sensation was worth all + the uplift in the world." + </p> + <p> + "What is going to happen when your senses strike work?" + </p> + <p> + "I shall sit in the sun and fade out." + </p> + <p> + "I certainly do like your frankness." + </p> + <p> + "You think me a cynic, of course; I am nothing so futile, Miss Sabine. A + cynic is just a posing ass proud of his attitude. I see nothing to be + proud of in my attitude, just as I see nothing to be proud of in the + truths of existence." + </p> + <p> + "Suppose you had been poor?" + </p> + <p> + "My senses would be lasting better than they are, and when at last they + failed, I should die quicker, from want of food and warmth, that's all." + </p> + <p> + "Have you ever been in love, Mr. Vaness?" + </p> + <p> + "I am in love now." + </p> + <p> + "And your love has no element of devotion, no finer side?" + </p> + <p> + "None. It wants." + </p> + <p> + "I have never been in love. But, if I were, I think I should want to lose + myself rather than to gain the other." + </p> + <p> + "Would you? Sabine, <i>I am in love with you</i>." + </p> + <p> + "Oh! Shall we walk on?" + </p> + <p> + I heard their footsteps, and was alone again, with the old gardener + lopping at his shrubs. + </p> + <p> + But what a perfect declaration of hedonism! How simple and how solid was + the Vaness theory of existence! Almost Assyrian, worthy of Louis Quinze! + </p> + <p> + And just then the old negro came up. + </p> + <p> + "It's pleasant settin'," he said in his polite and hoarse half-whisper; + "dar ain't no flies yet." + </p> + <p> + "It's perfect, Richard. This is the most beautiful spot in the world." + </p> + <p> + "Such," he answered, softly drawling. "In deh war-time de Yanks nearly + burn deh house heah—Sherman's Yanks. Such dey did; po'ful angry wi' + ol' massa dey was, 'cause he hid up deh silver plate afore he went away. + My ol' fader was de factotalum den. De Yanks took 'm, suh; dey took 'm, + and deh major he tell my fader to show 'm whar deh plate was. My ol' fader + he look at 'm an' say: 'Wot yuh take me foh? Yuh take me foh a sneakin' + nigger? No, sub, you kin du wot yuh like wid dis chile; he ain't goin' to + act no Judas. No, suh!' And deh Yankee major he put 'm up ag'in' dat tall + live-oak dar, an' he say: 'Yuh darn ungrateful nigger! I's come all dis + way to set yuh free. Now, whar's dat silver plate, or I shoot yuh up, + such!' 'No, suh,' says my fader; 'shoot away. I's neber goin' t' tell.' So + dey begin to shoot, and shot all roun' 'm to skeer 'm up. I was a li'l boy + den, an' I see my ol' fader wid my own eyes, suh, standin' thar's bold's + Peter. No, suh, dey didn't neber git no word from him. He loved deh folk + heah; such he did, suh." + </p> + <p> + The old man smiled, and in that beatific smile I saw not only his + perennial pleasure in the well-known story, but the fact that he, too, + would have stood there, with the bullets raining round him, sooner than + betray the folk he loved. + </p> + <p> + "Fine story, Richard; but—very silly, obstinate old man, your + father, wasn't he?" + </p> + <p> + He looked at me with a sort of startled anger, which slowly broadened into + a grin; then broke into soft, hoarse laughter. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes, suh, sueh; berry silly, obstinacious ol' man. Yes, suh indeed." + And he went off cackling to himself. He had only just gone when I heard + footsteps again behind my azalea clump, and Miss Monroy's voice. + </p> + <p> + "Your philosophy is that of faun and nymph. Can you play the part?" + </p> + <p> + "Only let me try." Those words had such a fevered ring that in imagination + I could see Vaness all flushed, his fine eyes shining, his well-kept hands + trembling, his lips a little protruded. + </p> + <p> + There came a laugh, high, gay, sweet. + </p> + <p> + "Very well, then; catch me!" I heard a swish of skirts against the shrubs, + the sound of flight, an astonished gasp from Vaness, and the heavy <i>thud, + thud</i> of his feet following on the path through the azalea maze. I + hoped fervently that they would not suddenly come running past and see me + sitting there. My straining ears caught another laugh far off, a panting + sound, a muttered oath, a far-away "<i>Cooee!</i>" And then, staggering, + winded, pale with heat and vexation, Vaness appeared, caught sight of me, + and stood a moment. Sweat was running down his face, his hand was + clutching at his side, his stomach heaved—a hunter beaten and + undignified. He muttered, turned abruptly on his heel, and left me staring + at where his fastidious dandyism and all that it stood for had so abruptly + come undone. + </p> + <p> + I know not how he and Miss Monroy got home to Charleston; not in the same + car, I fancy. As for me, I travelled deep in thought, aware of having + witnessed something rather tragic, not looking forward to my next + encounter with Vaness. + </p> + <p> + He was not at dinner, but the girl was there, as radiant as ever, and + though I was glad she had not been caught, I was almost angry at the + signal triumph of her youth. She wore a black dress, with a red flower in + her hair, and another at her breast, and had never looked so vital and so + pretty. Instead of dallying with my cigar beside cool waters in the lounge + of the hotel, I strolled out afterward on the Battery, and sat down beside + the statue of a tutelary personage. A lovely evening; from some tree or + shrub close by emerged an adorable faint fragrance, and in the white + electric light the acacia foliage was patterned out against a thrilling, + blue sky. If there were no fireflies abroad, there should have been. A + night for hedonists, indeed! + </p> + <p> + And suddenly, in fancy, there came before me Vaness's well-dressed person, + panting, pale, perplexed; and beside him, by a freak of vision, stood the + old darky's father, bound to the live-oak, with the bullets whistling + past, and his face transfigured. There they stood alongside the creed of + pleasure, which depended for fulfilment on its waist measurement; and the + creed of love, devoted unto death! + </p> + <p> + "Aha!" I thought, "which of the two laughs <i>last</i>?" + </p> + <p> + And just then I saw Vaness himself beneath a lamp, cigar in mouth, and + cape flung back so that its silk lining shone. Pale and heavy, in the + cruel white light, his face had a bitter look. And I was sorry—very + sorry, at that moment for Rupert K. Vaness. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BAT AND BELFRY INN — By ALAN GRAHAM + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Story-Teller</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + It was the maddest and most picturesque hotel at which we have ever + stopped. Tony and I were touring North Wales. We had left Llandudno that + morning in the twoseater, lunched at Festiniog, and late in the afternoon + were trundling down a charming valley with the reluctant assistance of a + road whose surface, if it ever had possessed such an asset, had long since + vanished. On rounding one of the innumerable hairpin bends on our road, + there burst upon us the most gorgeous miniature scene that we had ever + encountered. I stopped the car almost automatically. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, George, what a charming hotel!" exclaimed Tony. "Let's stop and have + tea." + </p> + <p> + Tony, I should mention, is my wife. She is intensely practical. + </p> + <p> + I had not noticed the hotel, for before us the valley opened out into a + perfect stage setting. From the road the land fell sharply a hundred feet + to a rocky mountain stream, the rustle of whose water came up to us + faintly like the music heard in a sea-shell. Beyond rose hills—hill + upon hill lit patchily by the sun, so that their contours were a mingling + of brilliant purple heather, red-brown bracken, and indigo shadow. Far + down the valley the stream glinted, mirror-like, through a veil of trees. + </p> + <p> + And Tony spoke of tea! + </p> + <p> + I dragged my eyes from the magnet of the view and found that I had stopped + the car within a few yards of a little hotel that must have been planted + there originally by someone with a soul. It lay by the open roadside five + miles from anywhere. It was built of the rough grey-green stone of the + district, but it was rescued from the commonplace by its leaded windows, + the big old beams that angled across its white plastered gables, and by + the clematis and late tea roses that clung about its porch. + </p> + <p> + I could hardly blame Tony for her materialism. The hotel blended admirably + with its surroundings. There was nothing about it of the + beerhouse-on-the-mountain-top so dear to the German mind. It looked quiet, + refined and restful, and one felt instinctively that it would be managed + in a fashion in keeping with all about it. + </p> + <p> + "By Jove, Tony!" I said, as I drew up to the clematis-covered porch, "we + might do worse than stop here for a day or two." + </p> + <p> + "We'll have tea anyhow, and see what we think of it." I clattered over the + red-tiled floor, and when my eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light + that contrasted so well with the sunshine without, found myself in a small + sunshiny room, with a low ceiling, oak-rafted, some comfortable chairs, an + old eight-day clock stopped at ten-thirty-five, and a man. + </p> + <p> + He was a long thin man, clean-shaven, wearing an old shooting coat and a + pair of shabby grey flannel trousers. He smoked a pipe and read in a book. + At my entrance he did not look up, and I set him down as a guest in the + hotel. + </p> + <p> + One side of the room was built of obscured glass panes, with an open + square in the middle and a ledge upon which rested several suggestive + empty glasses, so I crossed to this hospitable-looking gap, and tapped + upon the ledge. Several repetitions bringing no response, I turned to the + only living creature who appeared to be available. + </p> + <p> + "Can you tell me, sir, if we can have tea in the hotel," I asked. + </p> + <p> + The long man started, looked up, closed his book, and jumped to his feet + as if galvanized to life. + </p> + <p> + "Of course, of course, of course," he cried hastily, and added, as by an + afterthought, "of course." + </p> + <p> + I may have shown a natural surprise at this almost choral response, for he + pulled himself together and became something more explicit. + </p> + <p> + "I'll see to it at once," he said hurriedly. "I'm—I'm the + proprietor, you know. You won't mind if we're—if we're a little + upset. You see, I—I've just moved in. Left me by an uncle, you know, + an uncle in Australia. I'll see to it at once. Anything you would like—specially + fancy? Bread and butter now, or cake perhaps? Will you take a seat—two + seats." (Tony had followed me in). "And look at yesterday's paper. Oh yes, + you can have tea—of course, of course, of course. Of——" + </p> + <p> + His words petered out, as he clattered off down a like-flagged passage. I + looked at Tony and raised my eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + "Seems a trifle mad," I said. + </p> + <p> + "How delightfully cool," said she, looking round the old-fashioned room + appraisingly, "and so clean! I think we'll stop." + </p> + <p> + "Let's have tea before we decide," I suggested. "The proprietor is + distinctly eccentric, to say the least of it." + </p> + <p> + "He looked quite a superior man. I thought," said Tony. "Not the least + like a Welshman." + </p> + <p> + Tony herself comes from far north of the Tweed. + </p> + <p> + The hotel was small, and the kitchen, apparently, not far away, for we + could not avoid hearing sounds of what appeared to be a heated argument + coming from the direction in which mine host had vanished. We were used to + heated arguments in the hotels at which we had put up, but they had + invariably taken place in Welsh, whereas this one was undoubtedly in + English. Snatches of it reached our ears. + </p> + <p> + "... haven't the pluck of a rabbit, Bill." + </p> + <p> + "... all very well, but——" + </p> + <p> + "I'm not afraid, I'll——" + </p> + <p> + Then our host returned. + </p> + <p> + "It's coming, it's coming, it's coming," he said, his hands thrust deep in + his trousers pockets, jingling loose change in a manner that suggested + agitation. + </p> + <p> + He stood looking down at us as though we were something he didn't quite + know what to do with, and then an idea seemed to strike him, and be + vanished for a moment to reappear almost immediately in the square gap of + the bar window. + </p> + <p> + "Have a drink while you're waiting?" he asked, much more naturally. + </p> + <p> + I looked at my watch. It was half-past four. Very free-and-easy with the + licensing laws, I thought. + </p> + <p> + "I thought six o'clock was opening time?" I said. + </p> + <p> + The thin man was overcome with confusion. His face flushed red, he shut + the window down with a bang, and a moment after came round to us again. + </p> + <p> + "Awfully sorry," he stammered apologetically. "Might get the house a bad + name. Deuced inconsiderate of—of my uncle not to leave me a book of + the rules. Very bad break, that—what?" + </p> + <p> + Evidently Tony was not so much impressed by the eccentricities of our host + as was I. She approved of the hotel and its situation, and had made up her + mind to stop. I could tell it by her face as she addressed the proprietor. + </p> + <p> + "Have you accommodation if we should make up our minds to stay here for a + few days?" she asked. + </p> + <p> + "Stay here? You want to stay?" he repeated, consternation written large + all over his face. "Good G—— I mean certainly, of course, of + course." + </p> + <p> + He bolted down the passage like a rabbit, and we heard hoarse whispering + from the direction in which he had gone. + </p> + <p> + "Dotty?" I suggested. + </p> + <p> + "Not a bit of it," retorted Tony. "Nervous because he is new to his job, + but very anxious to be obliging. We shall do splendidly here." + </p> + <p> + I shrugged my shoulders and said no more, because I know Tony. I have been + married to her for years and years. + </p> + <p> + Light steps upon the tiles heralded something new—different, but + equally surprising. + </p> + <p> + "Tea is served, madam, if you will step this way." + </p> + <p> + She was the apotheosis of all waitresses. Her frock was black, but it was + of silk and finely cut. Her apron, of coarse white cotton, was grotesque + against it. She had neat little feet encased in high-heeled shoes, and her + stockings were of silk. Her common cap that she wore sat coquettishly on + her dark curls, and her face was charming, though petrified in that + unnatural expression of distance which, as a rule, only the very best + menials can attain. + </p> + <p> + There were no other guests in the coffee-room, and this marvel of maids + devoted the whole of her attention to us, standing over us like a column + of ice which thawed only to attend upon our wants. There was no getting + past her veil of reticence. Tony tried her with questions, but "Yes, + madam," "No, madam," and "Certainly, madam," appeared the sum of her + vocabulary. Yet when we sent her to the kitchen for more hot water, we + were conscious of a whispering and giggling which assured us that off the + stage she could thaw. + </p> + <p> + "We must stay a day or two," said Tony. "I'm dying to paidle in that + burn." + </p> + <p> + "My dear, how often have you promised me that you would never subject me + to Scotch after we were married!" I protested. + </p> + <p> + "When I see a burn I e'en must juist paidle in it," retorted Tony, + deliberately forswearing herself. "So we'll book that room." + </p> + <p> + At that moment the celestial waitress returned with the hot water, and + Tony made known her determination. I drive the car, but Tony supplies the + driving-power. + </p> + <p> + "Certainly, madam. I shall speak to Mr. Gunthorpe." Quickly she returned. + </p> + <p> + "Number ten is vacant. The boots and chambermaid are both away at a + sheep-trial, but we expect them back any moment. I shall show you the + room, madam, and if you will leave the car, sir, until the boots returns——" + </p> + <p> + "That will be all right. No hurry, no hurry." + </p> + <p> + While we were examining our bedroom and finding it all that could be + desired, I heard a car draw up before the hotel, and the sound of voices + in conversation. A few minutes later, on going downstairs, I made the + acquaintance of the boots. He was obviously awaiting me by my car, and + touched his forelock in a manner rarely seen off the stage. He wore khaki + cord breeches with leather leggings, a striped shirt open at the neck, and + chewed a straw desperately. In no other respect did he resemble the boots + of an out-of-the-way hotel. + </p> + <p> + "Garage round this way, sir," he said, guiding me to my destination, + which, I found, already contained a two-seater of the same make as my own. + </p> + <p> + "Ripping little car, eh?" said the boots, chewing vigorously at his straw + as he stood, his hands deep in what are graphically known as "go-to-hell" + pockets and his legs well straddled. "Hop over anything, what? Topping + weather we're having—been like this for weeks. If you don't mind, + old chap, you might wiggle her over this way a bit. Something else might + blow in, eh?" + </p> + <p> + I looked at this latest manifestation with undisguised astonishment, but + he was imperturbable, and merely chewed his straw with renewed energy. + </p> + <p> + "That's the stuff, old lad," he said, as I laid the car in position. "What + now? Shall I give you a hand up with the trunk, or will you hump it + yourself? Don't mind me a bit. I'm ready for anything." + </p> + <p> + He looked genial, but I found him familiar, so with a curt: + </p> + <p> + "Take it to number ten," I strode off to overtake Tony, whom I saw + half-way down a rough path that led to her beloved "burn." + </p> + <p> + "I've seen the chambermaid," she said, when I overtook her. "Such a pretty + girl, but very shy and unsophisticated. Quite a girl, but wears a + wedding-ring." + </p> + <p> + I watched Tony "paidling" for some time, but as the amusement consisted + mainly of getting her under-apparel wet, I grew tired of it, and climbed + back to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + The bar-window was open once more in the little lounge, and Mr. Gunthorpe + was behind, his arms resting upon the ledge. + </p> + <p> + "Have a drink?" he said, as I entered. "It's all right now. The balloon's + gone up." + </p> + <p> + I looked at my watch. It was after six o'clock. + </p> + <p> + "I'll have a small Scotch and soda," I decided. + </p> + <p> + "This is on the house," said the eccentric landlord. + </p> + <p> + He produced two glasses and filled them, and I noticed that he took money + from his pocket and placed it in the till. + </p> + <p> + "Well, success to the new management!" I said, raising my glass to his. + </p> + <p> + "Cheerio, and thank you," said he, smiling genially upon me. + </p> + <p> + He seemed to me more self-possessed and less eccentric than he had + appeared upon our arrival. I determined to draw him out. + </p> + <p> + "It's funny that an Australian should have owned an hotel away up in the + Welsh hills," I hazarded. "Did he die recently?" + </p> + <p> + "Australia? You must have misunderstood me," said Mr. Gunthorpe with a + hunted look in his eyes. "Very likely—very likely I said Ostend." + </p> + <p> + "Ostend? Well, possibly I did," I agreed, feeling certain that I had made + no mistake. "Had he a hotel there as well?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes. Of course, of course, of course," agreed the landlord, largely + redundant. + </p> + <p> + "And are you running that as well?" + </p> + <p> + "Heaven forbid!" he exclaimed, with a shudder. "You see ... this—this + is just a small legacy. It'll be all right by and by. All right, all + right. Let's have another drink." + </p> + <p> + "With me," I insisted. + </p> + <p> + "Not at all, not at all. On the house. All for the good of the house. Come + along, Bob, have a drink!" + </p> + <p> + It was the boots who had now entered, and he strolled up to the bar with + all the self-possession of a welcome guest. + </p> + <p> + "Just a spot of Scotch, old thing!" he said brightly. "It's a hard life. + Shaking down good and comfy, laddie?"—this last to me. "Ask for + anything you fancy. It doesn't follow you'll get it, but if we have it, + it's yours. Tinkle, tinkle; crash, crash!" With this unusual toast he + raised his glass and drained it. + </p> + <p> + "Have another," he said. "Three Scotches, Boniface." + </p> + <p> + I protested. This was too hot and fast for me altogether. Besides, I did + not fancy being indebted to this somewhat overwhelming boots. My protest + was of no avail. The glasses were filled while yet the words were upon my + lips. I thought of Tony, and trembled. Common decency would force me to + stand still another round before I could cry a halt. + </p> + <p> + "All well in the buttery?" asked the boots, in a confidential tone of the + landlord. + </p> + <p> + "The banquet is in preparation," replied the latter. "Everything is in + train." + </p> + <p> + "Heaven grant that it comes out of train reasonably, laddie," said boots + fervently. "But you know Molly. I wouldn't trust an ostrich to her + cooking. Here's hoping for the best." + </p> + <p> + He drained his glass again, and this time I managed to get a show. "Three + more whiskies, please landlord," and Tony in clear view cut up into nice + squares by the little leaded panes. I got mine absorbed just in time, and + was on the doorstep to meet her, draggle-skirted and untidy, but + enthusiastic about her "burn." She broke her vows three times on the way + up to number ten, and excused her lapses on the ground that the "burn" was + the perfect image of one near a place she called "Pairth." + </p> + <p> + When she rang for hot water to wash away the traces of her ablutions in + the burn, I had my first view of the chambermaid. I found her even more + ravishing than the waitress downstairs, and with the additional advantage + that she was not stand-offish—indeed, she was a giggler. She giggled + at my slightest word, and Tony altered her first impression and dubbed her + a forward hussy. Personally, I liked the girl, though she broke all + precedent by attending upon us in a silk blouse and a tailor-made tweed + skirt. + </p> + <p> + When I wandered downstairs before dinner I came upon her again, this time + unmistakably in the arms of the ubiquitous boots. I had walked innocently + into a small sitting-room where a lamp already shone, and I came upon the + romantic picture unexpectedly. With a murmured word of inarticulate + apology I made to retire. + </p> + <p> + "It's all right, old fruit, don't hurry away," said boots affably. + "Awfully sorry, and all that. Quite forgot it was a public room, don't you + know." + </p> + <p> + The chambermaid giggled once more and bolted, straightening her cap as she + went. + </p> + <p> + "You don't mind, do you?" continued boots, making a clumsy show of + trimming the lamp. "Warm is the greeting when seas have rolled between us. + Perhaps not quite that, but you see the idea, eh?" + </p> + <p> + He would doubtless have said more, being evidently of a cheery nature, had + not the waitress of the afternoon appeared in the doorway, her face as + frozen as a mask of ice. + </p> + <p> + "Bob—kennel!" she said sharply, and held the door wide. + </p> + <p> + The cheeriness vanished and the boots followed it through the open + doorway. + </p> + <p> + "I trust you will excuse him, sir," said the waitress deferentially. "He + is just a little deranged, but quite harmless. We employ him out of + charity, sir." + </p> + <p> + I may have been mistaken, but a sound uncommonly like the chambermaid's + giggle came to me from the passage without. + </p> + <p> + The sound of a car stopping outside the hotel drew me to the window as the + waitress left me, and I was in time to see an old gentleman with a long + white beard step from the interior of a Daimler landaulette, the door of + which was held open by a dignified chauffeur, whose attire seemed to + consist mainly of brass buttons. + </p> + <p> + A consultation evidently took place in the smoking-room or bar between + this patriarch and the proprietor, and then I heard agitated voices in the + passage without. + </p> + <p> + "It's a blinking invasion," said Mr. Gunthorpe. "I tell you we can't do + it. Good heavens, they threaten to stop a month if they are comfortable." + </p> + <p> + "Don't worry then, old bean. They won't stop long." This in the voice of + boots. + </p> + <p> + "And they want special diet. Old girl can't eat meat. Suffers from a + duodenal ulcer. I tell you, we got quick intimate! We can't do it, Molly." + </p> + <p> + "Fathead, of course we can. I'll concoct her something the like of which + her what-you-may-call-it has never before tackled. Run along, Bill, and be + affable." + </p> + <p> + "Shall I stand them a drink?"—Mr. Gunthorpe again. + </p> + <p> + "Do, old bean. I'll come and have one, too," said boots. + </p> + <p> + "You won't, Bob. You'll see to the chauffeur and the car, <i>and</i> the + luggage." + </p> + <p> + "Hang the luggage! I'll stand the chauffeur a drink." + </p> + <p> + Then the female voice spoke warningly. + </p> + <p> + "You've had enough drinks already, both of you," it said. "You ought to + bear in mind that you're not running the hotel just for your two selves." + </p> + <p> + "It's all right, old girl. There's plenty for everybody. Cellar's full of + it." + </p> + <p> + The voices died away, and I strolled out into the bar once more. Mr. + Gunthorpe was being affable, according to instructions, to the old + gentleman, while an old lady in a bonnet looked on piercingly. + </p> + <p> + "Quite all right about the diet," the landlord was saying as I entered. + "We make a specialty of special diets. In fact, our ordinary diet is a + special diet. Certainly, of course. We've got mulligatawny soup, sardines, + roast beef, trifle and gorgonzola cheese. Perhaps you'll have a drink + while you wait?" + </p> + <p> + "Certainly not, sir," replied the old gentleman testily. "You seem to be + unable to comprehend. My wife has a duodenal ulcer, sir. Had it for + fourteen years in September, and you talk to me of mulligatawny soup." + </p> + <p> + "I quite understand, of course, of course," replied Mr. Gunthorpe + urbanely. "Everything of a—an irritating character will be left out + of the—" + </p> + <p> + "Then it won't be mulligatawny soup, you fool!" exploded the old lady, + whose pressure I had seen rising for some time. + </p> + <p> + "Certainly not, madam. Of course, indubitably. We'll call it beef-tea, and + it will never know." + </p> + <p> + "What will never know?" asked the old gentleman, with an air of + puzzlement. + </p> + <p> + "Madam's duodenal ulcer, sir," replied the landlord, with a deferential + bow, dedicated, doubtless, to that organ. + </p> + <p> + Each separate hair in the old gentleman's beard began to curl and coil + with the electricity of exasperation, and at every moment I expected to + see sparks fly out from it. The old lady folded her hands across her + treasure, and looked daggers at the landlord. + </p> + <p> + "How far is it to the nearest hotel, John?" she demanded acidly. + </p> + <p> + "Too far to go to-night, Mary. I'm afraid we must put up with this—this + sanatorium," replied her husband. + </p> + <p> + As a diversion I demanded an appetizer—a gin and bitters. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gunthorpe's face lit up and he bolted behind the bar. + </p> + <p> + "Certainly, of course. Have it with me!" he exclaimed eagerly, his eyes + full of gratitude for the diversion. + </p> + <p> + I had the greatest difficulty in paying for our two drinks, for of course + Mr. Gunthorpe would not let me drink alone, and I was equally insistent + that the house had done enough for me. + </p> + <p> + "Then we must have another," he declared, as the only way out of the + difficulty. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately for me, Tony appeared on the scene, clothed and in her right + mind, speaking once more the English language, and I contrived to avoid + further stimulation. Mr. Gunthorpe looked at me reproachfully as I moved + off with my wife. I could see that he dreaded further interrogation on the + subject of diets. + </p> + <p> + Nothing further of moment occurred before dinner. Tony and I went out and + admired the wonderful view in the dim half-light, and just as the midges + got the better of us—even my foul old pipe did not give us the + victory—the gong sounded for dinner and covered our retreat. + </p> + <p> + It was the maddest dinner in which I have ever participated. Three tables + were laid in the little coffee-room, and, as Tony and I were the first to + put in an appearance, I had the curiosity to look at the bill of fare at + the first table I came to. + </p> + <p> + "This way, sir, if you please," said the chilling voice of our exemplary + waitress. + </p> + <p> + Already I had deciphered "beef-tea" and "steamed sole" on the card, and + concluded that the table was reserved for the duodenal ulcer. At the table + to which we were conducted I found "mulligatawny soup" figuring on the + menu, and I wondered. + </p> + <p> + The old lady and gentleman were ushered to their seats by the boots, now + smartly dressed in striped trousers and black coat and waistcoat. I say + "smartly," because the clothes were of good material, and the wearer + looked easily the best-clad man in the hotel. + </p> + <p> + The two places laid at the third table were taken by a boy and girl of + such youthful appearance that both Tony and I were astonished to find them + living alone in an hotel. The boy might have been fifteen and the girl + twelve at the most; but that they were overwhelmingly at home in their + surroundings was quickly manifest, as was the fact that they were brother + and sister. This latter fact was evidenced by the manner in which the boy + bullied the girl, and contradicted her at every opportunity. + </p> + <p> + There was something of a strained wait when all of us had taken our + places. I saw the old gentleman, eye-glasses on the tip of his nose, + studying the bill of fare intently. Then he turned to his wife. + </p> + <p> + "Minced chicken and rice—peptonized," he said suspiciously. "Did you + ever hear of such a dish, Mary?" + </p> + <p> + "Never. But nothing would surprise me in this place," replied his wife, + looking round the room with a censorious eye that even included the + innocent Tony and myself. + </p> + <p> + The two children chuckled. They wore an air of expectancy such as I have + noticed in my nephews and nieces when I have been inveigled into taking + them to Maskelyne's show. They seemed on very intimate terms with the + waitress, and the mere sight of the boots sent them into fits of + suppressed chuckling. He, standing by the sideboard, napkin over arm, + added to their hilarity by winking violently at regular intervals. + Catching my eye upon him, he crossed to our table. + </p> + <p> + "Everything all right, eh?" he said, glancing over the lay-out of our + table. + </p> + <p> + "Everything—except that so far we have had no food," I replied. + </p> + <p> + "It's the soup," he said, leaning confidentially to my ear. "The cat fell + into it, and they're combing it out of her fur. Have a drink while you + wait? No! All right, old thing. I dare say you know best when you've had + enough. Shut up, you kids! Don't you see you're irritating the old boy." + </p> + <p> + This in a hoarse aside to the children at the next table. It made them + giggle the more. + </p> + <p> + "Surely they are very young to be stopping here alone!" said Tony, with a + touch of her national inquisitiveness. + </p> + <p> + "Very sad case, madam," replied the boots. "We found them here when we + came. You know—wrapped in a blanket on the doorstep. Not quite, + perhaps, but you see the idea. Sort of wards of the hotel." + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by the entrance of the waitress with soup. She gave him + a frozen glance and a jerk of the head, and he vanished to the kitchen, to + return with more soup, and at last we got a start on our meal. The soup + was good notwithstanding the story of the cat. It really was mulligatawny. + There was no doubt about that. + </p> + <p> + The old couple were not so well satisfied. They sipped a little, had a + whispered consultation, and beckoned the boots. + </p> + <p> + "Waiter, why do you call this beef-tea?" demanded the old gentleman. + </p> + <p> + "You can't have me there, my lad," retorted boots cheerily. "From the + Latin beef, beef and tea, tea—beef-tea. Take a spoonful of tea and a + lump of beef, shake well together, simmer gently till ready, and serve + with a ham-frill." + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman's face showed deep purple against his white whiskers, + and the waitress left our table hurriedly, hustled the boots from the + room, and crossed to the old couple. I could not hear all she said, but I + understood that the boots was liable to slight delusions, but quite + harmless. The beef-tea was the best that could be prepared on such short + notice, and so on. + </p> + <p> + It was the main course of the meal that brought the climax. It was roast + beef and Yorkshire pudding, excellently cooked, and, so far as we were + concerned, efficiently served. The irrepressible boots had, however, by + this time drifted back to duty. I saw him bear plates to the old people's + table containing a pale mess which I rightly concluded was the "minced + chicken and rice—peptonized," already referred to by the old + gentleman. The couple eyed it suspiciously while their attendant hovered + near, apparently awaiting the congratulations which were bound to follow + the consumption of the dish. + </p> + <p> + "John, it's beef!" screamed the old lady, starting to her feet and + spluttering. + </p> + <p> + "Damme, so it is!" confirmed her husband, after a bare mouthful. "Hi, you—scoundrel, + poisoner, assassin—send the manager here at once." + </p> + <p> + He waved his napkin in fury, and boots cocked an eye at him curiously. + </p> + <p> + "Won't you have another try?" he urged. "Be sporty about it. Hang it, it + looks like chopped chicken, and it is chopped. I chopped it myself. Have + another try. You'll believe it in time if you persevere. It's the first + step that counts, you know. I used to be able to say that in French, but—" + </p> + <p> + He only got so far because the old gentleman had been inarticulate with + rage. + </p> + <p> + "Fetch the manager, and don't dare utter another word, confound you!" he + shouted. + </p> + <p> + A few moments later our friend Mr. Gunthorpe entered. His eyes were + bright, and a satisfied smile rested on his lips. + </p> + <p> + "Good evening, sir," he began affably. "I believe you sent for me. I hope + everything is to your taste?" + </p> + <p> + "Everything is nothing of the sort, sir!" retorted the old gentleman. "You + have attempted a gross fraud upon us, sir. I find on the menu, chicken, + and it is nothing more nor less than chopped beef. And 'peptonized'—peptonized + be hanged, sir! It's no more peptonized than my hat!" + </p> + <p> + "Well, sir, as for your hat I can say nothing, but—" + </p> + <p> + "None of your insolence, sir. I insist on having this—filth taken + away and something suitable put before us. My wife has possessed a + duodenal ulcer for fourteen years come September, and—" + </p> + <p> + "Be hanged to your duodenal ulcer! As this isn't its birthday, why should + it have a blinking banquet. Let it take pot-luck with the rest of us." + </p> + <p> + A sudden burst of uncontrollable laughter made me turn sharply, to find + that the reserve had fallen from our chilly waitress, who was vainly + endeavouring to smother her laughter in her professional napkin. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, Bill!" she cried, "you've done it now. The game's up." + </p> + <p> + The old lady and gentleman arose in outraged dignity and started to leave + the room, when a diversion was caused by the entrance of a pleasant-faced + lady in hat and cloak. I had been semi-conscious for some moments of a + motor-engine running at the hotel door. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, Mr. Gunthorpe, what luck!" cried the newcomer. "I've collected a full + staff, and brought them all up from Dolgelly with me, look you." + </p> + <p> + "Thank heaven!" exclaimed the proprietor. "As soon as your barmaid is on + her job we'll drink all their healths. I hope you won't be annoyed, Miss + Jones, but I fear, I very greatly fear, you will lose a couple of likely + customers at dawn or soon after. Here they are. Perhaps you can still + pacify them. I can't." + </p> + <p> + Miss Jones turned to the old couple, who were waiting for the doorway to + clear, with a disarming and conciliatory smile. + </p> + <p> + "I hope you will make allowances," she said, with a musical Welsh + intonation. "I am the manageress, and everything is at sixes and sevens, + look you. This morning I had trouble with the staff, and just to annoy me + they all cleared off together. I had to leave the hotel to see what I + could find in Dolgelly. Mr. Gunthorpe and the other guests in the hotel + very kindly offered to see to things while I was away, and I'm sure they + have done their best, indeed." + </p> + <p> + "Done their best to poison us, certainly," growled the old gentleman. "My + wife has a duo—" + </p> + <p> + "That's all right, old chap," interrupted Mr. Gunthorpe. "Miss Jones is an + expert in those things. She'll feed it the proper tack, believe me. Give + her a chance, and don't blame her for our shortcomings." + </p> + <p> + By this time the whole mock staff had taken the stage—waitress, + boots, chambermaid, and a pleasant-faced lady of matronly appearance who, + I learnt, was Mrs. Gunthorpe and the mother of the two children of whom we + had been told such a harrowing history. + </p> + <p> + "And just think, dear," said Tony, smiling at me across the table. "The + boots and the chambermaid are on their honeymoon. He is a journalist." + </p> + <p> + "How do you know all this?" I demanded suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + "I wormed the whole thing out of the chambermaid at the very beginning," + said Tony. "I didn't tell you because I thought it would be more fun." + </p> + <p> + Miss Jones succeeded in pacifying the old couple somehow—mainly, I + think, by promises of a new régime—and we left them in the + coffee-room looking almost cheerful. + </p> + <p> + Tony and I went out to talk in the moonlight, while I smoked an + after-dinner cigar. We were gone for some time, and on our return decided + to go straight upstairs to bed. I noticed that lights still burned in the + coffee-room, and heard the sound of voices from that direction. Thinking + that some late guests had arrived during our absence, I had the curiosity + to glance round the door. The whole of our late staff sat round a table, + on which were arrayed much food and several gilt-topped bottles. + </p> + <p> + "Come along. Do join us!" cried Mr. Gunthorpe, sighting us at once. + </p> + <p> + "Come and celebrate the end of this bat in the belfry sort of management," + added boots, holding high a sparkling glass. + </p> + <p> + It ended in <i>Tony</i> and I being dragged into the celebration, and <i>that</i> + ended in quite a late sitting. + </p> + <p> + Tony and I lingered on for over a week at the Bat and Belfry Inn, as we + all called it, and so, strange to say, did the duodenal couple, whom, + indeed, we left there, special-dieting to their hearts' content. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LIE — By HOLLOWAY HORN + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Blue Magazine</i> and <i>Harper's Bazar</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + The hours had passed with the miraculous rapidity which tinctures time + when one is on the river, and now overhead the moon was a gorgeous yellow + lantern in a greyish purple sky. + </p> + <p> + The punt was moored at the lower end of Glover's Island on the Middlesex + side, and rose and fell gently on the ebbing tide. + </p> + <p> + A girl was lying back amidst the cushions, her hands behind her head, + looking up through the vague tracery of leaves to the soft moonlight. Even + in the garish day she was pretty, but in that enchanting dimness she was + wildly beautiful. The hint of strength around her mouth was not quite so + evident perhaps. Her hair was the colour of oaten straw in autumn and her + deep blue eyes were dark in the gathering night. + </p> + <p> + But despite her beauty, the man's face was averted from her. He was gazing + out across the smoothly-flowing water, troubled and thoughtful. A + good-looking face, but not so strong as the girl's in spite of her + prettiness, and enormously less vital. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes before he had proposed to her and had been rejected. + </p> + <p> + It was not the first time, but he had been very much more hopeful than on + the other occasions. + </p> + <p> + The air was softly, embracingly warm that evening. Together they had + watched the lengthening shadows creep out across the old river. And it was + spring still, which makes a difference. There is something in the year's + youth—the sap is rising in the plants—something there is, + anyway, beyond the sentimentality of the poets. And overhead was the great + yellow lantern gleaming at them through the branches with ironic approval. + </p> + <p> + But, in spite of everything, she had shaken her head and all he received + was the maddening assurance that she "liked" him. + </p> + <p> + "I shall never marry," she had concluded. "Never. You know why." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, I know," the man said miserably. "Carruthers." + </p> + <p> + And so he was looking out moodily, almost savagely, across the water when + the temptation came to him. + </p> + <p> + He would not have minded quite so much if Carruthers had been alive, but + he was dead and slept in the now silent Salient where a little cross + marked his bed. Alive one could have striven against him, striven + desperately, although Carruthers had always been rather a proposition. But + now it seemed hopeless—a man cannot strive with a memory. It was not + fair—so the man's thoughts were running. He had shared Carruthers' + risks, although he had come back. This persistent and exclusive devotion + to a man who would never return to her was morbid. Suddenly, his mind was + made up. + </p> + <p> + "Olive," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," she replied quietly. + </p> + <p> + "What I am going to tell you I do for both our sakes. You will probably + think I'm a cad, but I'm taking the risk." He was sitting up but did not + meet her eyes. + </p> + <p> + "What on earth are you talking about?" she demanded. + </p> + <p> + "You know that—apart from you—Carruthers and I were pals?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," she said wondering. And suddenly she burst out petulantly. "What is + it you want to say?" + </p> + <p> + "He was no better than other men," he replied bluntly. "It is wrong that + you should sacrifice your life to a memory, wrong that you should worship + an idol with feet of clay." + </p> + <p> + "I loath parables," she said coldly. "Will you tell me exactly what you + mean about feet of clay?" The note in her voice was not lost on the man by + her side. + </p> + <p> + "I don't like telling you—under other conditions I wouldn't. But I + do it for both our sakes." + </p> + <p> + "Then, for goodness sake, do it!" + </p> + <p> + "I came across it accidentally at the Gordon Hotel at Brighton. He stayed + there, whilst he was engaged to you, with a lady whom he described as Mrs. + Carruthers. It was on his last leave." + </p> + <p> + "Why do you tell me this?" she asked after a silence; her voice was low + and a little husky. + </p> + <p> + "Surely, my dear, you must see. He was no better than other men. The ideal + you have conjured up is no ideal. He was a brave soldier, a darned brave + soldier, and—until we both fell in love with you—my pal. But + it is not fair that his memory should absorb you. It's—it's + unnatural." + </p> + <p> + "I suppose you think I should be indignant?" There was no emotion of any + kind in her voice. + </p> + <p> + "I simply want you to see that your idol has feet of clay," he said, with + the stubbornness of a man who feels he is losing. + </p> + <p> + "What has that to do with it? You know I loved him." + </p> + <p> + "Other girls have loved——" he said bitterly. + </p> + <p> + "And forgotten? Yes, I know," she interrupted him. "But I do not forget, + that is all." + </p> + <p> + "But after what I have told you. Surely——" + </p> + <p> + "You see I knew," she said, even more quietly than before. + </p> + <p> + "You—knew?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes. It was I who was with him. It was his last leave," she added + thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + And only the faint noise of the water and the wistful wind in the trees + overhead broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A GIRL IN IT — By ROWLAND KENNEY + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The New Age</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + I was just cooking a couple of two-eyed steaks when Black Mick walked in, + and, noting the look in his eyes and being for some reason in an expansive + mood, I offered him a sit down. After comparing notes on the various + possibilities of the district with regard to job-getting, we turned on to + a discussion of the relative moralities of begging and stealing. But in + this, I found, Mick was not vitally interested—both were too deeply + immoral for him to touch. For Mick was a worker. He liked work. Vagrancy + to him made no appeal. To "settle down" was his one definite desire. But + jobs refused to hold him, and the road gripped him in spite of himself. So + the problem presented itself to him in an abstract way only; to me there + was a real—but let that go. + </p> + <p> + Mick's respectability was uncanny. He could speculate on these things as + if they were matters affecting none of us there. In that fourpenny + doss-house he remained as aloof as a god, and in some vague way the + calmness of the man in face of this infringing realism for a time repelled + me. + </p> + <p> + We cleaned up my packet to the last shred and crumb, and I found a couple + of fag ends in my pocket. We smoked silently. Mick's manner gradually + affected me. We became somehow mentally detached from the place in which + we sat. We were in a corner of the room, at the end of the longest table, + and so incurious about the rest of the company that neither of us knew + whether there were two or twenty men there. For a while Mick was absorbed + in his smoke, and then I saw him slowly turn his head to the door. It was + a languid movement. His dark eyes were half veiled as he watched for the + entrance of someone who fumbled at the latch. Then, in an instant, as the + face of the newcomer thrust forward, Black Mick's whole personality seemed + to change. His eyelids lifted, showing great, glowing eyes staring from a + cold set face. His back squared, and the table, clamped to the floor, + creaked protestingly as his sprawled legs were drawn up and the knees + pressed against the under part. A second only he stared, then slung + himself full forward. + </p> + <p> + The newcomer was a live man, quicker than Mick. The recognition between + the two was apparently mutual; for as Mick vaulted the table the other + rushed forward, grabbed the poker from the grate, and got home on Mick's + head with it. Before I could get near enough to grip, the door again + banged and our visitor had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + "There was a girl in it," said Mick to me when we took the road together a + fortnight later, and that was as far as he got in explanation. It was + enough. I could read men a little. To Mick women—all women—were + sacred creatures. In the scheme of nature woman was good and man was evil. + Passion was a male attribute, an evil fire that scorched and burned and + rendered impotent the protesting innocence of hapless femininity.... + </p> + <p> + So we tramped. One public works after the other we made, always with the + same result—no chance of a take-on. Often we got a lift in food, + ale, or even cash from some gang where one of us was known, but that was + all. Everywhere the reply to our request for a job was the same: Full Up. + And then we made Liverpool. + </p> + <p> + My favourite kip in Liverpool was Bevington House in the Scotland Road + district, but on this occasion I had news that Twinetoes, an old mate of + mine, had taken in that night at a private doss-house, and the probability + was that he would not only give us a lift but would be able to tell us + pretty accurately what was the state of the labour market. + </p> + <p> + It was a rotten kip. Four men were squabbling over the frying pan when we + entered, and over against the far wall sat an old crone, crooning an Irish + song. The men were of the ordinary dock rat type, scraggily built, + unshaven, with cunning, shifty eyes. The woman had an old browned-green + kerchief round her head, and a ragged shawl drawn tightly round her + breasts. One side of her face had evidently been burned some time, and the + eye on that side ran continually. + </p> + <p> + "Got any money, dearie?" she said to Mick. + </p> + <p> + "No, mother," Mick replied, gently taking her hand. "Is there a fellow + here called Twinetoes?" + </p> + <p> + "No blurry use t'me if no money," and she went on with her damnable + singing, like a lost soul wailing for its natural hell. + </p> + <p> + The Boss came in from the kitchen. "Twinetoes? Damned funny moniker! Never + 'eerd it," he said. "But there's a bloke asleep upstairs as calls 'isself + Brum. Mebbe it's 'im." + </p> + <p> + It was. Twinetoes lay in his navvy clobber on a dirty bed, drunk, dead to + the world. We could not rouse him. + </p> + <p> + "What a kennel!" said Mick. "There's a smell about it I don't like." There + was a smell; not the common musty smell of cheap doss-houses, something + much worse than that.... + </p> + <p> + "You pay your fourpence and takes your choice," I said, with an intended + grandiloquent sweep of my hand towards the dozen derelict beds. We + selected two that lay in an alcove at the end of the room farthest from + the door, and turned in. In a few minutes we were both asleep. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly I awoke. A clock outside struck one. There was no sound in the + room but the now subdued snoring of Twinetoes. I was at once wide awake, + but I lay quite still, breathing as naturally as possible, keeping my eyes + more than half closed, for I felt some sinister presence in the room. A + new pollution affected the atmosphere. Bending over me was the old crone. + Downstairs she had seemed aimless, shapeless, almost helpless, an object + of disgusting pitifulness. Now, dark as it was, and unexpected as was the + visit, I could at once see that she was as active and alert as a monkey. + </p> + <p> + On going to bed I had put my boots under my pillow, and thrown my coat + over me, keeping the cuff of one sleeve in my hand. A practised claw + slipped under my head and deftly fingered the insides of my boots: Blank. + The coat pockets were next examined: Blank. Still I dog-slept. The + wrinkled lips were now working angrily, churning up two specks of foam + that shone white in the corners of the mouth. The running eye rained tears + of rage down her left cheek; and the other one glowed and dulled, a + winking red spark in the gloom, as she looked quickly up and down the bed. + Her left hand hung down by her side, the arm tense. Then, as she slipped + her right hand under the clothes in an effort to go over the rest of me, I + gave a half turn and a low sleep moan to warn her off. At once the left + hand shot up over my head, the lean fingers clutching a foot of lead pipe. + Again I tried to appear sound asleep. With eyes tight shut I lay still. I + dared not move. One glimpse of that tortured face had shown me that I + could hope for nothing; the utter folly of mercy or half measures was + fully understood. Yet, effort was impossible. I was simply and completely + afraid. + </p> + <p> + The lead pipe did not, however, meet my skull. Hearing a slight scuffle, I + peeped out to find that there were now two figures in the gloom. The Boss + had crept up, seized the hag's left arm, and was pointing to the door. She + held back, and in silent pantomime showed that Mick had not been gone over + yet. With her free hand she gathered her one skirt over her dirty, skinny + knees and danced with rage by the side of my bed. She looked like the + parody of some carrion creature seen in the nightmare of a starving man. + The most terrible thing about her was her amazing silence; the mad dance + of her stockinged feet on the bare boards made no sound. + </p> + <p> + The Boss loosened his hold on her wrist, but took away the lead pipe from + her, and she slipped over to Mick. Again those skinny claws went through + their evolutions with uncanny silence and effect, whilst I lay, every + muscle taut, ready to spring up if occasion required. My nerve had + returned, and now that the piece of lead pipe was in the hands of the less + fiendish partner of this strange concern, I was ready to wade in. But she + found nothing, and Mick slept on. We were too poor to rob; but this only + enraged her the more. Her fingers twisted themselves into the shawl at her + breast, and she silently but vehemently spat at Mick's head as she moved + away. + </p> + <p> + For half an hour I tried in vain to sleep, and then the Boss again + appeared. This time he bore a huge bulk of patched and soiled canvas, part + of an old sail, which he hung from the ceiling across the middle of the + room, thus shutting off Twinetoes, Mick and myself from that part where + was the door on to the stairs. He was not noisy, but he made no attempt to + keep the previous death stillness of the house. + </p> + <p> + As the Boss descended the stairs, a surprising thing happened—and + Mick awoke. Girlish laughter rippled up the stairs! "God Almighty," said + Mick, "what's that?" + </p> + <p> + Again it came, and with it the gurgling of the old woman. It was + impossible and incredible, that mingling in the fetid air of those two + sounds, as if the babble of clear spring water had suddenly broken into + and merged with the turgid roll of a city sewer. Mick sat up. "But this is + bloody!" he said. + </p> + <p> + "Wait," was all I replied. + </p> + <p> + We waited. Mick slipped out of bed, carefully opened his knife and made a + few judicious slits in the veiling canvas. My senses had become abnormally + acute. I seemed to hear every shade of sound within and without the house. + I could sense, I imagined, the very positions in which sat the persons in + the kitchen below. Even Twinetoes was affected by the tense atmosphere. He + murmured in his sleep and seemed somewhat sobered, for his limbs took more + natural positions on the bed. The darkness was no longer a bar to vision. + By now I could see quite clearly; and so, I believe, could Mick. + </p> + <p> + The old woman was mumbling to the girl. "'S aw ri', mi dear. 'Av' a drink + o' this. W'll fix y'up aw ri'." + </p> + <p> + She had again dropped into the low uncertain voice of aimless senility. + The girl remained silent. Glasses clinked. The Boss, I could hear, walked + up and down the kitchen, busy with some final work of the night. A + confused murmur came from another corner; but I could not distinguish the + words: The dock rats were apparently discussing something. + </p> + <p> + Again that ripple of sound ascended the stairs, but this time there was an + added note of apprehension. It broke very faintly but pitifully, before + dying away to the sound of light footsteps. Half a dozen stairs were + pressed, then came a stumble and a girlish "A-ah." She recovered herself + as the hateful voice from behind said, "Aw ri', m'dear," and older, surer + feet felt the stairs and pushed on behind the girl. Through the veiling + canvas and the old walls I seemed to see the pair ascending. A few seconds + more, and a slight farm rounded the jamb of the door. The girl's eyes + blinked in the walled twilight of the room. She hesitated on the + threshold, but only for a second. The touch of a following frame impelled + her forward. Her uncertain foot caught against a bed leg and a white hand + gripped the steadying rail. Long-nailed claws laced themselves in the + fingers of her other hand and the old woman half drew, half twisted her + into sitting down on the edge of the bed. They began to talk quietly. I + examined them more closely.... + </p> + <p> + The old crone still played the part of ancient childhood, mumbling words + of little import and obscenely fingering the girl's arms, head, and waist. + Some instinct led her to veil her eyes from the girl, for from those + differing orbs gleamed all the wickedness of her mangled and distorted + soul. Fountains rained from her left eye, whilst the right again held that + sinister glow. The girl was half drunk, and, I fancied, drugged. She + swayed slightly where she sat. + </p> + <p> + She wore a small hat of a dark velvety material; a white, loose blouse, + and what seemed a dark blue skirt. Round her neck hung an old-fashioned + link of coral beads. Her brow was low but broad, and her hair, brushed + back from the forehead, was bunched large behind, but not below, the head. + Her roving eyes, gradually overcoming the clinging gloom of the place, + were dark brown and unnaturally bright. Half open in an empty smile, her + lips disclosed white but somewhat irregular teeth. Seen plainly in such + surroundings, she was—to me—a pitiable and undesirable + creature. I did not like the looks of her now. The mental image formed on + the sound of her laughter was infinitely preferable to the sight of her. + She was, I fancied, some servant girl of a romantic nature. I was right. + "I don't care," she was saying, "I'll never go back. Trust me. Had enough. + Slavey for four bob a week. 'Taint good enough. They said if I couldn't be + in by arf past nine I'd find the door locked. And I did! They c'n keep it + locked." + </p> + <p> + "'S aw 'ri'. You go t'sleep 'ere wi' me. W'll put yo' t' ri's. Y'll 'av' a + luvly dress t'morro', an' a go' time. Wait t'l y'see the young man we'll + find y' t'morro'. Now go t'bed." Those twining fingers ceased toying with + the girl's hair and deftly slipped a protecting hook from an all-too-easy + eye in the back of the girl's blouse. + </p> + <p> + "Three years I've been a slavey for those stuck-up pigs," said the girl in + a subdued mutter, and then she went on to recount, quaintly and in a half + incoherent jumble, the salient facts of her life. I glanced at Mick. He + was leaning forward, peering through another slit. His face had its old + set look; stern, condemnatory. Twice I had had to reach out and grip his + wrist. He wanted to interfere; I was waiting—I knew not for what. + </p> + <p> + As the muttering proceeded, the busy fingers of the old woman loosened the + clothes of the indifferent girl, who soon stood swaying by the side of the + bed in her chemise. Deftly the dirty quilt was slipped back and the + girlish form rolled into the creaking bed. The muttering went on for a few + minutes whilst the old woman sat watching the flushed face and the tumbled + hair on the pillow. The girl's right arm was thrown carelessly abroad over + the quilt, the shoulder gleaming white in the deeper shadow thrown by the + old woman who sat with her back to us, looking down intently at this + waiting morsel of humanity. If we had not seen her before, we could have + imagined her to be praying. + </p> + <p> + Mick, for the first time since their entry into the room, suddenly looked + over at me. The same thoughts must have flashed through both our brains. + What was wrong? Was anything wrong? Surely the affair was quite simple; + and the canvas screen, violated by Mick's knife, had expressed the needed + attempt at decency. + </p> + <p> + The muttering died down and the room was hushed to strained silence—to + be broken soon by a furtive pad on the stairs. Mick and I were again + alert, staring through the canvas slits. The Boss now appeared, followed + by one of the dock rats. They glanced at the bed and then looked + enquiringly at the old woman. + </p> + <p> + "Ol' Soloman sh'd fork out a termer for this," she said in low but clear + tones. "But it's got to be a proper job." Then, to the Boss, and pointing + to the screen, indicating the position of our beds: "You lamming idiot! + Didn't I tell yo'? Yo' sh'd a took their bits an' outed 'm." + </p> + <p> + The dock rat was tip-toeing about the bed, like a starved rodent outside a + wire-screened piece of food. His glance shifted from that gleaming + shoulder hunched up over the slim neck to the heavy face of the Boss and + then to the old woman, returning quickly to the form on the bed. + </p> + <p> + "Oo's goin' t'do it?" asked the old crone of the Boss. "You or Bill?" and + she drew down the clothes, exposing the limp sprawled limbs of the + sleeping girl. The Boss did not reply. He simply took a half-stride back, + away from the bed. The dock rat's eyes gleamed: he had noted the movement. + He ceased his tip-toeing about and looked at the Boss. "What's my share?" + </p> + <p> + "Blimy! Your share?" returned the Boss in a hoarse whisper. Then, pointing + to the waiting, half-naked form: "That!" + </p> + <p> + In their contemplation of their victim they were so absorbed that they + apparently forgot entirely the three of us bedded on the other side of the + hanging sail. Mick and I were staggered. We looked at each other, + realising at the self-same instant the whole purpose of this curious + conference. By some subtle and secret processes of the mind again there + seemed to be a change in the atmosphere of the room. Its sordid dinginess + was no longer present to our consciousness. There was new life, heart, and + vigour and, in some curious way, our mentalities seemed merged together. + No longer puzzled, we were vibrant with a common purpose. I was angry and + disgusted; Mick was moved to the inmost sanctuary of his Celtic being. He + manifested the last degree of outrage and insult, of agonised anger. For + the moment we were cleansed of all the pettiness and grossness common to + manhood, inspired only with a new-born worship of the inviolable right of + the individual to the disposal of its own tokens of affection and life. + </p> + <p> + And this new spirit of ours pervaded the room. The girl moaned in her + drunken sleep. Twinetoes turned restlessly in bed, and the lines of his + face sharpened and deepened. Something was killing the poison in both. + Even the trio about the girl were momentarily moved by some new sensation. + </p> + <p> + Mick's accustomed recklessness of action was gone, he was cool and + prepared to be calculating. We slipped on our boots and I moved over to + Twinetoes' bed. I touched his arm. Mumbling curses he opened his eyes. + "It's Mac," I whispered, leaning over and looking steadyingly into his + face. + </p> + <p> + "Wot the 'ell...." he began, but I managed to silence him. Once accustomed + to the gloom, his eyes took in the strangeness of the situation and, + painfully swallowing the foul nausea of his drunk, he calmly and quietly + pulled on his boots. + </p> + <p> + The old woman had again covered up the still sleeping girl and engaged the + Boss in a wrangle about money. "You'll bloody well swing yet," said the + Boss irrelevantly. + </p> + <p> + "Mebbe; but that don't alter it. I wants my full share 'n I means to 'av' + it." + </p> + <p> + Dispassionately, the dock rat eyed them both and hoped for the best for + himself. We had ceased to exist for them. "Goin'?" asked the dock rat as + the others moved towards the stairs. They looked at him, but did not + reply. So far as we were aware, though we had forgotten the entire world + outside that room, there had been complete silence downstairs; but now we + could hear movement. The other dock rats were evidently awake and waiting. + As the foot of the Boss fell on the top stair, the spell seemed to fall + from Mick. He glared fixedly at the dock rat who stood by the girl's bed. + "I'll tear his guts out," said Mick with appalling certainty of tone. + </p> + <p> + The old woman heard it. The lead pipe again in her fist, like a cornered + rat she whipped round. Mick did not wait; full at the canvas he sprang. + His Irish impulsiveness overcame caution, and in a moment he was wrapped + in the hanging sail, the old woman battering the bellying folds. The dock + rat's head was knocking at the wall, Twinetoes cursing rhythmically and + shutting off his breath with fingers of steel. My left eye was half closed + and the Boss's knuckles were bleeding. The girl, awake and utterly + confounded, blinked foolishly and silently, weakly trying to fix her eyes + on some definite point in the tangled thread of palpitating life that + surged about her. + </p> + <p> + "Look out! Drop him!" I shouted to Twinetoes as I swung in, furious but + with some care, to the face of the Boss. Twinetoes did not heed; he + staggered across the room under a blow from one of the new arrivals; but + he did not loose his hold. He was a hefty man, entirely reliable, indeed + almost happy in such an affair. As number two dock rat tried to follow up + his blow, Twinetoes swung number one round in his way; then, changing his + hold, taking both the man's shoulders in his hands, he drew back his head + as a snake does and butted his man clean over one of the beds.... His face + a pitiful pulp, number one was definitely out of it. + </p> + <p> + Ordinarily, the Boss would have been much too much for me; but now fate + favoured me. He was considerably perturbed about the possible outcome of + the row and its effect on his business; I was intent only on the fight. + With a clean left-hand cut I drove him over, tore a quilt from a bed and + flung it over his dazed head, then swung round to where the lead pipe was + still flailing. I was concerned for Mick. Seizing the old woman's + shoulders I flung her back from Mick and the sail. He would have cleared + himself, but his legs were somehow mixed up with the foot of the bed, and + she occupied his attention too much. The hag raised the lead and rushed, + and for the only time in my life I hit a woman. Without hesitancy or + compunction, only revolted at the thought of such contact with such + matter, I smashed her down. The Boss and Mick freed themselves together + and embraced each other willingly. Twinetoes was playing skittles with the + remaining dock rats. There was surprisingly little noise. No one shouted. + There was no howling hounding on of each other. All but the girl were + absorbed in the immediate business of giving or warding off of blows. + </p> + <p> + "Dress, quick!" I said to the girl. + </p> + <p> + The fight had shifted to the centre, and her bed had remained unmoved, + herself unmolested. In wondering silence she obeyed. "Quicker! Quicker!" I + enjoined, with a new brutal note in my voice. The reaction had set in. I + could cheerfully have shoved her down the stairs and flung her garments + after her. + </p> + <p> + The kip was hidden away in a dark alley, the history and reputation of + which were shudderingly doubtful, but there were police within dangerous + hailing distance. The girl's lips began to quiver. Supposing she broke + down and raised the court by hysterical howling! "Don't breathe a sound, + or we'll leave you to it," I threatened. She shrank back, gave a low moan, + and clutched my coat. I tore her hand loose and turned away in time to + floor the Boss by an easy blow on his left ear. The fight was finished. + </p> + <p> + We wasted no time but descended the stairs and passed out through the + court into the street. There were signs of life in the gloomy court, + though no one spoke or molested us; the street was dead silent. Mick's + arms and shoulders were a mass of bruises from the lead pipe, but his face + was clear. Twinetoes was all right, he said, but craving for a wet. I + alone showed evidence of the struggle; my eye was unsightly and painful, + and my left wrist was slightly sprained. The girl sobbed quietly. "Oh! + Oh!" she cried repeatedly, "whatever's to become of me!" + </p> + <p> + She irritated me. "Shut up!" I said at last, "<i>You</i>'ll be all right." + She snuffled unceasingly. I looked across at Mick—she walked between + us, Twinetoes on my right—and at once I saw the outcome of it all. + "Stop it, blast you!" I shook her shoulder. "My pal is the best, biggest + fool that ever raised a fist. He's silly enough for anything decent," and + then, with the voice of conviction born of absolute certainty of mind: + "He'll never chuck you over. He'll marry you sometime, you fool!" + </p> + <p> + And he did. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BACKSTAIRS OF THE MIND — By ROSAMOND LANGBRIDGE + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Manchester Guardian</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + Patrick Deasey described himself as a "philosopher, psychologist, and + humorist." It was partly because Patrick delighted in long words, and + partly to excuse himself for being full of the sour cream of an inhuman + curiosity. His curiosity, however, did not extend itself to science and <i>belles + lettres</i>; it concerned itself wholly with the affairs of other people. + At first, when Deasey retired from the police force with a pension and an + heiress with three hundred pounds, and time hung heavy on his hands, he + would try to satisfy this craving through the medium of a host of small + flirtations with everybody's maid. In this way he could inform himself + exactly how many loaves were taken by the Sweeneys for a week's + consumption, as compared with those which were devoured by all the + Cassidys; for whom the bottles at the Presbytery went in by the back door; + and what was the real cause of the quarrel between the twin Miss + McInerneys. + </p> + <p> + But these were but blackbird-scratchings, as it were, upon the deep soil + of the human heart. What Deasey cared about was what he called "the + secrets of the soul." + </p> + <p> + "Never met a man," he was wont to say, "with no backstairs to his mind! + And the quieter, decenter, respectabler, innocenter a man looked—like + enough!—the darker those backstairs!" + </p> + <p> + It was up these stairs he craved to go. To ring at the front door of + ordinary intercourse was not enough for him. When Deasey invested his + wife's money in a public-house he developed a better plan. It was the plan + which made him ultimately describe himself as a humorist. He would wait + until the bar was deserted by all but the one lingering victim whom his + trained eye had picked out. Then, rolling that same eye about him, as + though to make quite sure no other living creature was in sight, he would + gently close the door of the bar-parlour, pick up a tumbler, breathe on + it, polish the breath, lean one elbow on the bar, look round him once + again, and, setting the whisky-bottle betwixt his customer and himself, + with a nod which said "Help yourself," he would lean forward, with the + soft indulgent grin of the human man-of-the-world, and begin: + </p> + <p> + "Now, don't distress yourself, me dear man, but as between frien's, + certain delicate little—facts—in your past life have come + inadvertently to me hearing." + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he would allude to a "certain document," or "incriminating + facts," or "certain letters"—he would ring the changes on these + three, according to the sex and temperament with which he had to deal. But + always, whatever the words, whatever the nature or sex, the shot would + tell. First came the little start, the straightened figure, the pallor or + flush, the shamed and suddenly-lit eyes, and then— + </p> + <p> + "Who told you, Mr. Deasey, sir?" Or "Where did you get the letter?" + </p> + <p> + "Ah, now, that would be telling!" Deasey would make reply. "But 'twas from + a <i>certain person</i> whom, perhaps, we need not name!" Then the + whiskey-bottle would move forward, like a pawn in chess, and the next + soothing words would be, "Help yourself now—don't be shy, me dear + man! And—your secret is safe with me!" + </p> + <p> + Forthwith the little skeleton in that man's cupboard would lean forward + and press upon the door, until at last the door flew open and a bone or + two, and sometimes the whole skeleton, would rattle out upon the floor. + </p> + <p> + He had played this game so often, that, almost at first sight he could + classify his dupes under the three heads into which he had divided them: + Those who demanded with violent threats—(which melted like snow + before the sunshine of John Jamieson) the letter, or the name of the + informant; those who asked, after a gentle sip or two how the letter had + come into his hands, and those who asked immediately if the letter hadn't + been destroyed. As a rule, from the type that demanded the letter back, he + only caught sight of the tip of the secret's ears. From those—they + were nearly always the women—who swiftly asked if he hadn't + destroyed the letters, he caught shame-faced gleams of the truth. + </p> + <p> + But those who asked between pensive sips, how the facts or the letter had + come his way, these were the ones who yielded Deasey the richest harvest + of rattling skeleton bones. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, it was curiously instructive how John Jamieson laid down a + causeway of gleaming stepping-stones, so that Deasey might cross lightly + over the turgid waters of his victims' souls. At the words, accompanied by + John Jamieson—"A certain dark page of your past history—help + yourself, me boy!—has been inadvertently revealed to me, but is for + ever sacred in me breast!"—it was strange to see how, from the + underworld of the man's mind, there would trip out the company of + misshapen hobgoblins and gnomes which had been locked away in darkness, + maybe, this many a year. + </p> + <p> + "Well—how would I get the time to clane the childer and to wash + their heads, and I working all the day at curing stinkin' hides! 'Twas + Herself should have got it, and Herself alone!"... + </p> + <p> + Or— + </p> + <p> + "No, I never done it, for all me own mother sworn I did. I only give the + man a little push—that way!—and he fell over on the side, and + busted all his veins!" + </p> + <p> + Or— + </p> + <p> + "Well, an' wouldn't you draw two pinsions yourself, Mr. Deasey, if you'd a + wife with two han's like a sieve for yellow gold!" + </p> + <p> + But there were some confessions, haltingly patchy and inadequate, but + hauntingly suggestive, which Deasey could neither piece out on the spot, + nor yet unravel in the small hours of the night. There was one of this + nature which troubled his rest long: + </p> + <p> + "Well, the way of it was, you see, he put it up the chimbley, but when the + chimbley-sweepers come he transferred it in his weskit to my place, and I + dropped it down the well. They found it when they let the bucket down, but + I wasn't his accomplice at all, 'twas only connivance with me!" + </p> + <p> + When he had spoken of the chimney and the well Deasey concluded at once it + was a foully murdered corpse. But then, again, you could not well conceal + a corpse in someone's waistcoat; and gold coins would melt or be mislaid + amongst the loose bricks of a sooty chimney. Deasey had craved for + corpses, but nothing so grim as that had risen to his whisky-bait until he + tried the same old game on Mrs. Geraghty. What subtle instinct was it that + had prompted him to add to the first unvarying words: "But all that is now + past and over, and safe beneath the mouldering clay!" + </p> + <p> + At these last words, the Widow Geraghty knew well, the barrier was down + that fences off one human soul from another; all the same, she shook her + trembling head when Deasey drew the cork. At her refusal Deasey was struck + with the most respectful compassion; until that hour he had never known + one single lacerated soul decline this consolation. + </p> + <p> + "And to look at me!" she wept forthwith, "would you think I could shed a + drop of ruddy gore?" + </p> + <p> + "No, ma'am," returned Deasey. "To look at you, ye'd think ma'am ye could + never kill a fly!" + </p> + <p> + And respectfully he passed the peppermints. + </p> + <p> + "Sometimes," the widow muttered, "I hears it, and it bawling in me dreams + o' night. And the two bright eyes of it, and the little clay cold feet!" + Deasey knew what was coming now, and he twitched in every vein. And she so + white-haired and so regular at church: and the black bonnet on the head of + her, an' all! "It was the only little one she had," went on the widow, + bowed almost to the bar by shame, "and it always perched up on her knee, + and taking food from her mouth, and she nursing it agin her face. But I + had bad teeth in me head, and I couldn't get my rest, with the jaws + aching, and all the whiles it screeching with the croup. 'Twould madden + you!" + </p> + <p> + "All the same," Deasey whispered, "maybe it wasn't your fault: 'twas maybe + your man egged you on to do the shameful deed——" + </p> + <p> + "It was so," said the widow. "'Let you get up and cut its throat,' says + he, 'and then we will be shut of the domned screechin' thing.'" "Then you + got the knife, ma'am," prompted Deasey. "It was the bread-knife," she + answered, "with the ugly notches in the blade,—and I stole in the + back way to her place in the dead hours of the night—and I had me + apron handy for to quench the cries; and when I c'ot it be the throat + didn't it look up at me with the two bright, innocent eyes!" + </p> + <p> + "And what'd you do with the body?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "I dug a grave in the shine of the moon," she answered. "And I put it in + by the two little cold grey feet——" + </p> + <p> + This touch of the grey feet laid a spell on Deasey's hankering morbidity. + </p> + <p> + "<i>What turned the feet grey</i>?" he whispered. + </p> + <p> + "Nature, I s'pose!" replied the white-haired widow. She drew her shawl + about her shrinking form before she turned away. + </p> + <p> + "'Twas never found out, from that hour to this, who done it!" muttered the + Widow Geraghty, "but, may the Divvle skelp me if I touch one drop of + chucken-tea again!" + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BIRTH OF A MASTERPIECE — By LUCAS MALET + </h2> + <h3> + (From The <i>Story-Teller</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + Looking back on it from this distance of time—it began in the early + and ended in the middle eighties—I see the charm of ingenuous youth + stamped on the episode, the touching glamour of limitless faith and + expectation. We were, the whole little band of us, so deliciously + self-sufficient, so magnificently critical of established reputations in + contemporary letters and art. We sniffed and snorted, noses in air, at + popular idols, while ourselves weighted down with a cargo of guileless + enthusiasm only asking opportunity to dump itself at an idol's feet. We + ached to burn incense before the altar of some divinity; but it must be a + divinity of our own discovering, our own choosing. We scorned to acclaim + ready-made, second-hand goods. Then we encountered Pogson—Heber + Pogson. Our fate, and even more, perhaps, his fate, was henceforth sealed. + </p> + <p> + He was a large, sleek, pink creature, slow and rare of movement, from much + sitting bulky, not to say squashy, in figure, mild-eyed, slyly jovial and—for + no other word, to my mind, so closely fits his attitude—resigned. A + positive glutton of books, he read as instinctively, almost as + unconsciously, as other men breathe. But he not only absorbed. He gave + forth and that copiously, with taste, with discrimination, now and again + with startlingly eloquent flights and witty sallies. His memory was + prodigious. The variety and vivacity of his conversation, the immense + range of subjects he brilliantly laboured, when in the vein, remain with + me as simply marvellous. With us he mostly was in the vein. And, vanity + apart, we must have composed a delightful audience, generously + censer-swinging. No man of even average feeling but would be moved by such + fresh, such spontaneous admiration! Thus, if our divinity melodiously + piped, we did very radiantly dance to his piping. + </p> + <p> + Oh! Heber Pogson enjoyed it. Never tell me he didn't revel in those highly + articulate evenings of monologue, gasconade, heated yet brotherly + argument, lasting on to midnight and after, every bit as much as we did! + Anyhow at first. Later he may have had twinges, been sensible of strain; + though never, I still believe, a very severe one. In any case, Nature + showed herself his friend—his saviour, if also, in some sort, his + executioner. When the strain tended to become distressing, for him + personally, very simply and cleverly, she found a way out. + </p> + <p> + A background of dark legend only brought the steady glow of his—and + our—present felicity into richer relief. We gathered hints of, + caught in passing smiling allusion to, straitened and impecunious early + years. He had endured a harsh enough apprenticeship to the profession of + letters in its least satisfactory, because most ephemeral, form—namely + journalism, and provincial journalism at that. This must have painfully + cribbed and confined his free-ranging spirit. We were filled by reverent + sympathy for the trials and deprivations of his past. But at the period + when the members—numbering a dozen, more or less—of our + devoted band trooped up from Chelsea and down from the Hampstead heights + to worship in the studio-library of the Church Street, Kensington, house, + Pogson was lapped in a material well-being altogether sufficient. He + treated us, his youthful friends and disciples, to very excellent food and + drink; partaking of these himself, moreover, with evident readiness and + relish. Those little "help-yourselves," stand-up suppers in the big, + quiet, comfortably warmed and shaded room revealed in him no ascetic + tendency, though, I hasten to add, no tendency to unbecoming excess. Such + hospitality testified to the soundness of Pogson's existing financial + position; as did his repeated assertions that now, at last—praise + heaven—he had leisure to do worthy and abiding work, work through + which he could freely express his personality, express in terms of art his + judgments upon, and appreciations of, the human scene. + </p> + <p> + We listened breathless, nodding exuberant approval. For weren't we + ourselves, each and all of us, mightily in love with art and with the + human scene? And hadn't we, listening thus breathlessly to our amazing + master, the enchanting assurance that we were on the track of a + masterpiece? Not impossibly a whole gallery of masterpieces, since Heber + Pogson had barely touched middle age as yet. For him there still was time. + Fiction, we gathered to be the selected medium. He not only meant to + write, but was actually now engaged in writing, a novel during those + withdrawn and sacred morning hours when we were denied admittance to his + presence. We previsaged something tremendous, poetic yet fearlessly + modern, fixed on the bedrock of realism, a drama and a vision wide, high, + deep, spectacular yet subtle as life itself. Let his confreres, French and + Russian—not to mention those merely British born—look to their + laurels, when Heber Pogson blossomed into print! And—preciously + inspiring thought—he was our Pogson. He inalienably belonged to us; + since hadn't we detected the quality of his genius when the veil was still + upon its face? Oh! we knew, bless you; we knew. We'd the right to sniff + and snort, noses in air, at contemporary reputations because we were + snugly awaiting the disclosure of a talent which would prick them into + nothingness like so many bubbles, pop them like so many inflated paper + bags, knock them one and all into the proverbial cocked hat! + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately youth, with a fine illogic, though having all the time there + is before it, easily waxes impatient. In our eagerness for his public + recognition, his apotheosis, we did, I am afraid, hustle our great man a + little. Instead of being satisfied with his nocturnal coruscations—they + brilliant as ever, let it be noted—we just a fraction resented the + slowness of his progress, began ever so gently to shove that honoured + bulky form behind and pull at it in front. We wanted the tangible result + of those many sacred and secret morning hours during which his novel was + in process of being formed and fashioned, gloriously built up. Wouldn't he + tell us the title, enlighten us as to the theme, the scheme, thus allaying + the hunger pangs of our pious curiosity by crumbs—ever so small and + few—dropped from his richly furnished table? With exquisite + good-humour, he fenced and feinted. Almost roguishly he would laugh us off + and launch the conversation into other channels, holding us—after + the first few vexatiously outwitted seconds—at once enthralled and + delicately rebuked. + </p> + <p> + But at last—in the late spring, as far as I remember, of the second + year of our devotion—there came a meeting at which things got + pressed somehow to a head. Contrary to custom feminine influence made + itself felt. + </p> + <p> + And here I pause and blush. For it strikes me as so intimately + characteristic of our whole relation—in that earlier stage, at least—that + I should have written all this on the subject of Heber Pogson without + making one solitary mention of his wife. She existed. Was permanently in + evidences—or wasn't it, rather, in eclipse?—as a shadowy + parasitic entity perambulating the hinterland of his domestic life. She + must have been by some years his junior—a tall, thin, flat-chested + woman, having heavy, yellowish brown hair, a complexion to match, and + pale, nervous eyes. Her clothes hung on her as on a clothes-peg. She + affected vivid greens—as was the mistaken habit of Victorian ladies + possessing the colouring falsely called "auburn"—but clouded their + excessive verdure to neutrality by semi-transparent over-draperies of + black. Harry Lessingham, in a crudely unchivalrous mood, once described + her as "without form and void," adding that she "had a mouth like a fish." + These statements I considered unduly harsh, yet admitted her almost + miraculously negative. She mattered less, when one was in the room with + her, than anything human and feminine which I, so far, had ever run + across. And I was at least normally susceptible, I'm very sure of that. + </p> + <p> + As a matter of course, on our arrival at the blest house in Church Street, + we one and all respectfully greeted her, passed, to put it vulgarly, the + time of day with her. But there intercourse ceased. At some subsequent + instant she faded out—whether into space or into some adjacent + connubial chamber, I had no notion. I only realized, when the act was + accomplished, that we now were without her, that she had vanished, leaving + behind her no faintest moral or emotional trace. + </p> + <p> + But, on the occasion in question, she did not vanish. We fed her at + supper. And still she remained—in the interests of social propriety, + as we imagined, since for once the Pogson symposium included a stranger, + an eminently attractive lady guest. + </p> + <p> + Harry Lessingham had begged to bring his sister with him. He told me of + this beforehand, and I rejoiced. Lessingham had long been dear to me as a + brother; while that Arabella should only be dear to me as a sister was, + just then, I own, among the things I wished least. I craved, therefore, to + have her share our happy worship. She had a pretty turn for literature + herself. I coveted to see her dazzled, exalted, impressed—it would + be a fascinating spectacle. Before I slept that night, or rather next + morning, I recognized her coming as a disastrous mistake. For she had + received insufficient instruction in ritual, in the suitable forms of + approach to so august a presence as that of our host. She played round + him, flickering, darting, like lightning round a cathedral tower, metal + tipped. Where we, in our young male modesty, had but gently drawn or + furtively shoved, she tickled the soft, sedentary creature's ribs as with + a rapier point. And—to us agitated watchers—the amazing thing + was, that Pogson didn't seem to mind. He neither rebuked her nor laughed + her off; but purred, veritably purred, under her alternate teasing and + petting like some big, sleek cat. + </p> + <p> + At last, with a cajoling but really alarming audacity, she went for him + straight. + </p> + <p> + "Of course, dear Mr. Pogson, Harry has told me all about your wonderful + novel," she said. "I am so interested, so thrilled—and so grateful + to you for letting me join your audience to-night. But I want quite + frightfully to know more. Speaking not only for myself, but for all who + are present, may I implore a further revelation? Pray don't send us empty + away in respect of the wonderful book. It would be so lovely while we sit + here at your feet."... + </p> + <p> + She, in fact, sat by his side, her chair placed decidedly close to his. + </p> + <p> + "If you would read us a chapter.... A chapter is impossible?"... + </p> + <p> + Her charming, pliant mouth; her charming dancing eyes; her caressing voice—I + won't swear even her caressing hands didn't, for a brief space, take part—all + wooed him to surrender. + </p> + <p> + "Well, a page then, a paragraph? Ah! don't be obdurate. The merest + sentence? Surely we may claim as much as that? Picture our pride, our + happiness." + </p> + <p> + She enclosed us all in a circular and sympathetic glance, which ended, as + it had started, by meeting his mild eyes, lingering appealingly upon his + large, pink countenance. + </p> + <p> + Pogson succumbed. No, he wouldn't read; but, since she so amiably desired + it.... + </p> + <p> + "More than anything in all my life!" with the most convincing and virginal + sincerity. + </p> + <p> + ... He thought he might rehearse a passage, which wasn't—as he + gladly believed—altogether devoid of merit. He did rehearse it. And + we broke into applause the more tempestuous because suspicion of a chill + queerly lay upon us. A chill insidious as it was vague, disturbing as it + was—wasn't it? we silently, quite violently, hoped so—ridiculously + uncalled for. + </p> + <p> + "After all, that passage is thundering good, you know," Harry Lessingham + announced, as though arguing with himself, arguing himself out of that + same invidious chill, an hour later. + </p> + <p> + Arabella had refused a hansom, declaring herself excited, still under the + spell, and so wanting to walk. Leaving the Church Street house, the three + of us crossed into Campden Grove, with a view to turning down Campden + House Road, thus reaching Kensington High Street. + </p> + <p> + "It was out of sight of the average—packed with epigram; worthy of + all we've ever believed or asked of him. It takes a master of technique, + of style, to write like that." + </p> + <p> + "Beloved brother, which of us ever said it didn't?" Arabella took him up + sweetly. + </p> + <p> + Slender, light-footed, the train of her evening gown switched over her + arm, beneath her flowing orange and white-flowered satin cloak, she walked + between us. + </p> + <p> + "Why, it was good to the point of being inevitable. One seemed—I + certainly did—to know every phrase, every word which was coming. + None could have been other, or been placed otherwise than it was—and + that's the highest praise one can give to anybody's prose, isn't it? One + jumped to the perfect rightness of the whole—a rightness so perfect + as to make the sentences sound quite extraordinarily familiar." + </p> + <p> + This last assertion dropped as a bomb between Lessingham and myself. + </p> + <p> + "By the way," the girl presently said, as our awkward silence continued, + "has either of you happened to read, or re-read, Meredith's 'Egoist' just + lately?" + </p> + <p> + Lessingham stopped short, and in the light of a neighbouring gas-lamp I + saw his handsome, boyish face look troubled to the point of physical pain. + </p> + <p> + "What on earth are you driving at? What do you mean, Arabella—that + Pogson is a plagiarist?" + </p> + <p> + "Don't eat me, Harry dearest, if I incline to use a shorter, commoner + expression." + </p> + <p> + "A thief?" + </p> + <p> + "An unconscious one, no doubt," she threw off quickly, fearful of + explosions, possibly, in her turn. "He may have been betrayed by his own + extraordinary memory." + </p> + <p> + "But this is horrible, horrible," Lessingham cried. "All the names, + though, were different." + </p> + <p> + Arabella appeared to have overcome her fear of explosions. Her charming + eyes again danced. + </p> + <p> + "Exactly," she said. "That was the peculiar part of it, the thing which + riveted my attention. He had—I mean the names of the characters and + places were different—were altered, changed." + </p> + <p> + Lessingham stood bare-headed in the light of a gas-lamp. He ran the + fingers of his left hand through his crisp fair hair, rumpling it up into + a distracted crest. I could see, could almost hear, the travail of his + honest soul. Loyalty, faith and honour worked at high pressure to hit on a + satisfactory explanation. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. + </p> + <p> + "Why, of course," he cried, "it's as clear as mud. Pogson wasn't betrayed + by anything. He did it on purpose. Don't you understand, you dear goose, + you very-much-too-clever-by-half dear goose? It was simply his kindly + joke, his good-natured little game. And we, like the pack of idiots which—compared + with him—we are, never scented it. You pestered—yes, Arabella, + most unconscionably pestered him to read an excerpt from his novel; and to + pacify you he quoted a page from Meredith instead." + </p> + <p> + Harry Lessingham tucked his hand under the folds of the orange and + white-flowered cloak, and taking the girl affectionately by the elbow, + trotted her down the sloping pavement towards Kensington High Street. + </p> + <p> + "All the honours of war rest with Pogson," he joyfully assured her. "You + made an importunate, impertinent demand for bread. He didn't mean to be + drawn; but was too civil, too tender-hearted to put you off with a stone, + so slyly cut you a slice from another man's loaf. Does it occur to you, my + sweet sister, you've been had—very neatly had?" + </p> + <p> + "If it comes to that, Miss Lessingham by no means stands alone," I + interrupted. "We've all been had, as you so gracefully put it, very neatly + and very extensively had." + </p> + <p> + For though I trusted Lessingham's view was the correct one—trusted + so most devoutly—I could not but regret the discomfiture of + Arabella. Her approach to our chosen idol may have slightly lacked in + reverence; she may, indeed, in plain English, have cheeked him. But she + had done so in the prettiest, airiest manner. Pogson's punishment of her + indiscretion, if highly ingenious, still struck me as not in the best + taste. For was it not at once rather mean and rather cheap to make so + charming a person the subject, and that before witnesses, of a practical + joke? + </p> + <p> + If, after all, it really was a joke. That insidious, odious chill which + earlier prompted my tempestuous applause, as I woefully registered, hung + about me yet. Unquestionably Arabella Lessingham's visit to Church Street + showed more and more, when I considered it, as a radical mistake! From it + I date the waning of the moon of my delight in respect of both Pogson and + herself. I had bowed in worship, equally sincere, though diverse in + sentiment, before each; and to each had pledged my allegiance. To have + them thus discredit one another represented the most trying turn of + events. + </p> + <p> + For a full month I cold-shouldered the band, abjured the shrine, and + avoided the lady. Then, while still morose and brooding, my trouble at its + height, a cousin—in the third degree—rich, middle-aged, and + conveniently restless, invited me to be his travelling companion. We had + taken trips together before. This one promised fields of wider adventure—nothing + less than the quartering of southern Europe, along with nibblings at + African and Asiatic Mediterranean coasts. It was the chance of a + life-time. I embraced it. I also called at the house in Church Street to + make my farewells. I could do no less. + </p> + <p> + I have used the word "resigned" in describing Pogson. To-day that word + notably covered him. Our friend appeared depressed; yet bland in his + depression, anxious to mollify and placate rather than reproach. His + attitude touched me. I hardly deserved it after my neglect—to which, + by the way, he made no smallest reference. But as I unfolded my plans, he + increasingly threw off his depression and generously entered into them. + Would have me fetch an atlas and trace out my proposed itinerary upon the + map. It included names to conjure with. These set wide the flood-gates of + his speech. He at once enchanted and confounded me by his knowledge of the + literature, art, history, of Syria, Egypt, Italy, Greece, and the Levant. + </p> + <p> + For the next three-quarters of an hour I had Pogson at his best. And oh! + how vastly good that same best was! Under the flashing, multi-coloured + light of it, he routed my suspicions; put my annoyance and distrust to + flight. As he leaned back in the roomy library chair, filled to veritable + overflowing by his big, squashy, brown-velvet jacketted person—Pogson + had put on flesh of late; put it on sensibly, as I remarked, even during + the few weeks of my absence—he reconquered all my admiration and + belief. + </p> + <p> + As I rose to depart: + </p> + <p> + "Ah! you fortunate youth," he thus genially addressed me; "thrice + fortunate youth, in your freedom, your enterprise, your happy elasticity + of flesh and spirit! What won't you have to tell me of things actually + seen, of lands, cities, civilizations, past and present, and the storied + wonder of them, when you come back!" + </p> + <p> + "And what won't you have to read to me in return, dear Master," I echoed, + eager to testify to my recovered faith. "By then the book will be finished + on which all our hopes and affections are set. Ten times more precious, + more illuminating than anything I have seen, will be what I hear from you + when I come back!" + </p> + <p> + But, as I spoke, surely I wasn't mistaken in thinking that for an + agitating minute the pinkness of Pogson's large countenance sickly ebbed + and blanched. And while my attention was still engaged by this disquieting + phenomenon, I became aware that Mrs. Pogson had joined us. Silently, + mysteriously, she faded—the term holds good—into evidence, as + on so many former occasions she had silently, mysteriously faded out. + </p> + <p> + Dressed in one of those verdant gowns, so dolorously veiled in + semi-transparent black, she stood behind her husband's chair. Her eyes met + mine. They were no longer nervous or in expression vague; but oddly + aggressive, challenging, defiantly alight. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes," she declared, "by then Heber will have completed his great + novel, without doubt." + </p> + <p> + When uttering his name, she laid a thin, long-fingered hand upon his + rounded shoulder, and to my—little short of—stupefaction, I + saw Pogson's fat, pink hand move up to seek and clasp it. + </p> + <p> + On me this action—hers soothing, protective; his appealing, + welcoming—produced the most bewildering effect. I felt embarrassed + and abashed; an indecently impertinent intruder upon the secret places of + two human hearts. That any such intimate and tender correspondence existed + between this so strangely ill-assorted couple I never dreamed. + </p> + <p> + I uttered what must have sounded wildly incoherent farewells and fled. + </p> + <p> + Of the ensuing eighteen months of foreign travel it is irrelevant here to + speak. Suffice it that on my return to England and to Chelsea, the + earliest news which greeted me was that Arabella Lessingham had been now + five weeks married and Heber Pogson a fortnight dead. Lessingham, dear, + good fellow, was my informant, and minded acquainting me, so I fancied, + only a degree less with the first item than with the second. + </p> + <p> + For some considerable time, he told me, Pogson had been ailing. He grew + inordinately stout, unwieldy to the extent of all exertion, all movement + causing him distress. Suffocation threatened if he attempted to lie down; + so that, latterly, he spent not only all day, but all night sitting in the + big library chair we knew so well. If not actually in pain, he must still + have suffered intolerable discomfort. But he never complained, and to the + last his passion for books never failed. + </p> + <p> + "We took him any new ones we happened to run across, as you'd take a sick + woman flowers. To the end he read." + </p> + <p> + "And wrote?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "That I can't say," Lessingham replied. "There were things I could not + make out. And I couldn't question him. It didn't seem to be my place, + though I had an idea he'd something on his mind to speak of which would be + a relief. It worried me badly. I felt sure he wanted to tell us, but + couldn't bring himself to the point. He talked of you. He cared for you + more than for any of us; yet—I may be all wrong—it seemed to + me he was glad you weren't here. Once or twice, I thought, he felt almost + afraid you might come back before—before it was all over, you know. + It sounds rather horrible, but I had a feeling he longed to slink off + quietly out of sight—for he did not dread death, I'm certain of + that. What he dreaded was that life had some trick up her sleeve which, if + he delayed too long, might give him away; put him to shame somehow at the + last." + </p> + <p> + "And Mrs. Pogson?" + </p> + <p> + Lessingham looked at me absently. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! Mrs. Pogson? She's never interested me. She's too invertebrate; but I + believe she took care of Pogson all right." + </p> + <p> + Next day I called at the house in Church Street. After some parley I was + admitted into the studio-library. Neither in Mrs. Pogson nor in the + familiar room did I find any alteration, save that the green had + disappeared from her dress. She wore hanging, trailing, unrelieved black. + And that a piece of red woollen cord was tied across, from arm to arm, of + Pogson's large library chair, forbidding occupation of it. This pleased + me. It struck the positive, the, in a way, aggressive note, which Mrs. + Pogson had once before so strangely, unexpectedly, sounded in my presence. + </p> + <p> + I said the things common to such occasions as that of our present meeting; + said them with more than merely conventional feeling and emphasis. I + praised her husband's great gifts, his amazing learning, his eloquence, + the magnetic charm by which he captivated and held us. + </p> + <p> + Finally I dared the question I had come here to ask, which had burned upon + my tongue, indeed, from the moment I heard of Pogson's death. + </p> + <p> + "What about the novel? Might we hope for speedy, though posthumous, + publication? We were greedy; the world should know how great a literary + genius it had lost. Was it ready for press, as—did she remember?—she'd + assured me it would certainly be by the time I came back?" + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Pogson did not betray any sign of emotion. Her thin hands remained + perfectly still in her crape-covered lap. + </p> + <p> + "There is no novel," she calmly told me. "There never has been any novel. + Heber did not finish it because he never began it. He did not possess the + creative faculty. You were not content with what he gave. You asked of him + that which he could not give. At first he played with you—it amused + him. You were so gullible, so absurdly ignorant. Then he hesitated to + undeceive you—in that, I admit, he was weak. But he suffered for his + weakness. It made him unhappy. Oh I how I have hated—how I still + hate you!—for I saved him from poverty, from hard work. I secured + him a peaceful, beautiful life, till you came and spoilt it.... All the + money was mine," she said. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + "GENIUS" — By ELINOR MORDAUNT + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>Hutchinson's Magazine</i> and <i>The Century Magazine</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1921, 1922 + </h3> + <p> + I have written before of Ben Cohen, with his eternal poring and humming + over the scores of great masters; of the timber-yard at Canning Town, for + ever changing and for ever the same, devouring forests with the eternal + wind-like rush of saws, slide of gigantic planes; practical and chill; + wrapped in river-fogs, and yet exotic with the dust of cedar, camphor, + paregoric. + </p> + <p> + In those days Ben Cohen was wont to read music as other boys read their + penny-dreadfuls, avidly, with the imagined sounds like great waves for + ever a-rush through his soul. + </p> + <p> + In the very beginning it was any music, just music. Then for a while + Wagner held him. Any Wagnerian concert, any mixed entertainment which + included Wagner—it seemed as though he sniffed them upon the breeze—and + he would tramp for miles, wait for hours; biting cold, sleet, snow, mud, + rain, all alike disregarded by that persistence which the very poor must + bring to the pursuit of pleasure, the capture of cheap seats. + </p> + <p> + Once ensconced, regardless of hard, narrow seats, heights, crowds, his + passion of adoration and excitement took him, shook him, tore him so that + it was wonder his frail body did not split in two, render up the soul + coming forth as Lazarus from the sepulchre. It was indeed, if you knew + little Ben Cohen, him, <i>himself</i>, difficult to realise that his body + had anything more to do with him than the yellow-drab water-proof which is + a sort of uniform—a species of charity, covering a multitude of sins + of poverty, shabbiness, thread-bareness—had to do with the real + Jenny Bligh. + </p> + <p> + And yet, Ben Cohen's body was more completely his than one might have + imagined. Jenny could, and indeed did, slough off her disguise on Sundays + or rare summer days; but Ben and that self which was apart from music—that + wildly-beating heart, pulsing blood, flooding warmth, grateful as the + watchman's fire in the fog-sodden yard, that little fire over which he + used to hang, warming his stiffened hands—were, after all, amazingly + one. + </p> + <p> + The thing surprised him even more than it surprised any one else; above + all, when it refused to be separated from his holy of holies, crept, + danced, smiled its way through the most portentous scores—a + thrilling sense of Jenny Bligh, all crotchets and quavers, smiles and + thrills, quaint homeliness, sudden dignity. + </p> + <p> + By the time he first met Jenny he was clear of Wagner, had glanced a + little patronisingly at Beethoven, turned aside and enwrapped himself in + the sombre splendour of Bach, right away from the world; then, harking + back, with a fresh vision, a sudden sense of the inevitable, had anchored + himself in the solemn, wide-stretching harbourage of Beethoven. + </p> + <p> + It was like a return from a long voyage, tearing round a world full of + beauty and interest, and yet, at the same time, full of pettiness, fuss, + annoyance: a home-coming beyond words. There was a sense of eternity, a + harmony which drew everything to itself, smoothing out the pattern of + life, the present life and the life to come, so crumpled that, up to this + time, he had had no real idea of the meaning of it. + </p> + <p> + All at once everything was immensely right, with Jenny as an essential and + inevitable part of the rightness. He felt this so strongly that he never + stopped to wonder if other people felt it as plainly as he did. + </p> + <p> + Apart from all this, he was bound by the inarticulateness of his class. + His Jewish blood lent him a wider and more picturesque vocabulary than + most, and yet it stopped at any discussion of his feelings. + </p> + <p> + We have an idea that what we call the "common people" are more + communicative on such subjects than we are; but this is not so. They talk + of their physical ailments and sensations, but they are deeply shy upon + the subject of their feelings. Ben's mother would discuss the state of her + inside, the deaths of her relations and friends; his own birth, down to + the smallest detail. But she would never have dreamt of telling her son + that she loved him, desired his love, hungered for his coming, grieved at + his going. + </p> + <p> + Ben himself put none of his feeling for Beethoven into words, above all to + his mother; she would not have understood him if he had. He said nothing + of Jenny, either, save as a girl he'd met, a girl he was going to bring + home to tea; but she understood that without any words; that was courting, + part of the business of human nature; much like the preparation of meals. + </p> + <p> + It was odd, coming to think of it—might have been ridiculous, save + that ridicule was the sort of thing which could find no possible lodgment + with Ben—that his determination to devote his whole musical life to + Beethoven, to interpret him as no Englishman had ever done before, should + have been synonymous with his sacred, heady, and yet absolute + determination to marry Jenny Bligh. + </p> + <p> + Jenny worked in the jam-factory, and there was something of the aroma of + ripe fruit about her: ripe strawberries, raspberries, plums, damsons. She + was plumpish and fresh: very red lips and very bright eyes, reddish-brown, + the colour of blackberry leaves in autumn, with hair to match. Her little + figure was neat; her small hands, with their square-tipped fingers, deft + and quick in their movements; there was something at once rounded and + clear-cut about everything she did. + </p> + <p> + A sea-faring admirer used to say that she was "a bit short in the beam, + but a daisy fur carryin' sail"; and that was the idea she gave: so + well-balanced, so trim, going off to work in her wide white apron on those + rare mornings when she shook off the yellow mackintosh. + </p> + <p> + Ben saw her like that for the first time crossing the Lee just below the + timber-yard with its cranes like black notes zigzagging out over the + river, which had for once discarded its fog. It was a day of bright blue + sky, immense, rounded, silvery clouds, fresh and clean; with a wind which + caught up the white apron and billowed it out for the sheer fun of the + thing: showing trim ankles, the turn of a plump calf, such as Ben Cohen + had never even thought of before, the realisation of which was like wine: + freshly tasted, red, fruity, running through his veins, mounting to his + head. He had known that women had legs; his mother, the laundress, + suffered from hers—complainingly, devoted woman as she was—swollen + with much standing, and "them there dratted veins": stocky legs, with + loose folds of stocking. + </p> + <p> + As to thinking any more of a woman's legs than of the legs of a table, the + idea had never even occurred to him. But there you are! It is the + unexpected that happens: the sort of thing which we could never have + imagined ourselves as doing, thinking, feeling. The temptations we have + recognised, struggled against, are nothing; but there comes a sort of + wild, whistling wind from nowhere—much the same as that wind about + jenny's skirts, white apron—and our life is like a kaleidoscope, + suddenly shaken up and showing a completely fresh pattern. + </p> + <p> + Who could have thought it—who?—that Ben Cohen, dreamer, + idealist, passionate, pure, the devotee of art, would have fallen in love + with Jenny Bligh's legs—or, rather, a pair of ankles, and a little + more at that side where the wind caught her skirt—before he had so + much as a glimpse of her face? + </p> + <p> + Just over the bridge she stopped to speak with another girl who worked in + his own counting-house. As Ben hurried up to pass them before they + separated, really see her, this other girl recognised him, flung him a + friendly "Hullo!" and was answered in the same fashion. + </p> + <p> + As he moved on he heard her—was meant to hear, knew that he was + meant to hear, from the pitch of the voice—"Clever ain't no word fur + it! There ain't no tune as——" + </p> + <p> + The end of the sentence was lost; but he knew the sort of thing, knew it + by heart, had spent his time running away from it. Now, however, he was + grateful: more grateful still when he met Miss Ankles again, and she + herself, regarding Florry Hines' eulogy as a sort of introduction, smiled, + moved on a step, and herself tossed a "Hullo" over one shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Ben's thin olive-tinted face was flushed as he drew forward to her side + with his odd stoop, his way of ducking his head and raising his eyes, dark + and glowing. He took jenny's dinner-basket, and she noticed his hands, + large and well-shaped, with long fingers, widened at the tips. Florry had + said that he was a "Sheeny," but there was nothing of the Jew about him + apart from his colouring, his brilliant dark eyes; unless it were a sort + of inner glow, an ardour, curbed by his almost childlike shyness, lack of + self-confidence in everything apart from his music: that something, at + once finer and more cruelly persistent, vital, than is to be found in the + purely Anglo-Saxon race. + </p> + <p> + Though Jenny liked what she called "a pretty tune," she knew nothing + whatever of music, understood less. And yet, almost from that first + moment, she understood Ben Cohen, realising him as lover and child: + understood him better, maybe, then than she did later on: losing her + sureness for a while, shaken and bewildered; everything blurred by her own + immensity of love, longing; of fearing that she did not understand—feeling + out of it. + </p> + <p> + But that was not for sometime to come: in the meanwhile she was like a + dear little bantam hen with one chick; while Ben himself was content to + shelter under her wing, until it grew upon him that, loving her as he did, + loving his mother—realising what it meant to be a mother, in + thinking of jenny herself with a child—his child—in her arms—it + was "up to" him to prove himself for their sakes, to make them proud of + him and his music, without the faintest idea of how proud they were + already, lift the whole weight of care from their shoulders. + </p> + <p> + The worst of it was, he told them nothing whatever about it. The better + sort of men are given to these crablike ways of appearing to move away + from what they intend to move towards. It simply seemed as though he were + forgetting them a little—then, more and more; elbowing them aside to + clear the way for his beloved music. + </p> + <p> + He was no longer deprecating, appealing, leaning upon them: each woman + thought of him as "her child," and when his love made a man of him, they + realised the hurt, nothing more. + </p> + <p> + He overdid it, too, as genius does overdo things; was brusque, entirely + immersed in his great scheme. Sometimes he even laughed to himself over + this. "They don't know what I'm up to!" he would declare to himself, with + a sense of triumph. + </p> + <p> + He had never even thought of his music in the money sense before, but as + his love and ambition for the two women grew upon him, he was like a child + with a new toy. He would not only make a great name, he would make an + immense fortune: his mind blinked, dazzled at the very thought. He moved + with a new pride, and also—alas!—a new remoteness. + </p> + <p> + His health had broken when he was about seventeen—his bent shoulders + still showed that old drag upon the chest—and he was away in a + sanatorium for a year. When he came back he was cured. It was young Saere, + the junior partner in the timber business, who had sent him away; and it + was he who, when Ben returned, paid for lessons for him, so that he learnt + to play as well as read music. + </p> + <p> + From that time onward he had always stuck to the firm, working in the + tally sheds; paid, out of his earnings, for the use of a room and a piano + for practising upon so many hours each week, completely happy and + contented. + </p> + <p> + He had never even thought of leaving the business until he realised his + immense love for Jenny, and, through her, for his mother; the necessity + for doing something big. What did sacrifice matter? What did it matter + being poor, hungry, shabby?—What did anything matter just for a + while? There was so little he wanted; meals were a nuisance; his eyes were + so dazzled by the brilliance of the future, set upon a far horizon, that + he forgot the path of the present, still beneath his feet. + </p> + <p> + If his mother had not set food before him he would scarcely have thought + of it. But, all the same, he ate it, and money had to be earned by some + one or other. + </p> + <p> + His mother had never let him know the actual pinch of poverty; she wore + that shoe upon her own foot. He had no more idea than a child of the cost + of mere daily necessities; and during the last few years, between his work + and hers, they had been comfortable enough. + </p> + <p> + "We can hang on for a bit," he said, when he spoke of leaving the + wood-yard; and she answered, almost with triumph, that she had "hung on" + well enough before he'd earned "aught but a licking." + </p> + <p> + At first she was proud of reshouldering the entire burden; it made him + more entirely hers. He could not do without her; even with Jenny he could + not do without her. But she had not been a young woman when Ben was born; + she was old now, and tired, with that sort of tiredness which accumulates, + heaps up, and which no single night's rest can ever cure; the tiredness + which is ready, more than ready, for a narrower bed—eternal sleep. + </p> + <p> + "—Hold on until after the concert?" + </p> + <p> + "Sorry fur meself if I couldn't." + </p> + <p> + The concert! That was the goal. There was a public hall at Clapton where + Ben had chanced on some really good music—just one night of it, and + quite by chance—and this, to his mind, ennobled the Claptonites; + there was the place in which to start the revolutionising of the musical + world. Besides—and here he thought himself very canny, by no means a + Jew for nothing—there were fine old houses at Clapton, and where + there were such houses there must be rich people. + </p> + <p> + When the date was actually arranged, he practised for the best part of the + day. While he was at home he read music; he lived in a maze of music. He + never thought of advertising, collecting his public; he even avoided his + old friends, his patrons at the timber-yard, overcome by agonies of + shyness at the very thought of so much as mentioning his concert. Quite + simply, in a way he did not even attempt to explain to himself, he felt + that the world of London would scent it from afar off. As to paid <i>claques</i>, + presentation-tickets, patrons, advance agents, all the booming and + flattery, the jam of the powder for an English audience, he had no idea of + the existence of such things. Beethoven was wonderful, and he had found + out wonderful things about him: that was enough. + </p> + <p> + When the Angel Gabriel blew the last trump, there would be no need to + invite the dead to rise. Neither was there any need to invite the really + elect to his concert. Not to hear him, Ben Cohen, but to hear Beethoven as + he ought to be heard; that's how he felt. + </p> + <p> + During those weeks of preparation for the concert, his mother worked + desperately hard to keep their home together without his earnings, while + Jenny helped. At first that had been enough for her, too: to help. But + later— + </p> + <p> + Throughout those long evenings when, already tired from her work in the + factory, she had stood sorting, sprinkling, folding, ironing, the two + women got to a state where they scarcely dared to look at each other: just + a passing glance, a hardish stare, but no <i>looking into</i>. + </p> + <p> + If he had but once said, "I can't bear you to work so hard for me," + everything would have been different, the fatigue wiped out. But he + didn't; he didn't even know they were working for him, working beyond the + limit of an ordinary working-woman's working-day, hard enough, in all + conscience. + </p> + <p> + "Men can't not be expected to notice things the way we do." That's what + they told themselves—they did not say even this much to each other. + But far, far away, out of sight, out of all actual knowledge, was the fear + which neither of them would have dared to realise, a vague horror, a sort + of ghost.... + </p> + <p> + "He don't care—he's changed." + </p> + <p> + And, indeed, this is how it appeared. All through that time he wore an odd + look of excitement, triumph, pleasure, which lifted him away from himself. + There was a sort of lilt in his very step; his eyes shone, his cheeks were + flushed. When he cleared a pile of freshly-ironed, starched things from + the end of a table, so as to spread out a score upon it, laid them on the + floor where the cat padded them over with dirty feet, and his mother + railed at him, as she still did rail—on any subject apart from this + of not caring—he glanced up at her with bright, amused eyes, his + finger still following the black-and-white tangle of notes, looked at + Jenny, and laughed—actually laughed. + </p> + <p> + "You great oaf!" cried Mrs. Cohen, and could have killed him. Up at four + o'clock next morning, rewashing, starching, ironing, she retched with sick + fatigue and something more—that sense of giddiness, of being hit on + the head which had oppressed her of late. It was as though that laugh of + Ben's had stuck like a bone in her chest, so sharp that she could scarcely + draw breath; driven all the blood to her head. + </p> + <p> + And yet it had been full of nothing but triumph, a sort of tender triumph, + almost childish delight. He was going to do wonders— wonders!—open + a new world to them! He was so dazzled by his own work, dreams, by all he + had in store for them, that he did not even see them, themselves, worn + with toil, realise the meaning of it, the reason for it. In any case he + would have laughed, because they had no idea how near it was to an end. + </p> + <p> + That concert! It would be like nothing so much as opening a door into a + new world, where they need never so much as soil a finger: floating + around, dressed in silk, feeding from off the finest china, sleeping upon + down. + </p> + <p> + Man-like, his eyes were fixed upon the future. No two women had ever been + loved as they were loved. All this work, this washing and ironing, it + resembled nothing more than the opening scene in an opera: a sort of + prelude, for the sake of contrast. They would see—O-o-oh, yes, they + would see! + </p> + <p> + It was like that old childish "Shut your eyes and open your mouth." + </p> + <p> + But they—they were bound in the close-meshed strait-waistcoat of + endless toil, petty anxiety. The days and hours heaped in front of them + obliterated all possible view of the future. + </p> + <p> + In the beginning they had been as excited as he was over the thought of + the concert. He must wear a rosette—no, a flower in his button-hole; + and white kid gloves; as he moved forward upon the platform, he must bow + right and left, and draw them off as he bowed. + </p> + <p> + This was Jenny's idea. It was Jenny who made him practise his bows, and it + was Jenny who borrowed a dress-suit from a waiter-friend; while it was his + mother who "got up" the borrowed shirt to go with it, stiff and shining; + who polished his best boots until they looked "near as near like patent." + </p> + <p> + All this had been done close upon a fortnight before. Jenny was a good + girl, but if she was not there to see to things, Jenny might fail with a + bubble on the shirt-front. No amount of meaning well was of any use in + getting up a stiff shirt as it ought to be got up. + </p> + <p> + "Better 'ave it all ready, 'a-case o' anything happening." That was what + Mrs. Cohen said to herself, with a dull dread at the back of her mind: a + feeling as though every next day were a Friday. + </p> + <p> + Her face had been oddly flushed of late, with a rather fixed and glassy + look about the eyes. Jenny thought of this, on her way to the concert; + alone, for by some ill fate, his nearer vision blurred in that golden maze + of the future, Ben had fixed his concert for a Friday. + </p> + <p> + This Friday! Always a bad day, bad in itself, bad for every one, like an + east wind; worst of all for a laundress: not so depressing as a Monday, + but so hurried, so overcrowded, with all the ironing and folding, the + packing of the lots, all small, into their separate newspaper parcels; the + accumulated fatigue of a whole week. Some demon seemed to possess her + clients that week: they had come in with a collar here, a shirt there, an + odd pillow-slip, tablecloth, right over Thursday. She was working until + after twelve o'clock that night—so was Jenny—up before dawn + next morning, though no one save herself knew of this. + </p> + <p> + "Whatever they do, they shan't not keep me from my Ben's concert!" That + was what she said, with a vision of motors blocking the road in front of + the little hall. But she had been a laundress best part of a lifetime—before + she discovered herself as the mother of a genius—and it had bit into + her bone: she could not get finished, and she could not leave the work + undone. + </p> + <p> + "Some one's got to earn a living!"—that was what she said, + embittered by fatigue, the sweat pouring down her face, beaten to every + sensibility, apart from her swollen feet, by the time that Jenny called in + for her, soon after six. She had longed to go, had never even thought of + not going; but by now, apart from her physical pain and weariness, she was + alive to but one point, her whole being drawn out to a sort of cone with + an eye at the end of it; and far, far away at the back of her brain, + struggling with impenetrable mists, but one thought—if she scorched + anything, she would have to replace it. + </p> + <p> + When Jenny found that it was impossible to move her, she made her own way + up to Clapton alone. For Ben had to be at the hall early; there were + certain matters to arrange, and he would try over the piano. + </p> + <p> + Her efforts with Mrs. Cohen had delayed her; she was driven desperate by + that cruel malice of inanimate things: every 'bus and tram was against + her, whisking out of sight just as she wanted them, or blocked by slow + crawling carts and lorries. There was a tight, hard pain in her heart, + like toothache, round which her whole body gathered, pressing, impaled + upon it; a sense of desperation, and yet at the heart of this, like a + nerve, the wonder if anything really mattered. + </p> + <p> + Ben had promised to reserve seats for his mother and herself; but had he?—Had + he? Would she find the place blocked by swells with their hard stare, + duchesses and such-like, glistening in diamonds? In her mind's eye she saw + billows of silk, slabs of black cloth and shining white shirt-fronts—hundreds + and hundreds of them. And Ben bowing, bowing to them as she had taught him + to do. + </p> + <p> + For some time past he had been so far away, so detached that she was + haunted by the fear that if she put out a finger to touch him it might go + through him, as though he were a ghost. At times she had caught him, held + him to her in a passion of love and longing. But even then, with his head + against her heart, his lips, or some pulse or nerve, had moved in a + wordless tune, the beat of time. + </p> + <p> + If only he had still seemed to need her, nothing, nothing would have + mattered. But he didn't: he needed no one—no one. He seemed so + frail, she had made sure that he wanted looking after; but he didn't. A + drunkard might have fallen down in the street, needed fetching, + supporting, exhorting; a bully come home with a broken head. But it seemed + as though Ben were, in reality, for all his air of appeal, sufficient to + himself, moving like a steady light through the darkness; unstirred by so + much as a breath of wind. + </p> + <p> + Overcome by anxiety, she got out of the tram too soon. It had begun to + rain, a dull, dark night, and there was a blur of misty light flooding the + pavement a little way ahead. That must be the hall. She was afraid of + over-shooting the mark. Those trams had such a way of getting going just + as one wanted to be out of them! + </p> + <p> + But the light was nothing more than a cinema, and she she had a good + quarter of a mile to walk in the wet. The cruel wet!—just like it to + be wet on this night of all nights! Even her optimism was gone. She kept + on thinking of Mrs. Cohen, her flushed face and oddly-glazed eyes; the + queer stiff way in which she moved, held her head. For once she was angry + with Ben. + </p> + <p> + "'Im and his crowds,' 'Im an' 'is fine lydies! 'Im an' 'is <i>motor-cars</i>!" + </p> + <p> + After all, she did overshoot her mark; on inquiry for the hall, she was + told that she had passed it, and was obliged to retrace her steps. + </p> + <p> + No wonder she had passed it; with all she had expected at the back of her + mind! The strip of pavement outside was dark, with not so much as a single + taxi in sight; the door half-shut, the dreary vestibule badly-lighted, + empty, smelling of damp. The sodden-looking sketch of a man in the pay-box + seemed half asleep; stretched, yawned when she spoke, pushing a strip of + pink paper towards her as she gave her name. + </p> + <p> + "For two." He poked out a long neck and peered round the edge of the box, + like a tortoise from its shell. + </p> + <p> + "The other lydy wasn't not able ter come ter-night," answered Jenny with + dignity, and the beast grinned, displaying a wreckage of broken teeth. + </p> + <p> + "Ain't not what you might call a crowd, anyway," he remarked. + </p> + <p> + She could have killed him for that! She realised the white face of a + clock, but she would not look at it. She was early, that was it. Look how + she had hurried. No wonder that she was early. And great ladies were + always late: she had learnt that from the <i>Daily Mail</i> stories. + </p> + <p> + "Two an' two make four—them too late an' me too early!" she said to + herself, with a gallant effort after her own brisk way of taking things, a + surer tap of heels on the stone floor as she turned towards a swing-door + to her left; pushed it open, and was hit in the face by what seemed like a + thick black curtain. + </p> + <p> + A dim white-gloved hand was thrust through it and took her ticket. + </p> + <p> + "Mind you don't fall—no good wasting the lights until they come—if + ever they does come," exhorted and explained a voice out of the darkness; + for, after all, it was not a curtain, but just darkness. + </p> + <p> + At first Jenny could see nothing. Then, little by little, it seemed as + though different objects crept forward, one by one, like wild animals from + their lair. + </p> + <p> + Those white patches, the hands of two white-gloved men, holding sheaves of + programmes—she realised one between her own fingers—whispering + together. + </p> + <p> + There was the platform, the great piano sprawling over it; and in front of + this, rows and rows and rows—and rows upon rows—of empty + seats. + </p> + <p> + She looked behind her—they had argued long over the question of + places for herself and his mother. "The very best," that's what Ben had + said; but they fought against this, fought and conquered, for the best + seats meant money. "What's a seat more or less, I'd like to know?" + </p> + <p> + "Money, all money." Old Mrs. Cohen had been firm upon this point. + </p> + <p> + Still, there were a great many seats yet further back—and all empty: + a little raised, seeming to push themselves forward with the staring + vacuity of an idiot: more seats overhead in a curving balcony, rising + above each other as though proud of their emptiness. It would have been + impossible to believe that mere vacant places could wear so sinister, as + well as foolish, an aspect. An idiot, but a cruel idiot, too: the whole + thing one cruel idiot, of the sort that likes to pull legs from flies. + </p> + <p> + There was a clock there, also. For a long while Jenny would not allow + herself to look at it. But something drew her, until it became an + unbearable effort to keep her eyes away from it, to look anywhere else; + and at last she turned her head, stared, sharply, defiantly, as though + daring it. + </p> + <p> + It was five-and-twenty minutes to nine. Five-and-twenty minutes to nine, + and the concert was to have begun at eight!—Five-and-twenty minutes + to nine, and there was no one there—no one whatever! + </p> + <p> + The clock hands dragged themselves on for another five-minutes; then one + of the men disappeared behind the scene; came back, speaking excitedly, + gesticulating with white hands: + </p> + <p> + "We're to turn on the light. 'E swears as 'e won't give it up—'e's + goin' ter play." + </p> + <p> + "Goin' ter play? Well, I'll be blowed!—Goin' ter play! An' with + nothing 'ere but <i>That</i>" + </p> + <p> + Jenny saw how he jerked his head in her direction. So she was "That"—she, + Jenny Bligh!—and so far gone that she did not even care. + </p> + <p> + As the lights went up the hall seemed to swim in a sort of mist: the + terra-cotta walls, the heavy curtains at either side of the platform, + those awful empty seats! + </p> + <p> + Jenny spread her skirt wide, catching at the chair to either side of her, + stretching out her arms along the backs of them. She had a wild feeling as + though it were up to her to spread herself sufficiently to cover them all. + She half rose. Perhaps she could hide more of that emptiness if she moved + nearer to the front: that was her thought. + </p> + <p> + But no; she mustn't do that: this was the place Ben had chosen for her; + she must stay where she was. He might look there, miss her, and imagine + that there was nobody, nobody at all; that even she had failed him. + </p> + <p> + If only she could spread herself—spread herself indefinitely—multiply + herself: anything, anything to cover those beastly chairs: sticking out + there, grinning, shaming her man! + </p> + <p> + Then she had a sudden idea of running into the street, entreating the + people to come in; was upon her feet for the second time, when Ben walked + on to the platform. + </p> + <p> + For once he was not ducking or moving sideways; he came straight forward, + bowed to the front of him, right and left; drew off his gloves and bowed + again. Mingling with her agony of pity, a thrill, ran through Jenny Bligh + at this. He remembered her teaching; he was hers—hers—hers—after + all, hers—more than ever hers! + </p> + <p> + The borrowed coat, far too big for him, rose in a sort of hood at the back + of his neck; as he bowed something happened to the centre stud of his + shirt, and it disappeared into an aperture shaped like a dark gourd in the + whiteness. + </p> + <p> + But, for all that, Jenny felt herself overawed by his dignity, as any one + would have been: there was something in the man so much greater than his + clothes, greater than his conscious, half-childish self. + </p> + <p> + Jenny's hands were raised to clap; but they dropped into her lap, lay + there, as, with a face set like marble, Ben turned and seated himself at + the piano. There was a moment's pause, while he stared straight in front + of him—such a pause that a feeling of goose-flesh ran down the back + of her arms—then he began to play. + </p> + <p> + Jenny had not even glanced at her programme; she would have understood + nothing of it if she had; but it gave the Sonata, Op. III, as the opening + piece. + </p> + <p> + Ben, however, took no notice of this; but, for some reason he could not + have explained, flung himself straight-way into the third item, the + tremendous "Hammerclavier." + </p> + <p> + The sounds flooded the hall; swept through it as if it were not there, + obliterating time and space. It was as though the Heavenly Host had + descended upon the earth, sweet, wonderful, and yet terrible, with a sweep + of pinions, deep-drawn breath—Tubal Cain and his kind, deified and + yet human in their immense masculinity and strength. + </p> + <p> + Jenny Bligh was neither imaginative nor susceptible to sound, but it drew + her out of herself. It was like bathing in a sea whose waves overpower one + so that, try as one may to cling to the earth, it slips off from beneath + one's feet—shamed, beaten. She had a feeling that if it did not stop + soon she would die; and would yet die when it did stop. Her heart beat + thickly and heavily, her eyes were dim; she was bewildered, lost, and yet + exhilarated. It was worse than an air raid, she thought—more + exciting, more wonderful. + </p> + <p> + The end left her almost as much exhausted as Ben himself. The sweat was + running down his face as he got up from his seat, came forward to the + front of the platform, and bowed right and left. Jenny had not clapped—she + would as soon have thought of clapping God with His last trump—but + Ben bowed as though a whole multitude had applauded him. + </p> + <p> + By some chance, the only direction in which he did not turn his eyes was + the gallery: even then, he might not have seen a single figure seated a + little to one side—a man with a dark overcoat buttoned up to his + chin, who clapped his two thumbs noiselessly together, drawing in his + breath with a sort of whistle. + </p> + <p> + "That's the stuff!" he said. "That's the stuff to give 'em!" + </p> + <p> + After a moment's pause, Ben turned again to the piano. This time he played + the Sonata Pathétique in C Minor, Op. XIII; then the Sonata Walstein in C + Major. Between each, he got up, moved forward to the edge of the platform, + and bowed. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the Sonata, Op. III—by rights the first on the + programme—during the short interval which followed it he + straightened his shoulders with a sort of swagger, utterly unlike himself, + swung round to the piano again, and slammed out "God Save the King." + </p> + <p> + He played it through to the very end, then rose, bowed from where he + stood, stared round at the empty hall—a dreadful, strained, defiant + smile stiffening upon his face—and sinking back upon his stool, laid + his arms across the keyboard with a crash of notes, burying his head upon + them. + </p> + <p> + In a moment Jenny was out of her seat. There were chairs in her way, and + she kicked them aside; raked one forward with her foot, and scrambled on + to the platform; then, catching a sideways glimpse of the empty seats, + bent forward and shook her fist at them. + </p> + <p> + "Beasts! Pigs! A-a-a-ah!—You!" + </p> + <p> + The attendants had disappeared, the stranger was lost in shadows. There + was nobody there but themselves: it would not have mattered if there had + been: all the lords and ladies, all the swells in the world, would not + have mattered. The great empty hall, suddenly friendly, closed, curving, + around them. + </p> + <p> + Jenny dropped upon her knees at Ben's side, and flung her arms about him, + with little moans of love and pity; slid one hand beneath his cheek, with + a muffled roll of notes, raised his head and pressed it against her heart. + </p> + <p> + "There, my dear! There, my love—there—there—there!" + </p> + <p> + She laid her lips to his thick dark hair, in a passion of adoration, + loving every lock of it; and then, woman-like, picked a white thread from + off his black coat; clasped him afresh, with joy and sorrow like runnels + of living water pouring through and through her. + </p> + <p> + "There, there, there, there!" + </p> + <p> + He was too much of a child to fight against her: all his pride was gone. + "Oh, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny!" he cried; then, in an extremity of innocent + anguish, amazement— + </p> + <p> + "They didn't come! They don't care—they don't want it! Jenny, they + don't want it!" + </p> + <p> + "Don't you worry about them there blighters, my darling. Selfish pigs! + they ain't not worth a thought. Don't you worry about them." + </p> + <p> + "But—Beethoven...." + </p> + <p> + "Don't you worry about Beethoven, neifer—ain't no better nor he + oughter be, taeke my word fur it. Lettin' you in like this 'ere! There—there—there, + my dear!" + </p> + <p> + They clung together, weeping, rocking to and fro. "Well," said the man in + the gallery, "I'm jiggered!" and crept out very softly, stumbling a little + because of the damp air which seemed to have got into his eyes and made + them smart. + </p> + <p> + As the lovers came out into the little vestibule, clinging to each other, + they did not so much as see the stranger, who stood talking to the man in + the box-office, but went straight on out into the rain, with their + umbrellas unopened in their hands. + </p> + <p> + "A good thing as the 'all people insists upon payment in advance," + remarked the man in the box-office. + </p> + <p> + The other gave him a curious, half-contemptuous glance. "I'd like to hear + you say that in a year's time." + </p> + <p> + "Why?" + </p> + <p> + "Because that chap will be able to buy and sell a place like this a + hundred times over by then—Queen's Hall—Albert Hall—I + know. It's my business to know. There's something about his playing. That + <i>something different</i> they're all out for." + </p> + <p> + It took a long time to get back to Canning Town. Even Jenny had lost her + certainty: her grasp of the ways of 'buses and such things. She felt oddly + clear and empty: like a room swept and garnished, with the sense of a + ghost in some dim corner of it; physically sapped out. + </p> + <p> + Ben clung to her. He said very little, but he clung to her, with an odd, + lost air: the look of a child who has been slapped in the face, and cannot + understand why. + </p> + <p> + She was so much smaller than he, like a diminutive, sturdy steam-tug; and + yet if she could have carried him, she would have done so. + </p> + <p> + As it was, she threw her whole heart and soul into guiding, comforting; + thinking of a hundred things at once, her soft mouth folded tight with + anxiety.—How to prevent him from feeling shamed before his mother: + how to keep the trouble away from her: though at the back of her own mind + was a feeling—and she had an idea that it would be at the back of + old Mrs. Cohen's also—of immense relief, of some load gone: almost + as though her child had been through a bad attack of scarlet-fever, or + something which one does not take twice. + </p> + <p> + With all this, there was the thought of what she would step out and buy + for their supper, if the fried-fish shop were still open; all she would do + and say to cheer them. + </p> + <p> + As for Ben, the "Hammerclavier" was surging through his brain, carrying + the empty hall with it, those rows upon rows of empty seats—swinging + them to and fro so that he felt physically sick, as though he were at sea. + </p> + <p> + Quite suddenly, as they got out of the last tram, the rain ceased. At the + worst it had been a mild night of velvety darkness and soft airs, the + reflection from the lamps swimming in a haze of gold across the wet + pavement; but now, just as they reached the end of his own street, the + black sky opened upon a wide sea of pinkish-amber and a full moon sailed + into sight. At the same moment, Ben's sense of anguished bewilderment + cleared away, leaving in its place a feeling of incalculable weariness. + </p> + <p> + To be back in his own home again—that was all he asked. "You'll stay + the night at our place, Jenny?" "Yes; I promised your mother." Her brow + knitted, and then cleared again. Ah, well; that was all over: Ben would go + back to his regular job again; they would get married; then there would be + her money, too: no need for old Mrs. Cohen to do another hand's turn. + Plenty of time for her to rest now: all her life for resting in. + </p> + <p> + "Your mother." As she spoke Ben remembered, for the first time, actively + remembered, for of course it was his mother that he meant when he thought + of home. + </p> + <p> + "She wasn't there, Jenny! She wasn't there!" + </p> + <p> + "She was very busy, 'adn't not finished 'er work." Something beyond + Jenny's will stiffened within her. So he had only just realised it! She + tried not to remember, but she could not help it—the flushed face, + the glassy eyes: the whole look of a woman beaten, with her back against a + wall; condemning Ben by her very silence, desperate courage. + </p> + <p> + "Work?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, work." Jenny snapped it: hating herself for it, drawing him closer, + and yet unable to help it. "Why——" began Ben, and then stopped—horrified. + At last he realised it: perhaps it ran to him through Jenny's arm; perhaps + it was just that he was down on earth again, humble, ductile, seeing other + people's lives as they were, not as he meant to make them. + </p> + <p> + "Ter-night—workin'" + </p> + <p> + "All night; one the saeme as another." + </p> + <p> + "But why——" he began again; stopped dead, loosed his own arm + and caught hers. "All this while workin' like that! She works too hard. + Jenny, look here: she works too hard. And I—this damned music! Look + here, Jenny, it's got to stop! I'll never play a note again; she shall + never do a hard stroke of work again; never, never—not so long as + I'm here to work for her. All my life—ever since I can remember—washing + and ironing, like—like—the very devil!" + </p> + <p> + He pulled the girl along with him. "That was what I was thinking all the + time: to make a fortune so that you'd both have everything you wanted, a + big house, servants, motors, silk dresses——And all the time + letting you both work yourselves to death! But this is the end; no more of + that. To be happy—that's all that matters—sort of everyday + happiness. + </p> + <p> + "No more of that beastly washing, ironing—it's the end of that, + anyhow. When I'm back at the timber-yard——" + </p> + <p> + He was like a child again, planning; they almost ran down the street. "No + more o' that damned washin' and ironin'—no more work——" + </p> + <p> + True! How true! The street door opened straight into the little kitchen. + She was not in bed, for the light was still burning; they could see it at + either side of the blind, shrunk crooked with steam. There was one step + down into the kitchen; but for all that, the door would not open when they + raised the latch and pushed it, stuck against something. + </p> + <p> + "Some of those beastly old clothes!" Ben shoved it, hailing his mother. + "Mother! Mother, you've got something stuck against the door." Odd that + she did not come to his help, quick as she always was. + </p> + <p> + After all, it gave way too suddenly for him to altogether realise the + oddness; and he stumbled forward right across the kitchen, seeing nothing + until he turned and faced Jenny still standing upon the step, staring + downward, with an ashy-white face, wide eyes fixed upon old Mrs. Cohen, + who lay there at her feet, resting—incomprehensibly resting. + </p> + <p> + They need not have been so emphatic about it all—"No more beastly + washing, no more work"—for the whole thing was out of their hands + once and for all. + </p> + <p> + She had fallen across the doorway, a flat-iron still in her hand—the + weapon with which she had fought the world, kept the wolf from that same + door—all the strain gone out of her face, a little twisted to the + left side, and oddly smiling. One child's pinafore was still unironed; the + rest were folded, finished. + </p> + <p> + They raised her between them, laid her upon her bed. It was Jenny who + washed her, wrapped her in clean linen—no one else should touch her; + Ben who sat by her, with hardly a break, until the day that she was + buried, wiped out with self-reproach, grief; desolate as any child, sodden + with tears. + </p> + <p> + He collected all his music into a pile, the day before the funeral, gave + it to Jenny to put under the copper—a burnt-offering. + </p> + <p> + "If it hadn't been for that, she might be here now. I don't want ever to + see it again—ever to hear a note of it!" That was what he said. + </p> + <p> + Jenny went back to the house with him after the funeral: she was going to + give him his tea, and then return to her own room. In a week they were to + be married, and she would be with him for good, looking after him. That + evening, before she left, she would set his breakfast, cut his lunch ready + for the morrow. By Saturday week they would be settled down to their + regular life together. She would not think about his music; pushed it away + at the back of her mind—over and done with—would not even + allow herself the disloyalty of being glad. And yet was glad, deeply glad, + relieved, despite her pride in it, in him: as though it were something + unknown, alien, dangerous, like things forbidden. + </p> + <p> + Two men were waiting at the door of the narrow slip of a house: the tall, + thin one with his overcoat still buttoned up to his chin, and another fat + and shining, with a top-hat, black frock-coat, and white spats. + </p> + <p> + "About that concert——" said the first man. + </p> + <p> + "We were thinking that if we could persuade you to play——" put + in the other. + </p> + <p> + "There was no one there," interrupted Ben roughly. His shoulders were + bent, his head dropped forward on his chest, poking sideways, his eyes + sullen as a child's. + </p> + <p> + "I was there," put in the first man, "and I must say, impressed——" + </p> + <p> + "Very deeply impressed," added the other; but once again Ben brushed him + aside. + </p> + <p> + "You were there—at my concert!" Jenny, standing a little back—for + they were all three crowded upon the tiny door-step—saw him glance + up at the speaker with something luminous shining through the darkness of + his face. "At my concert——! And you liked it? You liked it?" + </p> + <p> + "'Like' is scarcely the word." + </p> + <p> + "We feel that if you could be persuaded to give another concert," put in + the stout man, blandly, "and would allow——" + </p> + <p> + "I shall never play again—never—never!" cried Ben, harshly; + but this time the other went on imperturbably: "—allow us to make + all arrangements, take all responsibility: boom you; see to the + advertising and all that—we thought if we were to let practically + all the seats for the first concert go in complimentary tickets; get a few + good names on the committee—perhaps a princess or something of that + sort as a patroness—a strong claque" + </p> + <p> + "Of course, playing Beethoven—playing him as you played him the + other night. Grand-magnificent!" put in the first man realising the + weariness, the drop to blank indifference in the musician's face. "The + 'Hammerclavier' for instance——" + </p> + <p> + It was magical.—"Oh, yes, yes—that—that!" Ben's eyes + widened, his face glowed. He hummed a bar or so. "Was there ever anything + like it? My God! was there ever anything like it!" + </p> + <p> + Jenny, who had the key, squeezed past them at this, and ran through the + kitchen to the scullery, where she filled the kettle and put it upon the + gas-ring to boil; looked round her for a moment, with quick, darting eyes—like + a small wild animal at bay in a strange place—then drew a bucketful + of water, turned up her sleeves, the skirt of her new black frock, tied on + an old hessian apron of Mrs. Cohen's, with a savage jerk of the strings, + and dropping upon her knees, started to scrub the floor, the rough stone + floor. + </p> + <p> + "Men!—trapsin' in an' out, muckin' up a place!" + </p> + <p> + She could hear the murmur of men's voices in the kitchen, and through it + that "trapsin'" of other men struggling with a long coffin on the steep + narrow stairs. + </p> + <p> + On and on it went—the agonised remembrance of all that banging, + trampling; the swish of her own scrubbing-brush; the voices round the + table where old Mrs. Cohen had stood ironing for hours and hours upon end. + </p> + <p> + Then the door into the scullery was opened. For a moment or so she kept + her head obstinately lowered, determined that she <i>would</i> not look + up. Then, feeling her own unkindness, she raised it and smiled upon Ben, + who stood there, flushed, glowing, and yet too shame-faced to speak—smiled + involuntarily, as one must smile at a child. + </p> + <p> + "Well?" + </p> + <p> + "That—that—music stuff—I suppose it's burnt?" he began, + fidgeting from one foot to another, his head bent, ducking sideways, his + shoulder to his ear. + </p> + <p> + Her glance enwrapped him—smiling, loving, bitter-sweet. Things were + not going to be as she had thought; none of that going out regularly to + work, coming home to tea like other men; none of that safe sameness of + life. At the back of her calm was a fierce battle; then she rose to her + feet, wiped her hands upon her apron, stooped to the lowest shelf of the + cupboard, and drew out a pile of music. + </p> + <p> + "There you are, my dear. I didn't not burn it, a'cause Well, I suppose as + I sorter knowed all the time as you'd be wantin' it." + </p> + <p> + Children! Well, one knew where one was with children—real children. + But men, that was a different pair of shoes altogether—something you + could never be sure of—unless you remembered, always remembered, to + treat them as though they were grown-up, think of them as children. + </p> + <p> + "Now you taeke that an' get along back to yer friends an' yer playin', and + let me get on with my work. It'll be dark an' tea-time on us afore ever + I've time ter so much as turn round." + </p> + <p> + "That woman," said the fat, shining man, as they moved away down the + street, greasy with river-mist.—"Hang it all! where in the world are + we to get a taxi?—Common-place little thing; a bit of a drag on him, + I should think." + </p> + <p> + "Don't you believe it, my friend—that's the sort to give 'em—some'un + who will sort of dry-nurse 'em—feed em—mind 'em. That's the + wife for a genius. The only sort of wife—mark my word for it." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEVIL TO PAY — By MAX PEMBERTON + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Story-Teller</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + To say that the usually amiable Ambrose Cleaver was in the devil of a + temper would be merely to echo the words of his confidential clerk, John, + who, looking through the glass partition between their offices, confessed + to James, the office boy, that he had not seen such goings on since old + Ambrose, the founder of the firm, was gathered to his fathers. + </p> + <p> + "There won't be a bit of furniture in the place presently," said he, "and + I wouldn't give twopence for the cat when he's finished kicking her. This + comes of the women, my boy. Never have nothing to say to a woman until + you've finished your dinner and lighted your cigar. Many a good business + have I seen go into the Bankruptcy Court because of a petticoat before + lunch. You keep away from 'em if you want to be Lord Mayor of London, same + as Dick Whittington was." + </p> + <p> + James did not desire particularly to become Lord Mayor of London, but he + was greatly amused by his employer's temper. + </p> + <p> + "Never heard such language," said he—"and him about to marry her. + Why, he almost threw them jewels at her 'ead; and when she told him he + must have let the devil in by accident, he says as he was always glad to + see her friends. They'll make a happy couple, surely." + </p> + <p> + John shook his old dense head, and would express no opinion upon the + point. + </p> + <p> + "Misfortunes never come singly," said he. "Here's that Count Florian + waiting for him in the ante-room. Now that's a man I can't abide. If + anybody told me he was the devil, I'd believe him soon enough. A bad 'un, + James, or I don't know the breed. An evil man who seems to pollute the + very air you breathe." + </p> + <p> + James was not so sure of it. + </p> + <p> + "He give me half a crown for fetching of a cab yesterday, and told me to + go to the music-hall with it. He must have a lot of money, for he never + smokes his cigars more than half-way through, and he wears a different + scarf-pin every day. That's wot comes of observation, Mr. John. I could + tell you all the different pairs of trousers he's worn for the last three + weeks, and so I'm going to make my fortune as the advertisements say." + </p> + <p> + Mr. John would not argue about that. The bell of the inner office now + tinkled, and that was an intimation that the Count Nicholas Florian was to + be admitted to the Holy of Holies. So the old man hurried away and, + opening the sacred door with circumspection, narrowly escaped being + knocked down by an enraged and hasty cat—glad to escape that inferno + at any cost. + </p> + <p> + "You rang, sir?" + </p> + <p> + Ambrose Cleaver, thirty-three years of age, square-jawed, fair-haired, a + florid complexion and with a wonderful pair of clear blue eyes, admitted + that he did ring. + </p> + <p> + "And don't be so d——d slow next time," he snapped. "I'll see + the Count Florian at once." + </p> + <p> + The old man withdrew timidly, while his master mopped up the ink from the + pot he had broken in his anger. + </p> + <p> + "Enough to try the devil himself," was the sop that argument offered to + his heated imagination. "She knows I hate Deauville like poison, and of + course it's to Deauville she must go for the honeymoon. And she looks so + confoundedly pretty when she's in a temper—what wonderful eyes she's + got! And when she's angry the curls get all round her ears, and it's as + much as a man can do not to kiss her on the spot. Of course, I didn't + really want her to have opals if she thinks they're unlucky, but she + needn't have insisted that I knew about it and bought them on purpose to + annoy her. Good God! I wish there were no women in the world sometimes. + What a splendid place it would be to live in, and what a fine time the men + would have—for, of course, they are all the daughters of the devil + really, and that's why they make life too hot for us." + </p> + <p> + Mr. John entered at this moment showing in the Count, and so a very + cheerful argument was thus cut short. Ambrose pulled himself together and + suppressing, as best he could, any appearance of aversion from the caller + who now presented himself, he sat back in his chair and prepared to hear + "the tale." + </p> + <p> + Count Florian was at that time some fifty-nine years of age, dark as an + Italian and not without trace of an Eastern origin. Though it was early in + the month of May, he still wore a light Inverness cape of an ancient + fashion, while his patent-leather boots and his silk hat shone with the + polish of a well-kept mirror. When he laughed, however, he showed + ferocious teeth, some capped with gold, and in his eyes was a fiery light + not always pleasant to behold. + </p> + <p> + "A chilly morning," he began. "You have no fire, I see." + </p> + <p> + "You find it so?" queried Ambrose. "Well, I thought it quite warm." + </p> + <p> + "Ah," said the count, "you were born, of course, in this detestable + country. Do not forget that where I live there are people who call the + climate hell," and he laughed sardonically, with a laugh quite unpleasant + to hear. + </p> + <p> + Ambrose did not like such talk, and showed his displeasure plainly. + </p> + <p> + "The climate is good enough for me," he said. "Personally, I don't want to + live in the particular locality you name. Have a cigar and tell me why you + called—the old business, I suppose? Well, you know my opinion about + that. I want none of it. I don't believe it is honest business, and I + think that if we did it, we might all end in the dock. So you know my mind + before we begin." + </p> + <p> + The Count heard him patiently, but did not seem in any way disturbed. + </p> + <p> + "There is very little business that is honest," he said; "practically none + at all. Look at politics, the Church, art, the sciences—those who + flourish are the imposters, while your honest men are foolish enough to + starve in garrets. If a man will undertake nothing that is open to the + suspicion of self-interest, he should abandon all his affairs at once and + retire to a monastery, where possibly he will discover that the prior is + cheating the abbot and the cellarer cheating them both. You have a great + business opportunity, and if anybody suffers it is only the Government, + which you must admit is a pure abstraction—suggesting chiefly a + company of undiscovered rascals. The deal which I have to propose to you + concerns a sum of half a million sterling, and that is not to be passed by + lightly. I suggest, therefore, that at least you read the documents I have + brought with me, and that we leave the matter of honesty to be discussed + by the lawyers." + </p> + <p> + He laid upon the table a bundle of papers as he spoke, and lighted a + cigarette by lightly rubbing a match against the tip of the fourth finger + of his left hand. Ambrose felt strangely uneasy. A most uncanny suspicion + had come upon him while the man was speaking. He felt that no ordinary + human being faced him, and that he might in very truth be talking with the + devil. Nor would this idea quit him despite its apparent absurdity. + </p> + <p> + "You must have great influence, Count," he remarked presently—"great + influence to get such a valuable commission as this!" + </p> + <p> + The Count was flattered. + </p> + <p> + "I have servants in every country," he said; "the rich are always my + friends—the poor often come to me because they are not rich. Few who + know me can do without me; indeed, I may say that but for such men as I am + the world would not go on. I am the mainspring of its endeavour." + </p> + <p> + "And yet when I met you it was on the links above La Turbie." + </p> + <p> + The count laughed, showing his glittering teeth as any carnivorous animal + might have done. + </p> + <p> + "Ah, I remember. You met me when I was playing golf with a very saintly + lady. Latterly, I hear, she has ceased to go to church and taken to bobbed + hair. Women are strange creatures, Mr. Cleaver, but difficult, very + difficult sometimes. I have had many disappointments with women." + </p> + <p> + "You find men easier?" + </p> + <p> + "Indeed, there are few men who are not willing to go to the devil if the + consideration be large enough. A woman, on the other hand, is too often + the victim of her emotions. She will suffer eternal torment for the man + she loves, and she will cheat for him. But for the rest of us—nothing, + positively nothing at all; she is neither honest nor dishonest, she merely + passes us by." + </p> + <p> + "Ah," exclaimed Ambrose, a little wearily, "I wish I could think that + about my <i>fiancée</i>. She's just been up—that's why you find me + upset. I bought her opals, and, of course, she wants diamonds. You see, I + forgot she wasn't born in October." + </p> + <p> + The Count nodded his head in sympathy. + </p> + <p> + "I must have a little talk to her. I am sure we shall be good friends. + Miss Kitty Palmer, is it not? Forgive me, I read it in the newspapers—a + charming face but a little temper, I think. Well, well, there is no harm + in that. What a dull place the world would be but for a little temper! You + have much to be thankful for, Mr. Cleaver—very, very much. And now + this concession, by which you will make two hundred thousand pounds at a + very moderate estimate. There will be very little temper when you take + home that news. No woman is angry with a man who makes money, but she has + a great contempt for him who does not." + </p> + <p> + "Even if he made it dishonestly?" + </p> + <p> + "She does not care a snap of the fingers how he makes it, believe me." + </p> + <p> + "And afterwards, when he goes to prison——" + </p> + <p> + "Pshaw—only fools go to prison. If your foolish principles were made + the test, there would hardly be a free man in Mincing Lane. We should have + to lock up the whole City. Come, let me have your signature, and I will do + the rest. To refuse is madness. You are offered the chance of a lifetime." + </p> + <p> + Ambrose did not reply to him immediately. It had come to him suddenly that + this was the hour of a great temptation, and he sat very still, conscious + that his heart beat fast because of the evil that was near him. The Count + watched him, meanwhile, as a wild beast may watch its prey. The man's eyes + appeared to have turned to coals of fire; his fingers twitched; his teeth + were on edge—he had even ceased to smoke. + </p> + <p> + "Well?" he said at last, unable to suffer the silence any longer. + </p> + <p> + Ambrose rose from his chair and went over slowly to the great safe, which + stood in the corner of his office; he unlocked it and took some documents + from a shelf upon the right-hand side. The Count stood at his elbow while + he did so, and he could feel the man's breath warm upon his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a violent impulse overcame him. He swung round and seized the + fellow by the collar, and in an instant, endowed as it were with + superhuman strength, he hurled the man into the safe and turned the key + upon him. + </p> + <p> + "By heaven!" he cried, "but I have locked up the devil." + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Ambrose dismissed John, the man, and James, the boy, and told them he + would have no need of their services for some days. + </p> + <p> + "I am going away for a little holiday," he said. "The letters can await my + return. You may both go down to Brighton for a week, and I will pay your + expenses. It is right that you should have a little change of air more + than once a year, so away with you both, and don't let me hear of you + until Monday next." + </p> + <p> + James looked at John and John looked at James. Was their excellent + employer demented, then, or had they understood him incorrectly? + </p> + <p> + "Not," said John, when they were alone together, "that I particularly + wished to go to Brighton just now, but there you are. Half the pleasure in + life, my boy, is wanting to do things, and when you have to do them + without wanting it, even though they are pleasant things, somehow all the + savour has gone out of the salt, so to speak. But, of course, we shall + have to go, seeing that we couldn't tell Mr. Cleaver a lie." + </p> + <p> + James was a little astonished at that, for he had told thousands of lies + in his brief life, though now he really had no desire to tell one at all. + </p> + <p> + "I shall be glad to get away from here for a few days, any'ow," he said; + "it's so 'ot and close, and when you go near the safe in the other horfice + it's just as though you stood by a roaring fire. Good thing, Mr. John, + that the thing is fire-proof, or we might have the whole show burned down, + as Mr. Ambrose hisself was saying. 'Very 'ot for the time of year, James,' + says he, and 'burnin, 'ot,' says I. We'll find it cooler at Brighton, Mr. + John, and perhaps we can go to the pictures, though I'm fed up with all + them rotten stories about crooks and such like, and so are you, I'm sure." + </p> + <p> + Mr. John said that he was, though he was surprised at such an opinion + emanating from James. When they locked up the inner office—their + master being gone home—they discovered in the fire-grate the ashes + of what had been a formidable-looking document, and it really did seem as + though the concrete upon which the great safe stood had become quite hot, + but there was no visible sign of fire, and so they went off, wondering and + contented, but by no means in a mood of exhilaration, as properly they + should have been. + </p> + <p> + Ambrose had taken a cab at his own door, and his first visit was to the + Bond Street jeweller who had sold him the opals. + </p> + <p> + He was quite sure that he had shut up the devil in his office safe, and as + he drove it seemed to him that he became conscious of a new world round + about him, though just how it was new he could not have told you. + </p> + <p> + Everybody wore a look of great content—there was subdued laughter + but no real merriment—nor did any hasten as though he had real + business to do; while the very taxi-cabs drove with circumspection, and + actually waited for old ladies to cross the street before them. When his + own cab stopped he gave the man half a crown as usual; but the driver + called him back and pointed out his error. + </p> + <p> + "Excuse me, sir, eighteenpence is the fare with threepence for my + gratuity, that makes one and ninepence. So I have to give you ninepence + back, although I thank you all the same." + </p> + <p> + Ambrose pocketed the money, quite insensible of anything but the man's + civility, and entered immediately into the sanctum of the great jeweller. + He found that worthy a little distrait and far from any desire to do big + business. In fact, his first words told of his coming retirement from an + occupation which had enriched him during a good forty years of profit and + rarely of loss. + </p> + <p> + "The fact is, Mr. Cleaver, that I foresee the day coming when women will + wear no jewellery. Already the spirit of competition has passed, and it is + by competition and the pride of competition that this trade has + flourished. A woman buys a rope of pearls because another woman wears one. + Lady A cannot allow Lady B to have more valuable diamonds than she + possesses. Very few really admire the gems for their own sake, and when + you think of the crimes that have been committed because of them, the + envious passions they arouse, and the swindles to which they give birth, + then, indeed, we may wish that every precious stone lay deep at the bottom + of the sea." + </p> + <p> + "But, my dear sir, are you not thus banishing much beauty from the world—did + not the Almighty create precious stones for pretty women to wear?" + </p> + <p> + The jeweller shrugged his shoulders, sweeping aside carelessly some + priceless pearls that lay on the table before him. + </p> + <p> + "The Almighty created them to lie securely in their shells, or deep in the + caverns of the earth; for the rivers to wash them with sweet waters or the + lurid fire to shape them in the bowls of the mountains. The beauties given + us to enjoy are those upon which our eyes may light in the woodlands or + from the heights—the glory of the sunset, the stillness of the sea, + the thousand hues of a garden of flowers, or the cascade as it falls from + the mountain top. These things are common to all, but the precious stone + is too often for the neck or the fingers of the harlot and the + adventuress. No, sir, I shall retire from this business and seek out some + quiet spot where I can await with composure the solemn moment of + dissolution we all must face." + </p> + <p> + Ambrose was almost too astonished to speak. + </p> + <p> + "I admire your philosophy," he said at length, "but the fact is, that I + want a diamond ring and a rope of pearls and if——" + </p> + <p> + "Ah," said the old man interrupting him, "it is odd that you should speak + of pearls, for I have just been telling my partner here that whatever he + may do in the future, he will find pearls of little profit to him. What + with imitations and the 'cultured' article, women are coming already to + despise them. But even if you take your <i>fiancée</i> a diamond ring, + will she not merely say to herself: 'an excellent beginning, now what is + the next thing I can get out of him?' Be wise and cultivate no such spirit + of cupidity, foreign to a good woman's nature but encouraged by the men, + who, for vanity's sake, heap presents upon her. Take rather this little + cross, set with pure amethysts, the emblem of faith and so discover, my + dear sir, whether she loves the man or the jewel, for indeed but few women + love both, as all their story teaches us." + </p> + <p> + Ambrose took the cross and thanked the old man for his words of wisdom. + Another cab carried him on his way to Upper Gloucester Place where Kitty + Palmer then lived with her saintly mother—and as he went, he + reflected upon the jeweller's words. + </p> + <p> + "I'll put her to the proof," he said to himself, "if she likes this + twopenny halfpenny cross, she is a miracle among women. But, of course, + she won't like it and there'll be another scene. What a devil of a temper + she was in this morning and how she made the fur fly! If she's like that + now, I shall just take her into my arms and kiss her until she's done + fighting. After all, I wouldn't give sixpence for a woman who had no + spirit. It's their moods that make them so fascinating —little + devils that they are at their best!" + </p> + <p> + The arrival at the house cut short his ruminations and he hastened into + the well-known drawing-room and there waited impatiently while the maid + summoned Kitty from her bedroom. She came down immediately to his great + surprise—for usually she kept him waiting at least half an hour—and + her mood was strangely changed, he thought. A pretty, flaxen-haired, + blue-eyed, cream and white English type she was, but her chin spoke also + of determination and the eyes which could "look love to eyes that looked + again," upon occasion could also speak of anger which resented all + control. This afternoon, however, Kitty was as meek as a lamb. She had + become so utterly changed in an hour that Ambrose hardly knew her. + </p> + <p> + "My dear girl," he began, "I am so sorry that I lost my temper this + morning——" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, no—not you, Ambrose dear. It was I—of course it was + awfully silly and we won't go to Deauville if you don't want to. Let it be + Fontainebleau by all means—though really, it does not seem important + whether we do get married or don't while you love me. Love after all is + what matters, isn't it, Ambrose dearest?" + </p> + <p> + He had to say that it was, though he did not like her argument. When, with + some hesitation and not a little fear he showed her the little gold cross, + she admitted to his astonishment that it was one of the prettiest things + she had ever seen. + </p> + <p> + "Somehow," she said, "I do not seem to care much for jewellery now. It has + become so vulgar—the commoner the people, the more diamonds they + wear. I shall treasure this, darling—I'll wear it now at lunch. Of + course you are going to take me to lunch, aren't you? Suppose we go to the + Ritz grill-room, the restaurants are so noisy, and I know that you like + grill-rooms, don't you, dear?" + </p> + <p> + Ambrose said "yes" and they started off. Somehow he felt rather depressed + and he had to confess that Kitty—usually so smart—looked quite + shabby. She wore one of her oldest dresses and obviously had neither + powder on her face nor the lightest touch of the rouge which became her so + well. Moreover, she was listless beyond experience, and when he asked her + if she would go to the Savoy and dance that night, she answered that she + thought she would give up dancing altogether. It quite took his breath + away. + </p> + <p> + "Give up dancing—but, Kitty, you're mad about it!" + </p> + <p> + "No, dear, I was mad to be mad about it: but what good does it do to + anybody, just going up and down and round and round with a man you may + never see again. Surely we were not sent into the world to do that! Ask + the vicar of the parish what he thinks, or Doctor Lanfry, who is doing + such splendid work at the hospitals. I think we have to make good in life, + and dancing, surely, will not help us. So I mean to give it up, and + smoking and all horrid things. I'm sure you'll like me better for that, + dear; you know how jealous my dancing used to make you, but now you'll + never have any cause to be jealous again." + </p> + <p> + Ambrose did not know what to say. This seemed to him quite the flattest + lunch he had ever sat out with her, while, as for the people round about, + he thought he had never seen a duller lot. Perhaps, after all, he had been + a little hasty in shutting up the devil so unceremoniously, but it made + him laugh to think that the fellow would get no lunch anyway and that his + stock of cigars would hardly last him through the day. "And at any rate," + he argued, "the rascal will do no mischief to-day." + </p> + <p> + He drove Kitty to the King's New Hospital when the stupid meal was over—she + was visiting some old people there—and while he waited for her, he + met Dr. Lanfry himself and had a little chat with that benevolent old + gentleman. Naturally their talk concerned the hospital and he was not a + little surprised to find the worthy doctor altogether in an optimistic + mood. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," he said, "we shall have no need of these costly places. Disease is + disappearing rapidly from our midst. I see the day coming when men and + women will go untroubled by any ailment from the cradle to the grave. In + some ways, I confess the world will be poorer. Think of all the human + sympathy which human suffering awakens—the profound love of the + mother for the ailing child, the sacrifice of those who wait and watch by + the beds of the sick, the agony of parting leading to the eternal hope in + the justice of God. All these things, the world will miss when we conquer + disease, and the spirit will be the poorer for them. Indeed, I foresee the + day when men will forget the existence of God just because they have no + need to pray for those who suffer; the devil will have no work to do in + that day; but, who knows, humanity may be worse and not better because of + his idleness." + </p> + <p> + Ambrose agreed with him, though he would never have expressed such + sentiments to Kitty. He found her a little sad when she came out of the + ward, and it seemed that all the patients were so very much better that + they cared but little for her kindly attentions, and when she tried to + read to them, most of them fell asleep. So she went back to Ambrose and + asked him to drive to the vicarage where she hoped to see Canon Kenny, her + good pastor, and find out if he could tell her of some work of mercy to be + done. + </p> + <p> + "I feel," she said, "that I must find out the sorrow in the world, I must + help it." + </p> + <p> + "But suppose, my dear, that there isn't any sorrow——" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, then the world would not be worth living in, I should go out to the + islands of the Pacific and become a missionary. Do you know, Ambrose dear, + I've often thought of putting on boys' clothes and going to live in the + wilderness. A boy seems so much more active than a girl, and what does it + matter since sex no longer counts?" + </p> + <p> + He looked at her aghast. + </p> + <p> + "Sex no longer counts!" + </p> + <p> + "No," she said in the simplest way, "people will become too spiritual for + that. You will have to love me as though I were your sister, Ambrose——" + </p> + <p> + Ambrose gulped down a "d——n" and was quite relieved to find + himself presently in the study of the venerable canon, who was just + leaving England for a Continental holiday. He said that he was not tired, + but really there was very little work to do—and he added, with a + laugh: "It would almost appear, my children, as though some one had locked + up the devil and there was no more work left for us parsons." + </p> + <p> + "But that surely would be a great, good thing," exclaimed Ambrose, + astonished. + </p> + <p> + "In a way, yes," the canon rejoined, "but consider, all life depends upon + that impulse which comes of strife—strife of the body, strife of the + soul. I worship God believing He has called upon me to take my share in + fighting the evil which is in the world. Remove that evil, and what is my + inspiration? Beyond the grave, yes, there may be that sphere of holiness + to which the human condition contributes nothing—a sphere in which + all happiness, all goodness centres about the presence of the Eternal—but + here we know that man must strive or perish, must fight or be conquered—must + school his immortal soul in the fire of temptation and of suffering. So, I + say, it may even be a bad day for the world could the devil be chained in + bonds which even he could not burst. It might even be the loss of the + knowledge of the God by whom evil is permitted to live that good may + come." + </p> + <p> + This and much more he said, always in the tone of one who bared his head + to destiny and had a faith unconquerable. When they left him, Kitty + appeared to have made up her mind, and she spoke so earnestly that even + her lover could not argue with her. + </p> + <p> + "Ambrose, dear," she said, "I must see you no more, I shall devote my life + to good works. To-night I shall enter the Convent of the Little Sisters at + Kensington. It is a long, long good-bye, my dearest." + </p> + <p> + He did not answer her, but calling a taxi, he ordered the man to drive to + Throgmorton Street like the deuce. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + He had told James and John to go home, but to his annoyance he found them + still in the office and busy as though nothing extraordinary had happened. + Brushing by them, he dashed into the inner room and turned the key in the + lock of his safe. + </p> + <p> + "Come out!" he cried, but nobody answered him. + </p> + <p> + It was odd, but when he looked inside that massive room of steel, nobody + was to be discerned there. At the same instant, however, he heard the + Count's voice immediately behind him, and turning he discovered the man at + his elbow. + </p> + <p> + "Well?" asked the fellow. + </p> + <p> + So there he stood, exactly in the same attitude as Ambrose had left him + when he crossed the room to find the document. Indeed, the very same + cigarette was held by his evil-looking fingers, and it was clear that he + waited for the word which would signify acceptance of his contract. + </p> + <p> + "Good heavens," thought Ambrose, "I must have imagined it all." + </p> + <p> + He returned to his chair and tossed the paper across the table. + </p> + <p> + "I refuse to sign it," he said curtly, "you had better call on Alderman + Karlbard; he's a church-warden, a justice of the peace and a + philanthropist. He's your man and he's pretty sure to end in prison + anyway." + </p> + <p> + "Thank you for your introduction," said the Count quietly, and, bowing, he + withdrew with the same nonchalant air as he had entered. Trust the devil + to know when he is beaten. + </p> + <p> + Ambrose watched him go and then calling John, he asked what time it was. + </p> + <p> + "A quarter to one, sir," said that worthy. + </p> + <p> + "Just in time to lunch with Kitty," Ambrose thought. And then jumping up + as a man who comes by a joyous idea, he cried: "By Gad, what a row I mean + to have with her—the darling!" + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EMPTY ARMS — By ROLAND PERTWEE + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Ladies' Home Journal</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + There was a maroon wall paper in the dining-room, abundantly decorated + with sweeping curves unlike any known kind of vegetation. There were amber + silk sashes to the Nottingham lace curtains at the huge bow window and an + amber winding sheet was wrapped about the terra cotta pot in which a tired + aspidistra bore forth a yearly leaf. Upon the Brussels carpet was a + massive mahogany dining table, and facing the window a Georgian + chiffonier, brass railed and surmounted by a convex mirror. The + mantlepiece was draped in red serge, ball fringed. There were bronzes upon + it and a marble clock, while above was an overmantel, columned and + bemirrored, upon the shelves of which reposed sorrowful examples of + Doulton ware and a pair of wrought-iron candlesticks. It was a room + divorced from all sense of youth and live beings, sunless, grave, + unlovely; an arid room that bore to the nostrils the taint and humour of + the tomb. + </p> + <p> + From somewhere near the Edgware Road came the clot-clot of a late + four-wheeler and the shake and rumble of an underground train. The + curtains had been discreetly drawn, the gas turned off at the metre and an + hour had passed since the creaking of the old lady's shoes and the jingle + of the plate basket ascending the stairs had died away. A dim light from + the street lamp outside percolated through the blinds and faintly + illuminated the frame and canvas of a large picture hanging opposite the + mantlepiece. + </p> + <p> + It was a beautiful picture, a piece of perfect painting—three + figures in a simple curve of rocks, lit as it were by an afterglow of + sunset. In the centre was a little Madonna draped in blue and gold. Her + elbows were tight to her sides and her upturned palms with their tender + curving fingers were empty. It seemed almost as though they cradled some + one who was not there. Her mouth was pulled down at the corners, as is a + child's at the edge of tears, and in her eyes was a questing and + bewildered look. To her right, leaning upon a slender staff, was the + figure of St. John the Baptist, and upon his face also perplexity was + written. A trick brushwork had given to his eyes a changing direction + whereby at a certain angle you would say he was looking at the Madonna, + and again that he was following the direction of her gaze out into unknown + places. His lips were shaped to the utterance of such a word as "why" or + "where." It seemed as though the two were in a partnership of sorrow or of + search. + </p> + <p> + The third figure was of Saint Anne, standing a little behind and looking + upward. A strange composition, oddly incomplete, giving an impression of + sadness, of unrest and of loss irredeemable. + </p> + <p> + A clock was chiming the parts of an hour when the little Madonna stepped + from the frame and tiptoed across the room. To her own reflection in the + mirror opposite she shook her head in a sorrowful negative. She peeped + into a cupboard and behind the draperies of the mantlepiece, but there was + nothing there. She paused before an engraving of Raphael's Holy Family, + murmured "Happy Lady" and passed on. + </p> + <p> + On a small davenport table next to one of the two inexorable armchairs she + found the old lady's workbasket. That was a great piece of good fortune, + since nightly it was locked away with the tea, the stamps and other + temptations that might persuade a soul to steal should opportunity allow. + </p> + <p> + In the many years of her dwelling in the house, but three times only had + she found it unguarded. There are glorious possibilities in a workbasket. + Once she had found wool there, not carded, but a hank of it, soft, white + and most delicate to touch. To handle it had given her the queerest + sensation. She had shut her eyes, and it had seemed to weave itself into + the daintiest garments—very small, you understand, and with sleeves + no longer than a middle finger. But it was a silly imagining, for not many + days afterward, looking down from the canvas, she had seen the old lady, + with her clicking ivory needles, knit the wool into an ugly pair of bed + socks. + </p> + <p> + Quite a while she played in the basket that night. She liked the little + pearl buttons in the pill box, and the safety pins were nice too. Kind and + trustworthy pins they were to hide their points beneath smooth round + shields. She felt it would be good to take some of them back in one of her + empty hands and hide them in that little crevice of rock under the juniper + tree. + </p> + <p> + It was the banging of a front door opposite and the sound of running + footsteps that moved her to the window. She drew back the curtain and + peeped out across the way. There were lights in an upstairs window and a + shadow kept crossing and recrossing the blind. It was a nice shadow and + wore a head-dress like her own except that it was more sticky out. + </p> + <p> + The hall, too, showed a light, and, looking up the street, she saw a + maidservant, running very fast, disappear round the corner. After that + there was silence for a long time. In the street no one moved; it was + deserted, empty as the little Madonna's arms, and dark. A fine rain was + falling, and there were no stars. The sound of distant traffic had died + away. The last underground train had drilled its way through sulphurous + tunnels to the sheds where engines sleep. + </p> + <p> + She could not tell what kept her waiting at the window; perhaps it was the + moving shadow on the blind, perhaps a prescience, a sense of happenings + near at hand, wonderful yet frightening. A thousand other times she had + looked across the street in the dead of night, only to shake her head and + steal back sorrowfully to her canvas. But to-night it was different; there + was a feeling of promise, as though the question that she ever asked with + her eyes might at last be given an answer. + </p> + <p> + The front door opened a second time, and a man came out and, though he was + quite young, he looked older than the world. He was shaking and very + white; his hair was disordered and straggled across his brow. He wore no + collar, but held the lapels of his coat across his throat with trembling + fingers. Fearfully he looked up the street where the maid had gone, then + stamped his foot on the paving stones and with his free hand rubbed his + forehead and beat it with his knuckles. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, will he never come!" she heard him cry, and the words echoed through + her as though they had been her own. If it was a prayer he had uttered it + was swiftly answered; for at the moment the maid and a bearded man came + round the corner at a fast walk. The bearded man had a kind face and broad + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + She did not hear what passed between them; but the bearded man seemed + confident and comfortable and compelling, and presently he and the maid + went into the house, while the other man leaned against the railings and + stared out before him at a tiny star which had appeared in a crack between + the driven clouds. Lonely and afraid he looked, and strangely like + herself. The misery of him drew her irresistibly. Always before, she had + shunned the people of every day, having no understanding of their + pleasures or sorrows, seeing little meaning in their lives or deaths. But + here was a mortal who was different, who was magnetic, and, almost without + realising, she passed out of the house, crossed the road and stood before + him, the corners of her cloak draped across her arms. + </p> + <p> + He did not seem aware of her at once, and even when she spoke to him in + Italian of the Renaissance he did not hear. So she spoke again and this + time in English: "What is it?" + </p> + <p> + He started, rubbed his eyes, blinked at her and answered: "Hullo, who are + you?" + </p> + <p> + "What is it?" she repeated. "Have you lost something?" + </p> + <p> + "Don't—don't!" he pleaded. "Don't even suggest such a thing, little + lady." + </p> + <p> + "I won't. I only thought—and you looked so sad." + </p> + <p> + "Be all right directly. It's the waiting. Kind of you to stop and speak to + me." His eyes strayed over the gold and blue of her cloak. "Been to a + theatre?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head and looked up at him with a child's perplexity. + </p> + <p> + "A play?" he amended. + </p> + <p> + "I've no one to play with," she answered simply. "See!" And she held out + her empty arms. + </p> + <p> + "What's wrong then?" + </p> + <p> + "I don't know." She seemed to dwell on the last word. "I only thought—perhaps + you could tell me." + </p> + <p> + "Tell you what?" + </p> + <p> + "Help me to find it perhaps. It seemed as if you were looking, too; that's + why I came." + </p> + <p> + "Looking?" he repeated. "I'm waiting; that's all." + </p> + <p> + "Me too. But it's such a long time, and I get no nearer." + </p> + <p> + "Nearer to what?" + </p> + <p> + "Finding." + </p> + <p> + "Something you lost?" + </p> + <p> + "I think so. Must be. I'll go back now." + </p> + <p> + He put out a hand to stop her. "Listen," he said. "It'll be hours before I + shall know. I'm frightened to spend them alone. Be a friend, little lady, + and bear me company. 'Tisn't fair to ask, but if you could stay a little." + </p> + <p> + "I'll stay," she said. + </p> + <p> + "And will you talk to me?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes." + </p> + <p> + "Tell me a story then—just as if I were a kid, a child. A man isn't + much more these times." + </p> + <p> + At the word "child" her arms went out to him, but dropped to her sides + again as he said "a man." + </p> + <p> + "Come under the porch, where the rain won't spoil your pretty silk. That's + better. Now tell away." + </p> + <p> + They sat side by side, and she began to talk. He must have been listening + for other sounds, or surely he would have been bewildered at the very + beginning of what she told. + </p> + <p> + "It's hard to remember when one was alive, but I used to be—yes, + hundreds of years ago. I lived—can't remember very well; there was a + high wall all around, and a tower and a bell that rang for prayers—and + long, long passages where we walked up and down to tell our beads. Outside + were mountains with snow caps like the heads of the sisters, and it was + cold as snow within, cold and pure as snow. I was sixteen years old and + very unhappy. We did not know how to smile; that I learnt later and have + forgotten since. There was the skull of a dead man upon the table where we + sat to eat, that we might never forget to what favour we must come. There + were no pretty rooms in that house." + </p> + <p> + "What would you call a pretty room?" he asked, for the last sentence was + the first of which he was aware. + </p> + <p> + "I don't know," she answered. "I think a room with little beds, and wooden + bars across the window, and a high fender would be a pretty room." + </p> + <p> + "We have been busy making such a room as that," he said. "There's a wall + paper with pigs and chickens and huntsmen on it. But go on." + </p> + <p> + "There were iron bars to the window of my cell. He was very strong and + tore them out with his hands as he stood up on the saddle of his horse. We + rode into Florence as dawn broke, and the sun was an angry red; while we + rode his arm was around me and my head upon his shoulder. He spoke in my + ear and his voice trembled for love of me. We had thrown away the raiment + of the sisterhood to which I had belonged, and as I lay across the saddle + I was wrapped in a cloak as crimson as the sun." + </p> + <p> + "Been reading Tennyson, little lady?" asked the man. + </p> + <p> + She did not understand, and went on: "It was a palace to which he brought + me, bright with gold, mosaic and fine hangings that dazzled my eyes after + the grey they had been used to look upon. There were many servants and + richly clad friends, who frightened me with their laughter and the + boldness of their looks. On his shoulder he bore me into the great dining + hall, where they sat awaiting us, and one and all they rose to their feet, + leaping upon stools and tables with uplifted goblets and shouting toasts. + </p> + <p> + "The noise was greater than any I had heard before and set my heart + a-beating like the clapper of the convent bell. But one only stayed in his + chair, and his looks were heavy with anger. At him the rest pointed + fingers and called on him derisively to pay the wager and be glad. Whereat + he tugged from his belt a bag of gold which he flung at us as though with + the will to injure. But he who held me caught the bag in his free hand, + broke the sealed cord at the neck of it and scattered the coins in a + golden rain among the servants. + </p> + <p> + "After this, he set me by his side at the board, gave me drink from a + brimming goblet and quails cooked in honey from wild bees and silver + dishes of nectarines and passion fruit. And presently by twos and threes + the guests departed, singing and reeling as they went, and he and I were + left alone. Alone," she repeated shuddering. + </p> + <p> + "Did you hear anything?" said the young man, raising his head. "A cry, a + little cry? No? I can hear footsteps moving up and down. Doctors' boots + always creak. There! Listen! It was nothing. What were you saying?" + </p> + <p> + "Twice in the months that followed I tried to run away, to return to the + convent; but the servants whom I had counted my friends deceived me, and I + was brought back to a beating, brought back strapped to his stirrup iron + as I might have been a Nubian slave. Long since he had ceased loving me; + that lasted such a little while. He called me Madonna, as though it were a + term of shame, and cursed me for coldness and my nunnery ways. He was only + happy when he read in my face the fear I held him in. And I was always + afraid!" + </p> + <p> + "Afraid!" echoed the man. "Until to-night I was never afraid." + </p> + <p> + "And then my baby came, and I was not afraid any more, but contented all + through. I carried him always in my arms by day and night. So pink and + little and with a smile that warmed like sunshine." She paused and added + plaintively: "It's hard to remember when one was alive. My hands, my arms + have forgotten the feel of him." + </p> + <p> + "I wish," said the man, "I'd had a second opinion. It might have + frightened her though. Oh, heaven, how much longer! Don't mind me, little + lady. You're helping no end. You were speaking of baby. Yes!" + </p> + <p> + "He killed my baby," said the little Madonna, "because he had killed my + fear of him. Then being done with me, he threw me out in the streets + alone. I thought to end it that night, because my arms were empty and + nothing could be good again. But I could not believe the baby was indeed + gone; I thought if I searched I would find him in the course of time. + Therefore I searched the city from end to end and spoke with mothers and + peeped into nurseries and knocked at many doors. And one day a door was + opened by a man with great eyes and bronze hair swept back from his brow—a + good man. He wore a loose smock over his doublet, smeared with many + colours, and in his left hand he held a palette and brushes. When he saw + me he fell back a pace and his mouth opened. 'Mother of mercy!' he + breathed. 'A real Madonna at last!' His name was Andrea del Sarto, and he + was a painter." + </p> + <p> + "I am a painter, too," said the young man, forgetting his absorption at + the mention of a great name. + </p> + <p> + "He brought me into his room, which was bright with windows and a fire. He + bade me tell my story, and while I spoke never once did his eyes desert + me. When I had ended he rose and walked up and down. Then he took from a + chest a cloak of blue and gold and draped it round me. 'Stand upon that + throne, Madonna,' said he, 'and I will put an infant in your arms that + shall live down all the ages.' And he painted me. So with the child at my + breast, I myself had passed into the picture and found contentment there. + </p> + <p> + "When it was finished the great ones of many cities came to look upon it, + and the story of how I came to be painted went from mouth to mouth. Among + those who were there was he who had taken me from the nunnery, and, seeing + me in perfect happiness, a fury was born in him. + </p> + <p> + "I was hidden behind a hanging and watched the black anger rising up and + knotting his brow into ugly lines. He bought the canvas, and his servants + carried it away. But since the child was in my arms for all time it + mattered little to me. + </p> + <p> + "Then one night two men came to my lodging and without question took me + across the city and led me into the palace where I had lived with him. And + he came forward to meet me in the great hall. There was a mocking smile on + his lips and he pointed to a wall upon which a curtain was hanging. + </p> + <p> + "'I took away that child,' he said, 'because you valued it higher than the + love of man. Look now.' At a gesture a servant threw back the hanging and + revealed the picture. The babe was gone and my arms crooked to cradle him + were empty with the palms upturned. + </p> + <p> + "I died then—to the sound of his laughter I died, and, looking down + from the canvas, I watched them carry me away. And long into the night the + man who twice had robbed me of my child sat at the long table staring out + before him, drinking great draughts and sometimes beating the boards with + his bare fists. As dawn broke he clapped his hands and a servant entered. + He pointed at me with a shaking hand. 'Take it away,' he cried. 'To a + cellar, and let masons brick up the door.' He was weeping as they carried + me down to the dark beneath the house." + </p> + <p> + "What a strange being you are!" said the young man. "You speak as though + these were real memories. What happened to the picture then?" + </p> + <p> + "I lay in the dark for so long—hundreds of years, I think—and + there was nowhere I might look. Afterward I was found and packed in a box + and presently put upon the wall in the sad room, where everything is so + old that I shall not find him there. This is the furthest I have dared to + look. Help me find him, please! Won't you help me find him?" + </p> + <p> + "Why, little lady," he answered soothingly, "how shall I help? That's a + woman's burden that heaven isn't merciful enough to let a man share." He + stopped abruptly and threw up his head. "Did you hear that—there?" + </p> + <p> + Through the still, early morning air came a faint, reedy cry. + </p> + <p> + The young man was upon his feet, fiercely fitting a key into the lock. + </p> + <p> + The little Madonna had risen, too, and her eyes were luminous, like + glowworms in the dark. + </p> + <p> + "He's calling me," she cried. "He's calling." + </p> + <p> + "Mine," said the young man. + </p> + <p> + She turned to follow, but the door closed between them. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + To the firm of Messrs. Ridgewell, Ridgewell, Hitchcock and Plum was given + the task of disposing of the furniture and effects of the late Sabina + Prestwich, spinster, of 22a Cambridge Avenue, Hyde Park, W. + </p> + <p> + As Mr. Ridgewell, junior, remarked to Mr. Plum while engaged in compiling + the sale list and supplying appropriate encomiums to describe an upright + grand by Rubenthal, Berlin: "Victorian muck! Lucky if we clean up + two-fifty on the lot." + </p> + <p> + Mr. Plum was disposed to agree. "Though I must say," he added, "it + wouldn't surprise me if that picture was worth a bit. Half a mind to let + old Kineagie have a squint at it." + </p> + <p> + "Please yourself," responded Mr. Ridgewell, junior, "but to my mind it's + ten guineas for nix." + </p> + <p> + It was the chance discovery of an old document amongst a litter of + receipts and papers that persuaded them to engage an expert opinion. The + document stated that the picture had been discovered bricked up in a + Florentine cellar some fifty years before and had been successfully + smuggled out of Italy. But the man who found it died, and it passed with a + few other unvalued possessions to Sabina Prestwich, now deceased. + </p> + <p> + The result of Eden Kineagie's visit to the house in Cambridge Avenue was + the immediate transference of the canvas to Sotheby's Sale Rooms, a + concerted rush on the part of every European and American connoisseur, a + threatening letter from the Italian Foreign Office, some extravagant + bidding and the ultimate purchase of the picture for the nation, after a + heated debate on the part of twenty-two Royal Academicians and five + painters of the new school, who would have accepted death rather than the + letters; R.A., after their names. Extensive correspondence appeared in the + leading papers; persons wrote expressing the opinion that the picture had + never been painted by Del Sarto, that it was the finest example of his + work, that the price paid was a further example of government waste, and + that the money would have been better employed repairing the main road + between Croydon Town Hall and Sydenham High Street, the condition of which + constituted a menace to motor-cyclists. + </p> + <p> + For nearly ten days scarcely a single publication appeared that failed to + reproduce a comment or criticism upon the subject; but, strangely enough, + no single leader, writer or casual contributor remarked upon the oddness + of the composition or the absence of the Infant from the Madonna's arms. + In the course of time—that is to say, on the eleventh day—the + matter passed from the public mind, a circumstance explainable perhaps by + the decent interment of the canvas in the National Gallery, where it + affected no one save those mysterious folk who look at pictures for their + pleasure and the umbrellaless refugee who is driven to take shelter from + the fierceness of storms. + </p> + <p> + The little Madonna was placed upon a south wall, whence she could look out + upon a brave company. And sometimes people would pause to gaze at her and + then shake their heads. And once a girl said, "How sad she looks! I wonder + why." And once a little old lady with industrious hands set up an easel + before her and squeezed little twists of colour upon a palette, then + thought a long time and pursed her lips, and puzzled her brow and finally + murmured, "I could never copy it. It's so—so changing." And she, + too, went away. + </p> + <p> + The little Madonna did not dare to step from her frame at night, for other + mothers were at hand cradling their babes and the sound of her footfalls + might have wakened them. But it was hard to stay still and alone in that + happy nursery. She could see through an archway to the right a picture + Rubens had painted, and it was all aglow with babies like roses clustered + at a porch—fat, dimpled babies who rolled and laughed in aërial + garlands. It would have been nice to pick one and carry it back with her. + Yet perhaps they were not really mothers' children, but sprites and joys + that had not learned the way to nestle. Had it been otherwise surely the + very call of her spirit must have brought one leaping to her arms. + </p> + <p> + And then one day came a man and girl, who stopped before her. The girl was + half child, half woman, and the man grey and bearded, but with brave blue + eyes. It was seventeen years since the night she had stolen across the way + and talked with this man in his hour of terror, but time did not cloud the + little Madonna's memory with the dust of forgetfulness. + </p> + <p> + "That's the new Del Sarto," said the girl, who was reading from a small + blue book. "See, daddy?" + </p> + <p> + Then the man turned and looked at her, fell back a step, came forward + again, passed a hand across his mouth and gasped. "What is it?" asked the + girl. + </p> + <p> + He did not answer at once, then: "The night you were born——" + he said. "I'm certain.... It's—it's Del Sarto too! And the poor + empty arms. Just how she looked, and I closed the door on her." + </p> + <p> + "Daddy, what are you saying?" There was a frightened tone in the girl's + voice. + </p> + <p> + "It's all right, dear, don't mind me. I must find the keeper of the + gallery. Poor little lady! Run back home, tell your mother I may be late." + </p> + <p> + "But, daddy——" + </p> + <p> + "There are more things in heaven and earth," he began, but did not finish. + It seemed as though the Madonna's eyes were pleading to him, and it seemed + as if he could still hear her say, "Help me find him, please!" + </p> + <p> + He told his story to the Committee of the National Gallery and, to do them + credit, it was received with the utmost courtesy. + </p> + <p> + They did not require him to leave them while their decision was made. This + was arrived at by a mere exchange of glances, a nod answered by a tilt of + the head, a wave of the hand, a kindly smile; and the thing was done. + </p> + <p> + As the chairman remarked: "We must not forget that this gentleman was + living at the time opposite to the house in which the picture was hanging, + and it is possible that a light had been left burning in the room that + contained it. + </p> + <p> + "Those of us who are fathers—and I regret for my own part that I + cannot claim the distinction—will bear me out that the condition of + a man's mind during the painful period of waiting for news as to his + wife's progress is apt to depart from the normal and make room for + imaginings that in saner moments he must dismiss as absurd. There has been + a great deal of discussion and not a little criticism on the part of the + public as to the committee's wisdom in purchasing this picture, and I am + confident you will all agree with me that we could be responsible for no + greater folly than to work upon the canvas with various removers on the + bare hypothesis, unsupported by surface suggestion, that the Madonna's + arms actually contain a child painted in the first intention. For my own + part, I am well assured that at no period of its being has the picture + been tampered with, and it is a matter of no small surprise to me, sir, + that an artist of your undoubted quality and achievement should hold a + contrary opinion. We are, greatly obliged for the courtesy of your visit + and trust that you will feel after this liberal discussion that your + conscience is free from further responsibility in the matter. Good-day." + </p> + <p> + That was the end of the interview. Once again the door was slammed in the + little Madonna's face. + </p> + <p> + That night the man told his wife all about it. "So you see," he concluded, + "there is nothing more I can do." + </p> + <p> + But she lay awake and puzzled and yearned long after he had fallen asleep. + And once she rose and peeped into the room that used to be the nursery. It + was a changed room now, for the child had grown up, and where once pigs + and chickens and huntsmen had jostled in happy, farmyard disorder upon the + walls, now there were likenesses of Owen Nares and Henry Ainley, + obligingly autographed. + </p> + <p> + But for her the spirit prevailed, the kindly bars still ribbed the windows + and the sense of sleeping children still haunted the air. + </p> + <p> + And she it was who told the man what he must do; and although it scared + him a great deal he agreed, for in the end all good husbands obey their + wives. + </p> + <p> + It felt very eerie to be alone in the National Gallery in the dead of the + night with a tiny electric lamp in one's buttonhole and a sponge of + alcohol and turpentine in one's hand. While he worked the little Madonna's + eyes rested upon him and it could hardly have been mere fancy that made + him believe they were full of gratitude and trust. At the end of an hour + the outline of a child, faint and misty, appeared in her arms, its head, + circled by a tiny white halo, snuggling against the curve of her little + breast. + </p> + <p> + Then the man stepped back and gave a shout of joy and, remembering the + words the painter had used, he cried out, "I will put an infant in your + arms that shall live down all the ages." + </p> + <p> + He had thought perhaps there would come an answering gladness from the + Madonna herself and looked into her face to find it. And truly enough it + was there. Her eyes, which for centuries had looked questingly forth from + the canvas, now drooped and rested upon the baby. Her mouth, so sadly + downturned at the corners, had sweetened to a smile of perfect and serene + content. + </p> + <p> + But the men will not believe he washed away the sadness of her looks with + alcohol and turpentine. "I did not touch the head. I am certain I did + not," he repeated. + </p> + <p> + "Then how can you explain——" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, heaven!" he answered. "Put a child in any woman's arms." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LENA WRACE — By MAY SINCLAIR + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Dial</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1921, 1922 + </h3> + <p> + She arranged herself there, on that divan, and I knew she'd come to tell + me all about it. It was wonderful, how, at forty-seven, she could still + give that effect of triumph and excess, of something rich and ruinous and + beautiful spread out on the brocades. The attitude showed me that her + affair with Norman Hippisley was prospering; otherwise she couldn't have + afforded the extravagance of it. + </p> + <p> + "I know what you want," I said. "You want me to congratulate you." + </p> + <p> + "Yes. I do." + </p> + <p> + "I congratulate you on your courage." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, you don't like him," she said placably. + </p> + <p> + "No, I don't like him at all." + </p> + <p> + "He likes you," she said. "He thinks no end of your painting." + </p> + <p> + "I'm not denying he's a judge of painting. I'm not even denying he can + paint a little himself." + </p> + <p> + "Better than you, Roly." + </p> + <p> + "If you allow for the singular, obscene ugliness of his imagination, yes." + </p> + <p> + "It's beautiful enough when he gets it into paint," she said. "He makes + beauty. His own beauty." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, very much his own." + </p> + <p> + "Well, <i>you</i> just go on imitating other people's—God's or + somebody's." + </p> + <p> + She continued with her air of perfect reasonableness. "I know he isn't + good-looking. Not half so good-looking as you are. But I like him. I like + his slender little body and his clever, faded face. There's a quality + about him, a distinction. And look at his eyes. <i>Your</i> mind doesn't + come rushing and blazing out of your eyes, my dear." + </p> + <p> + "No. No. I'm afraid it doesn't rush. And for all the blaze—" + </p> + <p> + "Well, that's what I'm in love with, the rush, Roly, and the blaze. And + I'm in love, <i>for the first time</i>" (she underlined it) "with a man." + </p> + <p> + "Come," I said, "come." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, <i>I</i> know. I know you're thinking of Lawson Young and Dickey + Harper." + </p> + <p> + I was. + </p> + <p> + "Well, but they don't count. I wasn't in love with Lawson. It was his + career. If he hadn't been a Cabinet Minister; if he hadn't been so + desperately gone on me; if he hadn't said it all depended on me—" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," I said. "I can see how it would go to your head." + </p> + <p> + "It didn't. It went to my heart." She was quite serious and solemn. "I + held him in my hands, Roly. And he held England. I couldn't let him drop, + could I? I had to think of England." + </p> + <p> + It was wonderful—Lena Wrace thinking that she thought of England. + </p> + <p> + I said "Of course. But for your political foresight and your virtuous + action we should never have had Tariff Reform." + </p> + <p> + "We should never have had anything," she said. "And look at him now. Look + how he's crumpled up since he left me. It's pitiful." + </p> + <p> + "It is. I'm afraid Mrs. Withers doesn't care about Tariff Reform." + </p> + <p> + "Poor thing. No. Don't imagine I'm jealous of her, Roly. She hasn't got + him. I mean she hasn't got what I had." + </p> + <p> + "All the same he left you. And you weren't ecstatically happy with him the + last year or two." + </p> + <p> + "I daresay I'd have done better to have married you, if that's what you + mean." + </p> + <p> + It wasn't what I meant. But she'd always entertained the illusion that she + could marry me any minute if she wanted to; and I hadn't the heart to take + it from her since it seemed to console her for the way, the really very + infamous way, he had left her. + </p> + <p> + So I said, "Much better." + </p> + <p> + "It would have been so nice, so safe," she said. "But I never played for + safety." Then she made one of her quick turns. + </p> + <p> + "Frances Archdale ought to marry you. Why doesn't she?" + </p> + <p> + "How should I know? Frances's reasons would be exquisite. I suppose I + didn't appeal to her sense of fitness." + </p> + <p> + "Sense of fiddlesticks. She just hasn't got any temperament, that girl." + </p> + <p> + "Any temperament for me, you mean." + </p> + <p> + "I mean pure cussedness," said Lena. + </p> + <p> + "Perhaps. But, you see, if I were unfortunate enough she probably <i>would</i> + marry me. If I lost my eyesight or a leg or an arm, if I couldn't sell any + more pictures—" + </p> + <p> + "If you can understand Frances, you can understand me. That's how I felt + about Dickey. I wasn't in love with him. I was sorry for him. I knew he'd + go to pieces if I wasn't there to keep him together. Perhaps it's the + maternal instinct." + </p> + <p> + "Perhaps," I said. Lena's reasons for her behaviour amused me; they were + never exquisite, like Frances's, but she was anxious that you should think + they were. + </p> + <p> + "So you see," she said, "they don't count, and Norry really <i>is</i> the + first." + </p> + <p> + I reflected that he would be also, probably, the last. She had, no doubt, + to make the most of him. But it was preposterous that she should waste so + much good passion; preposterous that she should imagine for one moment she + could keep the fellow. I had to warn her. + </p> + <p> + "Of course, if you care to take the risk of him—" I said. "He won't + stick to you, Lena." + </p> + <p> + "Why shouldn't he?" + </p> + <p> + I couldn't tell her. I couldn't say, "Because you're thirteen ears older + than he is." That would have been cruel. And it would have been absurd, + too, when she could so easily look not a year older than his desiccated + thirty-four. + </p> + <p> + It only took a little success like this, her actual triumph in securing + him. + </p> + <p> + So I said, "Because it isn't in him. He's a bounder and a rotter." Which + was true. + </p> + <p> + "Not a bounder, Roly dear. His father's Sir Gilbert Hippisley. Hippisleys + of Leicestershire." + </p> + <p> + "A moral bounder, Lena. A slimy eel. Slips and wriggles out of things. + You'll never hold him. You're not his first affair, you know." + </p> + <p> + "I don't care," she said, "as long as I'm his last." + </p> + <p> + I could only stand and stare at that; her monstrous assumption of his + fidelity. Why, he couldn't even be faithful to one art. He wrote as well + as he painted, and he acted as well as he wrote, and he was never really + happy with a talent till he had debauched it. + </p> + <p> + "The others," she said, "don't bother me a bit. He's slipped and wriggled + out of their clutches, if you like.... Yet there was something about all + of them. Distinguished. That's it. He's so awfully fine and fastidious + about the women he takes up with. It flatters you, makes you feel so sure + of yourself. You know he wouldn't take up with <i>you</i> if you weren't + fine and fastidious, too—one of his great ladies.... You think I'm a + snob, Roly?" + </p> + <p> + "I think you don't mind coming <i>after</i> Lady Willersey." + </p> + <p> + "Well," she said, "if you <i>have</i> to come after somebody—" + </p> + <p> + "True." I asked her if she was giving me her reasons. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, if you want them. <i>I</i> don't. I'm content to love out of all + reason." + </p> + <p> + And she did. She loved extravagantly, unintelligibly, out of all reason; + yet irrefutably. To the end. There's a sort of reason in that, isn't + there? She had the sad logic of her passions. + </p> + <p> + She got up and gathered herself together in her sombre, violent beauty and + in its glittering sheath, her red fox skins, all her savage splendour, + leaving a scent of crushed orris root in the warmth of her lair. + </p> + <p> + Well, she managed to hold him, tight, for a year, fairly intact. I can't + for the life of me imagine how she could have cared for the fellow, with + his face all dried and frayed with make-up. There was something lithe and + sinuous about him that may, of course, have appealed to her. And I can + understand his infatuation. He was decadent, exhausted; and there would be + moments when he found her primitive violence stimulating, before it wore + him out. + </p> + <p> + They kept up the <i>ménage</i> for two astounding years. + </p> + <p> + Well, not so very astounding, if you come to think of it. There was Lena's + money, left her by old Weinberger, her maternal uncle. You've got to + reckon with Lena's money. Not that she, poor soul, ever reckoned with it; + she was absolutely free from that taint, and she couldn't conceive other + people reckoning. Only, instinctively, she knew. She knew how to hold + Hippisley. She knew there were things he couldn't resist, things like + wines and motor cars he could be faithful to. From the very beginning she + built for permanence, for eternity. She took a house in Avenue Road with a + studio for Hippisley in the garden; she bought a motor car and engaged an + inestimable cook. Lena's dinners, in those years, were exquisite affairs, + and she took care to ask the right people, people who would be useful to + Hippisley, dealers whom old Weinberger had known, and journalists and + editors and publishers. And all his friends and her own; even friends' + friends. Her hospitality was boundless and eccentric, and Hippisley liked + that sort of thing. He thrived in a liberal air, an air of gorgeous + spending, though he sported a supercilious smile at the <i>fioritura</i>, + the luscious excess of it. He had never had too much, poor devil, of his + own. I've seen the little fellow swaggering about at her parties, with his + sharp, frayed face, looking fine and fastidious, safeguarding himself with + twinklings and gestures that gave the dear woman away. I've seen him, in + goggles and a magnificent fur-lined coat, shouting to her chauffeur, + giving counter orders to her own, while she sat snuggling up in the corner + of the car, smiling at his mastery. + </p> + <p> + It went on till poor Lena was forty-nine. Then, as she said, she began to + "shake in her shoes." I told her it didn't matter so long as she didn't + let him see her shaking. That depressed her, because she knew she couldn't + hide it; there was nothing secret in her nature; she had always let "them" + see. And they were bothering her—"the others"—more than "a + bit." She was jealous of every one of them, of any woman he said more than + five words to. Jealous of the models, first of all, before she found out + that they didn't matter; he was so used to them. She would stick there, in + his studio, while they sat, until one day he got furious and turned her + out of it. But she'd seen enough to set her mind at rest. He was fine and + fastidious, and the models were all "common." + </p> + <p> + "And their figures, Roly, you should have seen them when they were + undressed. Of course, you <i>have</i> seen them. Well, there isn't—is + there?" + </p> + <p> + And there wasn't. Hippisley had grown out of models just as he had grown + out of cheap Burgundy. And he'd left the stage, because he was tired of + it, so there was, mercifully, no danger from that quarter. What she + dreaded was the moment when he'd "take" to writing again, for then he'd + have to have a secretary. Also she was jealous of his writing because it + absorbed more of his attention than his painting, and exhausted him more, + left her less of him. + </p> + <p> + And that year, their third year, he flung up his painting and was, as she + expressed it, "at it" again. Worse than ever. And he wanted a secretary. + </p> + <p> + She took care to find him one. One who wouldn't be dangerous. "You should + just see her, Roly." She brought her in to tea one day for me to look at + and say whether she would "do." + </p> + <p> + I wasn't sure—what can you be sure of?—but I could see why + Lena thought she would. She was a little unhealthy thing, dark and sallow + and sulky, with thin lips that showed a lack of temperament, and she had a + stiffness and preciseness, like a Board School teacher—just that + touch of "commonness" which Lena relied on to put him off. She wore a + shabby brown skirt and a yellowish blouse. Her name was Ethel Reeves. + </p> + <p> + Lena had secured safety, she said, in the house. But what was the good of + that, when outside it he was going about everywhere with Sybil Fermor? She + came and told me all about it, with a sort of hope that I'd say something + either consoling or revealing, something that she could go on. + </p> + <p> + "<i>You</i> know him, Roly," she said. + </p> + <p> + I reminded her that she hadn't always given me that credit. + </p> + <p> + "<i>I</i> know how he spends his time," she said. "How do you know?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, for one thing, Ethel tells me." + </p> + <p> + "How does she know?" + </p> + <p> + "She—she posts the letters." + </p> + <p> + "Does she read them?" + </p> + <p> + "She needn't. He's too transparent." + </p> + <p> + "Lena, do you use her to spy on him?" I said. + </p> + <p> + "Well," she retorted, "if he uses her—" + </p> + <p> + I asked her if it hadn't struck her that Sybil Fermor might be using him? + </p> + <p> + "Do you mean—as a <i>paravent</i>? Or," she revised it, "a + parachute?" + </p> + <p> + "For Bertie Granville," I elucidated. "A parachute, by all means." + </p> + <p> + She considered it. "It won't work," she said. "If it's her reputation + she's thinking of, wouldn't Norry be worse?" + </p> + <p> + I said that was the beauty of him, if Letty Granville's attention was to + be diverted. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, Roly," she said, "do you really think it's that?" I said I did, and + she powdered her nose and said I was a dear and I'd bucked her up no end, + and went away quite happy. + </p> + <p> + Letty Granville's divorce suit proved to her that I was right. + </p> + <p> + The next time I saw her she told me she'd been mistaken about Sybil + Fermor. It was Lady Hermione Nevin. Norry had been using Sybil as a "<i>paravent</i>" + for <i>her</i>. I said she was wrong again. Didn't she know that Hermione + was engaged to Billy Craven? They were head over ears in love with each + other. I asked her what on earth had made her think of her? And she said + Lady Hermione had paid him thirty guineas for a picture. That looked, she + said, as if she was pretty far gone on him. (She tended to disparage + Hippisley's talents. Jealousy again.) + </p> + <p> + I said it looked as if he had the iciest reasons for cultivating Lady + Hermione. And again she told me I was a dear. "You don't know, Roly, what + a comfort you are to me." + </p> + <p> + Then Barbara Vining turned up out of nowhere, and from the first minute + Lena gave herself up for lost. + </p> + <p> + "I'm done for," she said. "I'd fight her if it was any good fighting. But + what chance have I? At forty-nine against nineteen, and that face?" + </p> + <p> + The face was adorable if you adore a child's face on a woman's body. Small + and pink; a soft, innocent forehead; fawn skin hair, a fawn's nose, a + fawn's mouth, a fawn's eyes. You saw her at Lena's garden parties, staring + at Hippisley over the rim of her plate while she browsed on Lena's cakes + and ices, or bounding about Lena's tennis court with the sash ribbons + flying from her little butt end. + </p> + <p> + Oh, yes; she had her there. As much as he wanted. And there would be Ethel + Reeves, in a new blouse, looking on from a back seat, subtle and sullen, + or handing round cups and plates without speaking to anybody, like a + servant. I used to think she spied on them for Lena. They were always + mouthing about the garden together or sitting secretly in corners; Lena + even had her to stay with them, let him take her for long drives in her + car. She knew when she was beaten. + </p> + <p> + I said, "Why do you let him do it, Lena? Why don't you turn them both neck + and crop out of the house?" "Because I want him in it. I want him at any + cost. And I want him to have what he wants, too, even if it's Barbara. I + want him to be happy.... I'm making a virtue of necessity. It can be done, + Roly, if you give up beautifully." + </p> + <p> + I put it to her it wasn't giving up beautifully to fret herself into an + unbecoming illness, to carry her disaster on her face. She would come to + me looking more ruined than ruinous, haggard and ashy, her eyes all shrunk + and hot with crying, and stand before the glass, looking at herself and + dabbing on powder in an utter abandonment to misery. + </p> + <p> + "I know," she moaned. "As if losing him wasn't enough I must go and lose + my looks. I know crying's simply suicidal at my age, yet I keep on at it. + I'm doing for myself. I'm digging my own grave, Roly. A little deeper + every day." + </p> + <p> + Then she said suddenly, "Do you know, you're the only man in London I + could come to looking like this." + </p> + <p> + I said, "Isn't that a bit unkind of you? It sounds as though you thought I + didn't matter." + </p> + <p> + She broke down on that. "Can't you see it's because I know I don't any + more? Nobody cares whether my nose is red or not. But you're not a brute. + You don't let me feel I don't matter. I know I never did matter to you, + Roly, but the effect's soothing, all the same.... Ethel says if she were + me she wouldn't stand it. To have it going on under my nose. Ethel is so + high-minded. I suppose it's easy to be high-minded if you've always looked + like that. And if you've never <i>had</i> anybody. She doesn't know what + it is. I tell you, I'd rather have Norry there with Barbara than not have + him at all." + </p> + <p> + I thought and said that would just about suit Hippisley's book. He'd + rather be there than anywhere else, since he had to be somewhere. To be + sure she irritated him with her perpetual clinging, and wore him out. I've + seen him wince at the sound of her voice in the room. He'd say things to + her; not often, but just enough to see how far he could go. He was afraid + of going too far. He wasn't prepared to give up the comfort of Lena's + house, the opulence and peace. There wasn't one of Lena's wines he could + have turned his back on. After all, when she worried him he could keep + himself locked up in the studio away from her. + </p> + <p> + There was Ethel Reeves; but Lena didn't worry about his being locked up + with <i>her</i>. She was very kind to Hippisley's secretary. Since she + wasn't dangerous, she liked to see her there, well housed, eating rich + food, and getting stronger and stronger every day. + </p> + <p> + I must say my heart bled for Lena when I thought of young Barbara. It was + still bleeding when one afternoon she walked in with her old triumphant + look; she wore her hat with an <i>air crâne</i>, and the powder on her + face was even and intact, like the first pure fall of snow. She looked ten + years younger and I judged that Hippisley's affair with Barbara was at an + end. + </p> + <p> + Well—it had never had a beginning; nor the ghost of a beginning. It + had never happened at all. She had come to tell me that: that there was + nothing in it; nothing but her jealousy; the miserable, damnable jealousy + that made her think things. She said it would be a lesson to her to trust + him in the future not to go falling in love. For, she argued, if he hadn't + done it this time with Barbara, he'd never do it. + </p> + <p> + I asked her how she knew he hadn't, this time, when appearances all + pointed that way? And she said that Barbara had come and told her. + Somebody, it seemed, had been telling Barbara it was known that she'd + taken Hippisley from Lena, and that Lena was crying herself into a nervous + break-down. And the child had gone straight to Lena and told her it was a + beastly lie. She hadn't taken Hippisley. She liked ragging with him and + all that, and being seen about with him at parties, because he was a + celebrity and it made the other women, the women he wouldn't talk to, + furious. But as for taking him, why, she wouldn't take him from anybody as + a gift. She didn't want him, a scrubby old thing like that. She didn't <i>like</i> + that dragged look about his mouth and the way the skin wrinkled on his + eyelids. There was a sincerity about Barbara that would have blasted + Hippisley if he'd known. + </p> + <p> + Besides, she wouldn't have hurt Lena for the world. She wouldn't have + spoken to Norry if she'd dreamed that Lena minded. But Lena had seemed so + remarkably not to mind. When she came to that part of it she cried. + </p> + <p> + Lena said that was all very well, and it didn't matter whether Barbara was + in love with Norry or not; but how did she know Norry wasn't in love with + <i>her</i>? And Barbara replied amazingly that of course she knew. They'd + been alone together. + </p> + <p> + When I remarked that it was precisely <i>that</i>, Lena said, No. That was + nothing in itself; but it would prove one way or another; and it seemed + that when Norry found himself alone with Barbara, he used to yawn. + </p> + <p> + After that Lena settled down to a period of felicity. She'd come to me, + excited and exulting, bringing her poor little happiness with her like a + new toy. She'd sit there looking at it, turning it over and over, and + holding it up to me to show how beautiful it was. + </p> + <p> + She pointed out to me that I had been wrong and she right about him, from + the beginning. She knew him. "And to think what a fool, what a damned + silly fool I was, with my jealousy. When all those years there was never + anybody but me. Do you remember Sybil Fermor, and Lady Hermione—and + Barbara? To think I should have so clean forgotten what he was like.... + Don't you think, Roly, there must be something in me, after all, to have + kept him all those years?" + </p> + <p> + I said there must indeed have been, to have inspired so remarkable a + passion. For Hippisley was making love to her all over again. Their happy + relations were proclaimed, not only by her own engaging frankness, but + still more by the marvellous renaissance of her beauty. She had given up + her habit of jealousy as she had given up eating sweets, because both were + murderous to her complexion. Not that Hippisley gave her any cause. He had + ceased to cultivate the society of young and pretty ladies, and devoted + himself with almost ostentatious fidelity to Lena. Their affair had become + irreproachable with time; it had the permanence of a successful marriage + without the unflattering element of legal obligation. And he had kept his + secretary. Lena had left off being afraid either that Ethel would leave or + that Hippisley would put some dangerous woman in her place. + </p> + <p> + There was no change in Ethel, except that she looked rather more subtle + and less sullen. Lena ignored her subtlety as she had ignored her sulks. + She had no more use for her as a confidant and spy, and Ethel lived in a + back den off Hippisley's study with her Remington, and displayed a + convenient apathy in allowing herself to be ignored. + </p> + <p> + "Really," Lena would say in the unusual moments when she thought of her, + "if it wasn't for the clicking, you wouldn't know she was there." + </p> + <p> + And as a secretary she maintained, up to the last, an admirable + efficiency. + </p> + <p> + Up to the last. + </p> + <p> + It was Hippisley's death that ended it. You know how it happened—suddenly, + of heart failure, in Paris. He'd gone there with Furnival to get material + for that book they were doing together. Lena was literally "prostrated" + with the shock; and Ethel Reeves had to go over to Paris to bring back his + papers and his body. + </p> + <p> + It was the day after the funeral that it all came out. Lena and Ethel were + sitting up together over the papers and the letters, turning out his + bureau. I suppose that, in the grand immunity his death conferred on her, + poor Lena had become provokingly possessive. I can hear her saying to + Ethel that there had never been anybody but her, all those years. Praising + his faithfulness; holding out her dead happiness, and apologizing to Ethel + for talking about it when Ethel didn't understand, never having had any. + </p> + <p> + She must have said something like that, to bring it on herself, just then, + of all moments. + </p> + <p> + And I can see Ethel Reeves, sitting at his table, stolidly sorting out his + papers, wishing that Lena'd go away and leave her to her work. And her + sullen eyes firing out questions, asking her what she wanted, what she had + to do with Norman Hippisley's papers, what she was there for, fussing + about, when it was all over? + </p> + <p> + What she wanted—what she had come for—was her letters. They + were locked up in his bureau in the secret drawer. + </p> + <p> + She told me what had happened then. Ethel lifted her sullen, subtle eyes + and said, "You think he kept them?" + </p> + <p> + She said she knew he'd kept them. They were in that drawer. + </p> + <p> + And Ethel said, "Well then, he didn't. They aren't. He burnt them. <i>We</i> + burnt them.... We could, at least, get rid of <i>them</i>!" + </p> + <p> + Then she threw it at her. She had been Hippisley's mistress for three + years. + </p> + <p> + When Lena asked for proofs of the incredible assertion she had <i>her</i> + letters to show. + </p> + <p> + Oh, it was her moment. She must have been looking out for it, saving up + for it, all those years; gloating over her exquisite secret, her return + for all the slighting and ignoring. That was what had made her poisonous, + the fact that Lena hadn't reckoned with her, hadn't thought her dangerous, + hadn't been afraid to leave Hippisley with her, the rich, arrogant + contempt in her assumption that Ethel would "do" and her comfortable + confidences. It made her amorous and malignant. It stimulated her to the + attempt. + </p> + <p> + I think she must have hated Lena more vehemently than she loved Hippisley. + She couldn't, <i>then</i>, have had much reliance on her power to capture; + but her hatred was a perpetual suggestion. + </p> + <p> + Supposing—supposing she were to try and take him? + </p> + <p> + Then she had tried. + </p> + <p> + I daresay she hadn't much difficulty. Hippisley wasn't quite so fine and + fastidious as Lena thought him. I've no doubt he liked Ethel's + unwholesomeness, just as he had liked the touch of morbidity in Lena. + </p> + <p> + And the spying? That had been all part of the game; his and Ethel's. <i>They</i> + played for safety, if you like. They had <i>had</i> to throw Lena off the + scent. They used Sybil Fermor and Lady Hermione and Barbara Vining, one + after the other, as their <i>paravents</i>. Finally they had used Lena. + That was their cleverest stroke. It brought them a permanent security. + For, you see, Hippisley wasn't going to give up his free quarters, his + studio, the dinners and the motor car, if he could help it. Not for Ethel. + And Ethel knew it. They insured her, too. + </p> + <p> + Can't you see her, letting herself go in an ecstasy of revenge, winding up + with a hysterical youp? "You? You thought it was you? It was me—<i>me</i>—ME.... + You thought what we meant you to think." + </p> + <p> + Lena still comes and talks to me. To hear her you would suppose that + Lawson Young and Dickey Harper never existed, that her passion for Norman + Hippisley was the unique, solitary manifestation of her soul. It certainly + burnt with the intensest flame. It certainly consumed her. What's left of + her's all shrivelled, warped, as she writhed in her fire. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday she said to me, "Roly, I'm <i>glad</i> he's dead. Safe from her + clutches." + </p> + <p> + She'll cling for a little while to this last illusion: that he had been + reluctant; but I doubt if she really believes it now. + </p> + <p> + For you see, Ethel flourishes. In passion, you know, nothing succeeds like + success; and her affair with Norman Hippisley advertised her, so that very + soon it ranked as the first of a series of successes. She goes about + dressed in stained-glass futurist muslins, and contrives provocative + effects out of a tilted nose, and sulky eyes, and sallowness set off by a + black velvet band on the forehead, and a black scarf of hair dragged tight + from a raking backward peak. + </p> + <p> + I saw her the other night sketching a frivolous gesture— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DICE THROWER — By SIDNEY SOUTHGATE + </h2> + <h3> + (Thomas Moult) + </h3> + <p> + (From <i>Colour</i>) + </p> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + Hunger is the most poignant when it has forced physical suffering to the + highest point without impairing the mental functions. Thus it was with + Silas Carringer, a young man of uncommonly high spirit, when he found + himself a total stranger in a ramshackle Mexican city one rainy night in + November. In his possession remained not a single article that he might + have pawned for a morsel of food. And he had already stripped his body of + every shred of clothing except the few garments he was compelled by an + inborn sense of the fitness of things to retain. Bodily starvation, as a + consequence, was added to hunger, and his misery was complete. + </p> + <p> + It chanced that an extraordinary happening awaited Silas Carringer that + night in Mexico; otherwise he would either have drowned himself in the + river within twenty-four hours or died of pneumonia within three days. He + had been without food for seventy hours, and his mental desperation had + driven him far in its race with his physical needs to consume the + remaining strength of his emaciated body. Pale, weak, and tottering, he + took what comfort he could find in the savoury odours which came streaming + up from the basement kitchens of the restaurants in the main streets. He + lacked the courage to beg or steal. For he had been reared as a gentleman, + and was accordingly out of place in the world. + </p> + <p> + His teeth chattered, his eyes had dark, ugly lines under them, he + shambled, stooped, and gasped. He was too desperate to curse his fate—he + could only long for food. He could not reason. He could not reflect. He + could not understand that there were pitying hands somewhere that might + gladly have succoured him. He could think only of the hunger which + consumed him, of the food that could give him warmth and comparative + happiness. + </p> + <p> + Staggering along the streets, he came at last to a restaurant a little way + from the main thoroughfares. Stopping before the window, he stared + greedily at the steaks within, thick and juicy and lined with big, fat + oysters lying on ice; at the slices of ham as large as his hat; at the + roasted chickens, brown and ready for the table; and he ground his teeth, + groaned, and staggered on. + </p> + <p> + A few steps onward was a drinking saloon. At one side of it was a private + door with the words "Family entrance" painted thereon. And in the recess + of the door (which was closed) there stood the dark figure of a man. + </p> + <p> + In spite of his own agony, Carringer saw something which appalled him in + the stranger's face as the street light fell upon it; and yet at the same + time he was fascinated. Perhaps it was the unspeakable anguish of those + features that appealed to the starving man's sympathy, and he came to an + uncertain halt at the doorway and stared rudely upon the stranger. At + first the man did not notice him, seeming to look straight out into the + street with a curious fixity of expression, and the death-like pallor of + his face sent a chill through Carringer's limbs, chilled nigh to stone + though they were already. + </p> + <p> + The stranger caught sight of him at last. "Ah," he said slowly, and with + peculiar clearness, "the rain has caught you too, without overcoat or + umbrella. Stand in this doorway—there is room for two." + </p> + <p> + The voice was not unkind, though it sounded strangely harsh. It was the + first word that had been addressed to Carringer since hunger possessed + him, and to be spoken to at all gave him cheer. So he took his place in + the doorway beside the mysterious stranger, who at once relapsed into his + fixed gaze at nothingness across the street. + </p> + <p> + "It may rain for a long time," he said presently, stirring himself. "I am + cold, and I can feel you trembling and shivering. Let us step inside and + drink." + </p> + <p> + He turned and opened the door. Carringer followed, hope slowly warming his + chilled heart. The pale stranger led the way into one of the little + private compartments with which the place was fitted. Before sitting down + he drew from his pocket a roll of bank bills. + </p> + <p> + "You are younger than I," he said to Carringer. "Will you go to the bar + and buy a bottle of absinthe, and bring also a pitcher of water and some + glasses? I don't like the waiters hanging round. Here is a twenty-dollar + bill." + </p> + <p> + Carringer took the money and started down the corridor towards the bar. He + clutched the sudden wealth in his hand tightly. It felt warm and + comfortable, sending a delicious tingling sensation through his arm. How + many glorious meals did not the money represent? He could smell an + imaginary steak, broiled, with fat mushrooms and melted butter in the + steaming dish. Then he paused and looked stealthily backward to where he + had left the stranger. Why not slip away while he had the opportunity—away + from the drinking saloon with the money, to the restaurant he had passed + half-an-hour ago, and buy something to eat? It was risky, but.... He + hesitated, and the coward in him (there are other names than this) + triumphed. He went straight to the bar as the stranger had requested, and + ordered the liquor. + </p> + <p> + His step was weaker as he returned to the compartment. The stranger was + sitting at the little table, staring at the opposite wall just as he had + stared across the street. He wore a wide-brimmed slouch hat, pulled well + over his eyes. Carringer could only vaguely take the measure of the man's + face. + </p> + <p> + It was only after Carringer had set the bottle and the glasses on the + table and seated himself opposite that the stranger noticed his return. + "Oh, you have brought it!" he exclaimed without raising his voice. "How + kind of you. Now please close the door." + </p> + <p> + Carringer was counting out the change from his pocket when the stranger + interrupted him. "Keep that," he said. "You will need it, for I am going + to win it back in a way that may interest you. Let us drink first, though, + and I will explain." + </p> + <p> + He mixed two drinks of absinthe and water, and the two men lifted their + glasses. Carringer had never tasted the liquor before, and it offended his + palate at first; but no sooner had it passed down his throat than he began + to feel warm again, and the most delicious thrills. He had heard of the + absinthe drinkers of Paris, and he wondered no longer at the deadly + fascination of the liquor—not realising that his extreme weakness + and the emptiness of his stomach made him peculiarly susceptible to its + effects. + </p> + <p> + "This will do us good," murmured the stranger, setting down his glass. + "Presently we shall have more. Meanwhile, tell me if you know how to play + with the dice." + </p> + <p> + Carringer replied that he did not. + </p> + <p> + "I was afraid that you might not," said the stranger. "All the same, + please go to the bar and bring a dice-box. I would ring for it," he + explained, seeing Carringer glance towards the bell, "but I don't want the + waiters coming in and out." + </p> + <p> + Carringer brought the dice-box, closed the door carefully again, and the + play began. It was not one of the simpler games, but had complications in + which judgment as well as chance played a part. After a game or two + without stakes, the stranger said: + </p> + <p> + "You have picked it up very quickly. All the same, I will show you that + you don't understand it. We will throw for a dollar a game, and in that + way I shall win the money that you received in change. Otherwise I would + be robbing you, and I imagine that you cannot afford to lose. I mean no + offence. I am a plain-spoken man, but I believe in honesty before + politeness." Here his face relaxed into a most fearful grin.... "I merely + want a little recreation, and you are so good-natured that I am sure you + will not object." + </p> + <p> + "On the contrary," replied Carringer politely, "I shall enjoy it." + </p> + <p> + "Very well; but let us drink again before we start. I believe I am growing + colder." + </p> + <p> + They drank again. Carringer took the liquor now with relish, for it was + something in his stomach at least, and it warmed and soothed him. Then the + play commenced. He won. + </p> + <p> + The pale stranger smiled quietly and opened another game. Again Carringer + won. + </p> + <p> + Then the stranger pushed back his hat, and fixed his quiet gaze upon his + opponent, smiling yet. Carringer obtained a full view of the man's face + for the first time, and it appalled him. He had begun to acquire a certain + self-possession and ease, and the novelty of the adventure was beginning + to pall before the new advances of his terrible hunger, when this + revelation of the man's face threw him back into confusion. + </p> + <p> + It was the extraordinary expression of the face that alarmed him. Never + upon the face of a living being had he beheld a pallor so chilling, so + death-like. The features were more than pale. They were ghastly as sunless + frost. Carringer's powers of observation had been sharpened by the + absinthe, and after having detected the stranger in an absent-minded + effort on several occasions to stroke a beard which had no existence, he + reflected that some of the whiteness of the face might be due to the + recent shaving and removal of a full beard. The eyes were black, and his + lower lip was purple. The hands were fine, white and thin, and black veins + bulged out upon them. + </p> + <p> + After gazing for a few moments at Carringer, the stranger pulled his hat + down over his eyes again. "You are lucky," he said, referring to the + success of his opponent. "Suppose we try another drink. There is nothing + to sharpen a man's wits like absinthe, and I see that you and I are going + to have a delightful game." + </p> + <p> + After the drink the play proceeded. Carringer won from the first, rarely + losing a game. He became greatly excited. Colour flooded his cheeks, and + he forgot his hunger. The stranger exhausted the little roll of bills + which he had first produced and drew forth another, much larger in amount. + There were several thousand dollars in the roll. + </p> + <p> + At Carringer's right hand were his winnings—something like two + hundred dollars. The stakes were raised, and the game went on. Another + drink was taken and then fortune turned to the stranger. He began to win + easily. Carringer was stung by these reverses, and began to play with all + the skill and judgment at his command. He took the lead again. Only once + did it occur to him to wonder what he should do with the money if he + continued to win. But a sense of honour decided for him that it belonged + to the stranger. + </p> + <p> + As the play went on Carringer's physical suffering returned with increased + aggressiveness. Sharp pains darted through him viciously, and he writhed + within him and ground his teeth in agony. Could he not order a supper with + his winnings, he wondered? No; it was, of course, out of the question. + </p> + <p> + The stranger did not observe his suffering, for he was now completely + absorbed in the game. He seemed puzzled and disconcerted. He played with + great care, studying each throw minutely. Not a word escaped him. The two + men drank occasionally, and the dice continued to rattle. And the money + kept piling up at Carringer's hand. + </p> + <p> + The pale stranger suddenly began to behave strangely. At moments he would + start and throw back his head, listening intently. His eyes would sharpen + and flash as he did so; then they sank back into heaviness once more. + Carringer saw a strange expression sweep over the man's face on several + occasions—an expression of ghastly frightfulness, and the features + would become fixed in a peculiar grimace. + </p> + <p> + He noticed also that his companion was steadily sinking deeper and deeper + into a condition of apathy. Occasionally, none the less, he would raise + his eyes to Carringer's face after some lucky throw, and he would fix them + upon him with a steadiness that made the starving man grow chiller than + ever he had been before. + </p> + <p> + Then came the time when the stranger produced another roll of bills, and + braced himself for a bigger effort. With speech somewhat thick, but still + deliberate and very quiet, he addressed his young opponent. + </p> + <p> + "You have won seventy-four thousand dollars, and that is the exact amount + I have remaining. We have been playing for several hours, and I am very + tired, and so are you. Let us hasten the finish. You have seventy-four + thousand dollars, I have seventy-four thousand dollars. Nether of us has a + cent beside. Each will now stake his all and throw a final game for it." + </p> + <p> + Without hesitation Carringer agreed. The bills made a considerable pile + upon the table. Carringer threw, and his starving heart beat violently as + the pale stranger took up the dice-box with exasperating deliberation. + Hours seemed to pass before he threw, but at last the dice rattled on to + the table, and the pale stranger had won. The winner sat staring at the + dice, and then he leaned slowly back in his chair, settled himself with + seeming comfort, raised his eyes to Carringer's and fixed that unearthly + stare upon him. + </p> + <p> + He did not speak. His face showed not a trace of emotion or even of + intelligence. He simply stared. One cannot keep one's eyes open very long + without winking, but the stranger never winked at all. He sat so + motionless that Carringer became filled with a vague dread. + </p> + <p> + "I will go now," he said, standing back from the table. As he spoke he + recollected his position and found himself swaying like a drunken man. + </p> + <p> + The stranger made no reply, nor did he relax his gaze. Under that gaze the + younger man shrank back into his chair, terrified and faint. A deathly + silence filled the compartment.... Suddenly he became aware that two men + were talking in the next room, and he listened curiously. The walls were + of wood, and he heard every word distinctly. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said a voice, "he was seen to turn into this street about three + hours ago." + </p> + <p> + "And he must have shaved?" + </p> + <p> + "He must have shaved. To remove a full beard would naturally make a great + change in the man. His extreme pallor attracted attention. As you know, he + has been seriously troubled with heart disease lately, and it has greatly + altered him." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but his old skill remains. Why, this is the most daring bank-robbery + we have ever had! A hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars—think + of it! How long is it since he came out of prison after that New York + affair?" + </p> + <p> + "Eight years. In that time he has grown a beard, and lived by throwing + dice. No human being can come out winner in a game with him." + </p> + <p> + The two men clinked glasses and a silence fell between them. Then + Carringer heard the shuffling of their feet as they passed out, and he sat + on, suffering terrible mental and bodily pain. + </p> + <p> + The silence remained unbroken, save for the sounds of voices far off, and + the clink of glasses. The dice-players—the pale man and the starving + one—sat gazing at each other, with a hundred and forty-eight + thousand dollars piled upon the table between them. The winner made no + attempt to gather up the money. He merely sat and stared at Carringer, + wholly unmoved by the conversation in the adjoining compartment. + </p> + <p> + Carringer began to shake with an ague. The cold, unwavering gaze of the + stranger sent ice into his veins. Unable to bear it longer, he moved to + one side, and was amazed to discover that the eyes of the pale man, + instead of following him, remained fixed upon the spot where he had sat. + </p> + <p> + A great fear came over him. He poured out absinthe for himself with + shaking fingers, staring back at his companion all the while, watching + him, watching him as he drank alone and unnoticed. He drained the glass, + and the poison had a peculiar effect upon him; he felt his heart bounding + with alarming force and rapidity, and his breathing came in great, pumping + spasms. His hunger was now become a deadly thing, for the absinthe was + destroying his vitals. In terror he leaned forward to beg the hospitality + of the stranger, but his whisper had no effect. One of the man's hands lay + on the table. Carringer placed his own upon it, and drew back quickly, for + the hand was as cold as stone! + </p> + <p> + Then there came into the starving man's face a crafty expression, and he + turned eagerly to the money. Silently he grasped the pile of bills with + his skeleton fingers, looking stealthily every moment at the stark figure + of his companion, mortally dreading lest he should stir. + </p> + <p> + And yet, instead of hastening from the room with the stolen fortune, he + sank back into his chair again. A deadly fascination forced him there, and + he sat rigid, staring back into the wide stare of the other man. He felt + his breath coming heavier and his heart-beats growing weaker, but he was + comforted because his hunger was no longer causing him that acute pain. He + felt easier, and actually yawned. If he had dared he would have gone to + sleep. The pale stranger still stared at him without ceasing. And + Carringer had no inclination for anything but simply to stare back. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The two detectives who had traced the notorious bank robber to the drink + saloon moved slowly through the compartments, searching in every nook and + cranny of the building. At last they reached a compartment from which no + answer came when they knocked. + </p> + <p> + They pushed the door open with a stereotyped apology on their lips. They + beheld two men before them, one of middle age and the other very young, + sitting perfectly still, and in the queerest manner imaginable staring at + each other across the table. Between the two was a pile of money, and near + at hand an empty absinthe bottle, a water pitcher, two glasses, and a + dice-box. The dice lay before the elder man as though he had just thrown + them. + </p> + <p> + With a quick movement one of the detectives covered the older man with a + revolver and commanded him to put up his hands. But the dice-thrower paid + not the slightest heed. + </p> + <p> + The detectives exchanged startled glances. They stepped nearer, looked + closely into the gamesters' faces, and knew in the same instant that they + were dead. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STRANGER WOMAN — By G.B. STERN + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>John o'London's Weekly</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + After Hal Burnham had banged himself with his usual vigour out of the + house, Dickie sat quite inconsolably staring in front of him at a + favourite picture on his wall; a dim, sombre effect of quays and masts and + intent hurrying men; his neat little brows were pulled down in a worried + frown, his childish mouth was puckered. + </p> + <p> + Was it accurate and just, what Hal had said? Or, simpler still, was it + true? + </p> + <p> + "What you damn well need, Dickie, old son, is life in the raw. You're + living in a lady's work-box here." + </p> + <p> + It was a bludgeoning return for the courteous attention with which Dickie + had that evening listened to his friend's experiences of travel, for Hal + was not even a good raconteur; he started an anecdote by its point, and + roughly slapped in the scenery afterwards; he had likewise a habit of + disconnecting his impressions from any sequence of time; also he + exaggerated, and forgot names and dates; and even occasionally lapsed into + odd silence just when Dickie was offering himself receptively for a + climax. + </p> + <p> + And then the inevitable: "Well—and what have <i>you</i> been doing + meanwhile?" + </p> + <p> + Dickie was not in the least at a loss; he had refurnished his rooms, to + begin with; and that involved a diligent search in antique shops and at + sale rooms, and one or two trips across country in order not to miss a + real gem. And they had to be ready for comfortable habitation before the + arrival of M. and Mlle. St. André for their annual stay with him—a + delightful old pair, brother and sister, with peppery manners and + hypercritical appreciation of a good cuisine—but so poor, so really + painfully poor, that, as Dickie delicately put it: "I could not help + knowing that it might make a difference to them if I postponed their + visit, of less trivial annoyance, but more vital in quality, than with + other of my friends for whom I should therefore have hurried my + preparations rather less—this is in confidence, of course, my dear + Hal!" He had set himself to complete his collection of Watts's Literary + Souvenirs—"I have the whole eleven volumes now——" And he + had been a guest at two charming house-parties in the country, and at one + of them had been given the full responsibility of rehearsing a comic opera + in the late eighteenth-century style. "Amateurs, of course. But I was so + bent on realizing the flavour of the period, that I'm indeed afraid that I + did not draw a clear enough line between the deliciously robust and the + obnoxiously coarse——" + </p> + <p> + "Coarse—<i>you</i>!" Hal guffawed. And then—out came the + accusation which was so disturbing little Dickie. + </p> + <p> + Life in the raw! Why did the phrase make him want to clear his throat? Raw—yes, + that was the association—when you opened your mouth and the fog + swirled in. Newsboys scampering along a foggy street that was neither + elegant nor squalid, but just a street of mixed shops and mixed traffic + and barrows lit with a row of flapping lights, and men and women with + faces that showed they worked hard to earn a little less than they + needed.... Public-houses.... Butchers' shops with great slabs of red + meat.... Yes, and a queue outside the picture palace—and a station; + people bought the evening papers as they hurried in and out of the + station. "'Ere yer are, sir," and on the sheets were headlines that blared + out all the most sordid crimes of the past twenty-four hours, ignored + during a sober morning of politics and commerce, but dragged into bold + view for the people's more leisured reading. + </p> + <p> + Newsboys in a foggy street on a Saturday night—thus was Dickie's + first instinct to define "life in the raw...." Then he discovered that + this was only the archway, and that the crimes themselves were life in the + raw—and the criminals. + </p> + <p> + But one must get nearer by slow degrees. + </p> + <p> + If at all. + </p> + <p> + Hal had said that he was living in a lady's work-box. Dickie was + sensitive, and not at all stupid. His penetration was quite aware that + Burnham's remark was not applied to the harmonizing shades of the walls + between which he dwelt, nor to the soft, mellow pattern of his silky + Persian rugs, nor to his collections—heavens, <i>how</i> he + collected!—of glowing Sèvres china, of Second Empire miniatures, of + quaint old musical instruments with names that in themselves were a tender + tinkle of song, and of the shoes that had been worn by queens. + </p> + <p> + All these things were merely accessories: his soul making neat, tiny + gestures, shrugging its shoulders, pointing a toe. What Hal meant was that + Dickie dared not live dangerously. + </p> + <p> + "What am I to do?" + </p> + <p> + He raised wistful, light brown eyes to the picture which was the one + incongruous touch to the dainty perfection of his octagonal sitting-room. + He had bought it at a rummage sale; it was unsigned, and the canvas, + overcrowded with figures, had grown sombre and blurred; yet queerly Dickie + liked the suggestion of powerful, half-naked men; the foreign quay-side + street, with a slatternly woman silent against a doorway, and the clumsy + ship straining to swing out to a menacing sea beyond. + </p> + <p> + All these things that he would never do: strip and carry bales on his + back; linger in strange doorways and love hotly an animal woman who was + unaccomplished and without grace and breeding; and then embark on an + evil-smelling hulk that would have no human sympathy with his human ills. + </p> + <p> + He had done a little yachting, of course; with the Ansteys the year before + last. + </p> + <p> + His lips bent to a small ironical smile as he reflected on the difference + between "a little yachting" and the sinister fascination of that ugly, + uninspired painting.... + </p> + <p> + Slowly he got up and went out; that is to say, he very precisely selected + the hat, gloves, coat, and silk muffler suitable to wear, and as precisely + put them on. Then he blew up the fire with an old-fashioned pair of worked + brass bellows; turned out the lamp; told Mrs. Derrick—who would have + died in his service every day from eight to eight o'clock, but would not + crook a finger for him a minute before she entered the house nor five + seconds after she left it—that he was going for a walk and would + certainly be back at a quarter to seven, but probably before; and then + went out. + </p> + <p> + For this was the natural way for Dickie Maybury to behave. + </p> + <p> + At twenty to seven he returned, with a sheaf of news-papers—raucous, + badly-printed papers with smudged lines and a sort of speckled film over + the illustrations, and startlingly intimate headlines to every item of + news. + </p> + <p> + Dickie was trying to get into touch with "life in the raw." + </p> + <p> + At first he was merely bewildered. He had read his daily newspaper, of + course—though not with the stolid regularity with which the average + man does so. And besides, it was pre-eminently a journal of dignity and + good form, with an art column, and a curio column, and a literary page, + and a chess problem, and rather a delicately witty causerie by "Rapier"; + it is to be feared that Dickie absorbed himself in these items first, and + altogether left out most of the topical and sensational news. + </p> + <p> + Now, however, he read it. And out of it, the horror of the underworld + swayed up at him. A twilit world, where cisterns dripped, and where + homely, familiar things like gas-brackets and braces and coal-shovels were + turned to dreadful weapons of death. The coroner and the broker's man and + the undertaker sidled in and out of this world, dispassionately playing + their frequent parts.... Stunted boys and girls died for love, like Romeo + and Juliet, leaving behind them badly-punctuated cries of passion and + despair that made Dickie wince as he read them.... + </p> + <p> + Pale but fascinated, Dickie turned over a page, and came to the great + sensation of the moment. "Is Ruth Oliver Guilty?" "Dramatic Developments." + "I Wish You Were Dead, Lucas!" + </p> + <p> + The account of the first day of the trial filled the entire page, and + dribbled excitedly over on to the next. There was a photograph of Ruth + Oliver, accused of murdering her husband. You could see that she had gay + eyes in a small oval face, and a child's wistful mouth. This must have + been taken while she was very happy. + </p> + <p> + Dickie had never read through a murder trial before. But he did so now, + every line of it ... and the next day, and the next. Until the woman who + had pleaded "Not guilty" was acquitted. And then he wrote to her, and + asked her to marry him. + </p> + <p> + And who would dare say of him now that he had feared to meet life in the + raw? + </p> + <p> + He did not know, of course, that his offer was one among fifty; did not + know that the curious state of mind he was in, between trance and + hysteria, was a very common one to the public after a trial in which the + elements are dramatic or the central figure in any way picturesque. He did + not even know how Ruth Oliver was being noisily besieged by Pressmen and + Editors anxious for her biography; by music-hall and theatrical managers + willing to star her; by old friends curiously proud of association with + her notoriety; by religious fanatics with their proofs of a strictly + localized Deity—"whose Hand has clearly been outstretched to save + you!"; by unhealthy flappers who had Believed in her all along—(autograph, + please). + </p> + <p> + But not knowing, yet his letter, chivalrous, without ardour, promised her + a cool, quiet retreat from the plague of insects which was buzzing and + stinging in the hot air all about her.... "My house is in a little square + with trees all around it; it is shady and you cannot hear the traffic. I + wonder if you are interested in old china and Japanese water-colours?..." + Finally: "I shall be very proud and happy if you can trust me to + understand how deeply you must be longing for sanctuary after the + sorrowful time you have been through...." + </p> + <p> + "Sanctuary." She saw it open for her like a cloistered aisle between cold + pillars. He offered her, not the emotional variations, intolerable to her + weariness just then, of a new devotion; but green shaded rooms, and the + beauty of old things, and a little old-fashioned gentleman's courtesy.... + So, ignoring the fifty other offers of marriage which had assailed her, + she wrote to Dickie Maybury and asked him to come and see her. + </p> + <p> + He went, still in a strangely exultant mood, in which his will acted as + easily and yet as fantastically as though it were on a slippery surface. + And if he had met Hal Burnham on his way back from his visit to Ruth + Oliver he would undoubtedly have swaggered a little. Nevertheless, he was + thinking of Ruth, too, as well as of his own dare-devilry in thus seizing + reality with both hands. Ruth's face, much older and more tormented than + it had been in the photograph, had still that elusive quality which had + from the beginning and through all the period of her trial haunted him. It + outraged his refinement that any woman with the high looks and the + breeding of his own class should have been for any space of time the + property of a coarse public. As <i>his</i> wife, the insult should be + tenderly rectified.... "The poor child! the poor sweet child!" He felt + almost godlike with this new power upon him of acting, on impulse. + </p> + <p> + As for the peril of death which for a short while had threatened her, that + was a fact too stark and hideous for contemplation: even with Dickie's + altered appetite for primitive adventure.... + </p> + <p> + They did not leave town after their quiet, matter-of-fact wedding at the + registrar's. A journey, in Dickie's eyes, would have seemed too blatant an + interruption to his everyday existence, as though he were tactlessly + emphasising to his wife the necessity of a break and a complete change; + she might even think—and again "poor child!" that events should have + rubbed into such super-sensitiveness—that he was slightly ashamed of + his act, and was therefore hustling her and himself out of sight. So they + went straight home. And Mrs. Derrick said: "Indeed, sir," when informed + that her new mistress was the Ruth Oliver who had recently been acquitted + of the charge of murdering her husband; she neither proffered a motherly + bosom to Ruth, nor did she tender a haughty resignation from Mr. Maybury's + service; but said she hoped it wouldn't be expected of her, under the new + circumstances, to arrive earlier, nor to leave later, because she couldn't + do it. As for Dickie's friends, most of them were of the country-house + variety whom he visited once a year; next autumn would show whether Ruth + would be included in those week and week-end invitations. Meanwhile, those + few dwelling in London marvelled in a detached sort of way at Dickie's + feat, liked Ruth, and pronounced it a shame that she should have been + accused. Hal Burnham, the indirect promoter of the match, had returned to + China. + </p> + <p> + Nobody was unkind; no word jarred; life was padded in dim brocade—Ruth + drew a long breath, and was at peace. She was perfectly happy, watching + Dickie. And Dickie was at play again, enjoying his collection and his <i>objets + d'art</i>, and even his daily habits, with the added appreciation of a + gambler who had staked, but miraculously, not lost them. Because, after + all, anything might have resulted from his tempestuous decision at all + costs to get into contact with naked actuality; all that <i>had</i> + resulted was the presence in his house of a slim, grave woman who dressed + her hair like a very skilful and not at all unconscious Madonna; whose + taste was as fastidious as his own, and whose radiantly human smile had + survived in vivid contrast to something quenched from her voice and + shadowed in her eyes. A woman who, with a "May I?" of half-laughing + reverence, discovered that she could slip on to her exquisite feet one + pair after another from his collection of the shoes of dead queens—"It + sounds like a ballade—Austin Dobson, I think—except that + they're not all powder-and-patch queens." + </p> + <p> + For she had an excellent feel of period—the texture of it, the fine + shades of language, the outlook; Dickie hated people who had a blunt sense + of period and in a jumbled fashion referred to old Venetian lace, and the + Early Spanish School, and Louise de la Vallière, and a play by Wycherley + indiscriminately as "historical." + </p> + <p> + Yes, Dickie had certainly been lucky, and, like a wise man, he did not + strain his star to another effort. The big thing—well, he had + squared up to it—and, truth to say, he had been fearfully shaky and + uncertain about his capacity to do so when Hal had first roused his pride + in the matter. Now the little things again, the little beautiful things—he + had earned them. + </p> + <p> + Anyway, he could not have a newspaper in the house nowadays, for Ruth's + sake—he owed it to Ruth to shut out for ever those cries of horror + and fear and violence from the battering underworld. + </p> + <p> + "What I love about the way we live, Dickie, is that the just-rightness of + it all flows on evenly the whole time; one can be certain of it. Most + people get it set aside for them in stray lumps—picture galleries + and churches and a holiday on the Continent. And all the rest of their + time is just-wrongness." + </p> + <p> + Dickie wondered how much of her existence with Lucas Oliver had been + "just-wrongness"—or indeed "all-wrongness." But he never disturbed + her surface of creamy serenity by referring to the husband who had been + murdered by "some person or persons unknown." + </p> + <p> + He and Ruth were the most harmonious of comrades, but never, so far, + confidential. Perhaps Dickie overdid tact and non-intrusiveness; or + perhaps Ruth, in her very passion of gratitude to him, was yet checked for + ever from passionate expression by the memory that her innermost love and + her innermost hate, wrung into words, had once, and not so long ago, been + read aloud and commented upon in public court and in half the homes of + England. + </p> + <p> + One evening, sitting together in front of the fire, they drifted into talk + of their separate childhoods. + </p> + <p> + "There was a garden in mine," said Ruth. + </p> + <p> + "And in mine—a Casino garden!" His eyes twinkled. "Palm trees like + giant pineapples, and flower beds in a pattern, and a fountain—" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, you poor little Continental kiddie!" + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders. "The ways of the Lord are thoughtful and + orderly. Why should He have wasted a heavenly wilderness of gnarled old + apple-trees on a small boy who hated climbing?" + </p> + <p> + "You can't have hated climbing—if you hang that on your wall." She + nodded towards the quayside picture. "Surely you must have played 'pirates + and South Seas' with your brothers." + </p> + <p> + "I had none. A sister, that's all—who carried a sunshade." "I had no + sisters; but there was a girl next door—and her brother." + </p> + <p> + "I note in jealous anguish of spirit," remarked Dickie. "that you do not + simply say 'a girl and boy next door.'" + </p> + <p> + Ruth's mischievous laugh affirmed his accusation. "The wall was not very + high—I kicked a foothold into it half-way up, and Tommy gave me a + pull from the top." + </p> + <p> + "Tommy was ungallant enough to leave the wall to you?" + </p> + <p> + "There were cherries in his garden—sweet black cherries. And only + crab-apples in ours." + </p> + <p> + "He might have filled his pockets with cherries, and then climbed. No—I + reject Tommy, he was unworthy of you. I may have been a horrid little + Casino brat, I may even have worn a white satin sailor-suit with trousers + down to my ankles—" + </p> + <p> + "Oh!" Ruth winced. + </p> + <p> + "I may have danced too well, and I understood too early the art of + complimenting ladies whose hats were too big and whose eyes were too + bright.... But once, after Annunciata Maddalena's nose had bled over this + same sailor-suit, I said it was my own nose, because I knew how bitterly + she was ashamed of her one bourgeois lapse...." + </p> + <p> + "Tommy would have disowned her, instead of owning the nose. Oh, I grant + you the nobler nature ... but it breaks my heart that you didn't have the + wild English garden and the cherries and the grubby old dark-blue jersey." + </p> + <p> + "If we have a kiddie—" Dickie began softly, his mouth puckered to + its special elvish little smile. Then he met her eyes lapping him round + with such velvet tenderness—that Dickie suddenly knew he was loved, + knew that impulsively she was going to tell him so, and breathlessly + happier than he had ever been before, waited for it— + </p> + <p> + "I <i>did</i> kill my husband. They acquitted me, but I was guilty. It was + an accident. I was so afraid. They would never have believed it could be + an accident. But I had to, in self-defence." + </p> + <p> + And now she had told him she loved him. + </p> + <p> + Only Dickie was too numb to recognise the form her confession of love had + taken; love, as always, was clamouring to be clearly seen—naked, if + need be, blood-guilty, if need be—but <i>seen</i> ... and then swept + up, sin and all, by another love big enough to accept this truth, also, as + essentially part of her. + </p> + <p> + Ruth waited several seconds for Dickie to speak. Then she got up, and + strolled over to the picture, and said, examining intently, as though for + the first time, the woman in the doorway: "I'm not sorry, Dickie. That is + to say, I'm sorry, of course, if I've shattered an illusion of yours, but—I + can't be melodramatic, you know, not even to the extent of using the word + 'murderess' on myself. If I hadn't killed Lucas—" + </p> + <p> + "He would have killed you?" So he was able to utter quite natural and + coherent sounds! Dickie was surprised. + </p> + <p> + "Yes—" But Ruth found that, after all, she could not tell Dickie + much about Lucas. Lucas had not been a pleasant gentleman to live with—and + there were things that Dickie was too fine himself, and too innocent, to + realise. The only comprehension in this thoroughly well-groomed atmosphere + of soft carpets and dim silken panels and miniatures and rare frail china + might have come from the woman in the doorway of that incongruous picture + ... a woman sullenly patient, brutalised, but—yes, her man might + quite easily have been another Lucas. + </p> + <p> + For that which Dickie had always thought of as mysterious, elusive, was, + to Ruth's eyes, only sorrowful wisdom. + </p> + <p> + "Come here, Ruth." + </p> + <p> + She dragged her eyes away from the picture; crossed the room; broke down + completely, her head on his knees, her shuddering body crouched closely to + the floor: "When you've—been frightened—and have to live with + it—and it doesn't even stop at night—for weeks and months and + years—one's nerves aren't quite reliable.... They've no right to + call that murder, have they? have they, Dickie? When you've been afraid + for a long time—and there's no one you can tell about it except the + person who <i>makes</i> the <i>fear</i>...." + </p> + <p> + But Dickie was all that she had perilously dared to hope he would be at + this crisis. He soothed her and healed her by his loyalty; promised, + without her extorting it, that he would never tell a soul what she had + just told him; pixie-shy, yet he spoke of his personal need of her—and + more than anything else she had desired to hear this. He mentioned some + trivial intimate plans for their unbroken, unchanged future together, so + as to reassure her of its continuance. He even made her laugh. + </p> + <p> + In fact, for a last appearance in the <i>rôle</i> of a gallant little + gentleman, Dickie did not do so badly. + </p> + <p> + He woke in the night from a bad dream—with terror clinging thickly + about his senses. But it did not slowly dissolve and release him, as + nightmare is wont to do. It remained—so that he lay still as a man + in his winding-sheet, afraid to move—remembering— + </p> + <p> + "I <i>did</i> kill my husband." + </p> + <p> + Yes—that was it. In the room with him was a strange woman who had + killed her husband. + </p> + <p> + Not Ruth—but a strange woman. How had she got into the room with + him? + </p> + <p> + She had killed her husband. And now, <i>he</i> was her husband. + </p> + <p> + He lay motionless, but his imagination began to crawl.... What might + happen to a man shut up alone in a house with a woman who—murdered? + </p> + <p> + His imagination began to race—and he lost control of it. Murder ... + with dry, sandy throat and a kicking heart, Dickie had to pay for his + audacity in imagining he was big enough to claim life in the raw. + </p> + <p> + "Not big enough! Not big enough!"—the goblins of the underworld + croaked at him in triumphant chorus.... They capered ... they snapped + their fingers at him ... they spun him down to where fear was ... he had + delivered himself to them, by not being big enough. + </p> + <p> + "Mrs. Bigger had a baby—which was bigger, Mrs. Bigger or the baby?" + </p> + <p> + The silly conundrum sprang at him from goodness knows what void—and + over and over again he repeated it to himself, trying to remember the + answer, trying to forget fear.... + </p> + <p> + "Mrs. Bigger had a baby—" + </p> + <p> + He dared not fall asleep ... with the woman who had killed her husband, + alone in the room with him ... alone in the house with him. + </p> + <p> + A stir from the other bed, and one arm flung out in sleep. Dickie's knees + jerked violently—his skin went cold and sticky with sweat. "You fool—it's + only Ruth!" + </p> + <p> + But she <i>did</i> it—she did it once. There are people who can't + kill, and a few, just a very few, who can. And because they can, they are + different, and have to be shut away from the herd. + </p> + <p> + But—but this woman. They've made a ghastly mistake—they've let + her go free—and I can't tell anyone ... nobody knows, except me and + Ruth—— Ah, yes—a quivering sigh of relief here—Ruth + knows, too—Ruth, my wife—ruth means pity.... + </p> + <p> + There is no Ruth ... there never was ... quite alone except for a strange, + strange woman—the kind that gets shut away and kept by herself.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + To this bondage had Dickie's nerves delivered him. The custom of + punctilious courtesy, so deeply ingrained as to mean in his case the + impossibility of wounding another, decreed that some pretence must be kept + up before Ruth. But with one shock she divined the next morning the + significant change in him, and bowed her head to it. What could she do? + She loved him, but she had overrated the capacity of his spirit. There had + never been any courage, only kindness and sweetness and chivalry—all + no good to him, now that courage was wanted. She had made a mistake in + telling him the truth. + </p> + <p> + Suffering—she thought she had suffered fiercely with Lucas, she + thought she had suffered while she was being ignominiously tried for her + life—but what were either of these phases compared with the helpless + bitterness of seeing Dickie, whom she loved, afraid of her? + </p> + <p> + Even her periodic fits of wild arrogant passion, which usually, when they + surged past restraint, wrecked and altered whatever situation was hemming + her in, and left gaps for a passage through to something else—even + these had now to be curbed. Useful in hate, they were impotent in love. So + Ruth recognised in her new humility. But when one day, seized by panic at + having spoken irritably to her, Dickie hastily tried to propitiate her, to + ingratiate himself so that she might spare him, might let him live a + little longer, then Ruth felt she must cry aloud under the strain of this + subtle torture. Why, he was her lover, her man, her child.... In thought, + her arm shaped itself into a crook for his head to lie there; her fingers + smoothed out the drawn perplexity of his brows; her kisses were cool as + snow on his hot, twitching little mouth; her voice, hushed to a lullaby + croon, promised him that nobody should hurt him, nobody, while she was + there to heal and protect— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Sleep, baby, sleep, + The hills are white with sheep——" +</pre> + <p> + Over and over again she lulled herself with the old rhyme, for comfort's + sake. But Dickie she could not comfort, since, irony of ironies, she was + the cause of his pitiful breakdown. Why, if she spoke, he started; if she + moved towards him, he shrank. Yet still Ruth dreamt that if he would only + let her touch him, she could bring him reassurance. But meanwhile his + appetite was meagre, the rare half-hours he slept were broken with evil + dreams, from which he awoke whimpering. He did not care any more about the + little beautiful things he had collected and grouped about him, but sat + for hours listless and blank; his appearance a grotesque parody of the + trim and dapper Dickie Maybury of the past—what could it matter how + he looked with death slicing so close to him? + </p> + <p> + "The master seems poorly of late, don't he, ma'am? His digestion ain't + strong. P'r'aps something 'as disagreed with 'im." Thus Mrs. Derrick, + taking her part in the drama, as the simple character who makes speeches + of more significant portent than she is aware of. + </p> + <p> + Something had, indeed, disagreed with Dickie. In the slang phrase: "He had + bitten off more than he could chew." + </p> + <p> + And the goblins were hunting him; whispering how she would creep up to him + stealthily from behind, this woman who killed ... and put her arms round + him, and put her fingers to his throat—that was one way. + </p> + <p> + Other ways there were, of course. He must learn about them all, so as to + be watchful and prepared. Self-defence ... accident. Of course, they + always said it was accident. He knew that now, for the evening + crime-sheets began to appear in the flat again, and Dickie studied them, + in place of the <i>villanelles</i>, the graceful essays, the <i>belles-lettres</i> + of his former choice. Ruth saw him, with his delicate shaking hands + clutching the newspapers, his mild eyes bright with sordid fascination. He + was ill, certainly; and brain-sick and oppressed; and she yearned for his + illness to show itself a tangible, serious matter; a matter of bed and + doctor and complete prostration and unwearied effort on the part of his + nurse. "My darling—my darling.... He did everything for me, when I + most needed it. And now, I can do nothing.... It isn't fair!" + </p> + <p> + She stood by one of the open windows of the pretty Watteau sitting-room. + The lamps had just sprung to fiery stars in the blue glamorous twilight of + the square; the fragrance of wet lilac blew up to her, and a blackbird + among the bushes began to sing like mad ... the fist which was cruelly + squeezing Ruth's spirit seemed slowly to unclench ... and suddenly it + struck her that things might be made worth while again for her and Dickie. + </p> + <p> + After all, how insane it was for him to be huddling miserably, as she knew + he would be, in the arm-chair of his study, gazing with forlorn eyes at + the squalid columns, which it had grown too dark for him to decipher. She + had a vision of what this very evening might yet hold of recovered magic, + if only she had the courage to carry out her simple cure of his head drawn + down on to her left breast, just where her heart was beating. "Dickie, + it's <i>all right</i>, you know—it's only Ruth I You've been sitting + with your bogies all the time the white lilac has been coming out——" + </p> + <p> + A faint smile lay at last on Ruth's mouth, and in the curve of her tired + eyelids. She went softly into the study. The door was open.... + </p> + <p> + Dickie sprang to his feet with a yell of terror as her hands came round + his neck from behind. He clutched at the revolver in his pocket and fired, + at random, backwards.... In the wall behind them was the round dark mark + of a merciful bullet. And—— + </p> + <p> + "Dickie—oh, Dickie—when you've been frightened—and have + to live with it—and it doesn't even stop at nights—do you + understand, now, how it happens? They've no right to call <i>that</i> + murder, have they, Dickie?" + </p> + <p> + And now, indeed, understanding that the awful act of killing could be, in + a rare once or twice, a human accident for the frightened little human to + commit—understanding, Dickie was shocked back to sanity. + </p> + <p> + "Dear, dear Ruth——" Why, this stranger woman was no stranger, + after all, but Ruth, his own sweet wife. Dickie was tired, and he knew he + need not explain things to her. He laid his head down on her left breast, + just where the heart was beating. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WOMAN WHO SAT STILL — By PARRY TRUSCOTT + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>Colour</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + When he went, when he had to go, he took with him the memory of her that + had become crystallised, set for him in his own frequent words to her, + standing at her side, looking down at her with his keen, restless eyes—such + words as: "It puzzles me how on earth you manage to sit so still...." + </p> + <p> + Then, enlarging: "It is wonderful to me how you can keep so happy doing + nothing—make of enforced idleness a positive pleasure! I suppose it + is a gift, and I haven't got it—not a bit. It doesn't matter how + tired I am, I have to keep going—people call it industry, but its + real name is nervous energy, run riot. I can't even take a holiday + peacefully. I must be actively playing if I cannot work. I'm just the + direct descendant of the girl in the red shoes—they were red, + weren't they?—who had to dance on and on until she dropped. I shall + go on and on until I drop, and then I shall attempt a few more useless + yards on all fours...." + </p> + <p> + "Come now," in answer to the way she shook her head at him, smiled at him + from her sofa, "you know very well how I envy you your gift, your power of + sitting still—happily still—your power of contemplation...." + </p> + <p> + And one day, more intimately still, with a sigh and a look (Oh, a look she + understood!), "To me you are the most restful person in the world...." + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Why he went, except that he had to go; why he stayed away so long, so very + long, are not really relevant to this story; the facts, stripped of + conjecture, were simply these: she was married, and he was not, and there + came the time, as it always comes in such relationships as theirs, when he + had to choose between staying without honour and going quickly. He went. + But even the bare facts concerning his protracted absence are less easily + stated because his absence dragged on long after the period when he might, + with impeccable honour, have returned. + </p> + <p> + The likeliest solution was that setting her aside when he had to, served + so to cut in two his life, so wrenched at his heartstrings, so burnt and + bruised his spirit, that when, in his active fashion he had lived some of + the hurt down, he could not bring himself easily to reopen the old subject—fresh + wounds for him might still lurk in it—how could he tell? Although it + had been at the call, the insistence of honour, still hadn't he left her—deserted + her? Does any woman, even his own appointed woman, forgive a man who goes + speechless away? Useless, useless speculation! For some reason, some man's + reason, when another's death made her a free woman, yet he lingered and + did not come. + </p> + <p> + He knew, afterwards, that it was from the first his intention to claim + her. He wanted her—deep down he wanted her as he had always wanted + her; meant to come—some time. Knew all the time that he could not + always keep away. And then, responding to a sudden whim, some turn of his + quickly moving mind—a mind that could forcibly bury a subject and as + forcibly resurrect it—hot-foot and eager he came. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + He had left her recovering slowly and surely from a long illness; an + illness that must have proved fatal but for her gift of tranquillity, her + great gift of keeping absolutely, restfully still in body, while retaining + a happily occupied mind. Her books, and her big quiet room, and the + glimpse of the flower-decked garden from her window, with just these + things to help her, she had dug herself into the deep heart of life where + the wells of contentment spring. Bird's song in the early morn and the + long, still day before her in which to find herself—to take a new, + firmer hold on the hidden strength of the world. And, just to keep her in + touch with the surface of things, visits from her friends. Then later, + more tightly gripping actuality, with a new, keen, sharp, growing pleasure—the + visits of a friend. + </p> + <p> + While those lasted there was nothing she would have changed for her quiet + room, her sofa: the room that he lit with his coming; where she rested and + rested, shut in with the memory of all he said, looked, thought in her + presence—until again he came. + </p> + <p> + While they lasted! She had been content, never strong, never able to do + very much, with seclusion before. During the time of his visits she + revelled, rejoiced in it, asking nothing further. While they lasted, + sitting still (Oh, so still), hugging her joy, she didn't think, wouldn't + think, how it might end. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, just sometimes, by a merciful providence, things do not end. + She lived for months on the bare chance of its not ending. + </p> + <p> + Yet, as we know, the end came. + </p> + <p> + At first while the world called her widowed she sat with her unwidowed + heart waiting for him in the old room, in the old way. Surely now he would + come? She had given good measure of fondness and duty and friendship—that + was only that under another name—to the one who until now had stood + between her and her heart's desire, and parting with him, and all the + associations that went with him, had surprisingly hurt her. Always frail, + she was ill—torn with sorrow and pity—and then, very slowly + again, she recovered. And while she recovered, lying still in the old way, + she gave her heart wings—wild, surging wings—at last, at last. + Sped it forth, forth to bring her joy—to compel it. + </p> + <p> + While she waited in this fashion a sweet, recaptured sense of familiarity + made his coming seem imminent. She had only to wait and he would be here. + She couldn't have mistaken the looks that had never been translated into + words—that hadn't needed words. Though she had longed and ached for + a word—then—she was quite content now. He had wanted her just + as she was, unashamed and untainted. And to preserve her as she was he had + gone away. And now for the very first time she was truly glad he had gone + in that abrupt, speechless fashion—in spite of the heartache and the + long years between them, really and truly glad. Nothing had been spoilt; + they had snatched at no stolen joys. And the rapture, (what rapture!) of + meeting would blot out all that they had suffered in silence—the + separation—all of it! + </p> + <p> + As she waited, getting well for him, she had no regrets, growing more and + more sure of his coming. + </p> + <p> + It was not until she was well again, not until the months had piled + themselves on each other, that, growing more frightened than she knew, she + began her new work of preparation. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Suddenly, impulsively, when she had reached the stage of giving him up for + days at a time, when hope had nearly abandoned her, then he came. + </p> + <p> + He had left a woman so hopeful in outlook, so young and peaceful in + spirit, that with her the advancing years would not matter. On his journey + back to her, visualising her afresh, touching up his memory of her, he + pictured her going a little grey. That would suit her—grey was her + colour—blending to lavender in the clothes she always wore for him. + A little grey, but her clear, pale skin unfaded, her large eyes full of + pure, guarded secrets—secrets soon to unfold for him alone. + </p> + <p> + A haven—a haven! So he thought of her, and now, ready for her, + coming to her, he craved the rest she would give him—rest more than + anything in all the world. She, with her sweet white hands, when he held + them, kissed them, would unlock the doors of peace for him, drawing him + into her life, letting him potter and linger—linger at her side. + Even when long ago he had insisted to her that for him there was no way of + rest, he had known that she, just she, meant rest for him, when he could + claim her for his own. Other women, other pursuits, offered him + excitement, stimulation—and then a weariness too profound for words. + But rest, bodily, spiritually, was her unique gift for him. She—he + smiled as he thought it—would teach him to sit still. + </p> + <p> + And tired, so tired, he hurried to her across the world as fast as he + could go. + </p> + <p> + Waiting at her door, the door opened, crossing the threshold—Oh, he + had never thought his luck would be so great as to be taken direct to the + well remembered room upstairs! Yet with only a few short inquiries he was + taken there—she for whom he asked, the mistress of the house, would + be in her sitting-room, he was told, and if he was an old friend...? He + explained that he was a very old friend, following the maid upstairs. But + the maid was mistaken; her mistress was not in her private sitting-room; + not in the house at all—she had gone out, and it proved on + investigation that she had left no word. The maid, returning, suggested + however, that she would not be long. Her mistress had a meeting this + evening; she was expecting some one before dinner; no, she would certainly + not be long, so—so if he would like to wait? + </p> + <p> + He elected to wait—a little impatiently. He knew it was absurd that + coming, without warning—after how many years was it?—he should + yet have made so sure of finding her at home. Absurd, unreasonable—and + yet he was disappointed. He ought to have written, but he had not waited + to write. He had pictured the meeting—how many times? Times without + number—and always pictured her waiting at home. And then the room? + </p> + <p> + Left alone in it he paced the room. But the room enshrined in his heart of + hearts was not this room. Was there, surely there was some mistake? + </p> + <p> + There could be no mistake. There could not be two upstairs rooms in this + comparatively small house, of this size and with this aspect; westward, + and overlooking with two large windows the little walled garden into which + he had so often gazed, standing and talking to her, saying over his + shoulders the things he dare not say face to face—that would have + meant so much more, helped out with look and gesture, face to face. + </p> + <p> + The garden, as far as he could see, was the same except that he fancied it + less trim, less perfect in order: in the old days it would be for months + at a time all the outside world she saw—there had been object enough + in keeping it trim. Now it looked, to his fancy, like a woman whose beauty + was fading a little because she had lost incentive to be beautiful. He + turned from the garden, his heart amazed, fearful, back to the room. + </p> + <p> + The room of the old days—with closed eyes he reproduced it; its + white walls, its few good pictures, its curtains and carpet of deep blue. + Her sofa by the window, the wide armchair on which he always sat, the + table where, in and out of season, roses, his roses, stood. The little old + gilt clock on the mantlepiece that so quickly, cruelly ticked away their + hour. Books, books everywhere, the most important journals and a medley of + the lighter magazines; those, with her work-basket, proving her feminine + and the range of her interests, her inconsistency. A woman's room, + revealing at a glance her individuality, her spirit. + </p> + <p> + But this room—! He looked for the familiar things—the sofa, + the bookshelves, the little table dedicated to flowers. Yes, the sofa was + there, but pushed away as though seldom used; on the bookshelves new, + strange books were crowding out the old; on the little table drooped a few + faded flowers in an awkward vase. On the mantlepiece, where she would + never have more than one or two good ornaments, and the old gilt clock, + were now stacks of papers, a rack bulging with packing materials—something + like that—an ink-bottle, a candlestick, the candle trailed over with + sealing-wax, and an untidy ball of string. And right in the centre of the + room a great clumsy writing-table, an office table, piled with papers + again, ledgers, a portable typewriter, and—a litter of cigarette + ends. + </p> + <p> + Like a Mistress on the track of a much-doubted maid he ran his finger + along the edge of a bookcase and then the mantlepiece. He looked at his + fingers; there was no denying the dust he had wiped away. + </p> + <p> + She must have changed her room—why had she done it? But the maid had + said—in her sitting-room— + </p> + <p> + He waited now frightened, now fuming. Still she did not come. Should he + not wait—should he go—if this was her room? But he had come so + far, and he needed her so—he must stay. For some dear, foolish + woman's reason she must have lent her room for the use of a feminine + busy-body; a political, higher-thought, pseudo-spiritualistic friend. (He + must weed out her friends!) The trend of the work done in this room now + his quick mind had seized upon—titles of books, papers, it was + enough. Notices stuck in the Venetian Mirror (the desecration!) for + meetings of this and that society, and all of them, so he judged, just + excuses for putting unwanted fingers into unwanted, dangerous pies. He + thought of it like that—he could not help it; he saw too far into + motive and internal action; was too impatient of the little storms, the + paltry, tea-cup things. She, with her unique gift of serenity—her + place was not among the busybodies grinding axes that were better blunt; + interfering with the slow, slow working of the Mills of God. Her gift was + example—rare and delicate; her light the silver light of a soul, + that through 'suffering and patience and contemplation, knows itself and + is unafraid. + </p> + <p> + For such fussing, unstable work as it was used for now she ought not even + to have lent her room—the room he had looked on as a temple of + quietness; the shrine of a priceless temperament. + </p> + <p> + He smiled his first smile—she should not lend it again. + </p> + <p> + Then the door opened. Suddenly, almost noisily, she came in. + </p> + <p> + She had heard, downstairs, his name. So far she was prepared with her + greeting. She came with hands out-stretched—he took her hands and + dropped them. + </p> + <p> + When he could interrupt her greeting he said—forcing the words—"So + now you are quite strong—and busy?" + </p> + <p> + She told him how busy. She told him how, (but not why) she had awakened + from her long, selfish dream. She said she had found so late—but + surely not too late?—the joy of action; constant, unremitting work + for the world's sake. <i>"Do you remember how you used to complain you + couldn't sit still? I am like that now—"</i> + </p> + <p> + And he listened, listened, each word a deeper stab straight at his + defenceless heart. + </p> + <p> + Of all the many things he had done since they met he had nothing to say. + </p> + <p> + Having just let her talk (how she talked!) as soon as he decently could he + went. Of all he had come to tell her he said not a word. Tired, so + bitterly tired, he had come seeking rest, and now there was no more a + place of rest for him—anywhere. + </p> + <p> + Yes, he had come across the world to find himself overdue; to find himself + too late. He went out again—as soon as he decently could—taking + only a picture of her that in sixty over-charged minutes had wiped out the + treasured picture of years. + </p> + <p> + Sixty minutes! After waiting for years she had kept him an hour, + desperately, by sheer force of will keeping a man too stunned at first to + resist, to break free. (Then at last he broke free of that room and that + woman, and went!) For years he had pictured her sitting still as no other + woman sat still, tranquil and graceful, her hair going a little grey above + her clear, pale skin, her eyes of a dream-ridden saint. And now he must + picture her forced into life, vivaciously, restlessly eager; full of + plans, (futile plans, how he knew those plans!) for the world's upheaval, + adding unrest to unrest. And now he must picture her with the grey hair + outwitted by art, with paint on her beautiful ravaged face. + </p> + <p> + At first he had wanted to take her in his arms; with his strength to still + her, with his tears to wash the paint off. + </p> + <p> + But he couldn't—he couldn't. He knew that his had been a dream of + such supreme sweetness that to awaken was an agony he could never hide; + knew that you can't re-enter dreamland once you wake. + </p> + <p> + So he went. + </p> + <p> + He never knew, with the door shut on him, how she fell on her sofa—her + vivacity quenched, her soul spent. He never knew that having failed, (as + she thought) to draw him to her with what she was, she had vainly, + foolishly tried a new model—himself. + </p> + <p> + He did not know how inartistic love can be when love is desperate. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAJOR WILBRAHAM — By HUGH WALPOLE + </h2> + <h3> + (From <i>The Chicago Tribune</i>) + </h3> + <h3> + 1921 + </h3> + <p> + I am quite aware that in giving you this story just as I was told it I + shall incur the charge of downright and deliberate lying. + </p> + <p> + Especially I shall be told this by any one who knew Wilbraham personally. + Wilbraham was not, of course, his real name, but I think that there are + certain people who will recognize him from this description of him. I do + not know that it matters very much if they do. Wilbraham himself would + certainly not mind did he know. (Does he know?) It was the thing above all + that he wanted those last hours before he died—that I should pass on + my conviction of the truth of what he told me to others. What he did not + know was that I was not convinced. How could I be? But when the whole + comfort of his last hours hung on the simple fact that I was, of course I + pretended to the best of my poor ability. I would have done more than that + to make him happy. + </p> + <p> + It is precisely the people who knew him well who will declare at once that + my little story is impossible. But did they know him well? Does any one + know any one else well? Aren't we all as lonely and removed from one + another as mariners on separate desert islands? In any case I did not know + him well and perhaps for that very reason was not so greatly surprised at + his amazing revelations—surprised at the revelations themselves, of + course, but not at his telling them. There was always in him—and I + have known him here and there, loosely, in club and London fashion, for + nearly twenty years—something romantic and something sentimental. I + knew that because it was precisely those two attributes that he drew out + of me. + </p> + <p> + Most men are conscious at some time in their lives of having felt for a + member of their own sex an emotion that is something more than simple + companionship. It is a queer feeling quite unlike any other in life, + distinctly romantic and the more that perhaps for having no sex feeling in + it. + </p> + <p> + Like the love of women, it is felt generally at sight, but, unlike that + love, it is, I think, a supremely unselfish emotion. It is not + acquisitive, nor possessive, nor jealous, and exists best perhaps when it + is not urged too severely, but is allowed to linger in the background of + life, giving real happiness and security and trust, standing out, indeed, + as something curiously reliable just because it is so little passionate. + This emotion has an odd place in our English life because the men who feel + it, if they have been to public school and university, have served a long + training in repressing every sign or expression of sentiment towards any + other man; nevertheless it persists, romantically and deeply persists, and + the war of 1914 offered many curious examples of it. + </p> + <p> + Wilbraham roused just that feeling in me. I remember with the utmost + distinctness my first meeting with him. It was just after the Boer war and + old Johnny Beaminster gave a dinner party to some men pals of his at the + Phoenix. Johnny was not so old then—none of us were; it was a short + time after the death of that old harpy, the Duchess of Wrexe, and some wag + said that the dinner was in celebration of that happy occasion. Johnny was + not so ungracious as that, but he gave us a very merry evening and he did + undoubtedly feel a kind of lightness in the general air. + </p> + <p> + There were about fifteen of us and Wilbraham was the only man present I'd + never seen before. He was only a captain then and neither so red faced nor + so stout as he afterwards became. He was pretty bulky, though, even then, + and with his sandy hair cropped close, his staring blue eyes, his + toothbrush moustache and sharp, alert movements, looked the typical + traditional British officer. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing at all to distinguish him from a thousand other officers + of his kind, and yet from the moment I saw him I had some especial and + personal feeling about him. He was not in type at all the man to whom at + that time I should have felt drawn. My first book had just been published + and, although as I now perceive, its publication had not caused the + slightest ripple upon any water, the congratulations of my friends and + relations, who felt compelled, poor things, to say something, because + "they had received copies from the author," had made me feel that the + literary world was all buzzing at my ears. I could see at a glance that + Kipling was probably the only "decent" author about whom Wilbraham knew + anything, and the fragments of his conversation that I caught did not + promise anything intellectually exciting from his acquaintanceship. + </p> + <p> + The fact remains that I wanted to know him more than any other man in the + room, and although I only exchanged a few words with him that night, I + thought of him for quite a long time afterwards. + </p> + <p> + It did not follow from this as it ought to have done that we became great + friends. That we never were, although it was myself whom he sent for three + days before his death to tell me his queer little story. It was then at + the very last that he confided to me that he, too, had felt something at + our first meeting "different" to what one generally feels, that he had + always wanted to turn our acquaintance into friendship and had been too + shy. I also was shy—and so we missed one another, as I suppose in + this funny, constrained, traditional country of ours thousands of people + miss one another every day. + </p> + <p> + But although I did not see him very often and was in no way intimate with + him, I kept my ears open for any account of his doings. From one point of + view, the Club Window outlook, he was a very usual figure, one of those + stout, rubicund, jolly men, a good polo player, a good man in a house + party, genial-natured, and none too brilliantly brained, whom every one + liked and no one thought about. All this he was on one side of the report, + but, on the other, there were certain stories that were something more + than the ordinary. + </p> + <p> + Wilbraham was obviously a sentimentalist and an enthusiast; there was the + extraordinary case shortly after I first met him of his championship of X, + a man who had been caught in an especially bestial kind of crime and + received a year's imprisonment for it. On X leaving prison Wilbraham + championed and defended him, put him up for months in his rooms in Duke + Street, walked as often as possible in his company down Piccadilly, and + took him over to Paris. It says a great deal for Wilbraham's accepted + normality and his general popularity that this championship of X did him + no harm. It was so obvious that he himself was the last man in the world + to be afflicted with X's peculiar habits. Some men, it is true, did murmur + something about "birds of a feather"; one or two kind friends warned + Wilbraham in the way kind friends have, and to them he simply said: "If a + feller's a pal he's a pal." + </p> + <p> + All this might in the end have done Wilbraham harm had not X most happily + committed suicide in Paris in 1905. There followed a year or two later the + much more celebrated business of Lady C. I need not go into all that now, + but here again Wilbraham constituted himself her defender, although she + robbed, cheated, and maligned him as she robbed, cheated, and maligned + every one who was good to her. It was quite obvious that he was not in + love with her; the obviousness of it was one of the things in him that + annoyed her. + </p> + <p> + He simply felt apparently that she had been badly treated (the very last + thing that she had been), gave her any money he had, put his rooms at the + disposal of herself and her friends, and, as I have said, championed her + everywhere. This affair did very nearly finish him socially, and in his + regiment. It was not so much that they minded his caring for Lady C—(after + all, any man can be fooled by any woman)—but it was Lady C's friends + who made the whole thing so impossible. Such a crew! Such a horrible crew! + And it was a queer thing to see Wilbraham with his straight blue eyes and + innocent mouth and general air of amiable simplicity in the company of men + like Colonel B and young Kenneth Parr. (There is no harm, considering the + later publicity of his case, in mentioning his name.) Well, that affair + luckily came to an end just in time. Lady C disappeared to Berlin and was + no more seen. + </p> + <p> + There were other cases into which I need not go when Wilbraham was seen in + strange company, always championing somebody who was not worth the + championing. He had no "social tact," and for them at any rate no moral + sense. In himself he was the ordinary normal man about town, no prude, but + straight as a man can be in his debts, his love affairs, his friendships, + and his sport. Then came the war. He did brilliantly at Mons, was wounded + twice, went out to Gallipoli, had a touch of Palestine, and returned to + France again to share in Foch's final triumph. + </p> + <p> + No man can possibly have had more of the war than he had, and it is my own + belief that he had just a little too much of it. + </p> + <p> + He had been always perhaps a little "queer," as we are most of us "queer" + somewhere, and the horrors of that horrible war undoubtedly affected him. + Finally he lost, just a week before the armistice, one of his best + friends, Ross McLean, a loss from which he certainly never recovered. + </p> + <p> + I have now, I think, brought together all the incidents that can throw any + kind of light upon the final scene. In the middle of 1919 he retired from + the army, and it was from this time to his death that I saw something of + him. He went back to his old home at Horton's in Duke street, and as I was + living at that time in Marlborough Chambers in Jermyn street we were in + easy reach of one another. The early part of 1920 was a "queer time." + People had become, I imagine, pretty well accustomed to realizing that + those two wonderful hours of Armistice day had not ushered in the + millennium any more than those first marvellous moments of the Russian + revolution produced it. + </p> + <p> + Every one has always hoped for the millennium, but the trouble since the + days of Adam and Eve has always been that people have such different ideas + as to what exactly that millennium shall be. The plain facts of the matter + simply were that during 1919 and 1920 the world changed from a war of + nations to a war of classes, that inevitable change that history has + always shown follows on great wars. + </p> + <p> + As no one ever reads history, it was natural enough that there should be a + great deal of disappointment and a great deal of astonishment. Men at the + head of affairs who ought to have known better cried aloud, "How + ungrateful these people are, after all we've done for them!" and the + people underneath shouted that everything had been muddled and spoiled and + that they would have done much better had they been at the head of + affairs, an assertion for which there was no sort of justification. + </p> + <p> + Wilbraham, being a sentimentalist and an idealist, suffered more from this + general disappointment than most people. He had had wonderful relations + with the men under him throughout the war. He had never tired of + recounting how marvelously they had behaved, what heroes they were, and + that it was they who would pull the country together. + </p> + <p> + At the same time he had a naive horror of bolshevism and anything + unconstitutional, and he watched the transformation of his "brave lads" + into discontented and idle workmen with dismay and deep distress. He used + sometimes to come around to my rooms and talk to me; he had the bewildered + air of a man walking in his sleep. + </p> + <p> + He made the fatal mistake of reading all the papers, and he took in the + Daily Herald in order that he might see "what it was these fellows had to + say for themselves." + </p> + <p> + The Herald upset him terribly. Its bland assumption that Russians and Sein + Feiners could do no wrong, but that the slightest sign of assertion of + authority on the part of any government was "wicked tyranny," shocked his + very soul. I remember that he wrote a long, most earnest letter to + Lansbury, pointing out to him that if he subverted all authority and + constitutional government his own party would in its turn be subverted + when it came to govern. Of course, he received no answer. + </p> + <p> + During these months I came to love the man. The attraction that I had felt + for him from the very first deeply underlay all my relation to him, but as + I saw more of him I found many very positive reasons for my liking. He was + the simplest, bravest, purest, most loyal, and most unselfish soul alive. + He seemed to me to have no faults at all unless it were a certain softness + towards the wishes of those whom he loved. He could not bear to hurt + anybody, but he never hesitated if some principle in which he believed was + called in question. + </p> + <p> + He had not, of course, a subtle mind—he was no analyst of character—but + that did not make him uninteresting. I never heard any one call him dull + company, although men laughed at him for his good nature and unselfishness + and traded on him all the time. He was the best human being I have ever + known or am ever likely to know. + </p> + <p> + Well, the crisis arrived with astonishing suddenness. About the second or + third of August I went down to stay with some friends at the little + fishing village of Rafiel in Glebeshire. + </p> + <p> + I saw him just before I left London, and he told me that he was going to + stay in London for the first half of August, that he liked London in + August, even though his club would be closed and Horton's delivered over + to the painters. + </p> + <p> + I heard nothing about him for a fortnight, and then I received a most + extraordinary letter from Box Hamilton, a fellow clubman of mine and + Wilbraham's. Had I heard, he said, that poor old Wilbraham had gone right + off his "knocker"? Nobody knew exactly what had happened, but suddenly one + day at lunch time Wilbraham had turned up at Grey's (the club to which our + own club was a visitor during its cleaning), had harangued every one about + religion in the most extraordinary way, had burst out from there and + started shouting in Piccadilly, had, after collecting a crowd, disappeared + and not been seen until the next morning, when he had been found, nearly + killed, after a hand-to-hand fight with the market men in Covent Garden. + </p> + <p> + It may be imagined how deeply this disturbed me, especially as I felt that + I was myself to blame. I had noticed that Wilbraham was ill when I had + seen him in London, and I should either have persuaded him to come with me + to Glebeshire or stayed with him in London. I was just about to pack up + and go to town when I received a letter from a doctor in a nursing home in + South Audley street saying that a certain Major Wilbraham was in the home + dying and asking persistently for myself. I took a motor to Drymouth and + was in London by five o'clock. + </p> + <p> + I found the South Audley Street nursing home and was at once surrounded + with the hush, the shaded rooms, the scents of medicine and flowers, and + some undefinable cleanliness that belongs to those places. + </p> + <p> + I waited in a little room, the walls decorated with sporting prints, the + green baize table gloomily laden with volumes of Punch and the Tatler. + Wilbraham's doctor came in to see me, a dapper, smart little man, + efficient and impersonal. He told me that Wilbraham had at most only + twenty-four hours to live, that his brain was quite clear, and that he was + suffering very little pain, that he had been brutally kicked in the + stomach by some man in the Covent Garden crowd and had there received the + internal injuries from which he was now dying. + </p> + <p> + "His brain is quite clear," the doctor said. "Let him talk. It can do him + no harm. Nothing can save him. His head is full of queer fancies; he wants + every one to listen to him. He's worrying because there's some message he + wants to send... he wants to give it to you." + </p> + <p> + When I saw Wilbraham he was so little changed that I felt no shock. + Indeed, the most striking change in him was the almost exultant happiness + in his voice and eyes. + </p> + <p> + It is true that after talking to him a little I knew that he was dying. He + had that strange peace and tranquillity of mind that one saw so often with + dying men in the war. + </p> + <p> + I will try to give an exact account of Wilbraham's narrative; nothing else + is of importance in this little story but that narrative; I can make no + comment. I have no wish to do so. I only want to pass it on as he begged + me to do. + </p> + <p> + "If you don't believe me," he said, "give other people the chance of doing + so. I know that I am dying. I want as many men and women to have a chance + of judging this as is humanly possible. I swear to you that I am telling + the truth and the exact truth in every detail." + </p> + <p> + I began my account by saying that I was not convinced. How could I be + convinced? + </p> + <p> + At the same time I have none of those explanations with which people are + so generously forthcoming on these occasions. I can only say that I do not + think Wilbraham was insane, nor drunk, nor asleep. Nor do I believe that + some one played a practical joke.... + </p> + <p> + Whether Wilbraham was insane between the hours when his visitor left him + and his entrance into the nursing home I must leave to my readers. I + myself think he was not. + </p> + <p> + After all, everything depends upon the relative importance that we place + upon ambitions, possessions, emotions,—ideas. + </p> + <p> + Something suddenly became of so desperate an importance to Wilbraham that + nothing else at all mattered. He wanted every one else to see the + importance of it as he did. That is all.... + </p> + <p> + It had been a hot and oppressive day; London had seemed torrid and + uncomfortable. The mere fact that Oxford street was "up" annoyed him. + After a slight meal in his flat he went to the Promenade Concert at + Queen's Hall. It was the second night of the season—Monday night, + Wagner night. + </p> + <p> + He bought himself a five shilling ticket and sat in the middle of the + balcony overlooking the floor. He was annoyed again when he discovered + that he had been given a ticket for the "non-smoking" section of the + balcony. + </p> + <p> + He had heard no Wagner since August, 1914, and was anxious to discover the + effect that hearing it again would have upon him. The effect was + disappointing. The music neither caught nor held him. + </p> + <p> + "The Meistersinger" had always been a great opera for him. The third act + music that Sir Henry Wood gave to him didn't touch him anywhere. He also + discovered that six years' abstinence had not enraptured him any more + deeply with the rushing fiddles in the "Tannhäuser" Overture nor with the + spinning music in the "Flying Dutchman." Then came suddenly the prelude to + the third act of "Tristan." That caught him; the peace and tranquillity + that he needed lapped him round; he was fully satisfied and could have + listened for another hour. + </p> + <p> + He walked home down Regent Street, the quiet melancholy of the shepherd's + pipe accompanying him, pleasing him and tranquillizing him. As he reached + his flat ten o'clock struck from St. James' Church. He asked the porter + whether any one had wanted him during his absence—whether any one + was waiting for him now—(some friend had told him that he might come + up and use his spare room one night that week). No, no one had been. There + was no one there waiting. + </p> + <p> + Great was his surprise, therefore, when opening the door of his flat he + found some one standing there, one hand resting on the table, his face + turned towards the open door. Stronger, however, than Wilbraham's surprise + was his immediate conviction that he knew his visitor well, and this was + curious because the face was, undoubtedly strange to him. + </p> + <p> + "I beg your pardon," Wilbraham said to him, hesitating. + </p> + <p> + "I wanted to see you," the Stranger said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + When Wilbraham was telling me this part of his story he seemed to be + enveloped—"enveloped" is the word that best conveys my own + experience of him—by some quite radiant happiness. He smiled at me + confidentially as though he were telling me something that I had + experienced with him and that must give me the same happiness that it gave + to him. + </p> + <p> + "Ought I to have expected? Ought I to have known—" he stammered. + </p> + <p> + "No, you couldn't have known," the Stranger answered. "You're not late. I + knew when you would come." + </p> + <p> + Wilbraham told me that during these moments he was surrendering himself to + an emotion and intimacy and companionship that was the most wonderful + thing that he had ever known. It was that intimacy and companionship, he + told me, for which all his days he had been searching. It was the one + thing that life never seemed to give; even in the greatest love, the + deepest friendship, there was that seed of loneliness hidden. He had never + found it in man or woman. + </p> + <p> + Now it was so wonderful that the first thing he said was: "And now you're + going to stay, aren't you? You won't go away at once...?" + </p> + <p> + "Of course, I'll stay," he answered. "If you want me." + </p> + <p> + His Visitor was dressed in some dark suit; there was nothing about Him in + any way odd or unusual. His Face was thin and pale, His smile kindly. + </p> + <p> + His English was without accent. His voice was soft and very melodious. + </p> + <p> + But Wilbraham could notice nothing but His Eyes; they were the most + beautiful, tender, gentle Eyes that he had ever seen in any human being. + </p> + <p> + They sat down. Wilbraham's overwhelming fear was lest his Guest should + leave him. They began to talk and Wilbraham took it at once as accepted + that his Friend knew all about him—everything. + </p> + <p> + He found himself eagerly plunging into details of scenes, episodes that he + had long put behind him—put behind him for shame perhaps or for + regret or for sorrow. He knew at once that there was nothing that he need + veil nor hide—nothing. He had no sense that he must consider + susceptibilities nor avoid self-confession that was humiliating. + </p> + <p> + But he did find, as he talked on, a sense of shame from another side creep + towards him and begin to enclose him. Shame at the smallness, meanness, + emptiness of the things that he declared. + </p> + <p> + He had had always behind his mistakes and sins a sense that he was a + rather unusually interesting person; if only his friends knew everything + about him they would be surprised at the remarkable man that he really + was. Now it was exactly the opposite sense that came over him. In the + gold-rimmed mirror that was over his mantlepiece he saw himself + diminishing, diminishing, diminishing ... First himself, large, red-faced, + smiling, rotund, lying back in his chair; then the face shrivelling, the + limbs shortening, then the face small and peaked, the hands and legs + little and mean, then the chair enormous about and around the little + trembling animal cowering against the cushion. + </p> + <p> + He sprang up. + </p> + <p> + "No, no ... I can't tell you any more—and you've known it all so + long. I am mean, small, nothing—I have not even great ambition ... + nothing." + </p> + <p> + His Guest stood up and put His Hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + They talked, standing side by side, and He said some things that belonged + to Wilbraham alone, that he would not tell me. + </p> + <p> + Wilbraham asked Him why He had come—and to him. + </p> + <p> + "I will come now to a few of My friends," He said. "First one and then + another. Many people have forgotten Me behind My words. They have built up + such a mountain over Me with the doctrines they have attributed to Me, the + things that they say that I did. I am not really," He said laughing, His + Hand on Wilbraham's shoulder, "so dull and gloomy and melancholy as they + have made Me. I loved Life—I loved men; I loved laughter and games + and the open air—I liked jokes and good food and exercise. All + things that they have forgotten. So from now I shall come back to one or + two.... I am lonely when they see Me so solemnly." + </p> + <p> + Another thing He said. "They are making life complicated now. To lead a + good life, to be happy, to manage the world only the simplest things are + needed—Love, Unselfishness, Tolerance." + </p> + <p> + "Can I go with You and be with You always?" Wilbraham asked. + </p> + <p> + "Do you really want that?" He said. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said Wilbraham, bowing his head. + </p> + <p> + "Then you shall come and never leave Me again. In three days from now." + </p> + <p> + Then he kissed Wilbraham on the forehead and went away. + </p> + <p> + I think that Wilbraham himself became conscious as he told me this part of + his story of the difference between the seen and remembered Figure and the + foolish, inadequate reported words. Even now as I repeat a little of what + Wilbraham said I feel the virtue and power slipping away. + </p> + <p> + And so it goes on! As the Figure recedes the words become colder and + colder and the air that surrounds them has in it less and less of power. + But on that day when I sat beside Wilbraham's bed the conviction in his + voice and eyes held me so that although my reason kept me back my heart + told me that he had been in contact with some power that was a stronger + force than anything that I myself had ever known. + </p> + <p> + But I have determined to make no personal comment on this story. I am here + simply as a narrator of fact.... + </p> + <p> + Wilbraham told me that after his Visitor left him he sat there for some + time in a dream. Then he sat up, startled, as though some voice, calling, + had wakened him, with an impulse that was like a fire suddenly blazing up + and lighting the dark places of his brain. I imagine that all Wilbraham's + impulses in the past, chivalric, idealistic, foolish, had been of that + kind—sudden, of an almost ferocious energy and determination, blind + to all consequences. He must go out at once and tell every one of what had + happened to him. + </p> + <p> + I once read a story somewhere about some town that was expecting a great + visitor. Everything was ready, the banners hanging, the music prepared, + the crowds waiting in the street. + </p> + <p> + A man who had once been for some years at the court of the expected + visitor saw him enter the city, sombrely clad, on foot. Meanwhile his + Chamberlain entered the town in full panoply with the trumpets blowing and + many riders in attendance. The man who knew the real thing ran to every + one telling the truth, but they laughed at him and refused to listen. And + the real king departed quietly as he had come. + </p> + <p> + It was, I suppose, an influence of this kind that drove Wilbraham now. + Suddenly something was of so great an importance to him that nothing else, + mockery, hostility, scorn, counted. After all, simply a supreme example of + the other impulses that had swayed him throughout his life. + </p> + <p> + What followed might I think have been to some extent averted had his + appearance been different. London is a home of madmen and casually permits + any lunacy so that public peace is not endangered; had poor Wilbraham + looked a fanatic with pale face, long hair, ragged clothes, much would + have been forgiven him, but for a stout, middle-aged gentleman, well + dressed, well groomed.... What could be supposed but insanity and insanity + of a very ludicrous kind? + </p> + <p> + He put on his coat and went out. From this moment his account was + confused. His mind, as he spoke to me, kept returning to that Visitor... + What happened after his Friend's departure was vague and uncertain to him, + largely because it was unimportant. He does not know what time it was when + he went out, but I gather that it must have been about midnight. There + were still people in Piccadilly. + </p> + <p> + Somewhere near the Berkeley Hotel he stopped a gentleman and a lady. He + spoke, I am sure, so politely that the man he addressed must have supposed + that he was asking for a match, or an address, or something of the kind. + Wilbraham told me that very quietly he asked the gentleman whether he + might speak to him for a moment, that he had something very important to + say. + </p> + <p> + That he would not, as a rule, dream of interfering in any man's private + affairs, but that the importance of his communication outweighed all + ordinary conventions; that he expected that the gentleman had hitherto, as + had been his own case, felt much doubt about religious questions, but that + now all doubt was, once and forever, over, that... + </p> + <p> + I expect that at that fatal word "Religion" the gentleman started as + though he had been stung by a snake, felt that this mild-looking man was a + dangerous lunatic and tried to move away. It was the lady with him, so far + as I can discover, who cried out: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, poor man, he's ill," and wanted at once to do something for him. By + this time a crowd was beginning to collect and as the crowd closed around + the central figures more people gathered upon the outskirts and, peering + through, wondered what had happened, whether there was an accident, + whether it were a "drunk," whether there had been a quarrel, and so on. + </p> + <p> + Wilbraham, I fancy, began to address them all, telling them his great + news, begging them with desperate urgency to believe him. Some laughed, + some stared in wide-eyed wonder, the crowd was increasing and then, of + course, the inevitable policeman with his "move on, please," appeared. + </p> + <p> + How deeply I regret that Wilbraham was not, there and then, arrested. He + would be alive and with us now if that had been done. But the policeman + hesitated, I suppose, to arrest any one as obviously a gentleman as + Wilbraham, a man, too, as he soon perceived, who was perfectly sober, even + though he was not in his right mind. + </p> + <p> + Wilbraham was surprised at the policeman's interference. He said that the + last thing that he wished to do was to create any disturbance, but that he + could not bear to let all these people go to their beds without giving + them a chance of realizing first that everything was now altered, that he + had the most wonderful news.. + </p> + <p> + The crowd was dispersed and Wilbraham found himself walking alone with the + policeman beside the Green Park. + </p> + <p> + He must have been a very nice policeman because before Wilbraham's death + he called at the Nursing Home and was very anxious to know how the poor + gentleman was getting on. + </p> + <p> + He allowed Wilbraham to talk to him and then did all he could to persuade + him to walk home and go to bed. He offered to get him a taxi. Wilbraham + thanked him, said he would do so, and bade him good night, and the + policeman, seeing that Wilbraham was perfectly composed and sober, left + him. + </p> + <p> + After that the narrative is more confused. Wilbraham apparently walked + down Knightsbridge and arrived at last somewhere near the Albert Hall. He + must have spoken to a number of different people. One man, a politician + apparently, was with him for a considerable time, but only because he was + so anxious to emphasise his own views about the Coalition Government and + the wickedness of Lloyd George. Another was a journalist, who continued + with him for a while because he scented a story for his newspaper. Some + people may remember that there was a garbled paragraph about a "Religious + Army Officer" in the <i>Daily Record</i>. One lady thought that Wilbraham + wanted to go home with her and was both angry and relieved when she found + that it was not so. + </p> + <p> + He stayed at a cabman's shelter for a time and drank a cup of coffee and + told the little gathering there his news. They took it very calmly. They + had met so many queer things in their time that nothing seemed odd to + them. + </p> + <p> + His account becomes clearer again when he found himself a little before + dawn in the park and in the company of a woman and a broken down pugilist. + I saw both these persons afterwards and had some talk with them. The + pugilist had only the vaguest sense of what had happened. Wilbraham was a + "proper old bird" and had given him half a crown to get his breakfast + with. They had all slept together under a tree and he had made some rather + voluble protests because the other two would talk so continuously and + prevented his sleeping. It was a warm night and the sun had come up behind + the trees "surprisin' quick." He had liked the old boy, especially as he + had given him half a crown. + </p> + <p> + The woman was another story. She was quiet and reserved, dressed in black, + with a neat little black hat with a green feather in it. She had yellow + fluffy hair and bright childish blue eyes and a simple, innocent + expression. She spoke very softly and almost in a whisper. So far as I + could discover she could see nothing odd in Wilbraham nor in anything that + he had said. She was the one person in all the world who had understood + him completely and found nothing out of the way in his talk. + </p> + <p> + She had liked him at once, she said. "I could see that he was kind," she + added earnestly, as though to her that was the most important thing in all + the world. No, his talk had not seemed odd to her. She had believed every + word that he had said. Why not? You could not look at him and not believe + what he said. + </p> + <p> + Of course it was true. And why not? What was there against it? It had been + a great help for her what the gentleman had told her... Yes, and he had + gone to sleep with his head in her lap... and she had stayed awake all + night thinking... and he had waked up just in time to see the sun rise. + Some sunrise that was, too. + </p> + <p> + That was a curious little fact that all three of them, even the battered + pugilist, should have been so deeply struck by that sunrise. Wilbraham on + the last day of his life, when he hovered between consciousness and + unconsciousness, kept recalling it as though it had been a vision. + </p> + <p> + "The sun—and the trees suddenly green and bright like glittering + swords. All shapes—swords, plowshares, elephants, and camels—and + the sky pale like ivory. See, now the sun is rushing up, faster than ever, + to take us with him, up, up, leaving the trees like green clouds beneath + us—far, far beneath us—" + </p> + <p> + The woman said that it was the finest sunrise she had ever seen. He talked + to her all the time about his plans. He was looking disheveled now and + unshaven and dirty. She suggested that he should go back to his flat. No, + he wished to waste no time. Who knew how long he had got? It might be only + a day or two ... He would go to Covent Garden and talk to the men there. + </p> + <p> + She was confused as to what happened after that. When they got to the + market the carts were coming in and men were very busy. + </p> + <p> + She saw the gentleman speak to one of them very earnestly, but he was busy + and pushed him aside. He spoke to another, who told him to clear out. + </p> + <p> + Then he jumped on to a box, and almost the last sight she had of him was + his standing there in his soiled clothes, a streak of mud on his face, his + arms outstretched and crying: "It's true! Stop just a moment—you <i>must</i> + hear me!" + </p> + <p> + Some one pushed him off the box. The pugilist rushed in then, cursing them + and saying that the man was a gentleman and had given him half a crown, + and then some hulking great fellow fought the pugilist and there was a + regular mêlée. Wilbraham was in the middle of them, was knocked down and + trampled upon. No one meant to hurt him, I think. They all seemed very + sorry afterwards.... + </p> + <p> + He died two days after being brought into the Nursing Home. He was very + happy just before he died, pressed my hand and asked me to look after the + girl.... + </p> + <p> + "Isn't it wonderful," were his last words to me, "that it should be true + after all?" + </p> + <p> + As to Truth, who knows? Truth is a large order. This <i>is</i> true as far + as Wilbraham goes, every word of it. Beyond that? Well, it must be jolly + to be so happy as Wilbraham was. + </p> + <p> + This will seem a lying story to some, a silly and pointless story to + others. + </p> + <p> + I wonder.... + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE YEARBOOK OF THE BRITISH + </h2> + <p> + AND IRISH SHORT STORY JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + </p> + <h3> + ABBREVIATIONS + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The following abbreviations are used in this yearbook. + + <i>A.</i> Annual + <i>Adelphi</i> Adelphi Magazine + <i>Asia</i> Asia + <i>Atl.</i> Atlantic Monthly + <i>Beacon</i> Beacon + <i>Black</i> Blackwood's Magazine + <i>Blue</i> Blue Magazine + <i>Book (N.Y.)</i> Bookman (N.Y.) + <i>Broom.</i> Broom + <i>By.</i> Bystander + <i>Cas.</i> Cassell's Magazine + <i>Cen.</i> Century Magazine + <i>C.H.</i> Country Heart + <i>Cham.</i> Chambers' Journal + <i>Chic. Trib.</i> Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) + <i>Colour</i> Colour + <i>Corn.</i> Cornhill Magazine + <i>D.D.</i> Double Dealer + <i>Del.</i> Delineator + <i>Dial</i> Dial + <i>Eng.R.</i> English Review + <i>Ev.</i> Everybody's Magazine + <i>Eve</i> Eve + <i>Form.</i> Form + <i>Free.</i> Freeman + <i>G.H.</i> Good Housekeeping + <i>Gra</i> Graphic + <i>Grand</i> Grand Magazine + <i>Harp B.</i> Harper's Bazar + <i>Harp. M.</i> Harper's Magazine + <i>Hear</i> Hearst's International Magazine + <i>Hut</i> Hutchinson's Magazine + <i>John</i> John o'London's Weekly + <i>L.H.J.</i> Ladies' Home Journal + <i>Lloyd</i> Lloyd's Story Magazine + <i>L.Merc</i> London Mercury + <i>Lon</i> London Magazine + <i>Man. G</i> Manchester Guardian + <i>McC</i> McClure's Magazine + <i>McCall</i> McCall's Magazine + <i>Met</i> Metropolitan + <i>Nash</i> Nash's and Pall Mall Magazine + <i>Nat. (London)</i> Nation and Athenaeum + <i>New</i> New Magazine + <i>New A.</i> New Age + <i>New S.</i> New Statesman + <i>Novel</i> Novel Magazine + <i>Outl. (N.Y.)</i> Outlook (N.Y.) + <i>Pan</i> Pan + <i>Pears' A.</i> Pears' Annual + <i>Pearson (London)</i> Pearson's Magazine (London) + <i>Pearson (N.Y.)</i> Pearson's Magazine (N.Y.) + <i>Pict. R.</i> Pictorial Review + <i>Pop.</i> Popular Magazine + <i>Pre.</i> Premier + <i>Queen</i> Queen + <i>Qui.</i> Quiver + <i>(R)</i> Reprinted + <i>Roy.</i> Royal Magazine + <i>Scr.</i> Scribner's Magazine + <i>S.E.P.</i> Saturday Evening Post + <i>Sketch</i> Sketch + <i>Sov.</i> Sovereign Magazine + <i>Sphere</i> Sphere + <i>S.S.</i> Smart Set + <i>Sto.</i> Story-Teller + <i>Str.</i> Strand Magazine + <i>Tatler</i> Tatler + <i>Time</i> Time and Tide + <i>Times Lit. Suppl.</i> Times Literary Supplement + <i>Truth</i> Truth + <i>Voices</i> Voices + <i>West.</i> Weekly Westminster Gazette + <i>Wind.</i> Windsor Magazine + <i>Yel.</i> Yellow Magazine + (11:261) Volume 11, page 261 + (261) Page 261 +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ADDRESSES OF PERIODICALS PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. ENGLISH PERIODICALS + + Note. <i>This address list does not aim at completeness, but is based + simply on the periodicals which we have consulted for this volume, and + which have not ceased publication.</i> + + Adelphi Magazine, Henry Danielson, 64, Charing Cross Road, London, + W.C.2. + Beacon, Basil Blackwood, Broad Street, Oxford, Oxon. + Blackwood's Magazine, 37, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.4. + Blue Magazine, 115, Fleet Street, London, E.C.4. + Bystander, Graphic Buildings, Whitefriars, London, E.C.4. + Cassell's Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.4. + Chambers' Journal, 38, Soho Square, London, W.C.1. + Colour Magazine, 53, Victoria Street, London, S.W.1. + Cornhill Magazine, 50a, Albemarle Street, London, W.1. + Country Heart, George Allen and Unwin, Ltd., Ruskin House, 40, + Museum Street, London, W.C.1. + Country Life, 20, Tavistock Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. + English Review, 18, Bedford Square, London, W.C.1. + Eve, Great New Street, London, E.C.4. + Grand Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. + Graphic, Graphic Buildings, Whitefriars, London, E.C.4. + Happy Magazine, George Newnes, Ltd., 8, Southampton Street, Strand, + London, W.C.2. + Hutchinson's Magazine, 34-36, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.4. + John o'London's Weekly, 8-11, Southampton Street, London, W.C.2. + Ladies' Home Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, London, W.C.2. + Lloyd's Story Magazine, 12, Salisbury Square, London, E.C.4. + London Magazine, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.4. + London Mercury, Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, London, E.C.4. + Manchester Guardian, 3, Cross Street, Manchester. + Nash's and Pall Mall Magazine, I, Amen Corner, Paternoster Row, + London, E.C.4. + Nation and Athenaeum, 10, Adelphi Terrace, London, W.C.2. + New Age, 38, Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, London, E.C.4. + New Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.4. + New Statesman, 10, Great Queen Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2. + Novel Magazine, 18, Henrietta Street, London, W.C.2. + Outward Bound, Edinburgh House, 2, Eaton Gate, London, S.W.1. + Pan, Long Acre, London, W.C. 2. + Pearson's Magazine, 17, Henrietta Street, London, W.C.2. + Premier, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.4. + Queen, Bream's Buildings, London, E.C.4. + Quest, 21, Cecil Court, Charing Cross Road, London, W.C.2. + Quiver, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.4. + Red Magazine, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.4. + Royal Magazine, 17-18, Henrietta Street, London, W.C.2. + Saturday Review, 10, King Street, Covent Garden, London, W.C.2. + Sketch, 172, Strand, London, W.C.2. + Sovereign Magazine, 34, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.4. + Sphere, Great New Street, London, E.C.4. + Story-Teller, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.4. + Strand Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.2. + Tatler, 6, Great New Street, London, E.C.4. + Time and Tide, 88, Fleet Street, London, E.C.4. + Truth, 10, Bolt Court, Fleet Street, London, E.C.4. + 20-Story Magazine, Odhams Press Ltd., Long Acre, London, W.C.2. + Tyro, Egoist Press, 2, Robert Street, Adelphi, London, W.C.2. + Westminster Gazette (Weekly), Tudor House, Tudor Street, London, E.C.4. + Windsor Magazine, Warwick House, Salisbury Square, London, E.C.4. + Yellow Magazine, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.4. + Youth, Shakespeare Head Press, Ltd., Stratford-on-Avon. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. AMERICAN PERIODICALS + + Ace-High Magazine, 799 Broadway, New York City. + Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. + Ainslee's Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. + All's Well, Gayeta Lodge, Fayetteville, Arkansas. + American Boy, 142 Lafayette Boulevard, Detroit, Michigan. + American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. + American-Scandinavian Review, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. + Argosy All-Story Weekly, 280 Broadway, New York City. + Asia, 627 Lexington Avenue, New York City. + Atlantic Monthly, 8 Arlington Street, Boston, Mass. + Ave Maria, Notre Dame, Indiana. + Black Mask, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. + Blue Book Magazine, 36 South State Street, Chicago, Ill. + Bookman, 244 Madison Avenue, New York City. + Breezy Stories, 112 East 19th Street, New York City. + Brief Stories, 714 Drexel Building, Philadelphia, Pa. + Broom, 3 East 9th Street, New York City. + Catholic World, 120 West 60th Street, New York City. + Century, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City. + Chicago Tribune, Chicago, Ill. + Christian Herald, Bible House, New York City. + Clay, 3325 Farragut Road, Brooklyn, N.Y. + Collier's Weekly, 416 West 13th Street, New York City. + Cosmopolitan Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. + Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. + Designer, 12 Vandam Street, New York City. + Detective Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. + Dial, 152 West 13th Street, New York City. + Double Dealer, 204 Baronne Street, New Orleans, La. + Everybody's Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. + Extension Magazine, 223 W. Jackson Boulevard, Chicago, Ill. + Follies, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. + Freeman, 32 West 58th Street, New York City. + Gargoyle, 7, Rue Campagne-Première, Paris, France. + Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. + Harper's Bazar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. + Harper's Magazine, Franklin Square, New York City. + Hearst's International Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. + Holland's Magazine, Dallas, Texas. + Jewish Forum, 5 Beekman Street, New York City. + Ladies' Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. + Leslie's Weekly, 627 West 43d Street, New York City. + Liberator, 34 Union Square, East, New York City. + Little Review, 24 West 16th Street, New York City. + Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New Fork City. + McCall's Magazine, 236 West 37th Street, New York City. + McClure's Magazine, 80 Lafayette Street, New York City. + MacLean's Magazine, 143 University Avenue, Toronto, Canada. + Magnificat, Manchester, N.H. + Menorah journal, 167 West 13th Street, New York City. + Metropolitan, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City. + Midland, Box 110, Iowa City, Iowa. + Modern Priscilla, 85 Broad Street, Boston, Mass. + Munsey's Magazine, 280 Broadway, New York City. + Open Road, 248 Boylston Street, Boston, Mass. + Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. + Pagan, 23 West 8th Street, New York City. + Pearson's Magazine, 34 Union Square, New York City. + People's Home journal, 76 Lafayette Street, New York City. + People's Popular Monthly, 801 Second Street, Des Moines, Iowa. + Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City. + Popular Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. + Queen's Work, 626 North Vandeventer Avenue, St. Louis, Mo. + Red Book Magazine, North American Building, Chicago, Ill. + Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. + Saucy Stories, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. + Scribner's Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City. + Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N.Y. + Smart Set, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. + Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City. + Sunset, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal. + Telling Tales, 799 Broadway, New York City. + 10-Story Book, 538 South Dearborn Street, Chicago, Ill. + Today's Housewife, Cooperstown, N.Y. + Top-Notch Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. + Town Topics, 2 West 45th Street, New York City. + True Story Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. + Wave, 2103 North Halsted Street, Chicago, Ill. + Wayside Tales, 6 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Ill. + Western Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. + Woman's Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. + Woman's World, 107 South Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill. + Young's Magazine, 112 East 19th Street, New York City. + Youth, 66 East Elm Street, Chicago, Ill. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROLL OF HONOR + </h2> + <h3> + JULY. 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Note. <i>Only stories by British and Irish authors are listed</i> + + A., G.M. + Cobbler's Quest. Man. G. Dec. 15, '21. (14.) + + ALLATINI, R. + "While There's Life—." Time. Sept. 2, '21. (2:838.) + + AUMONIER, STACY. + Accident of Crime. S.E.P. March 11. (20.) + Angel of Accomplishment. Sto. Feb. (481.) + Beautiful Merciless One. Pict. R. Sept. (14.) Lon. March (137:9.) + "Face." Hut. Aug., '21. (5: 143.) + Funny Man's Day. Str. May. (63: 455.) + Heart-Whole. Str. March. (63:201.) + Man of Letters. Str. July, '21. (62: 46.) + Where Was Wych Street? Str. Nov., '21. (62:405.) + + BARRINGTON, E. + Mystery of Stella. Atl. March. (129:311.) + + BECK, L. ADAMS. + Interpreter. Atl. July, '21. (128: 37.) Aug., '21. (12 8: 233.) + + BEERBOHM, MAX. + T. Fenning Dodworth. L. Merc. Aug., '21. (4: 355.) Dial. Aug., '21. + (71:130.) + + BENNETT, ARNOLD. + Fish. Nash. April. (69:20.) + Mysterious Destruction of Mr. Lewis Apple. Harp. B. Aug., '21. + (27.) Nash. Dec., '21. (68: 297.) + Nine o'Clock To-morrow. Nash. May. (69: 111.) + + BENSON, EDWARD FREDERICK. + Outcast. Hut. April. (6:337.) + + BERESFORD, JOHN DAVYS. + Looking-Glass. Corn. Aug., '21. (302:185.) + Sentimentalists. Corn. Jan. (303:48.) + Soul of an Artist. Broom. Nov., '21. (1: 56.) + + BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. + Nephele. Pears' A. Dec. 25, '21. (15.) + Olive. Pearson. (London.) July. '21. (24.) + Woman's Ghost Story. Pearson. (N.Y.) June. (32.) + + BLAKE, GEORGE. + Dun Cow. Corn. Aug., '21. (302:223.) + + BRIGHOUSE, HAROLD. + Once a Hero. Pan. July, '21. + + BRUNDRIT, D.F. + In the End. Man. G. Dec. 8, '21. (12.) + + BURKE, THOMAS. + Song of a Thousand Years. Pre. Feb., '21. (5.) + + BUTTS, MARY. + Change. Dial. May. (72:465.) + Speed the Plough. Dial. Oct., 21. (71:399.) + + CAINE, WILLIAM. + Doob in Europe. Str. April. (63:366.) + Pensioner. Gra. July 2, '21. (104:22.) + Spider's Web. Str. Dec., '21. (62: 577.) + Wise Old Bird. Gra. April. (105:400.) + + CHESTERTON, GILBERT KEITH. + Shadow of the Shark. Nash. Dec., '21. (68:239.) + Temple of Silence. Harp. M. May. (144: 783.) + Vengeance of the Statue. Harp. M. June. (145: 10.) + + COPPARD, ALFRED EDGAR. + Black Dog. Met. Feb. (9.) + Broadsheet Ballad. Dial. March. (72:235.) + Hurly-Burly. L. Mere. July, '21. (4: 243.) + Pomona's Babe. Eng. R. March. (34: 217.) + Tiger. Sov. April. (500.) + + CORKERY, DANIEL. + By-Product. Free. May 3. (5:176.) + Colonel MacGillicuddy Goes Home. Free. April 19. (5:128.) + Ember. Free. May 24. (5:247.) + Price. Free. April 5. (5:80.) + Unfinished Symphony. Free. March 15. (5:8.) + + "CROMPTON, RICHMAL." (R.C. LAMBURN.) + Christmas Present. Truth. Dec. 21, '21. + + DAGNAL, DEVERELL. + Windows of the Cupola. Adelphi. June. (1:3.) + + DAVEY, NORMAN. + Joyous Adventure of the Lady and the Large Sponge. (<i>R</i>.) + Tatler. Christmas No. (12.) + + DE LA MARE, WALTER. + Seaton's Aunt. L. Merc. April. (5:578.) + + EASTON, DOROTHY. + Afterwards. Man. G. July 6, '21. (14.) + Inheritors. Man. G. Dec. 2, '21. (14.) + Reaper. Eng. R. May. (34:435.) + + EDGINTON, MAY. + Bella Donna. Cas. Winter A., '21. (103.) + House on the Rock. Pre. March 7. (5.) + Mary Gets Married. S.E.P. Nov. 5, '21. (12.) Nash. Nov. + '21. (68:127.) + Song. Lloyd. June. (415:825.) + + GALSWORTHY, JOHN. + Feud. Del. Feb. (7.) March. (13.) + Hedonist. Cen. July '21. (102: 321.) Pears' A. Dec. 25, '21.(11.) + Man Who Kept His Form. Del. Oct., '21. (8.) Lon. Jan. + (135: 423.) + Santa Lucia. Del. April. (5.) Lon. May. (139:207.) + + GIBBON, PERCEVAL. + Saint Flossie. S.E.P. Dec. 3, '21. (10.) Str. March. + (63:223.) + + GOLDING, LOUIS. + Green Gloom. Colour. Nov., '21. (15:88.) + + GRAHAM, ALAN. + Bat and Belfry Inn. Sto. May. (154.) + + GREAVES, CHARLES. + Land of Memories. Colour. April. (16:50.) + + HARRINGTON, KATHERINE. (MRS. ROLF BENNETT.) + O'Hara's Leg. Hut. July, '21. (5:90.) + + HICHENS, ROBERT. + Last Time. Hut. July, '21. (5:1.) + + HORN, HOLLOWAY. + Lie. Blue. May. (35:25.) + + HOWARD, FRANCIS MORTON. + "One Good Turn—." Pre. Feb. 21. (27.) + + HUXLEY, ALDOUS. + Fard. West. May 27. (16.) + Gioconda Smile. Eng. R. Aug., '21. (33:88.) + + JEROME, JEROME KLAPKA. + Fiddle That Played of Itself. Cas. Winter A., '21. (69.) + + JESSE, FRYNIWYD TENNYSON. + Virtue. Hut. June. (6:639.) + Wisdom. Lon. June. (140:377.) + + KAYE-SMITH, SHEILA. + Mrs. Adis. Cen. Jan. (103:321.) + Mockbeggar. Roy. Feb. (321.) Harp. M. Feb. (144:331.) + + KENNEY, ROWLAND. + Girl In It. New A. Dec. 15, '21. (30:78.) + + KEPPEL, FRANCIS. + Conversation Before Dawn. Beacon. Oct., '21. (1:20.) + + KING, MAUDE EGERTON. + Madman's Metropole. C.H. April-June. (205.) + + KINROSS, ALBERT. + Traitors. S.S. April. (93.) + + LANGBRIDGE, ROSAMOND. + Backstairs of the Mind. Man. G. Feb. 7. (12.) + + LAWRENCE, C.E. + Thirteenth Year. Gra. Aug. 6, '21. (104:168.) + + LAWRENCE, DAVID HERBERT. + Episode. Dial. Feb. (72:143.) + Fanny and Annie. Hut. Nov., '21. (5:461.) + Horse-dealer's Daughter. Eng. R. April. (34:308.) + Sick Collier. (<i>R</i>) Pearson (N.Y.). Feb. (10.) + + LIVEING, EDWARD. + Storm in the Desert. Black. April. (211:446.) + + LYONS, A. NEIL. + Marrying Ellen. By. A., '21. (81.) + + MCFEE, WILLIAM. + Knights and Turcopoliers. Atl. Aug., '21. (128:170.) + + MACKENZIE, COMPTON. + New Pink Dress. Sto. Dec., '21. (281.) + Sop. Cas. Winter A., '21. (76.) + + MACMANUS, SEUMAS. + Mrs. Maguire's Holiday. C.H. July-Sept '21. (108.) + + "MALET, LUCAS." (MRS. MARY ST. LEGER HARRISON.) + Birth of a Masterpiece. Sto. Jan. (390.) + Fillingers. Nash. Aug., '21. (67:447.) + + MANNING-SANDERS, RUTH. + Significance. Voices. Autumn. '21. (5:127.) + + MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. (MRS. J. MIDDLETON MURRY.) + At the Bay. L. Merc. Jan. (5:239.) + Cup of Tea. Sto. May. (121.) + Doll's House. Nat. (London.) Feb. 4. (30: 692.) + Fly. Nat. (London.) March 18. (30: 896.) + Garden-Party. West. Feb. 4. (9.) Feb. 11. (10.) Feb. 18. i (16.) + Her First Ball. Sphere. Nov. 28, '21. (15.) + Honeymoon. Nat. (London.) April 29. (31:156.) + Ideal Family. Sphere. Aug. 20, '21. (86:196.) + Marriage à la Mode. Sphere. Dec. 31, '21. (87:364.) + Sixpence. Sphere. Aug. 6, '21. (86:144.) + Taking the Veil. Sketch. Feb. 22. (117:296.) + + MAXWELL, WILLIAM BABINGTON. + All to Husband. Lloyd. Jan. (410:275.) + Romance of It. Outl. (N.Y.) June 21. (131: 3 47.) + + MERRICK, LEONARD. + Pot of Pansies. Nash. Dec., '21. (68:269.) + + MONKHOUSE, ALLAN N. + Life and Letters. Man. G. Feb. 15. (12.) + + MONTGOMERY, K.L. + Graineog. Corn. Nov., '21. (594.) + Wave Desart. Corn. March. (314.) + + MOORE, GEORGE. + Peronnik the Fool. Dial. Nov., '21. (71:497.) L. Merc. + Sept., '21. (4:468.) Oct., '21. (4:586.) + Wilfrid Holmes. L. Mere. Feb. (5:356.) + + MORDAUNT, ELINOR. + Fighting-Cocks. Hut. March. (6: 290.) Piet. R. May. (14.) + Ganymede. Met. Aug., '21. (33.) Pan. Dec., '21. (6:75.) + "Genius." Cen. Nov.. '21. (103:102.) Hut. Feb. (6: 113.) + Kelly O'Keefe. Lloyd. June. (415:783.) Met. April. (19.) + Parrots. Met. June. (30.) + Rider in the King's Carriage. Lloyd. July, '21. (33:814.) + Yellow Cat. Hut. Aug., '21. (5:157.) + + NEWTON, WILFRID DOUGLAS. + Mai D'Agora. Blue. Sept., '21. (27:16.) + + NORRY, M.E. + Barge. Time. Sept. 23. '21. (2:916.) + + PEMBERTON, MAX. + Devil to Pay. Sto. March. (563.) + + PERROT, F. + Mr. Tweedale Changes His Mind. Man. G. Aug. 19, '21. (14.) + + PERTWEE, ROLAND. + Chap Upstairs. S.E.P. May 13. (10.) Str. June. (63:550.) + Empty Arms. L.H.J. March. (12.) + Man Who Didn't Matter. Sto. Nov., '21. (160.) + Summer Time. Str. Aug., '21. (62: 105.) + + RAWLENCE, GUY. + Return. Corn. June. (674.) + + ROBERTS, CECIL EDRIC MORNINGTON. + Silver Pool. Hut. July, '21. (5:98.) + + S., R.H. + Supplanter. Man. G. Feb. 26. (10.) + + SABATINI, RAFAEL. + Casanova in Madrid. Pre. July 15, '21. (32.) + + SEWELL, CHRIS. + Suspension Bridge. Truth. Jan. 18. + + SINCLAIR, MAY. + Heaven. Pict. R. June. (12.) + Lena Wrace. Dial. July. '21. (71:50.) + Token. Hut. March. (6:259.) + Villa Désirée. Hut. Dec., '21. (5:627.) + + SOUTHGATE, SIDNEY. + Dice Thrower. Colour. Dec., '21. (15:105.) + + STEPHENS, JAMES. + Hunger. Broom. Nov., '21. (1:3.) + + "STERN, G.B." (MRS. GEOFFREY LISLE HOLDSWORTH.) + Achille. Sketch. Dec. 7, '21. (116:372.) + Little Rebel. Grand. June. (361.) + "New Whittington." John. March 25. (6: 809.) + "P.L.M." Sketch. Dec. 14, '21. (116: 410.) + Stranger Woman. John. Jan. 28. (6:537.) Feb. 4. (6:573.) + + TORRY, E. NORMAN. + Gourmand of Marseilles. John. April I. (6:849.) + + "TRUSCOTT, PARRY." (MRS. BASH. HARGRAVE.) + Hint to Husbands. Colour. Jan. (15:133.) + Theft. Colour. June. (16:108.) + Woman Who Sat Still. Colour. Nov., '21. (15:78.) + + VAHEY, JOHN HASLETTE. + Treasure. Corn. Nov., '21. (560.) + + WALPOLE, HUGH SEYMOUR. + Bombastes Furioso. Hut. July, '21. (5:69-) + Conscience Money. Pict. R. May. (22.) Sto. June. (311.) + Major Wilbraham. Chic. Trib. Nov. 13, '21. + Mrs. Comber at Rafiel. Sto. Aug. '21. (453.) + + YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT. + Octagon. Dec. 10, '21, (747.) Dec. 17.'21. (765.) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LIST OF OTHER DISTINCTIVE STORIES + </h2> + <h3> + JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NOTE. Only stories by British and Irish authors are listed. + + A., G.M. + Misers. Man. G. March 20. (10.) + + ALEN, HOWARD. + Magic of His Excellency. Sov. Feb. (27:263.) + + ALTIMUS, HENRY. + Sacrifice of Madeleine Duval. Lloyd. Sept., '21. (406:1025.) + Underworld-on-the-Sound. Lloyd. Oct., '21. (407:1144.) + + ANONYMOUS. + Holiday. Man. G. Nov. 8,'21. (12.) + + APPLETON, EDGAR. + Arrest. Pan. March. (7:29.) + + AUMONIER, STACY. + Old Lady with Two Umbrellas. Hut. Dec., '21. (5:581.) + + AUSTIN, FREDERICK BRITTEN. + Murderer in the Dark. Str. June. (63:542.) + Red Shawl. Hear. Feb.(8.) Nash. May. (69:121.) + + B., I. + Education. Man. G. Feb. 3. (12.) + + BARBER, GEORGE. + Super-Clerk and a Card Index. Wind. Jan. (169.) + + BARKER, CHARLES H. + Week End. Nat. (London.) July 16,'21. (29:580.) + + BARRINGTON, E. + Walpole Beauty. Atl. Sept., '21. (128:300.) + + BARRY, IRIS. + Resentment. Time. April l4. (3:356.) + + BAX, CLIFFORD. + Leaf. Form. Jan. (1:87.) + + BEAUFOY, P. + Story of a Pin. Truth. July 13. + + BECK, L. ADAMS. + Flute of Krishna. Asia. Jan. (22:28.) + Loveliest Lady of China. Asia. Oct., '21. (21: 843.) + Round-Faced Beauty. Atl. Dec., '21. (128:750.) + + BEESTON, L.J. + Chips of One Block. Hut. April. (6:358.) + Fiendish Laugh. Grand. Nov., '21. (279.) + + BENNETT, ROLF. + Cold Fact. Pan. Feb. (7:83.) + Education of the Bishop. Pearson (London). Oct., '21. (307.) + + BENSON, CLAUDE E. + Puppets. Corn. Feb. (182.) + + BENSON, EDWARD FREDERICK. + Light in the Garden. Eve. Nov. 23, '21. (7:236.) + Mrs. Amworth. Hut. June. (6:561.) + + BIBESCO, ELIZABETH. + Quickening Spirit. Book. (N.Y.) March. (55:6.) + + BLACK, DOROTHY. + To Every Woman Once—. Roy. June. (167.) + + BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. + Lane That Ran East and West. McCall. Sept., '21. (10.) + + BRAMAH, ERNEST. + Lao Ting and the Luminous Insect. L. Merc. June. (6:132.) + + BRIGHOUSE, HAROLD. + Adventurer. Man. G. July 28, '21. (10.) + Feud. Man. G. May 22. (12.) + Sceptic. Man. G. Aug. 25, '21. (12.) + + BROWNE, K.R.G. + Professional Pride. Truth. Nov. 23, '21. + + BURRAGE, A.M. + At the Toy Menders. Eve. Nov. 2, '21. (7:142.) + + CAINE, WILLIAM. + Boker's Stocking. Tatler. April 26. (144.) + Carols. Pears' A. Dec. 25. '21. (29.) + Corner in Worms. Str. Feb. (63:181.) + Extravaganza. West. Jan. 7. (10.) + Fanny's Friends. Lon. Aug., '21. (130:513.) + On the Palace Pier. Pearson. (London.) Aug. '21. (140.) + Presentation Portrait. Qui. May. (655.) + Suicide's Aid Society. Lon. May. (139:269.) + Three Kings. S.S. Dec., '21. (63.) + + CANDLER, EDMUND. + Bogle. Black. March. (211:370.) + + CASTLE, AGNES and CASTLE, EGERTON. + Challenge. Lloyd. Oct., '21. (407:1087.) + + CHESTERTON, GILBERT KEITH. + Bottomless Well. Sto. July, '21. (381.) + Hole in the Wall. Harp. M. Oct., '21. (143:572.) Cas. + Sept., '21. (114:47.) + House of the Peacock. Harp. B. Jan. (36.) + + CHOLMONDELEY, MARY. + End of the Dream. Pict. R. Oct., '21. (21.) + + CLARK, F. LE GROS. + Buried Caesars. John. Dec. 31, '21. (6:421.) + Christopher. West. Feb. 25. (16.) + Overflow. Colour. March. (16:26.) + Simone. John. April 22. (7:73.) + + CLEAVER, HYLTON. + Better Man. Sto. Jan. (397.) + + COLLINS, GILBERT. + Beyond the Skyline, Roy. March, (379.) + + COLUM, PADRAIC. + Sad Sequel to Puss-in-Boots. Dial. July, '21. (71:28.) + + COPPARD, ALFRED EDGAR. + Mordecai and Cocking. West. Sept. 3, '21. (10.) + + COULDREY, OSWALD. + Idols of the Cave. Beacon. June. (1:580.) + Story of Conversion. Beacon. Feb. (1:246.) + + CRACKANTHORPE, HUBERT. + Fellside Tragedy. D.D. Dec., '21. (2:252.) + + CROOKS, MAXWELL. + If Mr. Greene Hadn't 'Phoned. Truth. June 21. (1088.) + + CUMMINGS, RAY. + Silver Veil. Grand. Jan. (446.) + + DALTON, MORAY. + Forest Love. Corn. Dec., '21. (726.) + + DARMUZEY, JACK. + Blessed Miracle. L. Merc. June. (1:23.) + + DEEPING, GEORGE WARWICK. + Failure. Sto. May. (163.) + Sheik Jahir. Sto. July, '21. (329.) + + DELAGREVE, C.J. + Blue Pony. Man. G. Nov. 9, '21. (14.) + + DESMOND, SHAW. + Gallows-Tree. Scr. April. (71:481.) + + DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR CONAN. + Adventure of the Mazarin Stone. Str. Oct., '21. (62:289.) + Hear. Nov., '21. (6.) + Bully of Brocas Court. Str. Nov., '21. (62:381.) Hear. + Dec., '21. (6.) + Lift. Str. June. (63:471.) + Nightmare Room. Str. Dec., '21. (62:545.) + + DUDENEY, MRS. HENRY. + Embrace. Harp. M. Feb. (144:303.) + Feast. Harp. M. Jan. (144:216.) + + DUFF, NELLIE BROWN. + Golden Gown. Pearson (London.) Oct., '21. (328.) + + EASTERBROOK, LAURENCE. + Man Who Said "Yes" Without Thinking. West. Oct. 15, '21. (10.) + + EDGINTON, MAY. + Cards. Sto. Sept., '21. (597.) + + ELLIOT, RICHARD. + Obstacle. Hut. April. (6:423.) + + FIGGIS, DARRELL. + His Old Comrade. Beacon. Nov.-Dec., '21. (1:87.) + + FRANK AU, GILBERT. + Moth and the Star. Ev. July, '21. (113.) + + FRIEDLAENDER, V.H. + Dinner. Time. Oct. 14. '21. (2:985.) + + G., C. + "Dancing Pan." Man. G. July 4, '21. (12.) + + GARRATT, JOHN HILARY. + Miniature. Lloyd. Oct., '21. (407:1173.) + + GEORGE, W.L. + Lady Alcuin Intervenes. S.E.P. July 16.'21. (8.) Novel. + May. (206:111.) + + GIBBON, PERCEVAL. + Gold That Glitters. Str. May. (63:405.) Pop. Jan. 20. (109.) + When America Goes East. S.E.P. May (14.) + + GODWIN, GEORGE. + Chinese Puzzle. Time. Dec. 9,'21. (2:1184.) + + GOLDING, LOUIS. + House of Six Maidens. Colour. Jan. (15:123.) + Miss Pomfret and Miss Primrose. Eng. R. Feb. (34:190.) + + GORDON, ALBAN. + Diary of the Dead. Hut. March. (6:277.) + + GORDON, JAN. + Hot Evening. John. Oct. 8.'21. (6:5.) + + GRAHAM, ALAN. + Black and White. Blue. June. (36:15.) + + GREENE, PATRICK. + Delayed. Pan. Feb. (7:18.) + + GRIFFITHS, ALEXANDER. + Bet. Adelphi. June. (1:27.) + + GROGAN, WALTER E. + Back to the Old Love. Sketch. March 29. (117:504.) + Realization. Truth. Oct. 5.'21. + + H., C. + Lion-Breaker. Man. G. Aug. 16.'21. (12.) + + H., M. + Pavement Philosopher. Man. G. Aug. 10,'21. (12.) + + HAMILTON, MARY AGNES. + Sacred Terror. Time. Dec. 9,'21. (2:1182.) Dec. 16,'21. + (2:1210.) + + HARRINGTON, KATHERINE. (MRS. ROLF BENNETT.) + Survivor. Nash. Aug., '21. (67:473.) + + HARRISON, IRENE. + Thirty-Nine Articles. Gra. Aug. 13,'21. (104:196.) + + HASTINGS, BASIL MACDONALD. + Interviewer. Eve. March 1. (8:272.) + + HAWLEY, J.B. + Honour of Wong Kan. Novel. Feb. + + HERBERT, ALICE. + Magic Casements. Queen. Feb. 11. (176.) + + HORN, HOLLOWAY. + Escape. By. Nov. 2,'21. + Inclemency. By. June 14. (718.) + Jade. Sketch. June 14. (424.) + Lesson. Sketch. Feb. 1. (117:176.) + Life Is Hard on Women. Novel. June. (207:251.) + + HOWARD, D. NEVILL. + Nocturne. By. Nov. 9,'21. + + HOWARD, FRANCIS MORTON. + "A La Frongsy!" Pre. Sept. 23, '21. (56.) + Her Christmas Present. Pan. Dec. '21. (6:57.) + Lucky Sign. Pre. July 15, '21. (15.) + Masquerade. Lloyd. Nov. '21. (408:61.) + + HUNT, LIAN. + King of the Reef. Pre. March 21. (49.) + + JACOB, VIOLET. (MRS. ARTHUR JACOB.) + Fiddler. Corn. April. (442.) + + JORDAN, HUMFREY. + Passing of Pincher. Corn. Oct., '21. (304:440.) + + KAYE-SMITH, SHEILA. + Good Wits Jump. Harp. M. March. (144:483.) Sto. May. (172.) + Man Whom the Rocks Hated. Sto. Sept., '21. (567.) + Rebecca at the Well. Grand. Oct., '21. (156.) + + KELLY, THOMAS. + Balance. Man. G. July 15, '21. (14.) + + KINGSWORTH, R.V. + Pig's Head. West. March 25. (16.) + + KINROSS, ALBERT. + Behind the Lines. Cham. May. (137:283.) + Elysian Fields. Atl. Jan. (129:33.) + Forbidden Fruit. Cen. July, '21. (102:342.) + Profiteer. Cen. Nov., '21. (103:28.) Dec., '21. (103:290.) + + KNOX, E.V. + Meadow. New S. June 24. (19:322.) + + LANG, JEAN. + Turkish Bath. Truth. May 3. (773.) + + LAWRENCE, DAVID HERBERT. + Fragment of Stained Glass. (R.) Pearson. (N.Y.) March. (7.) + Wintry Peacock. Met. Aug., '21. (21.) + + LEE, VERNON. + Dom Sylvanus. Eng. R. Nov., '21. (33:365.) + + LEGGETT, H.W. + Chance of a Lifetime. Pearson (London). May. (418.) + Dinner at Seven-Thirty. Str. Jan. (63:41.) + + LITCHFIELD, C. RANDOLPH. + Scent of Pines. Pre. Dec. 27, '21. + + LINFORD, MADELINE. + Blue Shawl. Man. G. Dec. 22, '21. (12.) + + LUCAS, ST. JOHN. + Columbina. Black. Feb. (211:137.) + + MACHEN, ARTHUR. + Marriage of Panurge. Wave. Jan. (2.) + Secret Glory. Wave. Feb. (41.) + + MCKENNA, STEPHEN. + Daughter of Pan. Chic. Trib. Aug. 14, '21. Pears' A. Dec. 25, + '21. (2.) + + MACKENZIE, COMPTON. + Bill Shortcoat. Sto. Oct., '21. (39.) + + MAGILL, ROBERT. + Poor Sort of Policeman. Novel. May. (206:103.) + + MAITLAND, CECIL. + Raising the Devil. Form. Jan. (1:83.) + + MAKIN, WILLIAM J. + Above the Jungle. Man G. Aug. 24, '21. (12.) + In Chinatown. Man. G. July 20, '21. (12.) + + "MALET, LUCAS." (MRS. MARY ST. LEGER HARRISON.) + Pill-Box. Nash. Dec., '21. (68:219.) + + MANNING-SANDERS, GEORGE. + List. John. April 8. (7:5.) + Mist. John. May 6. (133.) + Storm. John. Jan. 21. (6:505.) + + MANNING-SANDERS, RUTH. + Carpenter's Wife. West. July 9, '21. (10.) + + MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. (MRS. J. MIDDLETON MURRY.) + Mr. and Mrs. Dove. Sphere. Aug. 13, '21. (86:172.) + + MASSIE, CHRIS. + Ex-Service. Eng. R. Oct. '21. (33:273.) + + MASSON, ROSALINE. + Sir Malcolm's Heir. Cham. May. (137:273.) + + MATTINGLY, SIDNEY. + Affair of Starch. Pearson (London). Nov., '21. (391.) + + MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. + Fear. Cen. March. (103:712.) + Philosopher. McC. April. (20.) + + MAXWELL, WILLIAM BABINGTON. + Getting Rid of M. Str. Nov., '21. (62:441.) Met. April. (59.) + + MÉGROZ, PHYLLIS. + Executioner. Voices. Autumn, '21. (5:135.) + + METHLEY, VIOLET. + "Dusty Death." Truth. Nov. 16, '21. + + MILLS, ARTHUR. + Rien Ne Va Plus. Eng. R. April. (34:335.) + + MILNE, EDGAR. + An Individual from Blue Wing. Str. Jan. (63:84.) + + MILNE, JAMES. + Dream That Happened. Gra. Aug. 20, '21. (104:224.) + + MONKHOUSE, ALLAN N. + Testimonial. Man. G. April 5. (12.) + + MONTGOMERY, K.L. + Quarrelling of Queens. Corn. Sept., '21. (303:297.) + + NEW, CLARENCE HERBERT. + In Old Delhi. Pre. Dec. 27, '21. (12.) + + NEWTON, WILFRID DOUGLAS. + Chosen. Yel. May 5. (3:229.) + "I'll Show Her!" Blue. Nov., '21. (29:14.) + Little Woman of Russia. Gra. July 30, '21. (104:136.) + Point Blank. By. Sept. 7, '21. + Psychic. Sketch. June 7. (396.) + + NORTH, LAURENCE. + Barmecide. Eng. R. Dec., '21. (33:503.) + + OLLIVANT, ALFRED. + Old For-Ever. Black. June. (211:693.) + + P., L.A. + Man Who Saw Through Things. Man. G. Aug. 15, '21. (10.) + + PARKER, SIR GILBERT. + After the Ball. Sto. May. (111.) Scr. May. (71:565.) + + PEACH, L. DU GARDE. + Ben Trollope. Man. G. May 18. (14.) + + PEMBERTON, MAX. + Rosa of Colorado. Lloyd. Oct., '21. (407:1135.) + + PERTWEE, ROLAND. + Cinderella. S.E.P. Feb. 4. (10.) Pearson (London). April. + (283.) + Evil Communications. Cas. Nov., '21. (68.) + Uncle from Australia. Hut. Aug., '21. (5:188.) + + POLLEXFEN, CLAIRE D. + Devon Pride. Sto. Sept., '21. (606.) + + PUGH, EDWIN. + Impostor. John. Dec. 24, '21. (6:393.) + + QUIRK, VIOLET. + Bundle of Faggots. Colour. Feb. (16:2.) + + R., E. + Furnace. Man. G. Nov. 29, '21. (12.) + Great Woman. Man. G. May 26. (14.) + + RICKWORD, EDGELL. + Ball. Colour. March. (16:31.) + + RIDGE, WILLIAM PETT. + Curtain-Raiser. Gra. July 23, '21. (104:112.) + + ROBERTS, MORLEY. + Egregious Goat. Str. July, '21. (62:35.) + + ROBERTS, THEODORE GOODRIDGE. + "No Chances." Grand. Nov., '21. (286.) + + ROBEY, GEORGE. + Brink of Matrimony. Grand. Dec., '21. (336.) + Double or Quits. Ev. Sept., '21. (81.) + Solving the Servant Problem. New. May. (120.) + + ROSENBACH, A.S.W. + Evasive Pamphlet. Str. June. (63:520.) + + SALMON, ARTHUR LESLIE. + Musician. Colour. April. (16:68.) + + SANDYS, OLIVER. + Short Story. Blue. June. (36:39.) + + "SAPPER." (MAJOR CYRIL MCNEILE.) + Man Who Could Not Get Drunk. Str. March. (63:187.) + + SCOTT, WILL. + Wanted! Pan. April. (7:21.) + + SEWELL, CHRIS. + Lawful Issue. Truth. June 28. (1135.) + Nocturne. Truth. June 14. (1042.) + Peacock Screen. Truth. May 10. (813.) + + SHANKS, EDWARD. + "Battle of the Boyne Water." Cen. Feb. (103:492.) + + SINGLETON, A.H. + Hairy Mary. Atl. May. (129:623.) + Jack the Robber. Atl. Feb. (129:174.) + Larry. Atl. March. (129:364.) + + SOUTHGATE, SIDNEY. + Schoolmaster. Colour. March. (16:40.) + + STACPOOLE, HENRY DE VERE. + End of the Road. Pop. Aug. 20, '21. (139.) Sto. April. (1.) + + "STERN, G.B." (MRS. GEOFFREY LISLE HOLDSWORTH.) + Cinderella's Sister. John. Dec. 10, '21. (6:303.) + Claret and Consommé Blue. June. (36:6.) + + STONE, C.M. + Twenty-four Hours. Lloyd. Oct., '21. (407:1157.) + + STORRS, MARGUERITE. + Wife of Ivan. Pre. May 30. (141:5.) + + "THORNE, GUY." (CYRIL A.E. RANGER-GULL.) + Confession. Blue. April. (34:1.) + + THURSTON, E. TEMPLE. + Hate. Sto. June. (344.) + + "TRUSCOTT, PARRY." (MRS. BASIL HARGRAVE.) + Mary—A Spiritual Biography. Colour. Aug., '21. (15:2.) + + Oubliette. Colour. Feb. (16:7.) + Penalty Imposed. Colour. Sept., '21. (15:26.) + + VAHEY, JOHN HASLETTE. + Case of Cadwallder Jones. Black. June. (211:774.) + + VAN DER VEER, LENORE. + Glamour. Hut. June. (6:651.) + + W., S.F. + Old Adam. Man. G. Nov. 25, '21. (14.) + + WALPOLE, HUGH SEYMOUR. + Come Out of the Kitchen. Sto. May. (133.) Pict. R. April. (6.) + Dance. Pict. R. June. (14.) + Little Cure for Bachelors. Lon. March. (137:24.) + + WALSHE, DOUGLAS. + Collision. Corn. July. '21. (301:48.) + + WATSON, FREDERICK. + New Sentimental Journey. Wind. Jan. (129.) + + WATTS, M.F. + Orange Blossoms. John. March 11. (6:741.) + + WAUGH, ALEC. + Dress Rehearsal. Blue. June. (36:1.) + + WEBSTER, F.A.M. + Cup. Lloyd. Oct., '21. (407:1149.) + Statue. Lloyd. Sept., '21. (406:1000.) + + WHITE, E.L. + Seven Years Secret. Grand. Nov., '21. (268.) + + WILLIAMS, ORLO. + Interior. Corn. March. (343.) + Nature Morte. Corn. Dec., '21. (685.) + + WILLIAMSON, MRS. CHARLES NORRIS. + Advantage of Making Friends. Gra. July 16. '21. (104:80.) + Decision. Gra. Dec. 10, '21. (104:690.) + How He Found His Fate. Gra. Aug. 27, '21. (104:252.) + Ideal Man. Gra. Oct. I, '21. (104:392.) + Room That Was His. Gra. July 9, '21. (104:52.) + Strange Case of Jessamine Lynd. Qui. Nov., '21. (37.) + Villa of the Fountain. Gra. Nov. 28, '21. (5.) + + WILLIAMSON, CHARLES NORRIS, and WILLIAMSON, ALICE MURIEL. + Chinese Cabinet. Str. April. (63:281.) + + WYLIE, IDA ALENA ROSS. + Greatness and Jamey Pobjoy. G.H. Nov., '21. (16.) + Rendezvous, Sto., May. (177.) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY IN + </h2> + <h3> + BRITISH PERIODICALS + </h3> + <h3> + JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NOTE. Capital letters are employed to indicate the author of an + article. + + Anderson, Sherwood. + Anonymous. Nat. (London.) Feb. 4. (30:695.) + By C.E. Bechhofer. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 19. (21:44.) + By Rebecca West. New S. Feb. 18. (18:564.) + Balzac, Honoré de. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 5. (21:9.) + By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Dec. 10, '21. (18:288.) + Baroja, Pio. + By J.B. Trend. Nat. (London.) April 1. (31:26.) + BECHHOFER, C.E. + Sherwood Anderson. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 19. (21:44.) + Bibesco, Elizabeth. + By Rebecca West. New S. March 4. (18:621.) + BIRRELL, AUGUSTINE. + Henry James. Nat. (London.) July 16, '21. (29:581.) + Blackwood, Algernon. + By Kathleen Shackleton. John. Sept. 3, '21. (612.) + Blasco Ibánez, Vincente. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Nov. 10, '21. (20:733.) + Bunin, I.A. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 18, '21. (20:530.) + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. April 20. (21: 256.) + By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London.) June 24. (31:444.) + Cabell, James Branch. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 26. (21:57.) + By Rebecca West. New S. May 13. (19:156.) + Chekhov, Anton. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Sept. 22, '21. (20:609.) + By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London.) April 8. (31:57.) + By M.P. Willcocks. Eng. R. March. (34:207.) + COLLIS-MORLEY, LUCY. + Federigo Tozzi; Mario Puccini. Nat. (London.) July 16, '21. + (29:585.) + Coppard, A.E. + Anonymous. Nat. (London.) July 30, '21. (29:656.) + CROCE, BENEDETTO. + Gustave Flaubert. L. Merc. March. (5:487.) + Guy de Maupassant. L. Merc. May. (6:61.) + Dostoevsky, Fyodor. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 12. (21:25.) + By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London.) Dec. 24, '21. (30:505.) + Flaubert, Gustave. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 15, '21. (20:833.) + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 5. (21:12.) + By Benedetto Croce. L. Mere. March. (5:487.) + By T. Sturge Moore. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 29, '21. (20:876.) + FREEMAN, JOHN. + Robert Louis Stevenson. L. Merc. April. (5:617.) + Govoni, Corrado. + By Mario Praz. L. Merc. Sept., '21. (4:527.) + Hare, Bret. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. March 16. (21:169.) + By H.M. Tomlinson. Nat. (London.) March 11. (30:861.) + Hawthorne, Nathaniel. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. April 6. (21:225.) + By Robert Lynd. New S. April 22. (19:68.) + Hearn, Lafcadio. + Anonymous. New S. Sept. 10, '21. (17:628.) + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25, '21. (20:545.) + Heidenstamm, Verner von. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. April 20. (21:257.) + Hudson, W.H. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Sept. 29, '21. (20:625.) + Huxley, Aldous. + By Edward Shanks. L. Merc. June. (6:212.) + By Rebecca West. New S. May 13. (19:156.) + Jacob, Max. + By Pierre Robert. New A. May 18. (31:32.) + James, Henry. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 22, '21. (20:849.) + By Augustine Birrell. Nat. (London.) July 16, '21. (29:581.) + Lawrence, D.H. + By Rebecca West, New S. June 24. (19:326.) + LISLE, GEORGE. + Robert Louis Stevenson. Corn. Dec., '21. (706.) + London, Jack. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Nov. 3, '21. (20:709.) + LYND, ROBERT. + Nathaniel Hawthorne. New S. April 22. (19:68.) + MACCARTHY, DESMOND. + Honoré de Balzac. New S. Dec. 10, '21. (18:288.) + Guy de Maupassant. New S. Sept. 24, '21. (17:677.) + Mansfield, Katherine. + Anonymous. Nat. (London.) March 25. (30:949.) + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. March 2. (21:137.) + By Edward Shanks. Queen. March 25. (360.) + By Rebecca West. New S. March 18. (18:678.) + Maugham, W. Somerset. + Anonymous. Nat. (London.) Jan. 14. (30:593.) + By Rebecca West. New S. Nov. 5, '21. (18:140.) + Maupassant, Guy de. + By Benedetto Croce. L. Merc. May. (6:61.) + By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Sept. 24, '21. (17:677.) + Mauriac, François. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. March 9. (21:152.) + MOORE, T. STURGE. + Gustave Flaubert. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 29, '21. (20:876.) + Morand, Paul. + By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London.) April 29. (31:161.) + MURRY, J MIDDLETON. + Ivan Bunin. Nat. (London.) June 24 (31:444.) + Anton Chekhov. Nat. (London.) April 8. (31:57.) + Fyodor Dostoevsky. Nat. (London.) Dec. 24, '21. (30:505.) + Paul Morand. Nat. (London.) April 29. (31:161.) + Hugh Walpole. Nat. (London.) July 16, '21. (29:584.) + Pérez de Ayala, Rámon. + By J.B. Trend. Nat. (London.) July 9, '21. (29:550.) + Pirandello, Luigi. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. April 13. (21: 243.) + PRAZ, MARIO. + Corrado Govoni. L. Merc. Sept., '21. (4:527.) + Puccini, Mario. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25, '21. (20: 546.) + By Lucy Collis-Morley. Nat. (London.) July 16, '21. (29:585.) + ROBERT, PIERRE. + Max Jacob. New A. May 18. (31: 32.) + Schwob, Marcel. + Anonymous. 'Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 19. (21:37.) + SHACKLETON, KATHLEEN + Algernon Blackwood. John. Sept. 3, '21. (612.) + SHANKS, EDWARD. + Aldous Huxley. L. Merc. June. (6:212.) + Katherine Mansfield. Queen. March 25. (360.) + H.G. Wells. L. Merc. March. (5: 506.) + Sternheim, Carl. + Anonymous. Nat. (London.) Dec. 17, '21. (30:478.) + Stevenson, Robert Louis. + By John Freeman. L. Merc. April. (5:617.) + By George Lisle. Corn. Dec.. '21. (706.) + TOLSTOI, COUNTESS SOPHIE. + Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoi. John. April 22. (69.) April 29. (97.) + Tolstoi, Leo Nikolaevich. + By Countess Sophie Tolstoi. John. April 22. (69.) April 29. + TOMLINSON, H.M. + Bret Harte. Nat. (London.) March 11. (30:861.) + Tozzi, Federigo. + By Lucy Collis-Morley. Nat. (London.) July 16, '21. + (29:595.) + Trancoso, Fernandez. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25, '21. (20:546.) + TREND, J.B. + Pio Baroja. Nat. (London.) April 1. (31:26.) + Rámon Pérez de Ayala. Nat. (London.) July 9, '21. (29:550.) + Miguel de Unamuno. Nat. (London.) Nov, 19, '21. (30:316.) + Turgenev, Ivan. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 8, '21. (20:813.) + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. June 15. (21:393.) + By M.P. Willcocks. Eng. R. Sept., '21. (33:175.) + Unamuno, Miguel de. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. July 28. '21. (20:483.) + By J.B. Trend. Nat. (London.) Nov. 19, '21. (30:316.) + Von Heidenstamm, Verner. + Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. April 20. (21: 257.) + Walpole, Hugh. + By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London.) July 16, '21. + (29:584.) + Wells, H.G. + By Edward Shanks. L. Merc. March. (5:506.) + WEST, REBECCA. + Sherwood Anderson. New S. Feb. 18. (18:564.) + Elizabeth Bibesco. New S. March 4. (18:621.) + James Branch Cabell. New S. May 13. (19:156.) + Aldous Huxley. New S. May 13. (19:156.) + D.H. Lawrence. New S. Jane 24. (19:326.) + Katherine Mansfield. New S. March 18. (18:678.) + W. Somerset Maugham. New S. Nov. 5, '21. (18:140.) + WILLCOCKS, M.P. + Anton Chekhov. Eng. R. March. (34:207.) + Ivan Turgenev. Eng. R. Sept. '21. (33:175.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VOLUMES OF + SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN + GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND + + JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + + NOTE. An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. The name + of the American publisher follows in parentheses. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. ENGLISH AUTHORS + + ALBANESI, E. MARIA. Truth In a Circle. Hutchinson. + + ARLEN, MICHAEL. *Romantic Lady. Collins. (Dodd, Mead.) + + ARMSTRONG, MARTIN. *Puppet Show. Golden Cockerel Press. + + BIBESCO, ELIZABETH. *I Have Only Myself to Blame. Heinemann. + (Doran.) + + "BIRMINGHAM, GEORGE A." Public Scandal. Hutchinson. + + BLATCHFORD, ROBERT. Spangles of Existence. Lane. + + BOYD, HALBERT. Men and Marvels. Mathews. + + BRADBY, G.F. Ginger and Co. Heinemann. + + CASTLE, AGNES and EGERTON. Kitty and Others. Hutchinson. + + COPPARD, A.E. *Clorinda Walks In Heaven. Golden Cockerel + Press. (Knopf.) + + CRICHTON, C.H. Tales of Love and Hate. Mills and Boon. + + DELL, ETHEL M. Odds. Cassell. (Putnam.) + + DENNIS, ENID. Once Upon Eternity. Sands. + + ELLIS, HAVELOCK. *Kanga Creek. Golden Cockerel Press. + + ELSON, ROBERT. Maxa. Hutchinson. + + *GEORGIAN STORIES, 1922. Chapman and Hall. (Putnam.) + + GIBES, SIR PHILIP. Venetian Lovers. Hutchinson. + + GRIMSHAW, BEATRICE. Little Red Speck. Hurst and Blackett. + + HARRADEN, BEATRICE. Thirteen All Told. Methuen. + + HAZLEWOOD, A. Decision. Morland. + + HOWARD, FRANCIS MORTON. *Little Shop In Fore Street. Methuen. + + HUXLEY, ALDOUS. *Mortal Coils. Chatto and Windus. (Doran.) + + JOHNS, ROWLAND. Mind You: or, Lewys Lad and His Friend + Shadrach. Methuen. + + LAMB, T.A. Quilt Tales. Digby Long. + + LE QUEUX, WILLIAM. In Secret. Odham's. + + LOTHIAN. OSWALD. Little Mediator. Drane's. + + LOWIS, CECIL CHAMPAIN. Snags and Shallows. Lane. + + LUCAS, ST. JOHN. *Certain Persons. Blackwood. + + "MALET, LUCAS." *Da Silva's Widow. Hutchinson. (Dodd. + Mead.) + + MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. *Garden Party. Constable. (Knopf.) + + MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. *Trembling of a Leaf. Heinemann. (Doran.) + + MORDAUNT, ELINOR. *Short Shipments. Hutchinson. + + *NEW DECAMERON. Third Volume. Blackwell. (McBride.) + + NORTHCOTE, AMYAS. In Ghostly Company. Lane. + + OSBOURNE, LLOYD. Wild Justice. Heinemann. (Appleton.) + + PILCHER, T. D. East Is East. Lane. + + QUEER STORIES from TRUTH. Cassell. + + RANSOME, ARTHUR. Soldier and Death. John G. Wilson. + + RAYMOND, ADOLPHUS, and BUNIN, Miss A. Amongst the Aristocracy + of the Ghetto. Stanley Paul. + + RESSICH, JOHN. Oddly Enough. Richards. + + REYNOLDS, MRS. BAILLIE. Confession Corner. Hurst and Blackett. + + RHODES, KATHLYN. Desert Cain. Hutchinson. + + "RITA." Best Lover. Hutchinson. + + ROBERTS, MORLEY. Mirthful Nine. Nash. + + ROBEY, GEORGE. Honest Living. Cassell. Thereby Hangs a Tale. + Richards. + + ROBINSON, MAUDE. Nicholas the Weaver. Swarthmore Press. + + "ROHMER, SAX." Tales of Chinatown. Cassell. + + SACKVILLE-WEST, V. *Heir. Heinemann. + + STACPOOLE, H. DE VERE. Men, Women, and Beasts. Hutchinson. + + STURT, E.M. LEADER. Detectives' Memoirs. Drane's. + + SWAN, E.F.O. Tales of the Western Tropics. Heath Cranton. + + "TONIDA." Shy Man's Fantasies. Lund Humphries. + + WALLACE, EDGAR. Sandi, the King Maker. Ward, Lock. + + WALPOLE, HUGH. *Thirteen Travellers. Hutchinson. (Doran.) + + WEEKS, WILLIAM. 'Twas Ordained. W. Pollard and Company. + + WINTLE, W. JAMES. Ghost Gleams. Heath Cranton. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. IRISH AUTHORS + + MORTAL COILS. Gill. + + O'CONAIRE, PADRAIC. *Woman at the Window. Talbot Press. + + O'KELLY, SEUMAS. *Hillsiders. Talbot Press. + + SCOT, MICHAEL. Three Tales of the Times. Talbot Press. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. AMERICAN AUTHORS + + ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. *Triumph of the Egg. Cape. (Huebsch.) + *Winesburg, Ohio. Cape. (Huebsch.) + + BERCOVICI, KONRAD. *Gipsy Blood. Nash. (Boni and Liveright.) + + CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. *Figures of Earth. Lane. (McBride.) + + CATHER, WILLA. *Youth and the Bright Medusa. Heinemann. (Knopf.) + + COIES, BERTHA LIPPINCOTT. Wound-Stripes. Lippincott. (Lippincott.) + + COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON and DOST, ZAMIN KI. Son of Power. + Butterworth. (Doubleday, Page.) + + FITZGERALD, F. SCOTT. Flappers and Philosophers. Collins. (Scribner.) + + GELZER, JAY. Street of a Thousand Delights. Mills and Boon. + + KYNE, PETER B. + Go-Getter. Hodder and Stoughton. + + MARQUIS, DON. + Carter and Other People. Appleton. (Appleton.) + + O'HIGGINS, HARVEY. + *From the Life. Cape. (Harper.) + + TARBELL, IDA M. + He Knew Lincoln. Macmillan. (Macmillan.) + + TERHUNE, ALBERT PAYSON. + Buff: a Collie. Hodder and Stoughton. (Doran.) + + WILEY, HUGH. + Jade. Heinemann. (Knopf.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. TRANSLATIONS + + BUNIN, IVAN. (Russian.) + *Gentleman from San Francisco. Hogarth Press. + + CHEKHOV, ANTON. (Russian.) + *Cook's Wedding. Chatto and + Windus. (Macmillan.) + *Schoolmaster. Chatto and Windus. (Macmillan.) + + "HAMP, PIERRE." (French.) + *People. Cape. (Harcourt.) + + PINSKI, DAVID. (Yiddish.) + *Temptations. Allen and Unwin. (Brentano.) + + TURGENEV, IVAN. (Russian.) + *Knock, Knock, Knock. Heineman. (Macmillan.) + *Two Friends. Heinemann. (Macmillan.) +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre> + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Best British Short Stories of 1922, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES, 1922 *** + +***** This file should be named 9363-h.htm or 9363-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/3/6/9363/ + +Etext produced by Stan Goodman, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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