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diff --git a/old/7bbss10.txt b/old/7bbss10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d12552b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7bbss10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14822 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Best British Short Stories of 1922 +by Edward J. O'Brien and John Cournos, editors + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Best British Short Stories of 1922 + +Author: Edward J. O'Brien and John Cournos, editors + +Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9363] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 24, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1922 + +EDITED BY EDWARD J. O'BRIEN AND JOHN COURNOS + +TO STACY AUMONIER + + + +BY WAY OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT + +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: + +To the Editor of _The Saturday Evening Post_, the Editor of _The Dial_, +the Editor of _The Freeman_, the Editor of _The English Review_, the +Editor of _The Century Magazine_, the Editor of _Harpers' Bazar_, the +Editor of _The Ladies' Home Journal_, the Editor of _The Chicago +Tribune_ 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. + +Acknowledgements are specially due to _The Boston Evening Transcript_ +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. + +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 _Edward J. O'Brien, Forest Hill, +Oxfordshire_. + +E.J.O. + +J.C. + + + +CONTENTS + + +INTRODUCTION + +WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? By Stacy Aumonier +(From _The Strand Magazine_ and _The Saturday Evening Post_) + +THE LOOKING-GLASS. By J.D. Beresford +(From _The Cornhill Magazine_) + +THE OLIVE. By Algernon Blackwood +(From _Pearson's Magazine, London_) + +ONCE A HERO. By Harold Brighouse +(From _Pan_) + +"THE PENSIONER." By William Caine +(From _The Graphic_) + +BROADSHEET BALLAD. By A.E. Coppard +(From _The Dial_) + +THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT. By Richmal Crompton +(From _Truth_) + +SEATON'S AUNT. By Walter de la Mare +(From _The London Mercury_) + +THE REAPER. By Dorothy Easton +(From _The English Review_) + +THE SONG. By May Edginton +(From _Lloyd's Story Magazine_) + +A HEDONIST. By John Galsworthy +(From _Pears' Annual_, 1921 and _The Century Magazine_) + +THE BAT AND BELFRY INN. By Alan Graham +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +THE LIE. By Holloway Horn +(From _The Blue Magazine_) + +A GIRL IN IT. By Rowland Kenney +(From _The New Age_) + +THE BACKSTAIRS OF THE MIND. By Rosamond Langbridge +(From _The Manchester Guardian_) + +THE BIRTH OF A MASTERPIECE. By Lucas Malet +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +"GENIUS." By Elinor Mordaunt +(From _Hutchinson's Magazine_ and _The Century Magazine_) + +THE DEVIL TO PAY. By Max Pemberton +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +EMPTY ARMS. By Roland Pertwee +(From _The Ladies' Home Journal_) + +LENA WRACE. By May Sinclair +(From _The Dial_) + +THE DICE THROWER. By Sidney Southgate +(From _Colour_) + +THE STRANGER WOMAN. By G.B. Stern +(From _John o'London's Weekly_) + +THE WOMAN WHO SAT STILL. By Parry Truscott +(From _Colour_) + +MAJOR WILBRAHAM. By Hugh Walpole +(From _The Chicago Tribune_) + +THE YEARBOOK OF THE BRITISH AND IRISH SHORT STORY, JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, +1922 + +Abbreviations + +Addresses of Periodicals Publishing Short Stories + +The Roll of Honour + +A List of Other Distinctive Stories + +Articles on the Short Story in British Periodicals + +Volumes of Short Stories Published in Great Britain and Ireland + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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 +_Moby Dick_: "To produce a mighty book you must choose a mighty theme." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +_A_, 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. + +Then there is _B_. _B_ is a traveller, something of an adventurer too. +His _wanderlust_, 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 _B_ 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 _B_, 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 _A_ and _B_ 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. _A_ 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. _B_, 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. + +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 _A_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +JOHN COURNOS. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +EDWARD J. O'BRIEN. + + + +THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1922 + + + +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. + + + +WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? + +By STACY AUMONIER + +(From _The Strand Magazine_ and _The Saturday Evening Post_) + +1921, 1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Where was Wych Street, ma?" + +"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." + +Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat, and said: + +"Wych Street used to be a turnin' runnin' from Long Acre into +Wellington Street." + +"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." + +"I know what I'm talkin' about," growled Meadows. Mrs. Dawes's high +nasal whine broke in: + +"Hi, Mr. Booth, you used ter know yer wye abaht. Where was Wych +Street?" + +Mr. Booth, the proprietor, was polishing a tap. He looked up. + +"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." + +"No, it warn't. It were alongside the Strand, before yer come to +Wellington Street." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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: + +"Ben, you're a hot old devil, you are. We was just 'aving a discussion +like. Where was Wych Street?" + +Ben scowled at her, and she continued: + +"Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I _know_ where it +was, 'cors my aunt what died from blood p'ison, after eatin' tinned +lobster, used to work at a corset shop----" + +"Yus," barked Ben, emphatically. "I know where Wych Street was--it was +just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station." + +It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no +part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene. + +"Nope. You's all wrong, cap'n. Wych Street were alongside de church, +way over where the Strand takes a side-line up west." + +Ben turned on him fiercely. + +"What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I've told yer +where Wych Street was." + +"Yus, and I know where it was," interposed Meadows. + +"Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre into +Wellington Street." + +"I didn't ask yer what _you_ thought," growled Ben. + +"Well, I suppose I've a right to an opinion?" + +"You always think you know everything, you do." + +"You can just keep yer mouth shut." + +"It 'ud take more'n you to shut it." + +Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the bar: + +"Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling--please." + +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: + +"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." + +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: + +"Don't! Don't!" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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 _hors de combat_ +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: + +"If they cop us, it means swinging." + +"Was the nigger done in?" + +"I think so. But even if 'e wasn't, there was that other affair the +night before last. The game's up." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Now, will you tell his lordship what you were discussing?" + +"Diseases, sir." + +"Diseases! And did the argument become acrimonious?" + +"Pardon?" + +"Was there a serious dispute about diseases?" + +"No, sir." + +"Well, what was the subject of the dispute?" + +"We was arguin' as to where Wych Street was, sir." + +"What's that?" said his lordship. + +"The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing as to where Wych +Street was." + +"Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"You mean the narrow old street that used to run across the site of +what is now the Gaiety Theatre?" + +Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming manner. + +"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?" + +"Well, sir, my aunt who died from eating tinned lobster used to work at +a corset-shop. I ought to know." + +His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to the counsel rather +peevishly. + +"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." + +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: + +"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." + +"Oh, no, Mr. Backer!" exclaimed Lowes-Parlby. + +His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out: + +"The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case." + +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. + + * * * * * + +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 _fiancee_, 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. + +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. + +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: + +"The basic trouble is that people make statements without sufficient +data." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Where would you say it was, sir?" asked Lowes-Parlby. + +"Why to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended at +the second turning after the Law Courts, going west." + +Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat +and said, in his supercilious, oily voice: + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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: + +"Really? How wonderful--to have such comprehensive knowledge!" + +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. + + * * * * * + +In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little contretemps. The +whole thing was so absurd--so utterly undignified. As though _he_ +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. + +"Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly go and see him in +the library?" + +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: + +"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: + +"What the devil have you done?" + +"Excuse me, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand. Is it Sandeman--?" + +"Sandeman has gone." + +"Oh, I'm sorry." + +"Sorry! By God, I should think you might be sorry! You insulted him. My +prospective son-in-law insulted him in my own house!" + +"I'm awfully sorry. I didn't realize--" + +"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." + +"But I--" + +"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." + +"I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this." + +"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!" + +"He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I corrected +him." + +"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!" + +The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed. +Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. He mumbled: + +"I'm very sorry." + +"I don't want your sorrow. I want something more practical." + +"What's that, sir?" + +"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." + +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? + +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? + +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? + +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: + +"_Dear Mr. Sandeman_,--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. + +"Yours cordially, + +"FRANCIS LOWES-PARLBY." + +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 _really_ 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." + +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. + +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: + +"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--" + +He put the nuts back on the dish, and then, in an apparently irrelevant +manner, he said abruptly: + +"Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?" + +The Lord Chief justice grunted. + +"Wych Street! Of course I do." + +"Where would you say it was, my lord?" + +"Why, here, of course." + +His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and sketched a plan on the +tablecloth. + +"It used to run from there to here." + +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. + +"Do you remember it?" said the Lord Chief justice. + +Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to come from a long way +off: + +"Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy little street." + + + + +THE LOOKING GLASS + +By J.D. BERESFORD + +(From _The Cornhill Magazine_) + +1921, 1922 + + +This was the first communication that had come from her aunt in +Rachel's lifetime. + +"I think your aunt has forgiven me, at last," her father said as he +passed the letter across the table. + +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. + +"You're very like her in some ways," her father said, as she still +stared at the signature. + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +Rachel straightened her shoulders and lifted her head; there was +disdain in her face, but none in her voice as she replied: + +"And so it seems that she wants to see me." + +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. + +Mr. Deane came out of his reminiscences with a sigh. + +"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...." + +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. + +"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?" + +"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 _old_...." + +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. + +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 _knew_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +II + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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 +_milieu_, 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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +Rachel had never in her life felt so gauche and awkward. + +"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. + +Miss Deane, however, would not permit that evasion. + +"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." + +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? + +"Our--our names are the same," she said nervously. + +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." + +"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. + +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." + +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. + +"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?" + +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 _still_ +existed. + +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. + +"Of course, I can't judge of that," she said, "as we met for the first +time five minutes ago." + +"No, no, you can't judge of _that_," her aunt replied, with the +half-bashful emphasis of one who awaits a compliment. + +Rachel decided to plunge. "But you do look extraordinarily young for +your age still," she lied desperately. + +Miss Deane straightened her back and toyed with a teaspoon. "I have +always taken great care of myself," she said. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +The time was passing so easily that Rachel was surprised when she heard +the gong sound. + +"Does that mean it's time to dress already?" she asked. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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 _feeling_ like her aunt. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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." + +Miss Deane shook her head. "I admit the physical resemblance," she +said; "otherwise, my dear, we are utterly different." + +Did she too, Rachel wondered, resent the aspersion of her integrity? + +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, _junior_," 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, _senior_. +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." + +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." + +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! + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +III + +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. + +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. + +"I suppose it's because I'm self-conscious before all these people," +she thought, and, indeed, Hyde Park was very full that afternoon. + +And it was Adrian who first, a little desperately, tried to reach +across the barrier that was dividing them. + +"You're different, rather, in town," he began shyly. "Is it the effect +of your aunt's grandeurs?" + +"Am I different? I feel exactly the same," Rachel replied mechanically. + +"You didn't think it was rather impudent of me to ask you to meet me +here, did you?" he went on anxiously. + +She shook her head emphatically. "Oh! no, it wasn't that," she said. + +"But then you admit that it was--something?" he pleaded. + +"The people, perhaps," she admitted. "I--I feel so exposed to the +public view." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +"Difference!" he repeated. "Well, I told you just now, didn't I, that +you were different this afternoon?" + +"Yes, but in what way?" she asked. "Do I--do I look different?" + +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." + +"It was a horrid air," she said sharply. "I've made up my mind to cure +myself of it." + +"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." + +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. + +His smile at once thanked and answered her. + +"But it's an abominable look," she exclaimed. "The look of an old, old, +painted woman, vain, ridiculous." + +He stared at her in amazement. "How absurd!" he protested. "Why, it's +_you_; and you're certainly not old or painted nor unduly vain, and no +one could say you were ridiculous." + +"And you want me to look like that?" she asked. + +"It's--it's so _you_," he said shyly. + +"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." + +He laughed that pleasant, kind laugh of his which had been one of the +first things in him that had so attracted her. + +"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_ 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. + +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." + +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. + +"Perhaps--if you'll let me do it in my own way," Rachel said. + +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. + +She nodded. + +"When did you begin to know?" he asked, awed by the wonder of this +stupendous thing that had happened to him. + +"From the beginning, I think," Rachel murmured. + +"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. + +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. + +"I suppose I'll have to meet your aunt?" he was saying. "Shall we go +back there now, and tell her?" + +Rachel flushed, as if he had suggested some startling invasion of her +secret life. "Oh! no," she ejaculated impulsively. + +Adrian looked his surprise. "But why not?" he asked. "I'm--I'm a +perfectly respectable, eligible party." + +"I wasn't thinking of that," Rachel said. + +"Is she a terrible dragon?" he inquired with a smile. + +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. + +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." + +"Not to-morrow," Rachel said. + +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. + +"I ought to be going back to her now," she said. + +"But you promised that we should have tea together," Adrian +remonstrated. + +"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. + +IV + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +"I've something to tell you, aunt," Rachel began abruptly. + +Miss Deane put up her lorgnette and surveyed her lovely portrait with +an interested air. + +"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." + +Miss Deane closed her eyes and gave a little sigh. + +"You might have given me _rather_ longer notice, dear," she said. + +"It isn't two yet," Rachel replied. "There are more than two hours to +get ready for him." + +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?" + +"About _you_?" Rachel asked. + +Miss Deane nodded, complacently. + +"Well, not very much," Rachel admitted. + +Miss Dean's look, as she playfully threatened Rachel with her +long-handled lorgnette, was distinctly sly. + +"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?" + +Rachel drew a long breath and leaned back in her chair. "Yes," she said +curtly, "I expect it will." + +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! + +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? + +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. + +For a moment Miss Deane did not move; then, with a queer hesitation, +she dropped her right hand and slowly lifted her lorgnette. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"She _had_ to know," Rachel repeated, addressing the dear likeness that +so proudly reflected her. + +V + +She found consolation in that thought. Her aunt _had_ to know and +Rachel herself was only the chance instrument of the revelation. She +had not _meant_, so she persisted, to do more than vindicate her own +integrity. + +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? + +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.... + +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. + +"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." + +"Oh! What a memory you have for my looks and behaviour," she replied +pettishly. "Of course, I'm nervous." + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Can you realise," she asked, "that once my aunt was supposed to be +very, very like me?" + +He smiled and shook his head, as if the possibility was too absurd to +contemplate. + +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. + +"Some day I may be as she is now," she said, with the superb +contemptuous arrogance of youth. + +Adrian was watching her with adoration. "You will never grow old," he +said. + +"So long as one does not get the idea of growing old into one's head," +Rachel began speculatively.... + + * * * * * + +But Miss Deane had got the idea so strongly now that she died that +night. + +Rachel was with her at the last. + +The old woman was trying to mouth a text from the Bible. + +"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." + + + + +THE OLIVE + +By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD + +(From _Pearson's Magazine_, London) + +1922 + + +He laughed involuntarily as the olive rolled towards his chair across +the shiny parquet floor of the hotel dining-room. + +His table in the cavernous _salle a manger_ 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 _en route_ as it plopped along, came to rest finally against his +feet. + +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. + +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 _hors +d'oeuvres_ 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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +He wondered! A thrill of possible adventure ran through him. + +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. + +He did not know, of course, that the mother, chiding her daughter's +awkwardness, had muttered: + +"There you are again, child! True to your name, you never see an olive +without doing something queer and odd with it!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The guide books praised them as persistently as the residents brought +them, sooner or later, into every conversation. They grew lyrical over +them: + +"And how do you like our olive trees? Ah, you think them pretty. At +first, most people are disappointed. They grow on one." + +"They do," he agreed. + +"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'." + +"One does," he sighed. "But all the same I should like to get one to +eat--an olive, I mean." + +"Ah, to eat, yes. That's not so easy. You see, the crop is--" + +"Exactly," he interrupted impatiently, weary of the habitual and +evasive explanations. "But I should like to taste the _fruit_. I should +like to enjoy one." + +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. + +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. + +"Ach! But it is the Spanish olive that you _eat_," 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. + +He was convinced that Eve, similarly, had rolled the apple towards Adam +across the emerald sward of the first garden in the world. + +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. + +"Who's there?" he asked in a sleepy whisper. "What is it?" + +The noise came again. Some one was scratching on the door. No, it was +somebody tapping. + +"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. + +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. + +"Aren't you ready?" he heard. "You sleep for ever." + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Let us be off!" he cried, "before the Bear tilts down. Already Alcyone +begins to fade. I'm ready. Come!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Shall I?" he stammered, afraid to look at her. + +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. + +"I'm longing for it," he added. "How wonderfully you did it! They roll +so awkwardly----" + +"Oh, that!" She peered at him through a wisp of hair. "You've kept it, +I hope." + +"Rather. It's on my mantelpiece----" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Another!" he exclaimed. + +"The gods decide. It's a lob-sided thing, remember. It can't roll +straight." She looked oddly mischievous, elusive. + +He stared at her. + +"If it had rolled elsewhere--and another had picked it up----?" he +began. + +"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. + +"Hark!" she whispered breathlessly, one arm close about his neck. "I +hear their footsteps. Listen! It is the pipe!" + +"The pipe----!" he repeated, conscious of a tiny but delicious shudder. + +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. + +Her face turned slowly. + +"Who _are_ you?" he whispered. He sprang to his feet without waiting +for her answer. + +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.... + +"They come, they come," she cried gaily. "The Dawn is here. Are you +ready?" + +"I've been ready for five thousand years," he answered, leaping to his +feet beside her. + +"Altogether!" came upon a sparkling laugh that was like wind among the +olive leaves. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"The Church," he said, vaguely remembering the story. "They were at +prayer----" + +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----" + +"And the houses crumbled," he laughed as he pressed her closer to his +heart-- + +"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. + +"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. + +"Come!" he cried. "We must go too." + +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. + +"Hush!" she whispered in a tone of awe, yet pleasure. "He is there!" +She pointed, her bare arm outstretched above the bending heads. + +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. + +"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. + +The birds flew screaming, the animals sought holes, the worshippers, +laughing and glad a moment ago, rushed tumbling over one another for +the doors. + +"He goes again! Who called? Who called like that? His feet shake the +ground!" + +"It is the earthquake!" screamed a woman's shrill accents in ghastly +terror. + +"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!" + +But he woke, with the heavy bed-clothes stuffed against his mouth and +the wind of early morning sighing mournfully about the hotel walls. + + * * * * * + +"Have they left again--those ladies?" he inquired casually of the head +waiter, pointing to the table. "They were here last night at dinner." + +"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. + +"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. + +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?" + +"Oh, but that's very kind of you, I'm sure." She smiled. He saw the +small white even teeth.... + +And before three days had passed, he was so deeply in love that he +simply couldn't help himself. + +"I believe," he said lamely, "this is yours. You dropped it, you know. +Er--may I keep it? It's only an olive." + +They were, of course, in an olive grove when he asked it, and the sun +was setting. + +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---- + +"Tell me," he begged: "did you dream anything--that first night I saw +you?" + +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----" + +"Knew what?" he demanded, holding her tightly so that she could not get +away again. + +"That you were already half and half, but would soon be altogether." + +And, as he kissed her, he felt her soft little fingers tweak his ears. + + + + +ONCE A HERO + +By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE + +(From _Pan_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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?" + +"Oh, yes. The reporters are coming. There'll be flash-light +photographs. Everything quite as usual when you make a public +appearance, sir." + +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." + +"The amount," Fosdike hastened to assure him, "has been circulated, +with appropriate tribute to your generosity." + +"Generosity," criticised Rumbold. "I hope you didn't use that word." + +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.'" + +"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?" + +"I thought----" began Fosdike. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"I did want to suggest a modification, sir," he hazarded timidly. + +"Really?"--quite below zero--"Really? I felt very contented with the +speech." + +"Yes, sir, it's masterly. But on the spot here----" + +"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?" + +"It's about Martlow," said Fosdike shortly. + +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----" + +Fosdike coughed. "Excuse me, sir, that's just the point. If you talk +like that about Martlow down here, they'll laugh at you." + +"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. + +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." + +"No. Ought I to?" + +"Not on the bench?" + +"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." + +"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----" + +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 _de +mortuis_." He quoted: + + "'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.' + +"Appropriate, I think? I shall use that." + +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. + +"Very apt quotation, sir, though there have never been any exact +details of Martlow's death." + +Sir William meditated. "Do you recall the name of the saint who was a +regular rip before he got religion?" he asked. + +"I think that applies to most of them," said Fosdike. + +"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?" + +"There is his mother. A widow. You remember the Board voted her an +addition to her pension." + +"Oh, yes. And she?" + +"Oh, most grateful. She will be with you on the platform. I have seen +myself that she is--fittingly attired." + +"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--" + +Then Dolly Wainwright came into the ante-room. + +"If you please, sir," she said, "what's going to be done about me?" + +Two gentlemen who had all but reached the smug bathos of a mutual +admiration society turned astonished eyes at the intruder. + +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. + +"How did you get in here?" + +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. + +"But there's a doorkeeper at the bottom," said Fosdike. "I gave him my +orders." + +"I gave him my smile," said Dolly. "I won." + +"Upon my word--" Fosdike began. + +"Well, well," interrupted Sir William, "what can I do for you?" + +The reply was indirect, but caused Sir William still further to +readjust his estimate of her. + +"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." + +"Don't threaten me, my girl," said Sir William without severity. "I am +always ready to pay attention to any legitimate grievance, but----" + +"Legitimate?" she interrupted. "Well, mine's not legitimate. So there!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Ah," said Sir William encouragingly, "our glorious hero." + +"Yes," said Dolly. "I'm the mother of his child." + +We are all balloons dancing our lives amongst pins. Therefore, be +compassionate towards Sir William. He collapsed speechlessly on a hard +chair. + +Fosdike reacted more alertly. "This is the first I've heard of +Martlow's being married," he said aggressively. + +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." + +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?" + +"I was here, on munitions," she said, "and then on doles." + +"And now you're on the make," he sneered. + +"Oh, I dunno," she said. "All this fuss about Tim Martlow. I ought to +have my bit out of it." + +"Deplorable," grieved Sir William. "The crass materialism of it all. +This is so sad. How old are you?" + +"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." + +"I suppose now, Miss----" Fosdike baulked. + +"Wainwright, Dolly Wainwright, though it ought to be Martlow." + +"I suppose you loved Tim very dearly?" + +"I liked him well enough. He was good-looking in his khaki." + +"Liked him? I'm sure it was more than that." + +"Oh, I dunno. Why?" asked the girl, who said she was the mother of +Martlow's child. + +"I am sure," said Fosdike gravely, "you would never do anything to +bring a stain upon his memory." + +Dolly proposed a bargain. "If I'm rightly done by," she said, "I'll do +right by him." + +"Anything that marred the harmony of to-night's ceremony, Miss +Wainwright, would be unthinkable," said Sir William, coming to his +lieutenant's support. + +"Right," said Dolly cheerfully. "If you'll take steps according, I'm +sure I've no desire to make a scene." + +"A scene," gasped Sir William. + +"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." + +"But you said you'd no desire to make a scene." + +"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?" + +"But my dear young lady----" Fosdike began. + +She silenced him. "Oh, it's all right. I don't know that I want to get +married." + +"Then you ought to," said Sir William virtuously. + +"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." + +"In your case, I should have thought there was everything." + +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." + +"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?" + +"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----" + +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?" + +"'Tisn't his fault," said Dolly. "I've been saving this up for you." + +"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?" + +"Double it, add a pound a week, and what's the answer, Mr. Fosdike?" +asked Dolly quickly. + +Sir William gasped ludicrously. + +"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." + +"The less you say about your standards, the better, my girl," retorted +Sir William. "Do you know that this is blackmail?" + +"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." + +Sir William paused in the act of tearing a page out of Fosdike's +note-book. "Three pounds a week!" + +"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." + +"But suppose you marry," suggested Mr. Fosdike. + +"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--" + +Sir William looked up sharply from the table. "If you use that phrase +again," he said, "I'll tear this paper up." + +"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. + +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. + +Fosdike went courageously towards him. "What do you mean by this +intrusion? Who are you?" + +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." + +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. + +"No." + +"No?" jeered the tramp. "No bell. No telephone. No nothing. You're +scotched without your rifle this time." + +Fosdike consulted Sir William. "I might shout for the police," he +suggested. + +"It's risky," commented the tramp. "They sometimes come when they're +called." + +"Then----" began the secretary. + +"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." + +"I wouldn't like?" said Rumbold. "I? Who are you?" + +"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." + +"One of what?" + +"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." + +"Timothy Martlow," cried Sir William. + +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. + +"It's very near made a stretcher-case of him," he said, indicating the +prostrated Fosdike. "You're cooler. Walking wounded." + +"I ... really...." + +"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." + +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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +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?" + +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." + +"Not even your mother?" queried Rumbold. + +"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. + +"Why have you come here? Here--to-night?" + +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." + +"Like this?" The proper Mr. Fosdike interjected. + +"Eh?" said Tim. "Like what?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Martlow," said Sir William briskly, "time's short. I'm due on that +platform." + +"Right, I'm with you." Tim moved towards the platform door. + +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--" + +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?" + +Sir William met his eye. "Yes, I did," he said hardily. + +"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." + +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. + +"Has it?" mused Tim. "From what?" + +"Well--" Sir William was embarrassed. "From what you were." + +"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. + +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. + +"You were magnificent in the war, Martlow." + +"First thing I did when I got civvies on was to get blind and skinned. +Drink and civvies go together in my mind." + +"You'll get over that," said Sir William encouragingly; but he was +puzzled by the curiously wistful note which had replaced Tim's +hectoring. + +"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?" + +Sir William couldn't. "But you'll pull yourself together. You'll +remember--" + +"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. + +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?" + +"No," said Dolly, gasping for breath. "I mean--" he insisted, "what you +said about you and me. That isn't true?" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +Tim shook his hand, and Rumbold turned to the door. Fosdike ran after +him with the notes of his speech. "Your speech, sir." + +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. + +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. + +"I ain't likely to forget you," said Dolly ruefully. + +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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"He gave me that paper," she said, pride subduing tears as she handed +him her splendid trophy. + +"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. + +"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." + +"But there ain't no baby," she persisted. + +"There's plenty of babies looking for a mother with three pounds a +week," he said. + +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." + +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----" + +"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. + +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. + +"Letters of gold," she panted, "and you shan't tarnish them. I'll see +to that." + +He gaped for a moment at the liquor flowing from the bottle, then +raised his eyes to hers. "You?" he said. + +"I haven't got a baby to look after," said Dolly. "But--I've you. Where +were you thinking of going now?" + +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." + +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." + +"You put it across Sir William," he said. "You're a blinkin' marvel." + +"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." + +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." + +"Idiot!" said Dolly Wainwright, drawing him to the door. + + + + +THE PENSIONER + +By WILLIAM CAINE + +(From _The Graphic_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Then the Great War broke out. + +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. + +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. + +Starvation stared Edward in the face, not only his own starvation, you +understand, but Miss Crewe's. And Edward was a man of honour. + +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. + +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. + +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 L4 +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He was, consequently, buried by the parish. + +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 _could_ 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. + +Edward was dead when this letter was delivered. + +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. + + + + +BROADSHEET BALLAD + +By A.E. COPPARD + +(From _The Dial_) + +1922 + + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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!" + +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. + +"Hanging's a dreadful thing," continued Sam, "and 'tis often unjust +I've no doubt, I've no doubt at all." + +"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!" + +"No? But why?" + +"Why? They has their reasons. I know that, I knows it for truth ... +hark at that rain, it's made the room feel cold." + +They watched the downfall in complete silence for some moments. + +"Hanging's a dreadful thing," Sam at length repeated, with almost a +sigh. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"'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.' + +"'No,' they said, 'you can't.' + +"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: + +"'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!" + +"What!" ejaculated Sam, "both on 'em, both on 'em!" + +"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. + +"'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." + +"Well, a' called for it sure," commented Sam. + +"Her did," agreed Bob, "but she was the quietest known girl for miles +round those parts, very shy and quiet." + +"A shady lane breeds mud," said Sam. + +"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." + +"Of course, ah!" + +"I'll marry Agnes'--says he. + +"'You'll not'--says the old man--'you'll marry Edie.' + +"'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." + +"The jezebel!" commented Sam. + +"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." + +"No, that we can't." + +"It's my belief the 'bugging rain won't stop this side of four." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Never! Ha! ha!" cried Sam. + +"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." + +"And they lived happy ever after?" + +"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." + +"'Twas a hard thing for that other, that Edie, Bob." + +"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." + +"You don't say!" + +"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." + +"Ah, she died? Well, it's the only way out of such a tangle, poor +woman." + +"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." + +"God bless me," murmured Sam. + +"Poisoned," added Bob, puffing serenely. + +"Poisoned!" + +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." + +"How'd they account for it?" asked Sam, after a brief interval. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"William! But what had he got to do with it?" + +"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...." + +"But God-a-mighty...!" + +"Yes, God-a-mighty knows. Pretty girls they were, both, and as like as +two pinks." + +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." + +"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." + + + + +THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT + +By RICHMAL CROMPTON + +(From _Truth_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +"Mary!" + +She went slowly in answer to the summons. He held a letter in his hand. + +"Met the postman," he said. "From your aunt." + +She opened the letter and read it in silence. Both of them knew quite +well what it contained. + +"She wants us to go over for Christmas again," said Mary. + +He began to grumble. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"All right," he said at last, grudgingly, as though in answer to her +silence, "we'd better go. Write and say we'll go." + + * * * * * + +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. + +Suddenly James turned. + +"Jane!" he said. + +The deaf woman never stirred. + +"Jane!" + +Still there was no response upon the enigmatic old face by the +fireside. + +"_Jane_!" + +She turned slightly towards the voice. + +"Get them photos from upstairs to show John," he bawled. + +"What about boats?" she said. + +"_Photos_!" roared her husband. + +"Coats?" she quavered. + +Mary looked from one to the other. The man made a gesture of irritation +and went from the room. + +He came back with a pile of picture postcards in his hand. + +"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." + +John took them from his hand. "She gets worse?" he said nodding towards +the old woman. + +She was sitting gazing at the fire, her lips curved into the curious +smile. + +Her husband shrugged his shoulders. "Aye. She's nigh as bad as her +mother was." + +"And her grandmother." + +"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." + +The other man nodded and lit his pipe. Then James opened the door. + +"The snow's stopped," he said. "Shall we go to the end of the village +and back?" + +The other nodded, and took his cap from behind the door. A gust of cold +air filled the room as they went out. + +Mary took a paper-backed book from the table and came over to the +fireplace. + +"Mary!" + +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. + +"Mary! A happy Christmas to 'ee." + +And, as if in spite of herself, Mary answered in her ordinary low +tones. + +"The same to you, auntie." + +"Thank 'ee. Thank 'ee." + +Mary gasped. + +"Aunt! Can you hear me speaking like this?" + +The old woman laughed, silently, rocking to and fro in her chair as if +with pent-up merriment of years. + +"Yes, I can hear 'ee, child. I've allus heard 'ee." + +Mary clasped her hand eagerly. + +"Then--you're cured, Aunt--" + +"Ay. I'm cured as far as there was ever anything to be cured." + +"You--?" + +"I was never deaf, child, nor never will be, please God. I've took you +all in fine." + +Mary stood up in bewilderment. + +"You? Never deaf?" + +The old woman chuckled again. + +"No, nor my mother--nor her mother neither." + +Mary shrank back from her. + +"I--I don't know what you mean," she said, unsteadily. "Have you +been--pretending?" + +"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?" + +Mary was trembling. + +"Oh, I don't know what to think," she said. "I--I couldn't do it." + +"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." + +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. + +The door opened suddenly with another gust of cold air, and the two men +came in again, covered with fine snow. + +"I--I'll not do it," whispered Mary, trembling. + +"We didn't get far. It's coming on again," remarked John, hanging up +his cap. + +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. + +"Any signs o' the deafness in her?" whispered James, looking towards +Mary. "It come on my wife jus' when she was that age." + +"Aye. So I've heered." + +Then he said loudly, "Mary!" + +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. + +The old woman stood still for a minute with a cup in each hand and +smiled her slow, subtle smile. + + + + +SEATON'S AUNT By WALTER DE LA MARE + +(From _The London Mercury_) + +1922 + + +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 _entente +cordiale_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I had clean forgotten my promise when, two or three days before the +holiday, he came up and triumphantly reminded me of it. + +"Well, to tell you the honest truth, Seaton, old chap----" I began +graciously; but he cut me short. + +"My aunt expects you," he said; "she is very glad you are coming. She's +sure to be quite decent to _you_, Withers." + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +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. + +"So this is your friend, Mr. Smithers, I suppose?" she said, bobbing to +me. + +"Withers, aunt," said Seaton. + +"It's much the same," she said, with eyes fixed on me. "Come in, Mr. +Withers, and bring him along with you." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +"I think you're eighth, aren't you, Seaton?" + +Seaton moved his small pupils towards his aunt. But she continued to +gaze with a kind of concentrated detachment at me. + +"Arthur will never make a brilliant scholar, I fear," she said, lifting +a dexterously-burdened fork to her wide mouth.... + +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. + +"This is the room, Withers, my brother William died in when a boy. +Admire the view!" + +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. + +"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." + +He was. I saw his head come out and take a rapid glance at the windows. + +"Join him, Mr. Smithers; we shall meet again, I hope, at the tea-table. +The afternoon I spend in retirement." + +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. + +"Was that your aunt, Seaton?" I enquired; but not till then. + +He nodded. + +"Why didn't she take any notice of us, then?" + +"She never does." + +"Why not?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +I looked at him, then turned and surveyed one by one the windows of the +house. + +"Where's your _pater_?" I said awkwardly. + +"Dead, ages and ages ago, and my mother too. She's not my aunt by +rights." + +"What is she, then?" + +"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." + +"She gives you plenty of pocket-money." + +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." + +I put my hands in my pockets and stared at Seaton. "Is it much?" + +He nodded. + +"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.... + +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. + +"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. + +"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 _coup de grace_. + +"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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"Like what?" + +"Being spied on--every blessed thing you do and think?" + +"I shouldn't like it at all," I said, "if she does." + +"And yet you let her smash you up at chess!" + +"I didn't let her!" I said indignantly. + +"Well, you funked it, then." + +"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. + +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. + +"What's up?" I said, rising quickly to my elbow. + +"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." + +"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. + +"It's a quarter to twelve. I never get to sleep before twelve--not +here." + +"What do you do, then?" + +"Oh, I read and listen." + +"Listen?" + +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." + +"Know what?" + +"Why, that they're there." + +"Who's there?" I asked fretfully, glancing at the door. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _do_ hear? Tell me +that, you silly foal!" + +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. + +"Who? Your aunt?" + +He nodded. + +"How?" + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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!" + +"Come on where?" + +"Why, to see." + +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. + +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. + +"You'd hear, too, in time, my fine soldier," he muttered. "Come on!" + +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. + +And the bed! I stared warily in; it was mounded gigantically, and it +was empty. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +Once there, Seaton gave in. He sat livid on a chair with closed eyes. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And of course: "How is your aunt?" I enquired at last. + +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. + +"She's aged a good deal," he said softly, and broke off. + +"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." + +"No," I said. + +"Oh, yes!" said Seaton, and paused again. + +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. + +"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. + +He asked for my address, and I rather reluctantly gave him my card. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +His face looked absent and singularly listless; but he seemed, none the +less, pleased to see me. + +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. + +"You ain't much of a gardener, Seaton," I said, with a sigh of ease. + +"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." + +"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." + +"It's only what I think," he replied, with all his odd old stubborn +meekness. + +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. + +"I think, perhaps, it's nearly time for lunch," he said. "Would you +like to come in?" + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"And Arthur--how do you think Arthur is looking?" + +"I think he looks very much in need of a change," I said deliberately. + +"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 _all_ 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?" + +"We walked round the garden," said Alice, looking out of the window. +"It's a very beautiful evening." + +"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." + +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 naive--appallingly naive; 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. + +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. + +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 _ad infinitum_. Marriage, Mr. Withers, was instituted in the +privacy of a garden; _sub rosa_, 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. + +"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. + +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. + +"How long will you be?" he said, standing by the table. + +I laughed. + +"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." + +I hesitated. He looked at me questioningly. + +"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." + +He sat down with his hands in his pockets and still with his eyes fixed +almost incredulously on mine. "How?" he said. + +"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?" + +"'Decent'? My God!" said Seaton. + +I smoked on in silence; but he still continued to look at me with that +peculiar concentration I remembered of old. + +"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." + +"Know what?" It was the same old system of dull question and evasive +answer. + +"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 _talks_ 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." + +"What on earth are you talking about?" I said, half contemptuously, in +spite of myself. + +"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." + +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. + +"Where is she?" Seaton asked in a low tone. + +Alice looked up; their eyes met in a kind of instantaneous +understanding, and the door immediately afterwards opened behind us. + +"_Such_ 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!" + +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. + +"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?" + +I scouted the idea. + +"Then you must listen to my playing. Chess"--she clasped her forehead +with both cramped hands--"chess is now completely beyond my poor wits." + +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." + +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, _A Few More Years Shall Roll_. + +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. + +"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...." + +I could scarcely see her little glittering eyes under their penthouse +lids. + +"And now," she broke off crisply, "tell me, as a man of the world, what +do you think of my new niece?" + +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. + +"I don't think, Miss Seaton, I'm much of a judge of character. She's +very charming." + +"A brunette?" + +"I think I prefer dark women." + +"And why? Consider, Mr. Withers; dark hair, dark eyes, dark cloud, dark +night, dark vision, dark death, dark grave, dark DARK!" + +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." + +"Ah," she said, with a sly inward burst of satirical laughter. + +"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." + +"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?" + +Seaton blinked stupidly. "I didn't hear what you said, Aunt." + +"I was telling our old friend, Arthur, that when you are gone I shall +be a very lonely old woman." + +"Oh, I don't think so;" he said in a strange voice. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Seaton!" I called. + +He turned in the moonlight. + +"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." + +"Thank you, Withers, thank you," he said in a low voice. + +"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. + +"Thank you, thank you, Withers--immensely;" he repeated. + +And so we parted. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _you_." + +"Might I, do you think, have Mr. Arthur's address?" I said. + +She looked at me with quiet astonishment, as if waiting for an +explanation. Not the faintest of smiles came into her thin face. + +"I will tell Miss Seaton," she said after a pause. "Please walk in." + +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. + +"Who is it?" she asked. + +I explained myself and told her the occasion of my visit. + +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. + +"What is it you want?" she said, seating herself and lifting her blank +face to mine. + +"Might I just have Arthur's address?" I said deferentially. "I am so +sorry to have disturbed you." + +"H'm. You have come to see my nephew?" + +"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...." + +"He hasn't noticed your silence," croaked the old voice out of the +great mask; "besides, there isn't any Mrs. Seaton." + +"Ah, then," I answered, after a momentary pause, "I have not seemed so +black as I painted myself! And how is Miss Outram?" + +"She's gone into Yorkshire," answered Seaton's aunt. + +"And Arthur too?" + +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. + +"You were no close friend of my nephew's, Mr. Smithers?" she said +presently. + +"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." + +Still the old face solemnly blinked at me in silence. + +"You must find it very lonely, Miss Seaton, with Arthur away?" + +"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. + +"I think he is rather superstitious," I said coldly, "but, honestly, I +have a very poor memory, Miss Seaton." + +"Why?" she said. "_I_ haven't." + +"The engagement hasn't been broken off, I hope." + +"Well, between you and me," she said, shrinking up and with an +immensely confidential grimace, "it has." + +"I'm sure I'm very sorry to hear it. And where is Arthur?" + +"Eh?" + +"Where is Arthur?" + +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. + +"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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +There was an immense hushed pause. Then, "Arthur, Arthur," whispered an +inexpressively peevish, rasping voice, "is that you? Is that you, +Arthur?" + +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. + +"Oh, oh;" the voice croaked. "It is you, is it? _That_ disgusting +man!... Go away out. Go away out." + +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. + +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. + +"Here's a gentleman enquiring after young Mr. Seaton, Millie," he said. +"He's dead, ain't he?" + +"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?" + +I saw a fair young woman's face peer over the muslin of the little door +at me. + +"Thank you," I replied, "then I go straight on?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + + + + +THE REAPER + +By DOROTHY EASTON + +(From _The English Review_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This labourer was a man of forty with a face as naive 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. + +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). + +When the engine stuck, the waggoner asked in his slow, flat voice: + +"Woan't she speak?" + +"She's not comin' out!" was the youth's reply. + +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. + +By four o'clock they were overtaking him before he got round; the +driver had to turn more sharply, the canvas stuck. + +"Doan you do that agen!" the old waggoner scolded with stern eye; +"you'll tourn us oover!" + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Eh, me boy, they'm youers...." Tears were running down his stiff, +dried cheeks. + +"How d'you feel?" asked the farmer. His labourer blushed, then +whispered to the waggoner: + +"What's 'appened, Mister Collard?" + +"Why, you've a-loarst your feet." + +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: + +"'Elp me oop. I'll get 'ome, Willy." + +"You carn't walk," said the old man simply. "You carn't walk no moar." + +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---- + + + + +THE SONG + +By MAY EDGINTON + +(From _Lloyd's Story Magazine_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +His wife said she was tired and seemed proud of it. + +"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. + +"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." + +"But----" he murmured. + +"We ought not to think of ourselves," she added. + +"I never have," said Charlie in rather a low voice. + +"We ought to give a little subscription to the Parish Magazine," she +continued. "The Vicar is calling round for extra subscriptions." + +Charlie nodded. He was wishing he knew the football results in the +evening paper. + +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. + +"I'll mend it on Saturday," Charlie replied. + +"I was thinking," she said presently, "that we ought to ask Uncle Henry +and Aunt round soon. They will be expecting it." + +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." + +His wife looked at him, astonished. He could see that she was +grieved--or rather, aggrieved--at his glimmer of anarchy. + +"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...." + +As she paused to crystallise an idea, Charlie cut in. + +"Yes," he said, "it is given to us.... What for?" + +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. + +"To do one's duty in," she replied gently, but rebukingly. + +Charlie did not know the classic phrase, "Cui bono." He merely +repeated: + +"What for?" + +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. + +She shook her head. "I ought not to leave the children." + +"They're in bed," he argued, "and Maud's big enough to look after the +others for half-an-hour. Maud's twelve." + +She shook her head. "I ought not to leave the house." + +"But," he began slowly. + +"I am not the kind of woman who leaves her house and children in the +evenings," she said gently, but finally. + +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. + +"You ought not to mess your hats about like that; they don't last half +as long." + +Charlie went out. + +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. + +He had not meant it to be like this at all. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He thought all this mistily and hotly. + +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. + +At a corner of this road stood Kitty. + +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. + +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. + +Kitty helped him. She knew how. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +So he went home, having promised her that to-morrow he would come +again. + +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?" + +"At the club," he whispered back. "Watching two fellows play a billiard +match." + +She sighed. + +"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." + +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. + +He drew out the whole amount in the savings bank, surrendered his life +insurance, realising L160; and he went home after the day's work to +Kitty. + +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. + +She made him so happy. They laughed. She sang-- + + I'm for ever blowing bubbles, + Pretty bubbles in the air. + They fly so high, nearly reach the sky.... + +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." + +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. + +All the while he knew: L160 can't last. What will happen when...? + +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. + +They found her cutting down Maud's oldest dress for the second child in +her tidy house. + +"Charlie has left me for an immoral woman," she said, after preparing +them with preliminaries. + +"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. + +"Fancy leaving _that_!" 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!" + +"He must be naturally wild and bad," said Uncle Henry. "Shall I speak +to the Vicar for you?" + +"Have you written to his firm?" asked Aunt. + +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." + +"Always thinking of your duty!" murmured Aunt admiringly. + +"If I wrote to his firm about it," said Charlie's wife, "they would +dismiss him." + +"Ah! and he sends you his pay, you say?" said Uncle Henry, seizing the +point like a business man. + +"What a position for a conscientious woman like you!" mourned Aunt. + +"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." + +"Besides, he will come back," said Charlie's wife gently. "Men are soon +sickened of these women." + +"Of course," agreed Aunt. + +"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." + +"Because he could not allow your husband to communicate, my love," said +Aunt, "without being sure of his genuine repentance." + +"I have been thinking of that too," said Charlie's wife. "It would not +be right." + +"I wonder what he feels about himself, when he remembers his dear +little children," said Aunt. "Maud nearly old enough to understand, and +all!" + +So they lay for Charlie, while he basked and thrived in the abyss of +the lotus-flower; and the L160 dwindled. + +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. + +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. + +But he knew. + +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. + +The Jew looked at him, and turned to Kitty. + +"I told you," she said, stammering a little, "I told you how it was. By +to-morrow ... I told you...." + +"I'll come again, to-morrow, then," said the man very meaningly, "fetch +you out----" + +"At eight," she nodded firmly. + +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. + +"Nighty-night!" Kitty called after him. + +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. + +"What are you sitting up for, Charlie?" she asked. "I didn't expect to +see you. I brought that fellow in to talk." + +"What about?" said Charlie in a hoarse desolate voice. + +"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." + +"'Part!'" he repeated. + +His eyes seemed to start from his head. + +"Let's part friends," wheedled Kitty. "Shall us?" + +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. + +Before he went to the office in the morning, he asked her from a +breaking heart: "You mean it?" + +"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?" + +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.... + +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-- + + "I'm for ever blowing bubbles.... + Lal-la! la! la!... la! la! la!..." + +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. + +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. + +He kissed her on the mouth. + +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. + +Kitty did not scream. She knew better. + +"Oh Charlie!" she panted. "For ---- sake go! Go! I can't have a row +here. Oh, Charlie, be a good boy, do." + +"He _shall_ go," said the other man. + +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. + +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!" + +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----" + +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. + +"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. + +The other man simply vanished. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +"And if he's ill he can't prevent the Vicar visiting him too," said +Aunt. + +So Charlie's wife set out to do her duty. + +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 _Shaftesbury_ 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? + +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: + +"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?" + +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. + +"Kitty!" he smiled, "sing 'Bubbles.'" + +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-- + + "When shadows creep, + When I'm asleep, + To lands of hope I stray, + Then at daybreak, when I awake...." + +The Sister drew the bed-clothes shadily round Charlie's face. + + "... My blue bird flutters away, + I'm forever blowing bubbles.... + Pretty bubbles in the air...." + +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. + +"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. + +"He just wanted a song," she said. + + + + +A HEDONIST + +By JOHN GALSWORTHY + +(From _Pears' Annual_ and _The Century Magazine_) + +1921 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +As I say, for me Vaness, or rather his philosophy, _erat +demonstrandum_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"There's nothing for me but beauty, Miss Monroy." + +The two were evidently just behind my azalea clump, perhaps four yards +away, yet as invisible as if in China. + +"Beauty is a wide, wide word. Define it, Mr. Vaness." + +"An ounce of fact is worth a ton of theory: it stands before me." + +"Come, now, that's just a get-out. Is beauty of the flesh or of the +spirit?" + +"What is the spirit, as you call it? I'm a pagan." + +"Oh, so am I. But the Greeks were pagans." + +"Well, spirit is only the refined side of sensuous appreciations." + +"I wonder!" + +"I have spent my life in finding that out." + +"Then the feeling this garden rouses in me is purely sensuous?" + +"Of course. If you were standing there blind and deaf, without the +powers of scent and touch, where would your feeling be?" + +"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." + +"Oh! Mr. Vaness, was it good?" + +"It was not. I very soon learned that a genuine sensation was worth all +the uplift in the world." + +"What is going to happen when your senses strike work?" + +"I shall sit in the sun and fade out." + +"I certainly do like your frankness." + +"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." + +"Suppose you had been poor?" + +"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." + +"Have you ever been in love, Mr. Vaness?" + +"I am in love now." + +"And your love has no element of devotion, no finer side?" + +"None. It wants." + +"I have never been in love. But, if I were, I think I should want to +lose myself rather than to gain the other." + +"Would you? Sabine, _I am in love with you_." + +"Oh! Shall we walk on?" + +I heard their footsteps, and was alone again, with the old gardener +lopping at his shrubs. + +But what a perfect declaration of hedonism! How simple and how solid +was the Vaness theory of existence! Almost Assyrian, worthy of Louis +Quinze! + +And just then the old negro came up. + +"It's pleasant settin'," he said in his polite and hoarse half-whisper; +"dar ain't no flies yet." + +"It's perfect, Richard. This is the most beautiful spot in the world." + +"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." + +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. + +"Fine story, Richard; but--very silly, obstinate old man, your father, +wasn't he?" + +He looked at me with a sort of startled anger, which slowly broadened +into a grin; then broke into soft, hoarse laughter. + +"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. + +"Your philosophy is that of faun and nymph. Can you play the part?" + +"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. + +There came a laugh, high, gay, sweet. + +"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 _thud, thud_ 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 "_Cooee!_" 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. + +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. + +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! + +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! + +"Aha!" I thought, "which of the two laughs _last_?" + +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. + + + + +THE BAT AND BELFRY INN + +By ALAN GRAHAM + +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +1922 + + +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. + +"Oh, George, what a charming hotel!" exclaimed Tony. "Let's stop and +have tea." + +Tony, I should mention, is my wife. She is intensely practical. + +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. + +And Tony spoke of tea! + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Can you tell me, sir, if we can have tea in the hotel," I asked. + +The long man started, looked up, closed his book, and jumped to his +feet as if galvanized to life. + +"Of course, of course, of course," he cried hastily, and added, as by +an afterthought, "of course." + +I may have shown a natural surprise at this almost choral response, for +he pulled himself together and became something more explicit. + +"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----" + +His words petered out, as he clattered off down a like-flagged passage. +I looked at Tony and raised my eyebrows. + +"Seems a trifle mad," I said. + +"How delightfully cool," said she, looking round the old-fashioned room +appraisingly, "and so clean! I think we'll stop." + +"Let's have tea before we decide," I suggested. "The proprietor is +distinctly eccentric, to say the least of it." + +"He looked quite a superior man. I thought," said Tony. "Not the least +like a Welshman." + +Tony herself comes from far north of the Tweed. + +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. + +"... haven't the pluck of a rabbit, Bill." + +"... all very well, but----" + +"I'm not afraid, I'll----" + +Then our host returned. + +"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. + +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. + +"Have a drink while you're waiting?" he asked, much more naturally. + +I looked at my watch. It was half-past four. Very free-and-easy with +the licensing laws, I thought. + +"I thought six o'clock was opening time?" I said. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Have you accommodation if we should make up our minds to stay here for +a few days?" she asked. + +"Stay here? You want to stay?" he repeated, consternation written large +all over his face. "Good G---- I mean certainly, of course, of course." + +He bolted down the passage like a rabbit, and we heard hoarse +whispering from the direction in which he had gone. + +"Dotty?" I suggested. + +"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." + +I shrugged my shoulders and said no more, because I know Tony. I have +been married to her for years and years. + +Light steps upon the tiles heralded something new--different, but +equally surprising. + +"Tea is served, madam, if you will step this way." + +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. + +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. + +"We must stay a day or two," said Tony. "I'm dying to paidle in that +burn." + +"My dear, how often have you promised me that you would never subject +me to Scotch after we were married!" I protested. + +"When I see a burn I e'en must juist paidle in it," retorted Tony, +deliberately forswearing herself. "So we'll book that room." + +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. + +"Certainly, madam. I shall speak to Mr. Gunthorpe." Quickly she +returned. + +"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----" + +"That will be all right. No hurry, no hurry." + +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. + +"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. + +"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?" + +I looked at this latest manifestation with undisguised astonishment, +but he was imperturbable, and merely chewed his straw with renewed +energy. + +"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." + +He looked genial, but I found him familiar, so with a curt: + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +The bar-window was open once more in the little lounge, and Mr. +Gunthorpe was behind, his arms resting upon the ledge. + +"Have a drink?" he said, as I entered. "It's all right now. The +balloon's gone up." + +I looked at my watch. It was after six o'clock. + +"I'll have a small Scotch and soda," I decided. + +"This is on the house," said the eccentric landlord. + +He produced two glasses and filled them, and I noticed that he took +money from his pocket and placed it in the till. + +"Well, success to the new management!" I said, raising my glass to his. + +"Cheerio, and thank you," said he, smiling genially upon me. + +He seemed to me more self-possessed and less eccentric than he had +appeared upon our arrival. I determined to draw him out. + +"It's funny that an Australian should have owned an hotel away up in +the Welsh hills," I hazarded. "Did he die recently?" + +"Australia? You must have misunderstood me," said Mr. Gunthorpe with a +hunted look in his eyes. "Very likely--very likely I said Ostend." + +"Ostend? Well, possibly I did," I agreed, feeling certain that I had +made no mistake. "Had he a hotel there as well?" + +"Yes, yes. Of course, of course, of course," agreed the landlord, +largely redundant. + +"And are you running that as well?" + +"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." + +"With me," I insisted. + +"Not at all, not at all. On the house. All for the good of the house. +Come along, Bob, have a drink!" + +It was the boots who had now entered, and he strolled up to the bar +with all the self-possession of a welcome guest. + +"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. + +"Have another," he said. "Three Scotches, Boniface." + +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. + +"All well in the buttery?" asked the boots, in a confidential tone of +the landlord. + +"The banquet is in preparation," replied the latter. "Everything is in +train." + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +The chambermaid giggled once more and bolted, straightening her cap as +she went. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Bob--kennel!" she said sharply, and held the door wide. + +The cheeriness vanished and the boots followed it through the open +doorway. + +"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." + +I may have been mistaken, but a sound uncommonly like the chambermaid's +giggle came to me from the passage without. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Don't worry then, old bean. They won't stop long." This in the voice +of boots. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Shall I stand them a drink?"--Mr. Gunthorpe again. + +"Do, old bean. I'll come and have one, too," said boots. + +"You won't, Bob. You'll see to the chauffeur and the car, _and_ the +luggage." + +"Hang the luggage! I'll stand the chauffeur a drink." + +Then the female voice spoke warningly. + +"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." + +"It's all right, old girl. There's plenty for everybody. Cellar's full +of it." + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"I quite understand, of course, of course," replied Mr. Gunthorpe +urbanely. "Everything of a--an irritating character will be left out of +the--" + +"Then it won't be mulligatawny soup, you fool!" exploded the old lady, +whose pressure I had seen rising for some time. + +"Certainly not, madam. Of course, indubitably. We'll call it beef-tea, +and it will never know." + +"What will never know?" asked the old gentleman, with an air of +puzzlement. + +"Madam's duodenal ulcer, sir," replied the landlord, with a deferential +bow, dedicated, doubtless, to that organ. + +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. + +"How far is it to the nearest hotel, John?" she demanded acidly. + +"Too far to go to-night, Mary. I'm afraid we must put up with +this--this sanatorium," replied her husband. + +As a diversion I demanded an appetizer--a gin and bitters. + +Mr. Gunthorpe's face lit up and he bolted behind the bar. + +"Certainly, of course. Have it with me!" he exclaimed eagerly, his eyes +full of gratitude for the diversion. + +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. + +"Then we must have another," he declared, as the only way out of the +difficulty. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"This way, sir, if you please," said the chilling voice of our +exemplary waitress. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Minced chicken and rice--peptonized," he said suspiciously. "Did you +ever hear of such a dish, Mary?" + +"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. + +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. + +"Everything all right, eh?" he said, glancing over the lay-out of our +table. + +"Everything--except that so far we have had no food," I replied. + +"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." + +This in a hoarse aside to the children at the next table. It made them +giggle the more. + +"Surely they are very young to be stopping here alone!" said Tony, with +a touch of her national inquisitiveness. + +"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." + +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. + +The old couple were not so well satisfied. They sipped a little, had a +whispered consultation, and beckoned the boots. + +"Waiter, why do you call this beef-tea?" demanded the old gentleman. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"John, it's beef!" screamed the old lady, starting to her feet and +spluttering. + +"Damme, so it is!" confirmed her husband, after a bare mouthful. "Hi, +you--scoundrel, poisoner, assassin--send the manager here at once." + +He waved his napkin in fury, and boots cocked an eye at him curiously. + +"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--" + +He only got so far because the old gentleman had been inarticulate with +rage. + +"Fetch the manager, and don't dare utter another word, confound you!" +he shouted. + +A few moments later our friend Mr. Gunthorpe entered. His eyes were +bright, and a satisfied smile rested on his lips. + +"Good evening, sir," he began affably. "I believe you sent for me. I +hope everything is to your taste?" + +"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!" + +"Well, sir, as for your hat I can say nothing, but--" + +"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--" + +"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." + +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. + +"Oh, Bill!" she cried, "you've done it now. The game's up." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +Miss Jones turned to the old couple, who were waiting for the doorway +to clear, with a disarming and conciliatory smile. + +"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." + +"Done their best to poison us, certainly," growled the old gentleman. +"My wife has a duo--" + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"How do you know all this?" I demanded suspiciously. + +"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." + +Miss Jones succeeded in pacifying the old couple somehow--mainly, I +think, by promises of a new regime--and we left them in the coffee-room +looking almost cheerful. + +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. + +"Come along. Do join us!" cried Mr. Gunthorpe, sighting us at once. + +"Come and celebrate the end of this bat in the belfry sort of +management," added boots, holding high a sparkling glass. + +It ended in _Tony_ and I being dragged into the celebration, and _that_ +ended in quite a late sitting. + +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. + + + + +THE LIE + +By HOLLOWAY HORN + +(From _The Blue Magazine_ and _Harper's Bazar_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Ten minutes before he had proposed to her and had been rejected. + +It was not the first time, but he had been very much more hopeful than +on the other occasions. + +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. + +But, in spite of everything, she had shaken her head and all he +received was the maddening assurance that she "liked" him. + +"I shall never marry," she had concluded. "Never. You know why." + +"Yes, I know," the man said miserably. "Carruthers." + +And so he was looking out moodily, almost savagely, across the water +when the temptation came to him. + +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. + +"Olive," he said. + +"Yes," she replied quietly. + +"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. + +"What on earth are you talking about?" she demanded. + +"You know that--apart from you--Carruthers and I were pals?" + +"Yes," she said wondering. And suddenly she burst out petulantly. "What +is it you want to say?" + +"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." + +"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. + +"I don't like telling you--under other conditions I wouldn't. But I do +it for both our sakes." + +"Then, for goodness sake, do it!" + +"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." + +"Why do you tell me this?" she asked after a silence; her voice was low +and a little husky. + +"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." + +"I suppose you think I should be indignant?" There was no emotion of +any kind in her voice. + +"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. + +"What has that to do with it? You know I loved him." + +"Other girls have loved----" he said bitterly. + +"And forgotten? Yes, I know," she interrupted him. "But I do not +forget, that is all." + +"But after what I have told you. Surely----" + +"You see I knew," she said, even more quietly than before. + +"You--knew?" + +"Yes. It was I who was with him. It was his last leave," she added +thoughtfully. + +And only the faint noise of the water and the wistful wind in the trees +overhead broke the silence. + + + + +A GIRL IN IT + +By ROWLAND KENNEY + +(From _The New Age_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Got any money, dearie?" she said to Mick. + +"No, mother," Mick replied, gently taking her hand. "Is there a fellow +here called Twinetoes?" + +"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. + +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." + +It was. Twinetoes lay in his navvy clobber on a dirty bed, drunk, dead +to the world. We could not rouse him. + +"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.... + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +"Wait," was all I replied. + +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. + +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'." + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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." + +"'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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"Blimy! Your share?" returned the Boss in a hoarse whisper. Then, +pointing to the waiting, half-naked form: "That!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Mebbe; but that don't alter it. I wants my full share 'n I means to +'av' it." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Dress, quick!" I said to the girl. + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +She irritated me. "Shut up!" I said at last, "_You_'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!" + +And he did. + + + + +THE BACKSTAIRS OF THE MIND + +By ROSAMOND LANGBRIDGE + +(From _The Manchester Guardian_) + +1922 + + +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 +_belles lettres_; 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. + +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." + +"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!" + +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: + +"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." + +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-- + +"Who told you, Mr. Deasey, sir?" Or "Where did you get the letter?" + +"Ah, now, that would be telling!" Deasey would make reply. "But 'twas +from a _certain person_ 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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!"... + +Or-- + +"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!" + +Or-- + +"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!" + +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: + +"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!" + +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!" + +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. + +"And to look at me!" she wept forthwith, "would you think I could shed +a drop of ruddy gore?" + +"No, ma'am," returned Deasey. "To look at you, ye'd think ma'am ye +could never kill a fly!" + +And respectfully he passed the peppermints. + +"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!" + +"All the same," Deasey whispered, "maybe it wasn't your fault: 'twas +maybe your man egged you on to do the shameful deed----" + +"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!" + +"And what'd you do with the body?" he asked. + +"I dug a grave in the shine of the moon," she answered. "And I put it +in by the two little cold grey feet----" + +This touch of the grey feet laid a spell on Deasey's hankering +morbidity. + +"_What turned the feet grey_?" he whispered. + +"Nature, I s'pose!" replied the white-haired widow. She drew her shawl +about her shrinking form before she turned away. + +"'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!" + + + + +THE BIRTH OF A MASTERPIECE + +By LUCAS MALET + +(From The _Story-Teller_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +At last, with a cajoling but really alarming audacity, she went for him +straight. + +"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."... + +She, in fact, sat by his side, her chair placed decidedly close to his. + +"If you would read us a chapter.... A chapter is impossible?"... + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +Pogson succumbed. No, he wouldn't read; but, since she so amiably +desired it.... + +"More than anything in all my life!" with the most convincing and +virginal sincerity. + +... 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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Beloved brother, which of us ever said it didn't?" Arabella took him +up sweetly. + +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. + +"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." + +This last assertion dropped as a bomb between Lessingham and myself. + +"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?" + +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. + +"What on earth are you driving at? What do you mean, Arabella--that +Pogson is a plagiarist?" + +"Don't eat me, Harry dearest, if I incline to use a shorter, commoner +expression." + +"A thief?" + +"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." + +"But this is horrible, horrible," Lessingham cried. "All the names, +though, were different." + +Arabella appeared to have overcome her fear of explosions. Her charming +eyes again danced. + +"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." + +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. + +Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. + +"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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +As I rose to depart: + +"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!" + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +"Oh, yes," she declared, "by then Heber will have completed his great +novel, without doubt." + +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. + +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. + +I uttered what must have sounded wildly incoherent farewells and fled. + +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. + +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. + +"We took him any new ones we happened to run across, as you'd take a +sick woman flowers. To the end he read." + +"And wrote?" I asked. + +"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." + +"And Mrs. Pogson?" + +Lessingham looked at me absently. + +"Oh! Mrs. Pogson? She's never interested me. She's too invertebrate; +but I believe she took care of Pogson all right." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +Mrs. Pogson did not betray any sign of emotion. Her thin hands remained +perfectly still in her crape-covered lap. + +"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. + + + + +"GENIUS" + +By ELINOR MORDAUNT + +(From _Hutchinson's Magazine_ and _The Century Magazine_) + +1921, 1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, _himself_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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----" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"--Hold on until after the concert?" + +"Sorry fur meself if I couldn't." + +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. + +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 _claques_, 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. + +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. + +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-- + +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 _looking into_. + +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. + +"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.... + +"He don't care--he's changed." + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +It was like that old childish "Shut your eyes and open your mouth." + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +"'Im and his crowds,' 'Im an' 'is fine lydies! 'Im an' 'is +_motor-cars_!" + +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. + +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. + +"For two." He poked out a long neck and peered round the edge of the +box, like a tortoise from its shell. + +"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. + +"Ain't not what you might call a crowd, anyway," he remarked. + +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 _Daily Mail_ stories. + +"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. + +A dim white-gloved hand was thrust through it and took her ticket. + +"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. + +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. + +Those white patches, the hands of two white-gloved men, holding sheaves +of programmes--she realised one between her own fingers--whispering +together. + +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. + +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?" + +"Money, all money." Old Mrs. Cohen had been firm upon this point. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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: + +"We're to turn on the light. 'E swears as 'e won't give it up--'e's +goin' ter play." + +"Goin' ter play? Well, I'll be blowed!--Goin' ter play! An' with +nothing 'ere but _That_" + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"That's the stuff!" he said. "That's the stuff to give 'em!" + +After a moment's pause, Ben turned again to the piano. This time he +played the Sonata Pathetique 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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"Beasts! Pigs! A-a-a-ah!--You!" + +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. + +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. + +"There, my dear! There, my love--there--there--there!" + +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. + +"There, there, there, there!" + +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-- + +"They didn't come! They don't care--they don't want it! Jenny, they +don't want it!" + +"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." + +"But--Beethoven...." + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +"A good thing as the 'all people insists upon payment in advance," +remarked the man in the box-office. + +The other gave him a curious, half-contemptuous glance. "I'd like to +hear you say that in a year's time." + +"Why?" + +"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 _something +different_ they're all out for." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"She wasn't there, Jenny! She wasn't there!" + +"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. + +"Work?" + +"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. + +"Ter-night--workin'" + +"All night; one the saeme as another." + +"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!" + +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. + +"No more of that beastly washing, ironing--it's the end of that, +anyhow. When I'm back at the timber-yard----" + +He was like a child again, planning; they almost ran down the street. +"No more o' that damned washin' and ironin'--no more work----" + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"About that concert----" said the first man. + +"We were thinking that if we could persuade you to play----" put in the +other. + +"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. + +"I was there," put in the first man, "and I must say, impressed----" + +"Very deeply impressed," added the other; but once again Ben brushed +him aside. + +"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?" + +"'Like' is scarcely the word." + +"We feel that if you could be persuaded to give another concert," put +in the stout man, blandly, "and would allow----" + +"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" + +"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----" + +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!" + +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. + +"Men!--trapsin' in an' out, muckin' up a place!" + +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. + +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. + +Then the door into the scullery was opened. For a moment or so she kept +her head obstinately lowered, determined that she _would_ 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. + +"Well?" + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + + + + +THE DEVIL TO PAY + +By MAX PEMBERTON + +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +1922 + + +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. + +"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." + +James did not desire particularly to become Lord Mayor of London, but +he was greatly amused by his employer's temper. + +"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." + +John shook his old dense head, and would express no opinion upon the +point. + +"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." + +James was not so sure of it. + +"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." + +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. + +"You rang, sir?" + +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. + +"And don't be so d----d slow next time," he snapped. "I'll see the +Count Florian at once." + +The old man withdrew timidly, while his master mopped up the ink from +the pot he had broken in his anger. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"A chilly morning," he began. "You have no fire, I see." + +"You find it so?" queried Ambrose. "Well, I thought it quite warm." + +"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. + +Ambrose did not like such talk, and showed his displeasure plainly. + +"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." + +The Count heard him patiently, but did not seem in any way disturbed. + +"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." + +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. + +"You must have great influence, Count," he remarked presently--"great +influence to get such a valuable commission as this!" + +The Count was flattered. + +"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." + +"And yet when I met you it was on the links above La Turbie." + +The count laughed, showing his glittering teeth as any carnivorous +animal might have done. + +"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." + +"You find men easier?" + +"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." + +"Ah," exclaimed Ambrose, a little wearily, "I wish I could think that +about my _fiancee_. 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." + +The Count nodded his head in sympathy. + +"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." + +"Even if he made it dishonestly?" + +"She does not care a snap of the fingers how he makes it, believe me." + +"And afterwards, when he goes to prison----" + +"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." + +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. + +"Well?" he said at last, unable to suffer the silence any longer. + +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. + +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. + +"By heaven!" he cried, "but I have locked up the devil." + +II + +Ambrose dismissed John, the man, and James, the boy, and told them he +would have no need of their services for some days. + +"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." + +James looked at John and John looked at James. Was their excellent +employer demented, then, or had they understood him incorrectly? + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +The jeweller shrugged his shoulders, sweeping aside carelessly some +priceless pearls that lay on the table before him. + +"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." + +Ambrose was almost too astonished to speak. + +"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----" + +"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 _fiancee_ 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." + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"My dear girl," he began, "I am so sorry that I lost my temper this +morning----" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Give up dancing--but, Kitty, you're mad about it!" + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"I feel," she said, "that I must find out the sorrow in the world, I +must help it." + +"But suppose, my dear, that there isn't any sorrow----" + +"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?" + +He looked at her aghast. + +"Sex no longer counts!" + +"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----" + +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." + +"But that surely would be a great, good thing," exclaimed Ambrose, +astonished. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +He did not answer her, but calling a taxi, he ordered the man to drive +to Throgmorton Street like the deuce. + +III + +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. + +"Come out!" he cried, but nobody answered him. + +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. + +"Well?" asked the fellow. + +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. + +"Good heavens," thought Ambrose, "I must have imagined it all." + +He returned to his chair and tossed the paper across the table. + +"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." + +"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. + +Ambrose watched him go and then calling John, he asked what time it +was. + +"A quarter to one, sir," said that worthy. + +"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!" + + + + +EMPTY ARMS + +By ROLAND PERTWEE + +(From _The Ladies' Home Journal_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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?" + +He started, rubbed his eyes, blinked at her and answered: "Hullo, who +are you?" + +"What is it?" she repeated. "Have you lost something?" + +"Don't--don't!" he pleaded. "Don't even suggest such a thing, little +lady." + +"I won't. I only thought--and you looked so sad." + +"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. + +She shook her head and looked up at him with a child's perplexity. + +"A play?" he amended. + +"I've no one to play with," she answered simply. "See!" And she held +out her empty arms. + +"What's wrong then?" + +"I don't know." She seemed to dwell on the last word. "I only +thought--perhaps you could tell me." + +"Tell you what?" + +"Help me to find it perhaps. It seemed as if you were looking, too; +that's why I came." + +"Looking?" he repeated. "I'm waiting; that's all." + +"Me too. But it's such a long time, and I get no nearer." + +"Nearer to what?" + +"Finding." + +"Something you lost?" + +"I think so. Must be. I'll go back now." + +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." + +"I'll stay," she said. + +"And will you talk to me?" + +"Yes." + +"Tell me a story then--just as if I were a kid, a child. A man isn't +much more these times." + +At the word "child" her arms went out to him, but dropped to her sides +again as he said "a man." + +"Come under the porch, where the rain won't spoil your pretty silk. +That's better. Now tell away." + +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. + +"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." + +"What would you call a pretty room?" he asked, for the last sentence +was the first of which he was aware. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Been reading Tennyson, little lady?" asked the man. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"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!" + +"Afraid!" echoed the man. "Until to-night I was never afraid." + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"I am a painter, too," said the young man, forgetting his absorption at +the mention of a great name. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"'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. + +"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." + +"What a strange being you are!" said the young man. "You speak as +though these were real memories. What happened to the picture then?" + +"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?" + +"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?" + +Through the still, early morning air came a faint, reedy cry. + +The young man was upon his feet, fiercely fitting a key into the lock. + +The little Madonna had risen, too, and her eyes were luminous, like +glowworms in the dark. + +"He's calling me," she cried. "He's calling." + +"Mine," said the young man. + +She turned to follow, but the door closed between them. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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." + +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." + +"Please yourself," responded Mr. Ridgewell, junior, "but to my mind +it's ten guineas for nix." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 aerial 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. + +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. + +"That's the new Del Sarto," said the girl, who was reading from a small +blue book. "See, daddy?" + +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. + +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." + +"Daddy, what are you saying?" There was a frightened tone in the girl's +voice. + +"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." + +"But, daddy----" + +"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!" + +He told his story to the Committee of the National Gallery and, to do +them credit, it was received with the utmost courtesy. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +That was the end of the interview. Once again the door was slammed in +the little Madonna's face. + +That night the man told his wife all about it. "So you see," he +concluded, "there is nothing more I can do." + +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. + +But for her the spirit prevailed, the kindly bars still ribbed the +windows and the sense of sleeping children still haunted the air. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"Then how can you explain----" + +"Oh, heaven!" he answered. "Put a child in any woman's arms." + + + + +LENA WRACE + +By MAY SINCLAIR + +(From _The Dial_) + +1921, 1922 + + +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. + +"I know what you want," I said. "You want me to congratulate you." + +"Yes. I do." + +"I congratulate you on your courage." + +"Oh, you don't like him," she said placably. + +"No, I don't like him at all." + +"He likes you," she said. "He thinks no end of your painting." + +"I'm not denying he's a judge of painting. I'm not even denying he can +paint a little himself." + +"Better than you, Roly." + +"If you allow for the singular, obscene ugliness of his imagination, +yes." + +"It's beautiful enough when he gets it into paint," she said. "He makes +beauty. His own beauty." + +"Oh, very much his own." + +"Well, _you_ just go on imitating other people's--God's or somebody's." + +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. _Your_ mind +doesn't come rushing and blazing out of your eyes, my dear." + +"No. No. I'm afraid it doesn't rush. And for all the blaze--" + +"Well, that's what I'm in love with, the rush, Roly, and the blaze. And +I'm in love, _for the first time_" (she underlined it) "with a man." + +"Come," I said, "come." + +"Oh, _I_ know. I know you're thinking of Lawson Young and Dickey +Harper." + +I was. + +"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--" + +"Yes," I said. "I can see how it would go to your head." + +"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." + +It was wonderful--Lena Wrace thinking that she thought of England. + +I said "Of course. But for your political foresight and your virtuous +action we should never have had Tariff Reform." + +"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." + +"It is. I'm afraid Mrs. Withers doesn't care about Tariff Reform." + +"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." + +"All the same he left you. And you weren't ecstatically happy with him +the last year or two." + +"I daresay I'd have done better to have married you, if that's what you +mean." + +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. + +So I said, "Much better." + +"It would have been so nice, so safe," she said. "But I never played +for safety." Then she made one of her quick turns. + +"Frances Archdale ought to marry you. Why doesn't she?" + +"How should I know? Frances's reasons would be exquisite. I suppose I +didn't appeal to her sense of fitness." + +"Sense of fiddlesticks. She just hasn't got any temperament, that +girl." + +"Any temperament for me, you mean." + +"I mean pure cussedness," said Lena. + +"Perhaps. But, you see, if I were unfortunate enough she probably +_would_ marry me. If I lost my eyesight or a leg or an arm, if I +couldn't sell any more pictures--" + +"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." + +"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. + +"So you see," she said, "they don't count, and Norry really _is_ the +first." + +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. + +"Of course, if you care to take the risk of him--" I said. "He won't +stick to you, Lena." + +"Why shouldn't he?" + +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. + +It only took a little success like this, her actual triumph in securing +him. + +So I said, "Because it isn't in him. He's a bounder and a rotter." +Which was true. + +"Not a bounder, Roly dear. His father's Sir Gilbert Hippisley. +Hippisleys of Leicestershire." + +"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." + +"I don't care," she said, "as long as I'm his last." + +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. + +"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 _you_ if +you weren't fine and fastidious, too--one of his great ladies.... You +think I'm a snob, Roly?" + +"I think you don't mind coming _after_ Lady Willersey." + +"Well," she said, "if you _have_ to come after somebody--" + +"True." I asked her if she was giving me her reasons. + +"Yes, if you want them. _I_ don't. I'm content to love out of all +reason." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +They kept up the _menage_ for two astounding years. + +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 _fioritura_, 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. + +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." + +"And their figures, Roly, you should have seen them when they were +undressed. Of course, you _have_ seen them. Well, there isn't--is +there?" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"_You_ know him, Roly," she said. + +I reminded her that she hadn't always given me that credit. + +"_I_ know how he spends his time," she said. "How do you know?" + +"Well, for one thing, Ethel tells me." + +"How does she know?" + +"She--she posts the letters." + +"Does she read them?" + +"She needn't. He's too transparent." + +"Lena, do you use her to spy on him?" I said. + +"Well," she retorted, "if he uses her--" + +I asked her if it hadn't struck her that Sybil Fermor might be using +him? + +"Do you mean--as a _paravent_? Or," she revised it, "a parachute?" + +"For Bertie Granville," I elucidated. "A parachute, by all means." + +She considered it. "It won't work," she said. "If it's her reputation +she's thinking of, wouldn't Norry be worse?" + +I said that was the beauty of him, if Letty Granville's attention was +to be diverted. + +"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. + +Letty Granville's divorce suit proved to her that I was right. + +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 +"_paravent_" for _her_. 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.) + +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." + +Then Barbara Vining turned up out of nowhere, and from the first minute +Lena gave herself up for lost. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +Then she said suddenly, "Do you know, you're the only man in London I +could come to looking like this." + +I said, "Isn't that a bit unkind of you? It sounds as though you +thought I didn't matter." + +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 _had_ 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." + +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. + +There was Ethel Reeves; but Lena didn't worry about his being locked up +with _her_. 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. + +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 _air crane_, 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. + +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. + +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 _like_ 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. + +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. + +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 _her_? And Barbara replied amazingly that of course she knew. +They'd been alone together. + +When I remarked that it was precisely _that_, 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. + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +And as a secretary she maintained, up to the last, an admirable +efficiency. + +Up to the last. + +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. + +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. + +She must have said something like that, to bring it on herself, just +then, of all moments. + +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? + +What she wanted--what she had come for--was her letters. They were +locked up in his bureau in the secret drawer. + +She told me what had happened then. Ethel lifted her sullen, subtle +eyes and said, "You think he kept them?" + +She said she knew he'd kept them. They were in that drawer. + +And Ethel said, "Well then, he didn't. They aren't. He burnt them. _We_ +burnt them.... We could, at least, get rid of _them_!" + +Then she threw it at her. She had been Hippisley's mistress for three +years. + +When Lena asked for proofs of the incredible assertion she had _her_ +letters to show. + +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. + +I think she must have hated Lena more vehemently than she loved +Hippisley. She couldn't, _then_, have had much reliance on her power to +capture; but her hatred was a perpetual suggestion. + +Supposing--supposing she were to try and take him? + +Then she had tried. + +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. + +And the spying? That had been all part of the game; his and Ethel's. +_They_ played for safety, if you like. They had _had_ to throw Lena off +the scent. They used Sybil Fermor and Lady Hermione and Barbara Vining, +one after the other, as their _paravents_. 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. + +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--_me_--ME.... You thought what we meant you to think." + +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. + +Yesterday she said to me, "Roly, I'm _glad_ he's dead. Safe from her +clutches." + +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. + +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. + +I saw her the other night sketching a frivolous gesture-- + + + + +THE DICE THROWER + +By SIDNEY SOUTHGATE + +(Thomas Moult) + +(From _Colour_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +Carringer replied that he did not. + +"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." + +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: + +"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." + +"On the contrary," replied Carringer politely, "I shall enjoy it." + +"Very well; but let us drink again before we start. I believe I am +growing colder." + +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. + +The pale stranger smiled quietly and opened another game. Again +Carringer won. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Yes," said a voice, "he was seen to turn into this street about three +hours ago." + +"And he must have shaved?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The detectives exchanged startled glances. They stepped nearer, looked +closely into the gamesters' faces, and knew in the same instant that +they were dead. + + + + +THE STRANGER WOMAN + +By G.B. STERN + +(From _John o'London's Weekly_) + +1922 + + +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. + +Was it accurate and just, what Hal had said? Or, simpler still, was it +true? + +"What you damn well need, Dickie, old son, is life in the raw. You're +living in a lady's work-box here." + +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. + +And then the inevitable: "Well--and what have _you_ been doing +meanwhile?" + +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. Andre 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----" + +"Coarse--_you_!" Hal guffawed. And then--out came the accusation which +was so disturbing little Dickie. + +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. + +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. + +But one must get nearer by slow degrees. + +If at all. + +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, _how_ he collected!--of +glowing Sevres 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. + +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. + +"What am I to do?" + +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. + +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. + +He had done a little yachting, of course; with the Ansteys the year +before last. + +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.... + +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. + +For this was the natural way for Dickie Maybury to behave. + +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. + +Dickie was trying to get into touch with "life in the raw." + +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. + +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.... + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +And who would dare say of him now that he had feared to meet life in +the raw? + +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). + +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...." + +"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. + +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 _his_ +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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 +_objets d'art_, 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 _had_ +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." + +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 Valliere, and a play by +Wycherley indiscriminately as "historical." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +One evening, sitting together in front of the fire, they drifted into +talk of their separate childhoods. + +"There was a garden in mine," said Ruth. + +"And in mine--a Casino garden!" His eyes twinkled. "Palm trees like +giant pineapples, and flower beds in a pattern, and a fountain--" + +"Oh, you poor little Continental kiddie!" + +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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"I note in jealous anguish of spirit," remarked Dickie. "that you do +not simply say 'a girl and boy next door.'" + +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." + +"Tommy was ungallant enough to leave the wall to you?" + +"There were cherries in his garden--sweet black cherries. And only +crab-apples in ours." + +"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--" + +"Oh!" Ruth winced. + +"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...." + +"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." + +"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-- + +"I _did_ 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." + +And now she had told him she loved him. + +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 _seen_ ... and then swept up, +sin and all, by another love big enough to accept this truth, also, as +essentially part of her. + +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--" + +"He would have killed you?" So he was able to utter quite natural and +coherent sounds! Dickie was surprised. + +"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. + +For that which Dickie had always thought of as mysterious, elusive, +was, to Ruth's eyes, only sorrowful wisdom. + +"Come here, Ruth." + +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 _makes_ the _fear_...." + +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. + +In fact, for a last appearance in the _role_ of a gallant little +gentleman, Dickie did not do so badly. + +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-- + +"I _did_ kill my husband." + +Yes--that was it. In the room with him was a strange woman who had +killed her husband. + +Not Ruth--but a strange woman. How had she got into the room with him? + +She had killed her husband. And now, _he_ was her husband. + +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? + +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. + +"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. + +"Mrs. Bigger had a baby--which was bigger, Mrs. Bigger or the baby?" + +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.... + +"Mrs. Bigger had a baby--" + +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. + +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!" + +But she _did_ 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. + +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.... + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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? + +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-- + + "Sleep, baby, sleep, + The hills are white with sheep----" + +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? + +"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. + +Something had, indeed, disagreed with Dickie. In the slang phrase: "He +had bitten off more than he could chew." + +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. + +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 _villanelles_, the graceful essays, the +_belles-lettres_ 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!" + +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. + +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 _all right_, you know--it's only Ruth I +You've been sitting with your bogies all the time the white lilac has +been coming out----" + +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.... + +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---- + +"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 _that_ murder, have they, Dickie?" + +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. + +"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. + + + + +THE WOMAN WHO SAT STILL + +By PARRY TRUSCOTT + +(From _Colour_) + +1922 + + +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...." + +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...." + +"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...." + +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...." + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Sometimes, just sometimes, by a merciful providence, things do not end. +She lived for months on the bare chance of its not ending. + +Yet, as we know, the end came. + +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. + +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! + +As she waited, getting well for him, she had no regrets, growing more +and more sure of his coming. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And tired, so tired, he hurried to her across the world as fast as he +could go. + +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? + +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? + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She must have changed her room--why had she done it? But the maid had +said--in her sitting-room-- + +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. + +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. + +He smiled his first smile--she should not lend it again. + +Then the door opened. Suddenly, almost noisily, she came in. + +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. + +When he could interrupt her greeting he said--forcing the words--"So +now you are quite strong--and busy?" + +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. _"Do you remember how you used to complain you +couldn't sit still? I am like that now--"_ + +And he listened, listened, each word a deeper stab straight at his +defenceless heart. + +Of all the many things he had done since they met he had nothing to +say. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +So he went. + +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. + +He did not know how inartistic love can be when love is desperate. + + + + +MAJOR WILBRAHAM + +By HUGH WALPOLE + +(From _The Chicago Tribune_) + +1921 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +I began my account by saying that I was not convinced. How could I be +convinced? + +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.... + +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. + +After all, everything depends upon the relative importance that we +place upon ambitions, possessions, emotions,--ideas. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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 "Tannhaeuser" 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. + +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. + +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. + +"I beg your pardon," Wilbraham said to him, hesitating. + +"I wanted to see you," the Stranger said, smiling. + +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. + +"Ought I to have expected? Ought I to have known--" he stammered. + +"No, you couldn't have known," the Stranger answered. "You're not late. +I knew when you would come." + +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. + +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...?" + +"Of course, I'll stay," he answered. "If you want me." + +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. + +His English was without accent. His voice was soft and very melodious. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He sprang up. + +"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." + +His Guest stood up and put His Hand on his shoulder. + +They talked, standing side by side, and He said some things that +belonged to Wilbraham alone, that he would not tell me. + +Wilbraham asked Him why He had come--and to him. + +"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." + +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." + +"Can I go with You and be with You always?" Wilbraham asked. + +"Do you really want that?" He said. + +"Yes," said Wilbraham, bowing his head. + +"Then you shall come and never leave Me again. In three days from now." + +Then he kissed Wilbraham on the forehead and went away. + +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. + +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. + +But I have determined to make no personal comment on this story. I am +here simply as a narrator of fact.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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... + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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.. + +The crowd was dispersed and Wilbraham found himself walking alone with +the policeman beside the Green Park. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Daily +Record_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _must_ hear me!" + +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 melee. 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.... + +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.... + +"Isn't it wonderful," were his last words to me, "that it should be +true after all?" + +As to Truth, who knows? Truth is a large order. This _is_ true as far +as Wilbraham goes, every word of it. Beyond that? Well, it must be +jolly to be so happy as Wilbraham was. + +This will seem a lying story to some, a silly and pointless story to +others. + +I wonder.... + + + + +THE YEARBOOK OF THE BRITISH +AND IRISH SHORT STORY +JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + + +ABBREVIATIONS + +The following abbreviations are used in this yearbook. + +_A._ Annual +_Adelphi_ Adelphi Magazine +_Asia_ Asia +_Atl._ Atlantic Monthly +_Beacon_ Beacon +_Black_ Blackwood's Magazine +_Blue_ Blue Magazine +_Book (N.Y.)_ Bookman (N.Y.) +_Broom._ Broom +_By._ Bystander +_Cas._ Cassell's Magazine +_Cen._ Century Magazine +_C.H._ Country Heart +_Cham._ Chambers' Journal +_Chic. Trib._ Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) +_Colour_ Colour +_Corn._ Cornhill Magazine +_D.D._ Double Dealer +_Del._ Delineator +_Dial_ Dial +_Eng.R._ English Review +_Ev._ Everybody's Magazine +_Eve_ Eve +_Form._ Form +_Free._ Freeman +_G.H._ Good Housekeeping +_Gra_ Graphic +_Grand_ Grand Magazine +_Harp B._ Harper's Bazar +_Harp. M._ Harper's Magazine +_Hear_ Hearst's International Magazine +_Hut_ Hutchinson's Magazine +_John_ John o'London's Weekly +_L.H.J._ Ladies' Home Journal +_Lloyd_ Lloyd's Story Magazine +_L.Merc_ London Mercury +_Lon_ London Magazine +_Man. G_ Manchester Guardian +_McC_ McClure's Magazine +_McCall_ McCall's Magazine +_Met_ Metropolitan +_Nash_ Nash's and Pall Mall Magazine +_Nat. (London)_ Nation and Athenaeum +_New_ New Magazine +_New A._ New Age +_New S._ New Statesman +_Novel_ Novel Magazine +_Outl. (N.Y.)_ Outlook (N.Y.) +_Pan_ Pan +_Pears' A._ Pears' Annual +_Pearson (London)_ Pearson's Magazine (London) +_Pearson (N.Y.)_ Pearson's Magazine (N.Y.) +_Pict. R._ Pictorial Review +_Pop._ Popular Magazine +_Pre._ Premier +_Queen_ Queen +_Qui._ Quiver +_(R)_ Reprinted +_Roy._ Royal Magazine +_Scr._ Scribner's Magazine +_S.E.P._ Saturday Evening Post +_Sketch_ Sketch +_Sov._ Sovereign Magazine +_Sphere_ Sphere +_S.S._ Smart Set +_Sto._ Story-Teller +_Str._ Strand Magazine +_Tatler_ Tatler +_Time_ Time and Tide +_Times Lit. Suppl._ Times Literary Supplement +_Truth_ Truth +_Voices_ Voices +_West._ Weekly Westminster Gazette +_Wind._ Windsor Magazine +_Yel._ Yellow Magazine +(11:261) Volume 11, page 261 +(261) Page 261 + + + + +ADDRESSES OF PERIODICALS +PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES + + +I. ENGLISH PERIODICALS + +Note. _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._ + +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. + + +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-Premiere, 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. + + + + +THE ROLL OF HONOR + +JULY. 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + +Note. _Only stories by British and Irish authors are listed_ + +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. (_R_.) +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. (_R_) 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 a 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 Desiree. 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.) + + + + +A LIST OF +OTHER DISTINCTIVE STORIES + +JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + +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.) + +MEGROZ, 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 Consomme 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.) + + + + +ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY IN +BRITISH PERIODICALS + +JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + +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, Honore 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 Ibanez, 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. + Honore 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, Francois. + 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.) +Perez de Ayala, Ramon. + 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.) + Ramon Perez 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.) + + + + +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._ + + +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. + + +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. + + +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.) + + +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.) + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Best British Short Stories of 1922 +by Edward J. O'Brien and John Cournos, editors + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES *** + +This file should be named 7bbss10.txt or 7bbss10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7bbss11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7bbss10a.txt + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Best British Short Stories of 1922 + +Author: Edward J. O'Brien and John Cournos, editors + +Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9363] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 24, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1922 + +EDITED BY EDWARD J. O'BRIEN AND JOHN COURNOS + +TO STACY AUMONIER + + + +BY WAY OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT + +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: + +To the Editor of _The Saturday Evening Post_, the Editor of _The Dial_, +the Editor of _The Freeman_, the Editor of _The English Review_, the +Editor of _The Century Magazine_, the Editor of _Harpers' Bazar_, the +Editor of _The Ladies' Home Journal_, the Editor of _The Chicago +Tribune_ 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. + +Acknowledgements are specially due to _The Boston Evening Transcript_ +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. + +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 _Edward J. O'Brien, Forest Hill, +Oxfordshire_. + +E.J.O. + +J.C. + + + +CONTENTS + + +INTRODUCTION + +WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? By Stacy Aumonier +(From _The Strand Magazine_ and _The Saturday Evening Post_) + +THE LOOKING-GLASS. By J.D. Beresford +(From _The Cornhill Magazine_) + +THE OLIVE. By Algernon Blackwood +(From _Pearson's Magazine, London_) + +ONCE A HERO. By Harold Brighouse +(From _Pan_) + +"THE PENSIONER." By William Caine +(From _The Graphic_) + +BROADSHEET BALLAD. By A.E. Coppard +(From _The Dial_) + +THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT. By Richmal Crompton +(From _Truth_) + +SEATON'S AUNT. By Walter de la Mare +(From _The London Mercury_) + +THE REAPER. By Dorothy Easton +(From _The English Review_) + +THE SONG. By May Edginton +(From _Lloyd's Story Magazine_) + +A HEDONIST. By John Galsworthy +(From _Pears' Annual_, 1921 and _The Century Magazine_) + +THE BAT AND BELFRY INN. By Alan Graham +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +THE LIE. By Holloway Horn +(From _The Blue Magazine_) + +A GIRL IN IT. By Rowland Kenney +(From _The New Age_) + +THE BACKSTAIRS OF THE MIND. By Rosamond Langbridge +(From _The Manchester Guardian_) + +THE BIRTH OF A MASTERPIECE. By Lucas Malet +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +"GENIUS." By Elinor Mordaunt +(From _Hutchinson's Magazine_ and _The Century Magazine_) + +THE DEVIL TO PAY. By Max Pemberton +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +EMPTY ARMS. By Roland Pertwee +(From _The Ladies' Home Journal_) + +LENA WRACE. By May Sinclair +(From _The Dial_) + +THE DICE THROWER. By Sidney Southgate +(From _Colour_) + +THE STRANGER WOMAN. By G.B. Stern +(From _John o'London's Weekly_) + +THE WOMAN WHO SAT STILL. By Parry Truscott +(From _Colour_) + +MAJOR WILBRAHAM. By Hugh Walpole +(From _The Chicago Tribune_) + +THE YEARBOOK OF THE BRITISH AND IRISH SHORT STORY, JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, +1922 + +Abbreviations + +Addresses of Periodicals Publishing Short Stories + +The Roll of Honour + +A List of Other Distinctive Stories + +Articles on the Short Story in British Periodicals + +Volumes of Short Stories Published in Great Britain and Ireland + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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 +_Moby Dick_: "To produce a mighty book you must choose a mighty theme." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +_A_, 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. + +Then there is _B_. _B_ is a traveller, something of an adventurer too. +His _wanderlust_, 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 _B_ 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 _B_, 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 _A_ and _B_ 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. _A_ 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. _B_, 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. + +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 _A_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +JOHN COURNOS. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +EDWARD J. O'BRIEN. + + + +THE BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES OF 1922 + + + +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. + + + +WHERE WAS WYCH STREET? + +By STACY AUMONIER + +(From _The Strand Magazine_ and _The Saturday Evening Post_) + +1921, 1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Where was Wych Street, ma?" + +"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." + +Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat, and said: + +"Wych Street used to be a turnin' runnin' from Long Acre into +Wellington Street." + +"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." + +"I know what I'm talkin' about," growled Meadows. Mrs. Dawes's high +nasal whine broke in: + +"Hi, Mr. Booth, you used ter know yer wye abaht. Where was Wych +Street?" + +Mr. Booth, the proprietor, was polishing a tap. He looked up. + +"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." + +"No, it warn't. It were alongside the Strand, before yer come to +Wellington Street." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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: + +"Ben, you're a hot old devil, you are. We was just 'aving a discussion +like. Where was Wych Street?" + +Ben scowled at her, and she continued: + +"Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I _know_ where it +was, 'cors my aunt what died from blood p'ison, after eatin' tinned +lobster, used to work at a corset shop----" + +"Yus," barked Ben, emphatically. "I know where Wych Street was--it was +just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station." + +It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no +part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene. + +"Nope. You's all wrong, cap'n. Wych Street were alongside de church, +way over where the Strand takes a side-line up west." + +Ben turned on him fiercely. + +"What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I've told yer +where Wych Street was." + +"Yus, and I know where it was," interposed Meadows. + +"Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre into +Wellington Street." + +"I didn't ask yer what _you_ thought," growled Ben. + +"Well, I suppose I've a right to an opinion?" + +"You always think you know everything, you do." + +"You can just keep yer mouth shut." + +"It 'ud take more'n you to shut it." + +Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the bar: + +"Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling--please." + +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: + +"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." + +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: + +"Don't! Don't!" + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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 _hors de combat_ +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: + +"If they cop us, it means swinging." + +"Was the nigger done in?" + +"I think so. But even if 'e wasn't, there was that other affair the +night before last. The game's up." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Now, will you tell his lordship what you were discussing?" + +"Diseases, sir." + +"Diseases! And did the argument become acrimonious?" + +"Pardon?" + +"Was there a serious dispute about diseases?" + +"No, sir." + +"Well, what was the subject of the dispute?" + +"We was arguin' as to where Wych Street was, sir." + +"What's that?" said his lordship. + +"The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing as to where Wych +Street was." + +"Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"You mean the narrow old street that used to run across the site of +what is now the Gaiety Theatre?" + +Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming manner. + +"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?" + +"Well, sir, my aunt who died from eating tinned lobster used to work at +a corset-shop. I ought to know." + +His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to the counsel rather +peevishly. + +"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." + +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: + +"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." + +"Oh, no, Mr. Backer!" exclaimed Lowes-Parlby. + +His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out: + +"The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case." + +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. + + * * * * * + +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 _fiancée_, 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. + +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. + +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: + +"The basic trouble is that people make statements without sufficient +data." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Where would you say it was, sir?" asked Lowes-Parlby. + +"Why to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended at +the second turning after the Law Courts, going west." + +Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat +and said, in his supercilious, oily voice: + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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: + +"Really? How wonderful--to have such comprehensive knowledge!" + +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. + + * * * * * + +In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little contretemps. The +whole thing was so absurd--so utterly undignified. As though _he_ +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. + +"Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly go and see him in +the library?" + +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: + +"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: + +"What the devil have you done?" + +"Excuse me, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand. Is it Sandeman--?" + +"Sandeman has gone." + +"Oh, I'm sorry." + +"Sorry! By God, I should think you might be sorry! You insulted him. My +prospective son-in-law insulted him in my own house!" + +"I'm awfully sorry. I didn't realize--" + +"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." + +"But I--" + +"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." + +"I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this." + +"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!" + +"He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I corrected +him." + +"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!" + +The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed. +Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. He mumbled: + +"I'm very sorry." + +"I don't want your sorrow. I want something more practical." + +"What's that, sir?" + +"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." + +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? + +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? + +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? + +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: + +"_Dear Mr. Sandeman_,--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. + +"Yours cordially, + +"FRANCIS LOWES-PARLBY." + +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 _really_ 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." + +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. + +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: + +"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--" + +He put the nuts back on the dish, and then, in an apparently irrelevant +manner, he said abruptly: + +"Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?" + +The Lord Chief justice grunted. + +"Wych Street! Of course I do." + +"Where would you say it was, my lord?" + +"Why, here, of course." + +His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and sketched a plan on the +tablecloth. + +"It used to run from there to here." + +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. + +"Do you remember it?" said the Lord Chief justice. + +Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to come from a long way +off: + +"Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy little street." + + + + +THE LOOKING GLASS + +By J.D. BERESFORD + +(From _The Cornhill Magazine_) + +1921, 1922 + + +This was the first communication that had come from her aunt in +Rachel's lifetime. + +"I think your aunt has forgiven me, at last," her father said as he +passed the letter across the table. + +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. + +"You're very like her in some ways," her father said, as she still +stared at the signature. + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +Rachel straightened her shoulders and lifted her head; there was +disdain in her face, but none in her voice as she replied: + +"And so it seems that she wants to see me." + +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. + +Mr. Deane came out of his reminiscences with a sigh. + +"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...." + +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. + +"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?" + +"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 _old_...." + +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. + +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 _knew_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +II + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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 +_milieu_, 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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +Rachel had never in her life felt so gauche and awkward. + +"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. + +Miss Deane, however, would not permit that evasion. + +"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." + +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? + +"Our--our names are the same," she said nervously. + +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." + +"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. + +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." + +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. + +"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?" + +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 _still_ +existed. + +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. + +"Of course, I can't judge of that," she said, "as we met for the first +time five minutes ago." + +"No, no, you can't judge of _that_," her aunt replied, with the +half-bashful emphasis of one who awaits a compliment. + +Rachel decided to plunge. "But you do look extraordinarily young for +your age still," she lied desperately. + +Miss Deane straightened her back and toyed with a teaspoon. "I have +always taken great care of myself," she said. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +The time was passing so easily that Rachel was surprised when she heard +the gong sound. + +"Does that mean it's time to dress already?" she asked. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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 _feeling_ like her aunt. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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." + +Miss Deane shook her head. "I admit the physical resemblance," she +said; "otherwise, my dear, we are utterly different." + +Did she too, Rachel wondered, resent the aspersion of her integrity? + +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, _junior_," 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, _senior_. +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." + +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." + +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! + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +III + +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. + +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. + +"I suppose it's because I'm self-conscious before all these people," +she thought, and, indeed, Hyde Park was very full that afternoon. + +And it was Adrian who first, a little desperately, tried to reach +across the barrier that was dividing them. + +"You're different, rather, in town," he began shyly. "Is it the effect +of your aunt's grandeurs?" + +"Am I different? I feel exactly the same," Rachel replied mechanically. + +"You didn't think it was rather impudent of me to ask you to meet me +here, did you?" he went on anxiously. + +She shook her head emphatically. "Oh! no, it wasn't that," she said. + +"But then you admit that it was--something?" he pleaded. + +"The people, perhaps," she admitted. "I--I feel so exposed to the +public view." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +"Difference!" he repeated. "Well, I told you just now, didn't I, that +you were different this afternoon?" + +"Yes, but in what way?" she asked. "Do I--do I look different?" + +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." + +"It was a horrid air," she said sharply. "I've made up my mind to cure +myself of it." + +"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." + +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. + +His smile at once thanked and answered her. + +"But it's an abominable look," she exclaimed. "The look of an old, old, +painted woman, vain, ridiculous." + +He stared at her in amazement. "How absurd!" he protested. "Why, it's +_you_; and you're certainly not old or painted nor unduly vain, and no +one could say you were ridiculous." + +"And you want me to look like that?" she asked. + +"It's--it's so _you_," he said shyly. + +"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." + +He laughed that pleasant, kind laugh of his which had been one of the +first things in him that had so attracted her. + +"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_ 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. + +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." + +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. + +"Perhaps--if you'll let me do it in my own way," Rachel said. + +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. + +She nodded. + +"When did you begin to know?" he asked, awed by the wonder of this +stupendous thing that had happened to him. + +"From the beginning, I think," Rachel murmured. + +"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. + +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. + +"I suppose I'll have to meet your aunt?" he was saying. "Shall we go +back there now, and tell her?" + +Rachel flushed, as if he had suggested some startling invasion of her +secret life. "Oh! no," she ejaculated impulsively. + +Adrian looked his surprise. "But why not?" he asked. "I'm--I'm a +perfectly respectable, eligible party." + +"I wasn't thinking of that," Rachel said. + +"Is she a terrible dragon?" he inquired with a smile. + +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. + +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." + +"Not to-morrow," Rachel said. + +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. + +"I ought to be going back to her now," she said. + +"But you promised that we should have tea together," Adrian +remonstrated. + +"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. + +IV + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +"I've something to tell you, aunt," Rachel began abruptly. + +Miss Deane put up her lorgnette and surveyed her lovely portrait with +an interested air. + +"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." + +Miss Deane closed her eyes and gave a little sigh. + +"You might have given me _rather_ longer notice, dear," she said. + +"It isn't two yet," Rachel replied. "There are more than two hours to +get ready for him." + +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?" + +"About _you_?" Rachel asked. + +Miss Deane nodded, complacently. + +"Well, not very much," Rachel admitted. + +Miss Dean's look, as she playfully threatened Rachel with her +long-handled lorgnette, was distinctly sly. + +"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?" + +Rachel drew a long breath and leaned back in her chair. "Yes," she said +curtly, "I expect it will." + +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! + +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? + +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. + +For a moment Miss Deane did not move; then, with a queer hesitation, +she dropped her right hand and slowly lifted her lorgnette. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"She _had_ to know," Rachel repeated, addressing the dear likeness that +so proudly reflected her. + +V + +She found consolation in that thought. Her aunt _had_ to know and +Rachel herself was only the chance instrument of the revelation. She +had not _meant_, so she persisted, to do more than vindicate her own +integrity. + +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? + +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.... + +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. + +"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." + +"Oh! What a memory you have for my looks and behaviour," she replied +pettishly. "Of course, I'm nervous." + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Can you realise," she asked, "that once my aunt was supposed to be +very, very like me?" + +He smiled and shook his head, as if the possibility was too absurd to +contemplate. + +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. + +"Some day I may be as she is now," she said, with the superb +contemptuous arrogance of youth. + +Adrian was watching her with adoration. "You will never grow old," he +said. + +"So long as one does not get the idea of growing old into one's head," +Rachel began speculatively.... + + * * * * * + +But Miss Deane had got the idea so strongly now that she died that +night. + +Rachel was with her at the last. + +The old woman was trying to mouth a text from the Bible. + +"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." + + + + +THE OLIVE + +By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD + +(From _Pearson's Magazine_, London) + +1922 + + +He laughed involuntarily as the olive rolled towards his chair across +the shiny parquet floor of the hotel dining-room. + +His table in the cavernous _salle à manger_ 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 _en route_ as it plopped along, came to rest finally against his +feet. + +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. + +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 _hors +d'oeuvres_ 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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +He wondered! A thrill of possible adventure ran through him. + +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. + +He did not know, of course, that the mother, chiding her daughter's +awkwardness, had muttered: + +"There you are again, child! True to your name, you never see an olive +without doing something queer and odd with it!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The guide books praised them as persistently as the residents brought +them, sooner or later, into every conversation. They grew lyrical over +them: + +"And how do you like our olive trees? Ah, you think them pretty. At +first, most people are disappointed. They grow on one." + +"They do," he agreed. + +"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'." + +"One does," he sighed. "But all the same I should like to get one to +eat--an olive, I mean." + +"Ah, to eat, yes. That's not so easy. You see, the crop is--" + +"Exactly," he interrupted impatiently, weary of the habitual and +evasive explanations. "But I should like to taste the _fruit_. I should +like to enjoy one." + +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. + +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. + +"Ach! But it is the Spanish olive that you _eat_," 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. + +He was convinced that Eve, similarly, had rolled the apple towards Adam +across the emerald sward of the first garden in the world. + +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. + +"Who's there?" he asked in a sleepy whisper. "What is it?" + +The noise came again. Some one was scratching on the door. No, it was +somebody tapping. + +"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. + +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. + +"Aren't you ready?" he heard. "You sleep for ever." + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"Let us be off!" he cried, "before the Bear tilts down. Already Alcyone +begins to fade. I'm ready. Come!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Shall I?" he stammered, afraid to look at her. + +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. + +"I'm longing for it," he added. "How wonderfully you did it! They roll +so awkwardly----" + +"Oh, that!" She peered at him through a wisp of hair. "You've kept it, +I hope." + +"Rather. It's on my mantelpiece----" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Another!" he exclaimed. + +"The gods decide. It's a lob-sided thing, remember. It can't roll +straight." She looked oddly mischievous, elusive. + +He stared at her. + +"If it had rolled elsewhere--and another had picked it up----?" he +began. + +"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. + +"Hark!" she whispered breathlessly, one arm close about his neck. "I +hear their footsteps. Listen! It is the pipe!" + +"The pipe----!" he repeated, conscious of a tiny but delicious shudder. + +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. + +Her face turned slowly. + +"Who _are_ you?" he whispered. He sprang to his feet without waiting +for her answer. + +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.... + +"They come, they come," she cried gaily. "The Dawn is here. Are you +ready?" + +"I've been ready for five thousand years," he answered, leaping to his +feet beside her. + +"Altogether!" came upon a sparkling laugh that was like wind among the +olive leaves. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"The Church," he said, vaguely remembering the story. "They were at +prayer----" + +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----" + +"And the houses crumbled," he laughed as he pressed her closer to his +heart-- + +"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. + +"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. + +"Come!" he cried. "We must go too." + +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. + +"Hush!" she whispered in a tone of awe, yet pleasure. "He is there!" +She pointed, her bare arm outstretched above the bending heads. + +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. + +"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. + +The birds flew screaming, the animals sought holes, the worshippers, +laughing and glad a moment ago, rushed tumbling over one another for +the doors. + +"He goes again! Who called? Who called like that? His feet shake the +ground!" + +"It is the earthquake!" screamed a woman's shrill accents in ghastly +terror. + +"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!" + +But he woke, with the heavy bed-clothes stuffed against his mouth and +the wind of early morning sighing mournfully about the hotel walls. + + * * * * * + +"Have they left again--those ladies?" he inquired casually of the head +waiter, pointing to the table. "They were here last night at dinner." + +"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. + +"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. + +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?" + +"Oh, but that's very kind of you, I'm sure." She smiled. He saw the +small white even teeth.... + +And before three days had passed, he was so deeply in love that he +simply couldn't help himself. + +"I believe," he said lamely, "this is yours. You dropped it, you know. +Er--may I keep it? It's only an olive." + +They were, of course, in an olive grove when he asked it, and the sun +was setting. + +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---- + +"Tell me," he begged: "did you dream anything--that first night I saw +you?" + +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----" + +"Knew what?" he demanded, holding her tightly so that she could not get +away again. + +"That you were already half and half, but would soon be altogether." + +And, as he kissed her, he felt her soft little fingers tweak his ears. + + + + +ONCE A HERO + +By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE + +(From _Pan_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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?" + +"Oh, yes. The reporters are coming. There'll be flash-light +photographs. Everything quite as usual when you make a public +appearance, sir." + +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." + +"The amount," Fosdike hastened to assure him, "has been circulated, +with appropriate tribute to your generosity." + +"Generosity," criticised Rumbold. "I hope you didn't use that word." + +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.'" + +"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?" + +"I thought----" began Fosdike. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"I did want to suggest a modification, sir," he hazarded timidly. + +"Really?"--quite below zero--"Really? I felt very contented with the +speech." + +"Yes, sir, it's masterly. But on the spot here----" + +"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?" + +"It's about Martlow," said Fosdike shortly. + +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----" + +Fosdike coughed. "Excuse me, sir, that's just the point. If you talk +like that about Martlow down here, they'll laugh at you." + +"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. + +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." + +"No. Ought I to?" + +"Not on the bench?" + +"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." + +"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----" + +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 _de +mortuis_." He quoted: + + "'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.' + +"Appropriate, I think? I shall use that." + +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. + +"Very apt quotation, sir, though there have never been any exact +details of Martlow's death." + +Sir William meditated. "Do you recall the name of the saint who was a +regular rip before he got religion?" he asked. + +"I think that applies to most of them," said Fosdike. + +"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?" + +"There is his mother. A widow. You remember the Board voted her an +addition to her pension." + +"Oh, yes. And she?" + +"Oh, most grateful. She will be with you on the platform. I have seen +myself that she is--fittingly attired." + +"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--" + +Then Dolly Wainwright came into the ante-room. + +"If you please, sir," she said, "what's going to be done about me?" + +Two gentlemen who had all but reached the smug bathos of a mutual +admiration society turned astonished eyes at the intruder. + +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. + +"How did you get in here?" + +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. + +"But there's a doorkeeper at the bottom," said Fosdike. "I gave him my +orders." + +"I gave him my smile," said Dolly. "I won." + +"Upon my word--" Fosdike began. + +"Well, well," interrupted Sir William, "what can I do for you?" + +The reply was indirect, but caused Sir William still further to +readjust his estimate of her. + +"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." + +"Don't threaten me, my girl," said Sir William without severity. "I am +always ready to pay attention to any legitimate grievance, but----" + +"Legitimate?" she interrupted. "Well, mine's not legitimate. So there!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Ah," said Sir William encouragingly, "our glorious hero." + +"Yes," said Dolly. "I'm the mother of his child." + +We are all balloons dancing our lives amongst pins. Therefore, be +compassionate towards Sir William. He collapsed speechlessly on a hard +chair. + +Fosdike reacted more alertly. "This is the first I've heard of +Martlow's being married," he said aggressively. + +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." + +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?" + +"I was here, on munitions," she said, "and then on doles." + +"And now you're on the make," he sneered. + +"Oh, I dunno," she said. "All this fuss about Tim Martlow. I ought to +have my bit out of it." + +"Deplorable," grieved Sir William. "The crass materialism of it all. +This is so sad. How old are you?" + +"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." + +"I suppose now, Miss----" Fosdike baulked. + +"Wainwright, Dolly Wainwright, though it ought to be Martlow." + +"I suppose you loved Tim very dearly?" + +"I liked him well enough. He was good-looking in his khaki." + +"Liked him? I'm sure it was more than that." + +"Oh, I dunno. Why?" asked the girl, who said she was the mother of +Martlow's child. + +"I am sure," said Fosdike gravely, "you would never do anything to +bring a stain upon his memory." + +Dolly proposed a bargain. "If I'm rightly done by," she said, "I'll do +right by him." + +"Anything that marred the harmony of to-night's ceremony, Miss +Wainwright, would be unthinkable," said Sir William, coming to his +lieutenant's support. + +"Right," said Dolly cheerfully. "If you'll take steps according, I'm +sure I've no desire to make a scene." + +"A scene," gasped Sir William. + +"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." + +"But you said you'd no desire to make a scene." + +"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?" + +"But my dear young lady----" Fosdike began. + +She silenced him. "Oh, it's all right. I don't know that I want to get +married." + +"Then you ought to," said Sir William virtuously. + +"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." + +"In your case, I should have thought there was everything." + +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." + +"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?" + +"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----" + +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?" + +"'Tisn't his fault," said Dolly. "I've been saving this up for you." + +"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?" + +"Double it, add a pound a week, and what's the answer, Mr. Fosdike?" +asked Dolly quickly. + +Sir William gasped ludicrously. + +"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." + +"The less you say about your standards, the better, my girl," retorted +Sir William. "Do you know that this is blackmail?" + +"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." + +Sir William paused in the act of tearing a page out of Fosdike's +note-book. "Three pounds a week!" + +"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." + +"But suppose you marry," suggested Mr. Fosdike. + +"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--" + +Sir William looked up sharply from the table. "If you use that phrase +again," he said, "I'll tear this paper up." + +"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. + +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. + +Fosdike went courageously towards him. "What do you mean by this +intrusion? Who are you?" + +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." + +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. + +"No." + +"No?" jeered the tramp. "No bell. No telephone. No nothing. You're +scotched without your rifle this time." + +Fosdike consulted Sir William. "I might shout for the police," he +suggested. + +"It's risky," commented the tramp. "They sometimes come when they're +called." + +"Then----" began the secretary. + +"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." + +"I wouldn't like?" said Rumbold. "I? Who are you?" + +"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." + +"One of what?" + +"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." + +"Timothy Martlow," cried Sir William. + +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. + +"It's very near made a stretcher-case of him," he said, indicating the +prostrated Fosdike. "You're cooler. Walking wounded." + +"I ... really...." + +"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." + +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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +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?" + +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." + +"Not even your mother?" queried Rumbold. + +"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. + +"Why have you come here? Here--to-night?" + +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." + +"Like this?" The proper Mr. Fosdike interjected. + +"Eh?" said Tim. "Like what?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Martlow," said Sir William briskly, "time's short. I'm due on that +platform." + +"Right, I'm with you." Tim moved towards the platform door. + +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--" + +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?" + +Sir William met his eye. "Yes, I did," he said hardily. + +"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." + +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. + +"Has it?" mused Tim. "From what?" + +"Well--" Sir William was embarrassed. "From what you were." + +"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. + +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. + +"You were magnificent in the war, Martlow." + +"First thing I did when I got civvies on was to get blind and skinned. +Drink and civvies go together in my mind." + +"You'll get over that," said Sir William encouragingly; but he was +puzzled by the curiously wistful note which had replaced Tim's +hectoring. + +"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?" + +Sir William couldn't. "But you'll pull yourself together. You'll +remember--" + +"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. + +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?" + +"No," said Dolly, gasping for breath. "I mean--" he insisted, "what you +said about you and me. That isn't true?" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +Tim shook his hand, and Rumbold turned to the door. Fosdike ran after +him with the notes of his speech. "Your speech, sir." + +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. + +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. + +"I ain't likely to forget you," said Dolly ruefully. + +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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"He gave me that paper," she said, pride subduing tears as she handed +him her splendid trophy. + +"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. + +"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." + +"But there ain't no baby," she persisted. + +"There's plenty of babies looking for a mother with three pounds a +week," he said. + +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." + +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----" + +"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. + +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. + +"Letters of gold," she panted, "and you shan't tarnish them. I'll see +to that." + +He gaped for a moment at the liquor flowing from the bottle, then +raised his eyes to hers. "You?" he said. + +"I haven't got a baby to look after," said Dolly. "But--I've you. Where +were you thinking of going now?" + +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." + +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." + +"You put it across Sir William," he said. "You're a blinkin' marvel." + +"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." + +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." + +"Idiot!" said Dolly Wainwright, drawing him to the door. + + + + +THE PENSIONER + +By WILLIAM CAINE + +(From _The Graphic_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Then the Great War broke out. + +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. + +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. + +Starvation stared Edward in the face, not only his own starvation, you +understand, but Miss Crewe's. And Edward was a man of honour. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He was, consequently, buried by the parish. + +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 _could_ 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. + +Edward was dead when this letter was delivered. + +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. + + + + +BROADSHEET BALLAD + +By A.E. COPPARD + +(From _The Dial_) + +1922 + + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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!" + +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. + +"Hanging's a dreadful thing," continued Sam, "and 'tis often unjust +I've no doubt, I've no doubt at all." + +"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!" + +"No? But why?" + +"Why? They has their reasons. I know that, I knows it for truth ... +hark at that rain, it's made the room feel cold." + +They watched the downfall in complete silence for some moments. + +"Hanging's a dreadful thing," Sam at length repeated, with almost a +sigh. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"'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.' + +"'No,' they said, 'you can't.' + +"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: + +"'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!" + +"What!" ejaculated Sam, "both on 'em, both on 'em!" + +"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. + +"'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." + +"Well, a' called for it sure," commented Sam. + +"Her did," agreed Bob, "but she was the quietest known girl for miles +round those parts, very shy and quiet." + +"A shady lane breeds mud," said Sam. + +"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." + +"Of course, ah!" + +"I'll marry Agnes'--says he. + +"'You'll not'--says the old man--'you'll marry Edie.' + +"'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." + +"The jezebel!" commented Sam. + +"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." + +"No, that we can't." + +"It's my belief the 'bugging rain won't stop this side of four." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Never! Ha! ha!" cried Sam. + +"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." + +"And they lived happy ever after?" + +"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." + +"'Twas a hard thing for that other, that Edie, Bob." + +"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." + +"You don't say!" + +"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." + +"Ah, she died? Well, it's the only way out of such a tangle, poor +woman." + +"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." + +"God bless me," murmured Sam. + +"Poisoned," added Bob, puffing serenely. + +"Poisoned!" + +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." + +"How'd they account for it?" asked Sam, after a brief interval. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"William! But what had he got to do with it?" + +"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...." + +"But God-a-mighty...!" + +"Yes, God-a-mighty knows. Pretty girls they were, both, and as like as +two pinks." + +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." + +"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." + + + + +THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT + +By RICHMAL CROMPTON + +(From _Truth_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +"Mary!" + +She went slowly in answer to the summons. He held a letter in his hand. + +"Met the postman," he said. "From your aunt." + +She opened the letter and read it in silence. Both of them knew quite +well what it contained. + +"She wants us to go over for Christmas again," said Mary. + +He began to grumble. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"All right," he said at last, grudgingly, as though in answer to her +silence, "we'd better go. Write and say we'll go." + + * * * * * + +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. + +Suddenly James turned. + +"Jane!" he said. + +The deaf woman never stirred. + +"Jane!" + +Still there was no response upon the enigmatic old face by the +fireside. + +"_Jane_!" + +She turned slightly towards the voice. + +"Get them photos from upstairs to show John," he bawled. + +"What about boats?" she said. + +"_Photos_!" roared her husband. + +"Coats?" she quavered. + +Mary looked from one to the other. The man made a gesture of irritation +and went from the room. + +He came back with a pile of picture postcards in his hand. + +"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." + +John took them from his hand. "She gets worse?" he said nodding towards +the old woman. + +She was sitting gazing at the fire, her lips curved into the curious +smile. + +Her husband shrugged his shoulders. "Aye. She's nigh as bad as her +mother was." + +"And her grandmother." + +"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." + +The other man nodded and lit his pipe. Then James opened the door. + +"The snow's stopped," he said. "Shall we go to the end of the village +and back?" + +The other nodded, and took his cap from behind the door. A gust of cold +air filled the room as they went out. + +Mary took a paper-backed book from the table and came over to the +fireplace. + +"Mary!" + +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. + +"Mary! A happy Christmas to 'ee." + +And, as if in spite of herself, Mary answered in her ordinary low +tones. + +"The same to you, auntie." + +"Thank 'ee. Thank 'ee." + +Mary gasped. + +"Aunt! Can you hear me speaking like this?" + +The old woman laughed, silently, rocking to and fro in her chair as if +with pent-up merriment of years. + +"Yes, I can hear 'ee, child. I've allus heard 'ee." + +Mary clasped her hand eagerly. + +"Then--you're cured, Aunt--" + +"Ay. I'm cured as far as there was ever anything to be cured." + +"You--?" + +"I was never deaf, child, nor never will be, please God. I've took you +all in fine." + +Mary stood up in bewilderment. + +"You? Never deaf?" + +The old woman chuckled again. + +"No, nor my mother--nor her mother neither." + +Mary shrank back from her. + +"I--I don't know what you mean," she said, unsteadily. "Have you +been--pretending?" + +"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?" + +Mary was trembling. + +"Oh, I don't know what to think," she said. "I--I couldn't do it." + +"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." + +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. + +The door opened suddenly with another gust of cold air, and the two men +came in again, covered with fine snow. + +"I--I'll not do it," whispered Mary, trembling. + +"We didn't get far. It's coming on again," remarked John, hanging up +his cap. + +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. + +"Any signs o' the deafness in her?" whispered James, looking towards +Mary. "It come on my wife jus' when she was that age." + +"Aye. So I've heered." + +Then he said loudly, "Mary!" + +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. + +The old woman stood still for a minute with a cup in each hand and +smiled her slow, subtle smile. + + + + +SEATON'S AUNT By WALTER DE LA MARE + +(From _The London Mercury_) + +1922 + + +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 _entente +cordiale_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I had clean forgotten my promise when, two or three days before the +holiday, he came up and triumphantly reminded me of it. + +"Well, to tell you the honest truth, Seaton, old chap----" I began +graciously; but he cut me short. + +"My aunt expects you," he said; "she is very glad you are coming. She's +sure to be quite decent to _you_, Withers." + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +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. + +"So this is your friend, Mr. Smithers, I suppose?" she said, bobbing to +me. + +"Withers, aunt," said Seaton. + +"It's much the same," she said, with eyes fixed on me. "Come in, Mr. +Withers, and bring him along with you." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +"I think you're eighth, aren't you, Seaton?" + +Seaton moved his small pupils towards his aunt. But she continued to +gaze with a kind of concentrated detachment at me. + +"Arthur will never make a brilliant scholar, I fear," she said, lifting +a dexterously-burdened fork to her wide mouth.... + +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. + +"This is the room, Withers, my brother William died in when a boy. +Admire the view!" + +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. + +"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." + +He was. I saw his head come out and take a rapid glance at the windows. + +"Join him, Mr. Smithers; we shall meet again, I hope, at the tea-table. +The afternoon I spend in retirement." + +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. + +"Was that your aunt, Seaton?" I enquired; but not till then. + +He nodded. + +"Why didn't she take any notice of us, then?" + +"She never does." + +"Why not?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +I looked at him, then turned and surveyed one by one the windows of the +house. + +"Where's your _pater_?" I said awkwardly. + +"Dead, ages and ages ago, and my mother too. She's not my aunt by +rights." + +"What is she, then?" + +"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." + +"She gives you plenty of pocket-money." + +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." + +I put my hands in my pockets and stared at Seaton. "Is it much?" + +He nodded. + +"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.... + +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. + +"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. + +"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 _coup de grâce_. + +"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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"Like what?" + +"Being spied on--every blessed thing you do and think?" + +"I shouldn't like it at all," I said, "if she does." + +"And yet you let her smash you up at chess!" + +"I didn't let her!" I said indignantly. + +"Well, you funked it, then." + +"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. + +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. + +"What's up?" I said, rising quickly to my elbow. + +"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." + +"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. + +"It's a quarter to twelve. I never get to sleep before twelve--not +here." + +"What do you do, then?" + +"Oh, I read and listen." + +"Listen?" + +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." + +"Know what?" + +"Why, that they're there." + +"Who's there?" I asked fretfully, glancing at the door. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _do_ hear? Tell me +that, you silly foal!" + +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. + +"Who? Your aunt?" + +He nodded. + +"How?" + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +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!" + +"Come on where?" + +"Why, to see." + +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. + +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. + +"You'd hear, too, in time, my fine soldier," he muttered. "Come on!" + +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. + +And the bed! I stared warily in; it was mounded gigantically, and it +was empty. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +Once there, Seaton gave in. He sat livid on a chair with closed eyes. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And of course: "How is your aunt?" I enquired at last. + +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. + +"She's aged a good deal," he said softly, and broke off. + +"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." + +"No," I said. + +"Oh, yes!" said Seaton, and paused again. + +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. + +"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. + +He asked for my address, and I rather reluctantly gave him my card. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +His face looked absent and singularly listless; but he seemed, none the +less, pleased to see me. + +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. + +"You ain't much of a gardener, Seaton," I said, with a sigh of ease. + +"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." + +"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." + +"It's only what I think," he replied, with all his odd old stubborn +meekness. + +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. + +"I think, perhaps, it's nearly time for lunch," he said. "Would you +like to come in?" + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"And Arthur--how do you think Arthur is looking?" + +"I think he looks very much in need of a change," I said deliberately. + +"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 _all_ 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?" + +"We walked round the garden," said Alice, looking out of the window. +"It's a very beautiful evening." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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 _ad infinitum_. Marriage, Mr. Withers, was instituted in the +privacy of a garden; _sub rosa_, 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. + +"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. + +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. + +"How long will you be?" he said, standing by the table. + +I laughed. + +"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." + +I hesitated. He looked at me questioningly. + +"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." + +He sat down with his hands in his pockets and still with his eyes fixed +almost incredulously on mine. "How?" he said. + +"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?" + +"'Decent'? My God!" said Seaton. + +I smoked on in silence; but he still continued to look at me with that +peculiar concentration I remembered of old. + +"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." + +"Know what?" It was the same old system of dull question and evasive +answer. + +"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 _talks_ 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." + +"What on earth are you talking about?" I said, half contemptuously, in +spite of myself. + +"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." + +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. + +"Where is she?" Seaton asked in a low tone. + +Alice looked up; their eyes met in a kind of instantaneous +understanding, and the door immediately afterwards opened behind us. + +"_Such_ 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!" + +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. + +"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?" + +I scouted the idea. + +"Then you must listen to my playing. Chess"--she clasped her forehead +with both cramped hands--"chess is now completely beyond my poor wits." + +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." + +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, _A Few More Years Shall Roll_. + +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. + +"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...." + +I could scarcely see her little glittering eyes under their penthouse +lids. + +"And now," she broke off crisply, "tell me, as a man of the world, what +do you think of my new niece?" + +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. + +"I don't think, Miss Seaton, I'm much of a judge of character. She's +very charming." + +"A brunette?" + +"I think I prefer dark women." + +"And why? Consider, Mr. Withers; dark hair, dark eyes, dark cloud, dark +night, dark vision, dark death, dark grave, dark DARK!" + +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." + +"Ah," she said, with a sly inward burst of satirical laughter. + +"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." + +"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?" + +Seaton blinked stupidly. "I didn't hear what you said, Aunt." + +"I was telling our old friend, Arthur, that when you are gone I shall +be a very lonely old woman." + +"Oh, I don't think so;" he said in a strange voice. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Seaton!" I called. + +He turned in the moonlight. + +"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." + +"Thank you, Withers, thank you," he said in a low voice. + +"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. + +"Thank you, thank you, Withers--immensely;" he repeated. + +And so we parted. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _you_." + +"Might I, do you think, have Mr. Arthur's address?" I said. + +She looked at me with quiet astonishment, as if waiting for an +explanation. Not the faintest of smiles came into her thin face. + +"I will tell Miss Seaton," she said after a pause. "Please walk in." + +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. + +"Who is it?" she asked. + +I explained myself and told her the occasion of my visit. + +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. + +"What is it you want?" she said, seating herself and lifting her blank +face to mine. + +"Might I just have Arthur's address?" I said deferentially. "I am so +sorry to have disturbed you." + +"H'm. You have come to see my nephew?" + +"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...." + +"He hasn't noticed your silence," croaked the old voice out of the +great mask; "besides, there isn't any Mrs. Seaton." + +"Ah, then," I answered, after a momentary pause, "I have not seemed so +black as I painted myself! And how is Miss Outram?" + +"She's gone into Yorkshire," answered Seaton's aunt. + +"And Arthur too?" + +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. + +"You were no close friend of my nephew's, Mr. Smithers?" she said +presently. + +"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." + +Still the old face solemnly blinked at me in silence. + +"You must find it very lonely, Miss Seaton, with Arthur away?" + +"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. + +"I think he is rather superstitious," I said coldly, "but, honestly, I +have a very poor memory, Miss Seaton." + +"Why?" she said. "_I_ haven't." + +"The engagement hasn't been broken off, I hope." + +"Well, between you and me," she said, shrinking up and with an +immensely confidential grimace, "it has." + +"I'm sure I'm very sorry to hear it. And where is Arthur?" + +"Eh?" + +"Where is Arthur?" + +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. + +"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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +There was an immense hushed pause. Then, "Arthur, Arthur," whispered an +inexpressively peevish, rasping voice, "is that you? Is that you, +Arthur?" + +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. + +"Oh, oh;" the voice croaked. "It is you, is it? _That_ disgusting +man!... Go away out. Go away out." + +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. + +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. + +"Here's a gentleman enquiring after young Mr. Seaton, Millie," he said. +"He's dead, ain't he?" + +"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?" + +I saw a fair young woman's face peer over the muslin of the little door +at me. + +"Thank you," I replied, "then I go straight on?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + + + + +THE REAPER + +By DOROTHY EASTON + +(From _The English Review_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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). + +When the engine stuck, the waggoner asked in his slow, flat voice: + +"Woan't she speak?" + +"She's not comin' out!" was the youth's reply. + +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. + +By four o'clock they were overtaking him before he got round; the +driver had to turn more sharply, the canvas stuck. + +"Doan you do that agen!" the old waggoner scolded with stern eye; +"you'll tourn us oover!" + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Eh, me boy, they'm youers...." Tears were running down his stiff, +dried cheeks. + +"How d'you feel?" asked the farmer. His labourer blushed, then +whispered to the waggoner: + +"What's 'appened, Mister Collard?" + +"Why, you've a-loarst your feet." + +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: + +"'Elp me oop. I'll get 'ome, Willy." + +"You carn't walk," said the old man simply. "You carn't walk no moar." + +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---- + + + + +THE SONG + +By MAY EDGINTON + +(From _Lloyd's Story Magazine_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +His wife said she was tired and seemed proud of it. + +"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. + +"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." + +"But----" he murmured. + +"We ought not to think of ourselves," she added. + +"I never have," said Charlie in rather a low voice. + +"We ought to give a little subscription to the Parish Magazine," she +continued. "The Vicar is calling round for extra subscriptions." + +Charlie nodded. He was wishing he knew the football results in the +evening paper. + +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. + +"I'll mend it on Saturday," Charlie replied. + +"I was thinking," she said presently, "that we ought to ask Uncle Henry +and Aunt round soon. They will be expecting it." + +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." + +His wife looked at him, astonished. He could see that she was +grieved--or rather, aggrieved--at his glimmer of anarchy. + +"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...." + +As she paused to crystallise an idea, Charlie cut in. + +"Yes," he said, "it is given to us.... What for?" + +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. + +"To do one's duty in," she replied gently, but rebukingly. + +Charlie did not know the classic phrase, "Cui bono." He merely +repeated: + +"What for?" + +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. + +She shook her head. "I ought not to leave the children." + +"They're in bed," he argued, "and Maud's big enough to look after the +others for half-an-hour. Maud's twelve." + +She shook her head. "I ought not to leave the house." + +"But," he began slowly. + +"I am not the kind of woman who leaves her house and children in the +evenings," she said gently, but finally. + +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. + +"You ought not to mess your hats about like that; they don't last half +as long." + +Charlie went out. + +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. + +He had not meant it to be like this at all. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He thought all this mistily and hotly. + +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. + +At a corner of this road stood Kitty. + +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. + +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. + +Kitty helped him. She knew how. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +So he went home, having promised her that to-morrow he would come +again. + +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?" + +"At the club," he whispered back. "Watching two fellows play a billiard +match." + +She sighed. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She made him so happy. They laughed. She sang-- + + I'm for ever blowing bubbles, + Pretty bubbles in the air. + They fly so high, nearly reach the sky.... + +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." + +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. + +All the while he knew: £160 can't last. What will happen when...? + +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. + +They found her cutting down Maud's oldest dress for the second child in +her tidy house. + +"Charlie has left me for an immoral woman," she said, after preparing +them with preliminaries. + +"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. + +"Fancy leaving _that_!" 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!" + +"He must be naturally wild and bad," said Uncle Henry. "Shall I speak +to the Vicar for you?" + +"Have you written to his firm?" asked Aunt. + +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." + +"Always thinking of your duty!" murmured Aunt admiringly. + +"If I wrote to his firm about it," said Charlie's wife, "they would +dismiss him." + +"Ah! and he sends you his pay, you say?" said Uncle Henry, seizing the +point like a business man. + +"What a position for a conscientious woman like you!" mourned Aunt. + +"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." + +"Besides, he will come back," said Charlie's wife gently. "Men are soon +sickened of these women." + +"Of course," agreed Aunt. + +"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." + +"Because he could not allow your husband to communicate, my love," said +Aunt, "without being sure of his genuine repentance." + +"I have been thinking of that too," said Charlie's wife. "It would not +be right." + +"I wonder what he feels about himself, when he remembers his dear +little children," said Aunt. "Maud nearly old enough to understand, and +all!" + +So they lay for Charlie, while he basked and thrived in the abyss of +the lotus-flower; and the £160 dwindled. + +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. + +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. + +But he knew. + +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. + +The Jew looked at him, and turned to Kitty. + +"I told you," she said, stammering a little, "I told you how it was. By +to-morrow ... I told you...." + +"I'll come again, to-morrow, then," said the man very meaningly, "fetch +you out----" + +"At eight," she nodded firmly. + +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. + +"Nighty-night!" Kitty called after him. + +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. + +"What are you sitting up for, Charlie?" she asked. "I didn't expect to +see you. I brought that fellow in to talk." + +"What about?" said Charlie in a hoarse desolate voice. + +"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." + +"'Part!'" he repeated. + +His eyes seemed to start from his head. + +"Let's part friends," wheedled Kitty. "Shall us?" + +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. + +Before he went to the office in the morning, he asked her from a +breaking heart: "You mean it?" + +"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?" + +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.... + +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-- + + "I'm for ever blowing bubbles.... + Lal-la! la! la!... la! la! la!..." + +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. + +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. + +He kissed her on the mouth. + +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. + +Kitty did not scream. She knew better. + +"Oh Charlie!" she panted. "For ---- sake go! Go! I can't have a row +here. Oh, Charlie, be a good boy, do." + +"He _shall_ go," said the other man. + +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. + +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!" + +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----" + +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. + +"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. + +The other man simply vanished. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +"And if he's ill he can't prevent the Vicar visiting him too," said +Aunt. + +So Charlie's wife set out to do her duty. + +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 _Shaftesbury_ 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? + +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: + +"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?" + +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. + +"Kitty!" he smiled, "sing 'Bubbles.'" + +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-- + + "When shadows creep, + When I'm asleep, + To lands of hope I stray, + Then at daybreak, when I awake...." + +The Sister drew the bed-clothes shadily round Charlie's face. + + "... My blue bird flutters away, + I'm forever blowing bubbles.... + Pretty bubbles in the air...." + +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. + +"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. + +"He just wanted a song," she said. + + + + +A HEDONIST + +By JOHN GALSWORTHY + +(From _Pears' Annual_ and _The Century Magazine_) + +1921 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +As I say, for me Vaness, or rather his philosophy, _erat +demonstrandum_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"There's nothing for me but beauty, Miss Monroy." + +The two were evidently just behind my azalea clump, perhaps four yards +away, yet as invisible as if in China. + +"Beauty is a wide, wide word. Define it, Mr. Vaness." + +"An ounce of fact is worth a ton of theory: it stands before me." + +"Come, now, that's just a get-out. Is beauty of the flesh or of the +spirit?" + +"What is the spirit, as you call it? I'm a pagan." + +"Oh, so am I. But the Greeks were pagans." + +"Well, spirit is only the refined side of sensuous appreciations." + +"I wonder!" + +"I have spent my life in finding that out." + +"Then the feeling this garden rouses in me is purely sensuous?" + +"Of course. If you were standing there blind and deaf, without the +powers of scent and touch, where would your feeling be?" + +"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." + +"Oh! Mr. Vaness, was it good?" + +"It was not. I very soon learned that a genuine sensation was worth all +the uplift in the world." + +"What is going to happen when your senses strike work?" + +"I shall sit in the sun and fade out." + +"I certainly do like your frankness." + +"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." + +"Suppose you had been poor?" + +"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." + +"Have you ever been in love, Mr. Vaness?" + +"I am in love now." + +"And your love has no element of devotion, no finer side?" + +"None. It wants." + +"I have never been in love. But, if I were, I think I should want to +lose myself rather than to gain the other." + +"Would you? Sabine, _I am in love with you_." + +"Oh! Shall we walk on?" + +I heard their footsteps, and was alone again, with the old gardener +lopping at his shrubs. + +But what a perfect declaration of hedonism! How simple and how solid +was the Vaness theory of existence! Almost Assyrian, worthy of Louis +Quinze! + +And just then the old negro came up. + +"It's pleasant settin'," he said in his polite and hoarse half-whisper; +"dar ain't no flies yet." + +"It's perfect, Richard. This is the most beautiful spot in the world." + +"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." + +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. + +"Fine story, Richard; but--very silly, obstinate old man, your father, +wasn't he?" + +He looked at me with a sort of startled anger, which slowly broadened +into a grin; then broke into soft, hoarse laughter. + +"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. + +"Your philosophy is that of faun and nymph. Can you play the part?" + +"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. + +There came a laugh, high, gay, sweet. + +"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 _thud, thud_ 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 "_Cooee!_" 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. + +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. + +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! + +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! + +"Aha!" I thought, "which of the two laughs _last_?" + +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. + + + + +THE BAT AND BELFRY INN + +By ALAN GRAHAM + +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +1922 + + +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. + +"Oh, George, what a charming hotel!" exclaimed Tony. "Let's stop and +have tea." + +Tony, I should mention, is my wife. She is intensely practical. + +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. + +And Tony spoke of tea! + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"Can you tell me, sir, if we can have tea in the hotel," I asked. + +The long man started, looked up, closed his book, and jumped to his +feet as if galvanized to life. + +"Of course, of course, of course," he cried hastily, and added, as by +an afterthought, "of course." + +I may have shown a natural surprise at this almost choral response, for +he pulled himself together and became something more explicit. + +"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----" + +His words petered out, as he clattered off down a like-flagged passage. +I looked at Tony and raised my eyebrows. + +"Seems a trifle mad," I said. + +"How delightfully cool," said she, looking round the old-fashioned room +appraisingly, "and so clean! I think we'll stop." + +"Let's have tea before we decide," I suggested. "The proprietor is +distinctly eccentric, to say the least of it." + +"He looked quite a superior man. I thought," said Tony. "Not the least +like a Welshman." + +Tony herself comes from far north of the Tweed. + +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. + +"... haven't the pluck of a rabbit, Bill." + +"... all very well, but----" + +"I'm not afraid, I'll----" + +Then our host returned. + +"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. + +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. + +"Have a drink while you're waiting?" he asked, much more naturally. + +I looked at my watch. It was half-past four. Very free-and-easy with +the licensing laws, I thought. + +"I thought six o'clock was opening time?" I said. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Have you accommodation if we should make up our minds to stay here for +a few days?" she asked. + +"Stay here? You want to stay?" he repeated, consternation written large +all over his face. "Good G---- I mean certainly, of course, of course." + +He bolted down the passage like a rabbit, and we heard hoarse +whispering from the direction in which he had gone. + +"Dotty?" I suggested. + +"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." + +I shrugged my shoulders and said no more, because I know Tony. I have +been married to her for years and years. + +Light steps upon the tiles heralded something new--different, but +equally surprising. + +"Tea is served, madam, if you will step this way." + +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. + +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. + +"We must stay a day or two," said Tony. "I'm dying to paidle in that +burn." + +"My dear, how often have you promised me that you would never subject +me to Scotch after we were married!" I protested. + +"When I see a burn I e'en must juist paidle in it," retorted Tony, +deliberately forswearing herself. "So we'll book that room." + +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. + +"Certainly, madam. I shall speak to Mr. Gunthorpe." Quickly she +returned. + +"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----" + +"That will be all right. No hurry, no hurry." + +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. + +"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. + +"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?" + +I looked at this latest manifestation with undisguised astonishment, +but he was imperturbable, and merely chewed his straw with renewed +energy. + +"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." + +He looked genial, but I found him familiar, so with a curt: + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +The bar-window was open once more in the little lounge, and Mr. +Gunthorpe was behind, his arms resting upon the ledge. + +"Have a drink?" he said, as I entered. "It's all right now. The +balloon's gone up." + +I looked at my watch. It was after six o'clock. + +"I'll have a small Scotch and soda," I decided. + +"This is on the house," said the eccentric landlord. + +He produced two glasses and filled them, and I noticed that he took +money from his pocket and placed it in the till. + +"Well, success to the new management!" I said, raising my glass to his. + +"Cheerio, and thank you," said he, smiling genially upon me. + +He seemed to me more self-possessed and less eccentric than he had +appeared upon our arrival. I determined to draw him out. + +"It's funny that an Australian should have owned an hotel away up in +the Welsh hills," I hazarded. "Did he die recently?" + +"Australia? You must have misunderstood me," said Mr. Gunthorpe with a +hunted look in his eyes. "Very likely--very likely I said Ostend." + +"Ostend? Well, possibly I did," I agreed, feeling certain that I had +made no mistake. "Had he a hotel there as well?" + +"Yes, yes. Of course, of course, of course," agreed the landlord, +largely redundant. + +"And are you running that as well?" + +"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." + +"With me," I insisted. + +"Not at all, not at all. On the house. All for the good of the house. +Come along, Bob, have a drink!" + +It was the boots who had now entered, and he strolled up to the bar +with all the self-possession of a welcome guest. + +"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. + +"Have another," he said. "Three Scotches, Boniface." + +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. + +"All well in the buttery?" asked the boots, in a confidential tone of +the landlord. + +"The banquet is in preparation," replied the latter. "Everything is in +train." + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +The chambermaid giggled once more and bolted, straightening her cap as +she went. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Bob--kennel!" she said sharply, and held the door wide. + +The cheeriness vanished and the boots followed it through the open +doorway. + +"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." + +I may have been mistaken, but a sound uncommonly like the chambermaid's +giggle came to me from the passage without. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Don't worry then, old bean. They won't stop long." This in the voice +of boots. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Shall I stand them a drink?"--Mr. Gunthorpe again. + +"Do, old bean. I'll come and have one, too," said boots. + +"You won't, Bob. You'll see to the chauffeur and the car, _and_ the +luggage." + +"Hang the luggage! I'll stand the chauffeur a drink." + +Then the female voice spoke warningly. + +"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." + +"It's all right, old girl. There's plenty for everybody. Cellar's full +of it." + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"I quite understand, of course, of course," replied Mr. Gunthorpe +urbanely. "Everything of a--an irritating character will be left out of +the--" + +"Then it won't be mulligatawny soup, you fool!" exploded the old lady, +whose pressure I had seen rising for some time. + +"Certainly not, madam. Of course, indubitably. We'll call it beef-tea, +and it will never know." + +"What will never know?" asked the old gentleman, with an air of +puzzlement. + +"Madam's duodenal ulcer, sir," replied the landlord, with a deferential +bow, dedicated, doubtless, to that organ. + +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. + +"How far is it to the nearest hotel, John?" she demanded acidly. + +"Too far to go to-night, Mary. I'm afraid we must put up with +this--this sanatorium," replied her husband. + +As a diversion I demanded an appetizer--a gin and bitters. + +Mr. Gunthorpe's face lit up and he bolted behind the bar. + +"Certainly, of course. Have it with me!" he exclaimed eagerly, his eyes +full of gratitude for the diversion. + +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. + +"Then we must have another," he declared, as the only way out of the +difficulty. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"This way, sir, if you please," said the chilling voice of our +exemplary waitress. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Minced chicken and rice--peptonized," he said suspiciously. "Did you +ever hear of such a dish, Mary?" + +"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. + +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. + +"Everything all right, eh?" he said, glancing over the lay-out of our +table. + +"Everything--except that so far we have had no food," I replied. + +"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." + +This in a hoarse aside to the children at the next table. It made them +giggle the more. + +"Surely they are very young to be stopping here alone!" said Tony, with +a touch of her national inquisitiveness. + +"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." + +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. + +The old couple were not so well satisfied. They sipped a little, had a +whispered consultation, and beckoned the boots. + +"Waiter, why do you call this beef-tea?" demanded the old gentleman. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"John, it's beef!" screamed the old lady, starting to her feet and +spluttering. + +"Damme, so it is!" confirmed her husband, after a bare mouthful. "Hi, +you--scoundrel, poisoner, assassin--send the manager here at once." + +He waved his napkin in fury, and boots cocked an eye at him curiously. + +"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--" + +He only got so far because the old gentleman had been inarticulate with +rage. + +"Fetch the manager, and don't dare utter another word, confound you!" +he shouted. + +A few moments later our friend Mr. Gunthorpe entered. His eyes were +bright, and a satisfied smile rested on his lips. + +"Good evening, sir," he began affably. "I believe you sent for me. I +hope everything is to your taste?" + +"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!" + +"Well, sir, as for your hat I can say nothing, but--" + +"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--" + +"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." + +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. + +"Oh, Bill!" she cried, "you've done it now. The game's up." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +Miss Jones turned to the old couple, who were waiting for the doorway +to clear, with a disarming and conciliatory smile. + +"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." + +"Done their best to poison us, certainly," growled the old gentleman. +"My wife has a duo--" + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"How do you know all this?" I demanded suspiciously. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Come along. Do join us!" cried Mr. Gunthorpe, sighting us at once. + +"Come and celebrate the end of this bat in the belfry sort of +management," added boots, holding high a sparkling glass. + +It ended in _Tony_ and I being dragged into the celebration, and _that_ +ended in quite a late sitting. + +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. + + + + +THE LIE + +By HOLLOWAY HORN + +(From _The Blue Magazine_ and _Harper's Bazar_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Ten minutes before he had proposed to her and had been rejected. + +It was not the first time, but he had been very much more hopeful than +on the other occasions. + +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. + +But, in spite of everything, she had shaken her head and all he +received was the maddening assurance that she "liked" him. + +"I shall never marry," she had concluded. "Never. You know why." + +"Yes, I know," the man said miserably. "Carruthers." + +And so he was looking out moodily, almost savagely, across the water +when the temptation came to him. + +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. + +"Olive," he said. + +"Yes," she replied quietly. + +"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. + +"What on earth are you talking about?" she demanded. + +"You know that--apart from you--Carruthers and I were pals?" + +"Yes," she said wondering. And suddenly she burst out petulantly. "What +is it you want to say?" + +"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." + +"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. + +"I don't like telling you--under other conditions I wouldn't. But I do +it for both our sakes." + +"Then, for goodness sake, do it!" + +"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." + +"Why do you tell me this?" she asked after a silence; her voice was low +and a little husky. + +"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." + +"I suppose you think I should be indignant?" There was no emotion of +any kind in her voice. + +"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. + +"What has that to do with it? You know I loved him." + +"Other girls have loved----" he said bitterly. + +"And forgotten? Yes, I know," she interrupted him. "But I do not +forget, that is all." + +"But after what I have told you. Surely----" + +"You see I knew," she said, even more quietly than before. + +"You--knew?" + +"Yes. It was I who was with him. It was his last leave," she added +thoughtfully. + +And only the faint noise of the water and the wistful wind in the trees +overhead broke the silence. + + + + +A GIRL IN IT + +By ROWLAND KENNEY + +(From _The New Age_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Got any money, dearie?" she said to Mick. + +"No, mother," Mick replied, gently taking her hand. "Is there a fellow +here called Twinetoes?" + +"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. + +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." + +It was. Twinetoes lay in his navvy clobber on a dirty bed, drunk, dead +to the world. We could not rouse him. + +"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.... + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +"Wait," was all I replied. + +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. + +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'." + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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." + +"'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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"Blimy! Your share?" returned the Boss in a hoarse whisper. Then, +pointing to the waiting, half-naked form: "That!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Mebbe; but that don't alter it. I wants my full share 'n I means to +'av' it." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Dress, quick!" I said to the girl. + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +She irritated me. "Shut up!" I said at last, "_You_'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!" + +And he did. + + + + +THE BACKSTAIRS OF THE MIND + +By ROSAMOND LANGBRIDGE + +(From _The Manchester Guardian_) + +1922 + + +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 +_belles lettres_; 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. + +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." + +"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!" + +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: + +"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." + +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-- + +"Who told you, Mr. Deasey, sir?" Or "Where did you get the letter?" + +"Ah, now, that would be telling!" Deasey would make reply. "But 'twas +from a _certain person_ 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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!"... + +Or-- + +"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!" + +Or-- + +"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!" + +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: + +"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!" + +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!" + +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. + +"And to look at me!" she wept forthwith, "would you think I could shed +a drop of ruddy gore?" + +"No, ma'am," returned Deasey. "To look at you, ye'd think ma'am ye +could never kill a fly!" + +And respectfully he passed the peppermints. + +"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!" + +"All the same," Deasey whispered, "maybe it wasn't your fault: 'twas +maybe your man egged you on to do the shameful deed----" + +"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!" + +"And what'd you do with the body?" he asked. + +"I dug a grave in the shine of the moon," she answered. "And I put it +in by the two little cold grey feet----" + +This touch of the grey feet laid a spell on Deasey's hankering +morbidity. + +"_What turned the feet grey_?" he whispered. + +"Nature, I s'pose!" replied the white-haired widow. She drew her shawl +about her shrinking form before she turned away. + +"'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!" + + + + +THE BIRTH OF A MASTERPIECE + +By LUCAS MALET + +(From The _Story-Teller_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +At last, with a cajoling but really alarming audacity, she went for him +straight. + +"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."... + +She, in fact, sat by his side, her chair placed decidedly close to his. + +"If you would read us a chapter.... A chapter is impossible?"... + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +Pogson succumbed. No, he wouldn't read; but, since she so amiably +desired it.... + +"More than anything in all my life!" with the most convincing and +virginal sincerity. + +... 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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Beloved brother, which of us ever said it didn't?" Arabella took him +up sweetly. + +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. + +"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." + +This last assertion dropped as a bomb between Lessingham and myself. + +"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?" + +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. + +"What on earth are you driving at? What do you mean, Arabella--that +Pogson is a plagiarist?" + +"Don't eat me, Harry dearest, if I incline to use a shorter, commoner +expression." + +"A thief?" + +"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." + +"But this is horrible, horrible," Lessingham cried. "All the names, +though, were different." + +Arabella appeared to have overcome her fear of explosions. Her charming +eyes again danced. + +"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." + +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. + +Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. + +"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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"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." + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +As I rose to depart: + +"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!" + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +"Oh, yes," she declared, "by then Heber will have completed his great +novel, without doubt." + +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. + +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. + +I uttered what must have sounded wildly incoherent farewells and fled. + +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. + +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. + +"We took him any new ones we happened to run across, as you'd take a +sick woman flowers. To the end he read." + +"And wrote?" I asked. + +"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." + +"And Mrs. Pogson?" + +Lessingham looked at me absently. + +"Oh! Mrs. Pogson? She's never interested me. She's too invertebrate; +but I believe she took care of Pogson all right." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +Mrs. Pogson did not betray any sign of emotion. Her thin hands remained +perfectly still in her crape-covered lap. + +"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. + + + + +"GENIUS" + +By ELINOR MORDAUNT + +(From _Hutchinson's Magazine_ and _The Century Magazine_) + +1921, 1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, _himself_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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----" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"--Hold on until after the concert?" + +"Sorry fur meself if I couldn't." + +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. + +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 _claques_, 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. + +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. + +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-- + +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 _looking into_. + +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. + +"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.... + +"He don't care--he's changed." + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +It was like that old childish "Shut your eyes and open your mouth." + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +"'Im and his crowds,' 'Im an' 'is fine lydies! 'Im an' 'is +_motor-cars_!" + +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. + +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. + +"For two." He poked out a long neck and peered round the edge of the +box, like a tortoise from its shell. + +"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. + +"Ain't not what you might call a crowd, anyway," he remarked. + +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 _Daily Mail_ stories. + +"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. + +A dim white-gloved hand was thrust through it and took her ticket. + +"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. + +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. + +Those white patches, the hands of two white-gloved men, holding sheaves +of programmes--she realised one between her own fingers--whispering +together. + +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. + +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?" + +"Money, all money." Old Mrs. Cohen had been firm upon this point. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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: + +"We're to turn on the light. 'E swears as 'e won't give it up--'e's +goin' ter play." + +"Goin' ter play? Well, I'll be blowed!--Goin' ter play! An' with +nothing 'ere but _That_" + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"That's the stuff!" he said. "That's the stuff to give 'em!" + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"Beasts! Pigs! A-a-a-ah!--You!" + +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. + +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. + +"There, my dear! There, my love--there--there--there!" + +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. + +"There, there, there, there!" + +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-- + +"They didn't come! They don't care--they don't want it! Jenny, they +don't want it!" + +"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." + +"But--Beethoven...." + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +"A good thing as the 'all people insists upon payment in advance," +remarked the man in the box-office. + +The other gave him a curious, half-contemptuous glance. "I'd like to +hear you say that in a year's time." + +"Why?" + +"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 _something +different_ they're all out for." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"She wasn't there, Jenny! She wasn't there!" + +"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. + +"Work?" + +"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. + +"Ter-night--workin'" + +"All night; one the saeme as another." + +"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!" + +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. + +"No more of that beastly washing, ironing--it's the end of that, +anyhow. When I'm back at the timber-yard----" + +He was like a child again, planning; they almost ran down the street. +"No more o' that damned washin' and ironin'--no more work----" + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"About that concert----" said the first man. + +"We were thinking that if we could persuade you to play----" put in the +other. + +"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. + +"I was there," put in the first man, "and I must say, impressed----" + +"Very deeply impressed," added the other; but once again Ben brushed +him aside. + +"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?" + +"'Like' is scarcely the word." + +"We feel that if you could be persuaded to give another concert," put +in the stout man, blandly, "and would allow----" + +"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" + +"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----" + +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!" + +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. + +"Men!--trapsin' in an' out, muckin' up a place!" + +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. + +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. + +Then the door into the scullery was opened. For a moment or so she kept +her head obstinately lowered, determined that she _would_ 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. + +"Well?" + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + + + + +THE DEVIL TO PAY + +By MAX PEMBERTON + +(From _The Story-Teller_) + +1922 + + +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. + +"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." + +James did not desire particularly to become Lord Mayor of London, but +he was greatly amused by his employer's temper. + +"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." + +John shook his old dense head, and would express no opinion upon the +point. + +"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." + +James was not so sure of it. + +"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." + +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. + +"You rang, sir?" + +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. + +"And don't be so d----d slow next time," he snapped. "I'll see the +Count Florian at once." + +The old man withdrew timidly, while his master mopped up the ink from +the pot he had broken in his anger. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"A chilly morning," he began. "You have no fire, I see." + +"You find it so?" queried Ambrose. "Well, I thought it quite warm." + +"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. + +Ambrose did not like such talk, and showed his displeasure plainly. + +"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." + +The Count heard him patiently, but did not seem in any way disturbed. + +"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." + +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. + +"You must have great influence, Count," he remarked presently--"great +influence to get such a valuable commission as this!" + +The Count was flattered. + +"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." + +"And yet when I met you it was on the links above La Turbie." + +The count laughed, showing his glittering teeth as any carnivorous +animal might have done. + +"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." + +"You find men easier?" + +"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." + +"Ah," exclaimed Ambrose, a little wearily, "I wish I could think that +about my _fiancée_. 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." + +The Count nodded his head in sympathy. + +"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." + +"Even if he made it dishonestly?" + +"She does not care a snap of the fingers how he makes it, believe me." + +"And afterwards, when he goes to prison----" + +"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." + +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. + +"Well?" he said at last, unable to suffer the silence any longer. + +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. + +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. + +"By heaven!" he cried, "but I have locked up the devil." + +II + +Ambrose dismissed John, the man, and James, the boy, and told them he +would have no need of their services for some days. + +"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." + +James looked at John and John looked at James. Was their excellent +employer demented, then, or had they understood him incorrectly? + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +The jeweller shrugged his shoulders, sweeping aside carelessly some +priceless pearls that lay on the table before him. + +"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." + +Ambrose was almost too astonished to speak. + +"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----" + +"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 _fiancée_ 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." + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"My dear girl," he began, "I am so sorry that I lost my temper this +morning----" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Give up dancing--but, Kitty, you're mad about it!" + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"I feel," she said, "that I must find out the sorrow in the world, I +must help it." + +"But suppose, my dear, that there isn't any sorrow----" + +"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?" + +He looked at her aghast. + +"Sex no longer counts!" + +"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----" + +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." + +"But that surely would be a great, good thing," exclaimed Ambrose, +astonished. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +He did not answer her, but calling a taxi, he ordered the man to drive +to Throgmorton Street like the deuce. + +III + +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. + +"Come out!" he cried, but nobody answered him. + +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. + +"Well?" asked the fellow. + +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. + +"Good heavens," thought Ambrose, "I must have imagined it all." + +He returned to his chair and tossed the paper across the table. + +"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." + +"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. + +Ambrose watched him go and then calling John, he asked what time it +was. + +"A quarter to one, sir," said that worthy. + +"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!" + + + + +EMPTY ARMS + +By ROLAND PERTWEE + +(From _The Ladies' Home Journal_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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?" + +He started, rubbed his eyes, blinked at her and answered: "Hullo, who +are you?" + +"What is it?" she repeated. "Have you lost something?" + +"Don't--don't!" he pleaded. "Don't even suggest such a thing, little +lady." + +"I won't. I only thought--and you looked so sad." + +"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. + +She shook her head and looked up at him with a child's perplexity. + +"A play?" he amended. + +"I've no one to play with," she answered simply. "See!" And she held +out her empty arms. + +"What's wrong then?" + +"I don't know." She seemed to dwell on the last word. "I only +thought--perhaps you could tell me." + +"Tell you what?" + +"Help me to find it perhaps. It seemed as if you were looking, too; +that's why I came." + +"Looking?" he repeated. "I'm waiting; that's all." + +"Me too. But it's such a long time, and I get no nearer." + +"Nearer to what?" + +"Finding." + +"Something you lost?" + +"I think so. Must be. I'll go back now." + +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." + +"I'll stay," she said. + +"And will you talk to me?" + +"Yes." + +"Tell me a story then--just as if I were a kid, a child. A man isn't +much more these times." + +At the word "child" her arms went out to him, but dropped to her sides +again as he said "a man." + +"Come under the porch, where the rain won't spoil your pretty silk. +That's better. Now tell away." + +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. + +"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." + +"What would you call a pretty room?" he asked, for the last sentence +was the first of which he was aware. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Been reading Tennyson, little lady?" asked the man. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"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!" + +"Afraid!" echoed the man. "Until to-night I was never afraid." + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"I am a painter, too," said the young man, forgetting his absorption at +the mention of a great name. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"'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. + +"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." + +"What a strange being you are!" said the young man. "You speak as +though these were real memories. What happened to the picture then?" + +"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?" + +"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?" + +Through the still, early morning air came a faint, reedy cry. + +The young man was upon his feet, fiercely fitting a key into the lock. + +The little Madonna had risen, too, and her eyes were luminous, like +glowworms in the dark. + +"He's calling me," she cried. "He's calling." + +"Mine," said the young man. + +She turned to follow, but the door closed between them. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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." + +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." + +"Please yourself," responded Mr. Ridgewell, junior, "but to my mind +it's ten guineas for nix." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"That's the new Del Sarto," said the girl, who was reading from a small +blue book. "See, daddy?" + +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. + +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." + +"Daddy, what are you saying?" There was a frightened tone in the girl's +voice. + +"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." + +"But, daddy----" + +"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!" + +He told his story to the Committee of the National Gallery and, to do +them credit, it was received with the utmost courtesy. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +That was the end of the interview. Once again the door was slammed in +the little Madonna's face. + +That night the man told his wife all about it. "So you see," he +concluded, "there is nothing more I can do." + +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. + +But for her the spirit prevailed, the kindly bars still ribbed the +windows and the sense of sleeping children still haunted the air. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"Then how can you explain----" + +"Oh, heaven!" he answered. "Put a child in any woman's arms." + + + + +LENA WRACE + +By MAY SINCLAIR + +(From _The Dial_) + +1921, 1922 + + +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. + +"I know what you want," I said. "You want me to congratulate you." + +"Yes. I do." + +"I congratulate you on your courage." + +"Oh, you don't like him," she said placably. + +"No, I don't like him at all." + +"He likes you," she said. "He thinks no end of your painting." + +"I'm not denying he's a judge of painting. I'm not even denying he can +paint a little himself." + +"Better than you, Roly." + +"If you allow for the singular, obscene ugliness of his imagination, +yes." + +"It's beautiful enough when he gets it into paint," she said. "He makes +beauty. His own beauty." + +"Oh, very much his own." + +"Well, _you_ just go on imitating other people's--God's or somebody's." + +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. _Your_ mind +doesn't come rushing and blazing out of your eyes, my dear." + +"No. No. I'm afraid it doesn't rush. And for all the blaze--" + +"Well, that's what I'm in love with, the rush, Roly, and the blaze. And +I'm in love, _for the first time_" (she underlined it) "with a man." + +"Come," I said, "come." + +"Oh, _I_ know. I know you're thinking of Lawson Young and Dickey +Harper." + +I was. + +"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--" + +"Yes," I said. "I can see how it would go to your head." + +"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." + +It was wonderful--Lena Wrace thinking that she thought of England. + +I said "Of course. But for your political foresight and your virtuous +action we should never have had Tariff Reform." + +"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." + +"It is. I'm afraid Mrs. Withers doesn't care about Tariff Reform." + +"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." + +"All the same he left you. And you weren't ecstatically happy with him +the last year or two." + +"I daresay I'd have done better to have married you, if that's what you +mean." + +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. + +So I said, "Much better." + +"It would have been so nice, so safe," she said. "But I never played +for safety." Then she made one of her quick turns. + +"Frances Archdale ought to marry you. Why doesn't she?" + +"How should I know? Frances's reasons would be exquisite. I suppose I +didn't appeal to her sense of fitness." + +"Sense of fiddlesticks. She just hasn't got any temperament, that +girl." + +"Any temperament for me, you mean." + +"I mean pure cussedness," said Lena. + +"Perhaps. But, you see, if I were unfortunate enough she probably +_would_ marry me. If I lost my eyesight or a leg or an arm, if I +couldn't sell any more pictures--" + +"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." + +"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. + +"So you see," she said, "they don't count, and Norry really _is_ the +first." + +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. + +"Of course, if you care to take the risk of him--" I said. "He won't +stick to you, Lena." + +"Why shouldn't he?" + +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. + +It only took a little success like this, her actual triumph in securing +him. + +So I said, "Because it isn't in him. He's a bounder and a rotter." +Which was true. + +"Not a bounder, Roly dear. His father's Sir Gilbert Hippisley. +Hippisleys of Leicestershire." + +"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." + +"I don't care," she said, "as long as I'm his last." + +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. + +"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 _you_ if +you weren't fine and fastidious, too--one of his great ladies.... You +think I'm a snob, Roly?" + +"I think you don't mind coming _after_ Lady Willersey." + +"Well," she said, "if you _have_ to come after somebody--" + +"True." I asked her if she was giving me her reasons. + +"Yes, if you want them. _I_ don't. I'm content to love out of all +reason." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +They kept up the _ménage_ for two astounding years. + +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 _fioritura_, 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. + +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." + +"And their figures, Roly, you should have seen them when they were +undressed. Of course, you _have_ seen them. Well, there isn't--is +there?" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"_You_ know him, Roly," she said. + +I reminded her that she hadn't always given me that credit. + +"_I_ know how he spends his time," she said. "How do you know?" + +"Well, for one thing, Ethel tells me." + +"How does she know?" + +"She--she posts the letters." + +"Does she read them?" + +"She needn't. He's too transparent." + +"Lena, do you use her to spy on him?" I said. + +"Well," she retorted, "if he uses her--" + +I asked her if it hadn't struck her that Sybil Fermor might be using +him? + +"Do you mean--as a _paravent_? Or," she revised it, "a parachute?" + +"For Bertie Granville," I elucidated. "A parachute, by all means." + +She considered it. "It won't work," she said. "If it's her reputation +she's thinking of, wouldn't Norry be worse?" + +I said that was the beauty of him, if Letty Granville's attention was +to be diverted. + +"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. + +Letty Granville's divorce suit proved to her that I was right. + +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 +"_paravent_" for _her_. 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.) + +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." + +Then Barbara Vining turned up out of nowhere, and from the first minute +Lena gave herself up for lost. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +Then she said suddenly, "Do you know, you're the only man in London I +could come to looking like this." + +I said, "Isn't that a bit unkind of you? It sounds as though you +thought I didn't matter." + +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 _had_ 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." + +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. + +There was Ethel Reeves; but Lena didn't worry about his being locked up +with _her_. 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. + +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 _air crâne_, 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. + +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. + +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 _like_ 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. + +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. + +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 _her_? And Barbara replied amazingly that of course she knew. +They'd been alone together. + +When I remarked that it was precisely _that_, 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. + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +And as a secretary she maintained, up to the last, an admirable +efficiency. + +Up to the last. + +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. + +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. + +She must have said something like that, to bring it on herself, just +then, of all moments. + +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? + +What she wanted--what she had come for--was her letters. They were +locked up in his bureau in the secret drawer. + +She told me what had happened then. Ethel lifted her sullen, subtle +eyes and said, "You think he kept them?" + +She said she knew he'd kept them. They were in that drawer. + +And Ethel said, "Well then, he didn't. They aren't. He burnt them. _We_ +burnt them.... We could, at least, get rid of _them_!" + +Then she threw it at her. She had been Hippisley's mistress for three +years. + +When Lena asked for proofs of the incredible assertion she had _her_ +letters to show. + +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. + +I think she must have hated Lena more vehemently than she loved +Hippisley. She couldn't, _then_, have had much reliance on her power to +capture; but her hatred was a perpetual suggestion. + +Supposing--supposing she were to try and take him? + +Then she had tried. + +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. + +And the spying? That had been all part of the game; his and Ethel's. +_They_ played for safety, if you like. They had _had_ to throw Lena off +the scent. They used Sybil Fermor and Lady Hermione and Barbara Vining, +one after the other, as their _paravents_. 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. + +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--_me_--ME.... You thought what we meant you to think." + +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. + +Yesterday she said to me, "Roly, I'm _glad_ he's dead. Safe from her +clutches." + +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. + +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. + +I saw her the other night sketching a frivolous gesture-- + + + + +THE DICE THROWER + +By SIDNEY SOUTHGATE + +(Thomas Moult) + +(From _Colour_) + +1922 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +Carringer replied that he did not. + +"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." + +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: + +"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." + +"On the contrary," replied Carringer politely, "I shall enjoy it." + +"Very well; but let us drink again before we start. I believe I am +growing colder." + +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. + +The pale stranger smiled quietly and opened another game. Again +Carringer won. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Yes," said a voice, "he was seen to turn into this street about three +hours ago." + +"And he must have shaved?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The detectives exchanged startled glances. They stepped nearer, looked +closely into the gamesters' faces, and knew in the same instant that +they were dead. + + + + +THE STRANGER WOMAN + +By G.B. STERN + +(From _John o'London's Weekly_) + +1922 + + +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. + +Was it accurate and just, what Hal had said? Or, simpler still, was it +true? + +"What you damn well need, Dickie, old son, is life in the raw. You're +living in a lady's work-box here." + +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. + +And then the inevitable: "Well--and what have _you_ been doing +meanwhile?" + +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----" + +"Coarse--_you_!" Hal guffawed. And then--out came the accusation which +was so disturbing little Dickie. + +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. + +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. + +But one must get nearer by slow degrees. + +If at all. + +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, _how_ 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. + +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. + +"What am I to do?" + +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. + +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. + +He had done a little yachting, of course; with the Ansteys the year +before last. + +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.... + +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. + +For this was the natural way for Dickie Maybury to behave. + +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. + +Dickie was trying to get into touch with "life in the raw." + +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. + +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.... + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +And who would dare say of him now that he had feared to meet life in +the raw? + +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). + +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...." + +"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. + +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 _his_ +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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 +_objets d'art_, 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 _had_ +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." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +One evening, sitting together in front of the fire, they drifted into +talk of their separate childhoods. + +"There was a garden in mine," said Ruth. + +"And in mine--a Casino garden!" His eyes twinkled. "Palm trees like +giant pineapples, and flower beds in a pattern, and a fountain--" + +"Oh, you poor little Continental kiddie!" + +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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"I note in jealous anguish of spirit," remarked Dickie. "that you do +not simply say 'a girl and boy next door.'" + +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." + +"Tommy was ungallant enough to leave the wall to you?" + +"There were cherries in his garden--sweet black cherries. And only +crab-apples in ours." + +"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--" + +"Oh!" Ruth winced. + +"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...." + +"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." + +"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-- + +"I _did_ 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." + +And now she had told him she loved him. + +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 _seen_ ... and then swept up, +sin and all, by another love big enough to accept this truth, also, as +essentially part of her. + +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--" + +"He would have killed you?" So he was able to utter quite natural and +coherent sounds! Dickie was surprised. + +"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. + +For that which Dickie had always thought of as mysterious, elusive, +was, to Ruth's eyes, only sorrowful wisdom. + +"Come here, Ruth." + +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 _makes_ the _fear_...." + +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. + +In fact, for a last appearance in the _rôle_ of a gallant little +gentleman, Dickie did not do so badly. + +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-- + +"I _did_ kill my husband." + +Yes--that was it. In the room with him was a strange woman who had +killed her husband. + +Not Ruth--but a strange woman. How had she got into the room with him? + +She had killed her husband. And now, _he_ was her husband. + +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? + +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. + +"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. + +"Mrs. Bigger had a baby--which was bigger, Mrs. Bigger or the baby?" + +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.... + +"Mrs. Bigger had a baby--" + +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. + +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!" + +But she _did_ 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. + +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.... + +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.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +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? + +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-- + + "Sleep, baby, sleep, + The hills are white with sheep----" + +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? + +"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. + +Something had, indeed, disagreed with Dickie. In the slang phrase: "He +had bitten off more than he could chew." + +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. + +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 _villanelles_, the graceful essays, the +_belles-lettres_ 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!" + +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. + +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 _all right_, you know--it's only Ruth I +You've been sitting with your bogies all the time the white lilac has +been coming out----" + +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.... + +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---- + +"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 _that_ murder, have they, Dickie?" + +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. + +"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. + + + + +THE WOMAN WHO SAT STILL + +By PARRY TRUSCOTT + +(From _Colour_) + +1922 + + +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...." + +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...." + +"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...." + +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...." + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Sometimes, just sometimes, by a merciful providence, things do not end. +She lived for months on the bare chance of its not ending. + +Yet, as we know, the end came. + +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. + +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! + +As she waited, getting well for him, she had no regrets, growing more +and more sure of his coming. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And tired, so tired, he hurried to her across the world as fast as he +could go. + +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? + +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? + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She must have changed her room--why had she done it? But the maid had +said--in her sitting-room-- + +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. + +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. + +He smiled his first smile--she should not lend it again. + +Then the door opened. Suddenly, almost noisily, she came in. + +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. + +When he could interrupt her greeting he said--forcing the words--"So +now you are quite strong--and busy?" + +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. _"Do you remember how you used to complain you +couldn't sit still? I am like that now--"_ + +And he listened, listened, each word a deeper stab straight at his +defenceless heart. + +Of all the many things he had done since they met he had nothing to +say. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +So he went. + +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. + +He did not know how inartistic love can be when love is desperate. + + + + +MAJOR WILBRAHAM + +By HUGH WALPOLE + +(From _The Chicago Tribune_) + +1921 + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +I began my account by saying that I was not convinced. How could I be +convinced? + +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.... + +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. + +After all, everything depends upon the relative importance that we +place upon ambitions, possessions, emotions,--ideas. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"I beg your pardon," Wilbraham said to him, hesitating. + +"I wanted to see you," the Stranger said, smiling. + +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. + +"Ought I to have expected? Ought I to have known--" he stammered. + +"No, you couldn't have known," the Stranger answered. "You're not late. +I knew when you would come." + +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. + +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...?" + +"Of course, I'll stay," he answered. "If you want me." + +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. + +His English was without accent. His voice was soft and very melodious. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He sprang up. + +"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." + +His Guest stood up and put His Hand on his shoulder. + +They talked, standing side by side, and He said some things that +belonged to Wilbraham alone, that he would not tell me. + +Wilbraham asked Him why He had come--and to him. + +"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." + +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." + +"Can I go with You and be with You always?" Wilbraham asked. + +"Do you really want that?" He said. + +"Yes," said Wilbraham, bowing his head. + +"Then you shall come and never leave Me again. In three days from now." + +Then he kissed Wilbraham on the forehead and went away. + +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. + +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. + +But I have determined to make no personal comment on this story. I am +here simply as a narrator of fact.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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... + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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.. + +The crowd was dispersed and Wilbraham found himself walking alone with +the policeman beside the Green Park. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Daily +Record_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _must_ hear me!" + +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.... + +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.... + +"Isn't it wonderful," were his last words to me, "that it should be +true after all?" + +As to Truth, who knows? Truth is a large order. This _is_ true as far +as Wilbraham goes, every word of it. Beyond that? Well, it must be +jolly to be so happy as Wilbraham was. + +This will seem a lying story to some, a silly and pointless story to +others. + +I wonder.... + + + + +THE YEARBOOK OF THE BRITISH +AND IRISH SHORT STORY +JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + + +ABBREVIATIONS + +The following abbreviations are used in this yearbook. + +_A._ Annual +_Adelphi_ Adelphi Magazine +_Asia_ Asia +_Atl._ Atlantic Monthly +_Beacon_ Beacon +_Black_ Blackwood's Magazine +_Blue_ Blue Magazine +_Book (N.Y.)_ Bookman (N.Y.) +_Broom._ Broom +_By._ Bystander +_Cas._ Cassell's Magazine +_Cen._ Century Magazine +_C.H._ Country Heart +_Cham._ Chambers' Journal +_Chic. Trib._ Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) +_Colour_ Colour +_Corn._ Cornhill Magazine +_D.D._ Double Dealer +_Del._ Delineator +_Dial_ Dial +_Eng.R._ English Review +_Ev._ Everybody's Magazine +_Eve_ Eve +_Form._ Form +_Free._ Freeman +_G.H._ Good Housekeeping +_Gra_ Graphic +_Grand_ Grand Magazine +_Harp B._ Harper's Bazar +_Harp. M._ Harper's Magazine +_Hear_ Hearst's International Magazine +_Hut_ Hutchinson's Magazine +_John_ John o'London's Weekly +_L.H.J._ Ladies' Home Journal +_Lloyd_ Lloyd's Story Magazine +_L.Merc_ London Mercury +_Lon_ London Magazine +_Man. G_ Manchester Guardian +_McC_ McClure's Magazine +_McCall_ McCall's Magazine +_Met_ Metropolitan +_Nash_ Nash's and Pall Mall Magazine +_Nat. (London)_ Nation and Athenaeum +_New_ New Magazine +_New A._ New Age +_New S._ New Statesman +_Novel_ Novel Magazine +_Outl. (N.Y.)_ Outlook (N.Y.) +_Pan_ Pan +_Pears' A._ Pears' Annual +_Pearson (London)_ Pearson's Magazine (London) +_Pearson (N.Y.)_ Pearson's Magazine (N.Y.) +_Pict. R._ Pictorial Review +_Pop._ Popular Magazine +_Pre._ Premier +_Queen_ Queen +_Qui._ Quiver +_(R)_ Reprinted +_Roy._ Royal Magazine +_Scr._ Scribner's Magazine +_S.E.P._ Saturday Evening Post +_Sketch_ Sketch +_Sov._ Sovereign Magazine +_Sphere_ Sphere +_S.S._ Smart Set +_Sto._ Story-Teller +_Str._ Strand Magazine +_Tatler_ Tatler +_Time_ Time and Tide +_Times Lit. Suppl._ Times Literary Supplement +_Truth_ Truth +_Voices_ Voices +_West._ Weekly Westminster Gazette +_Wind._ Windsor Magazine +_Yel._ Yellow Magazine +(11:261) Volume 11, page 261 +(261) Page 261 + + + + +ADDRESSES OF PERIODICALS +PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES + + +I. ENGLISH PERIODICALS + +Note. _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._ + +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. + + +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. + + + + +THE ROLL OF HONOR + +JULY. 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + +Note. _Only stories by British and Irish authors are listed_ + +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. (_R_.) +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. (_R_) 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.) + + + + +A LIST OF +OTHER DISTINCTIVE STORIES + +JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + +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.) + + + + +ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY IN +BRITISH PERIODICALS + +JULY, 1921, TO JUNE, 1922 + +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.) + + + + +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._ + + +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. + + +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. + + +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.) + + +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.) + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Best British Short Stories of 1922 +by Edward J. O'Brien and John Cournos, editors + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEST BRITISH SHORT STORIES *** + +This file should be named 8bbss10.txt or 8bbss10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8bbss11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8bbss10a.txt + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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