PAUL KELVER

By Jerome K. Jerome

(Jerome Klapka), 1859-1927

Transcriber's Note: Items in [brackets] are editorial comments addedin proofing. Italicized text is delimited by _underscores_. The pound(currency) symbol has been replaced by the word "pound". 

CONTENTS. 

PROLOGUE

BOOK I

I. PAUL, ARRIVED IN A STRANGE LAND, LEARNS MANY THINGS, AND GOES TO MEETTHE MAN IN GREY

II. IN WHICH PAUL MAKES ACQUAINTANCE OF THE MAN WITH THE UGLY MOUTH

III. HOW GOOD LUCK KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE MAN IN GREY

IV. PAUL, FALLING IN WITH A GOODLY COMPANY OF PILGRIMS, LEARNS OF THEMTHE ROAD THAT HE MUST TRAVEL, AND MEETS THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS

V. IN WHICH THERE COMES BY ONE BENT UPON PURSUING HIS OWN WAY

VI. OF THE SHADOW THAT CAME BETWEEN THE MAN IN GREY AND THE LADY OF THELOVE-LIT EYES

VII. OF THE PASSING OF THE SHADOW

VIII. HOW THE MAN IN GREY MADE READY FOR HIS GOING

IX. OF THE FASHIONING OF PAUL

X. IN WHICH PAUL IS SHIPWRECKED, AND CAST INTO DEEP WATERS

BOOK II. 

I. DESCRIBES THE DESERT ISLAND TO WHICH PAUL WAS DRIFTED

II. PAUL, ESCAPING FROM HIS SOLITUDE, FALLS INTO STRANGE COMPANY, ANDBECOMES CAPTIVE TO ONE OF HAUGHTY MIEN

III. GOOD FRIENDS SHOW PAUL THE ROAD TO FREEDOM. BUT BEFORE SETTING OUT, HE WILL GO A-VISITING

IV. LEADS TO A MEETING

V. HOW ON A SWEET GREY MORNING THE FUTURE CAME TO PAUL

VI. OF THE GLORY AND GOODNESS AND THE EVIL THAT GO TO THE MAKING OF LOVE

VII. HOW PAUL SET FORTH UPON A QUEST

VIII. AND HOW CAME BACK AGAIN

IX. THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS SENDS PAUL A RING

X. PAUL FINDS HIS WAY

PAUL KELVER

PROLOGUE. 

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR SEEKS TO CAST THE RESPONSIBILITY OF THIS STORY UPONANOTHER. 

At the corner of a long, straight, brick-built street in the far EastEnd of London--one of those lifeless streets, made of two drab wallsupon which the level lines, formed by the precisely even window-sillsand doorsteps, stretch in weary perspective from end to end, suggestingpetrified diagrams proving dead problems--stands a house that ever drawsme to it; so that often, when least conscious of my footsteps, I awaketo find myself hurrying through noisy, crowded thoroughfares, whereflaring naphtha lamps illumine fierce, patient, leaden-coloured faces;through dim-lit, empty streets, where monstrous shadows come and goupon the close-drawn blinds; through narrow, noisome streets, where thegutters swarm with children, and each ever-open doorway vomits riot;past reeking corners, and across waste places, till at last I reach thedreary goal of my memory-driven desire, and, coming to a halt beside thebroken railings, find rest. 

The house, larger than its fellows, built when the street was stilla country lane, edging the marshes, strikes a strange note ofindividuality amid the surrounding harmony of hideousness. It isencompassed on two sides by what was once a garden, though now but abarren patch of stones and dust where clothes--it is odd any one shouldhave thought of washing--hang in perpetuity; while about the doorcontinue the remnants of a porch, which the stucco falling has leftexposed in all its naked insincerity. 

Occasionally I drift hitherward in the day time, when slatternly womengossip round the area gates, and the silence is broken by thehoarse, wailing cry of "Coals--any coals--three and sixpence asack--co-o-o-als!" chanted in a tone that absence of response hasstamped with chronic melancholy; but then the street knows me not, andmy old friend of the corner, ashamed of its shabbiness in the unpityingsunlight, turns its face away, and will not see me as I pass. 

Not until the Night, merciful alone of all things to the ugly, draws herveil across its sordid features will it, as some fond old nurse, soughtout in after years, open wide its arms to welcome me. Then the teeminglife it now shelters, hushed for a time within its walls, the flickeringflare from the "King of Prussia" opposite extinguished, will it talkwith me of the past, asking me many questions, reminding me ofmany things I had forgotten. Then into the silent street come thewell-remembered footsteps; in and out the creaking gate pass, not seeingme, the well-remembered faces; and we talk concerning them; as twocronies, turning the torn leaves of some old album where the fadedportraits in forgotten fashions, speak together in low tones of thosenow dead or scattered, with now a smile and now a sigh, and many an "Ahme!" or "Dear, dear!"

This bent, worn man, coming towards us with quick impatient steps, whichyet cease every fifty yards or so, while he pauses, leaning heavily uponhis high Malacca cane: "It is a handsome face, is it not?" I ask, as Igaze upon it, shadow framed. 

"Aye, handsome enough, " answers the old House; "and handsomer still itmust have been before you and I knew it, before mean care had furrowedit with fretful lines. "

"I never could make out, " continues the old House, musingly, "whom youtook after; for they were a handsome pair, your father and your mother, though Lord! what a couple of children!"

"Children!" I say in surprise, for my father must have been past fiveand thirty before the House could have known him, and my mother's faceis very close to mine, in the darkness, so that I see the many greyhairs mingling with the bonny brown. 

"Children, " repeats the old House, irritably, so it seems to me, notliking, perhaps, its opinions questioned, a failing common to old folk;"the most helpless pair of children I ever set eyes upon. Who buta child, I should like to know, would have conceived the notion ofrepairing his fortune by becoming a solicitor at thirty-eight, or, having conceived such a notion, would have selected the outskirts ofPoplar as a likely centre in which to put up his door-plate?"

"It was considered to be a rising neighbourhood, " I reply, a littleresentful. No son cares to hear the family wisdom criticised, eventhough at the bottom of his heart he may be in agreement with thecritic. "All sorts and conditions of men, whose affairs were inconnection with the sea would, it was thought, come to reside hereabout, so as to be near to the new docks; and had they, it is not unreasonableto suppose they would have quarrelled and disputed with one another, much to the advantage of a cute solicitor, convenient to their hand. "

"Stuff and nonsense, " retorts the old House, shortly; "why, the meresmell of the place would have been sufficient to keep a sensible manaway. And"--the grim brick face before me twists itself into a goblinsmile--"he, of all men in the world, as 'the cute solicitor, ' givingadvice to shady clients, eager to get out of trouble by the shortestway, can you fancy it! he who for two years starved himself, living onfive shillings a week--that was before you came to London, when hewas here alone. Even your mother knew nothing of it till yearsafterwards--so that no man should be a penny the poorer for havingtrusted his good name. Do you think the crew of chandlers and brokers, dock hustlers and freight wreckers would have found him a useful man ofbusiness, even had they come to settle here?"

I have no answer; nor does the old House wait for any, but talks on. 

"And your mother! would any but a child have taken that soft-tonguedwanton to her bosom, and not have seen through acting so transparent?Would any but the veriest child that never ought to have been let outinto the world by itself have thought to dree her weird in such folly?Children! poor babies they were, both of them. "

"Tell me, " I say--for at such times all my stock of common sense is notsufficient to convince me that the old House is but clay. From its wallsso full of voices, from its floors so thick with footsteps, surely ithas learned to live; as a violin, long played on, comes to learn at lasta music of its own. "Tell me, I was but a child to whom life speaks in astrange tongue, was there any truth in the story?"

"Truth!" snaps out the old House; "just truth enough to plant a lieupon; and Lord knows not much ground is needed for that weed. I sawwhat I saw, and I know what I know. Your mother had a good man, andyour father a true wife, but it was the old story: a man's way is not awoman's way, and a woman's way is not a man's way, so there lives everdoubt between them. "

"But they came together in the end, " I say, remembering. 

"Aye, in the end, " answers the House. "That is when you begin tounderstand, you men and women, when you come to the end. "

The grave face of a not too recently washed angel peeps shyly atme through the railings, then, as I turn my head, darts back anddisappears. 

"What has become of her?" I ask. 

"She? Oh, she is well enough, " replies the House. "She lives close here. You must have passed the shop. You might have seen her had you lookedin. She weighs fourteen stone, about; and has nine children living. Shewould be pleased to see you. "

"Thank you, " I say, with a laugh that is not wholly a laugh; "I do notthink I will call. " But I still hear the pit-pat of her tiny feet, dyingdown the long street. 

The faces thicken round me. A large looming, rubicund visage smileskindly on me, bringing back into my heart the old, odd mingling ofinstinctive liking held in check by conscientious disapproval. I turnfrom it, and see a massive, clean-shaven face, with the ugliest mouthand the loveliest eyes I ever have known in a man. 

"Was he as bad, do you think, as they said?" I ask of my ancient friend. 

"Shouldn't wonder, " the old House answers. "I never knew a worse--nor abetter. "

The wind whisks it aside, leaving to view a little old woman, hobblingnimbly by aid of a stick. Three corkscrew curls each side of her headbob with each step she takes, and as she draws near to me, making themost alarming grimaces, I hear her whisper, as though confiding toherself some fascinating secret, "I'd like to skin 'em. I'd like to skin'em all. I'd like to skin 'em all alive!"

It sounds a fiendish sentiment, yet I only laugh, and the little oldlady, with a final facial contortion surpassing all dreams, limps beyondmy ken. 

Then, as though choosing contrasts, follows a fair, laughing face. I sawit in the life only a few hours ago--at least, not it, but the poor daubthat Evil has painted over it, hating the sweetness underlying. And asI stand gazing at it, wishing it were of the dead who change not, theredrifts back from the shadows that other face, the one of the wickedmouth and the tender eyes, so that I stand again helpless between thetwo I loved so well, he from whom I learned my first steps in manhood, she from whom I caught my first glimpse of the beauty and the mystery ofwoman. And again the cry rises from my heart, "Whose fault was it--yoursor hers?" And again I hear his mocking laugh as he answers, "Whosefault? God made us. " And thinking of her and of the love I bore her, which was as the love of a young pilgrim to a saint, it comes into myblood to hate him. But when I look into his eyes and see the pain thatlives there, my pity grows stronger than my misery, and I can only echohis words, "God made us. "

Merry faces and sad, fair faces and foul, they ride upon the wind; butthe centre round which they circle remains always the one: a littlelad with golden curls more suitable to a girl than to a boy, with shy, awkward ways and a silent tongue, and a grave, old-fashioned face. 

And, turning from him to my old brick friend, I ask: "Would he know me, could he see me, do you think?"

"How should he, " answers the old House, "you are so different to what hewould expect. Would you recognise your own ghost, think you?"

"It is sad to think he would not recognise me, " I say. 

"It might be sadder if he did, " grumbles the old House. 

We both remained silent for awhile; but I know of what the old House isthinking. Soon it speaks as I expected. 

"You--writer of stories, why don't you write a book about him? There issomething that you know. "

It is the favourite theme of the old House. I never visit it but itsuggests to me this idea. 

"But he has done nothing?" I say. 

"He has lived, " answers the old House. "Is not that enough?"

"Aye, but only in London in these prosaic modern times, " I persist. "Howof such can one make a story that shall interest the people?"

The old House waxes impatient of me. 

"'The people!'" it retorts, "what are you all but children in a dim-litroom, waiting until one by one you are called out to sleep. And onemounts upon a stool and tells a tale to the others who have gatheredround. Who shall say what will please them, what will not. "

Returning home with musing footsteps through the softly breathingstreets, I ponder the words of the old House. Is it but as some foolishmother thinking all the world interested in her child, or may therelie wisdom in its counsel? Then to my guidance or misguidance comes thethought of a certain small section of the Public who often of an eveningcommands of me a story; and who, when I have told her of the dreadfulgiants and of the gallant youths who slay them, of the wood-cutter'ssons who rescue maidens from Ogre-guarded castles; of the Princesses themost beautiful in all the world, of the Princes with magic swords, stillunsatisfied, creeps closer yet, saying: "Now tell me a real story, "adding for my comprehending: "You know: about a little girl who lived ina big house with her father and mother, and who was sometimes naughty, you know. "

So perhaps among the many there may be some who for a moment will turnaside from tales of haughty Heroes, ruffling it in Court and Camp, tolisten to the story of a very ordinary lad who lived with very ordinaryfolk in a modern London street, and who grew up to be a very ordinarysort of man, loving a little and grieving a little, helping a few andharming a few, struggling and failing and hoping; and if any such therebe, let them come round me. 

But let not those who come to me grow indignant as they listen, saying:"This rascal tells us but a humdrum story, where nothing is as it shouldbe;" for I warn all beforehand that I tell but of things that I haveseen. My villains, I fear, are but poor sinners, not altogether bad;and my good men but sorry saints. My princes do not always slay theirdragons; alas, sometimes, the dragon eats the prince. The wickedfairies often prove more powerful than the good. The magic thread leadssometimes wrong, and even the hero is not always brave and true. 

So let those come round me only who will be content to hear but theirown story, told by another, saying as they listen, "So dreamt I. Ah, yes, that is true, I remember. "

CHAPTER I

PAUL, ARRIVED IN A STRANGE LAND, LEARNS MANY THINGS, AND GOES TO MEETTHE MAN IN GREY. 

Fate intended me for a singularly fortunate man. Properly, I ought tohave been born in June, which being, as is well known, the luckiestmonth in all the year for such events, should, by thoughtful parents, bemore generally selected. How it was I came to be born in May, which is, on the other hand, of all the twelve the most unlucky, as I have proved, I leave to those more conversant with the subject to explain. An earlynurse, the first human being of whom I have any distinct recollection, unhesitatingly attributed the unfortunate fact to my natural impatience;which quality she at the same time predicted would lead me into evengreater trouble, a prophecy impressed by future events with the stamp ofprescience. It was from this same bony lady that I likewise learned themanner of my coming. It seems that I arrived, quite unexpectedly, twohours after news had reached the house of the ruin of my father's minesthrough inundation; misfortunes, as it was expounded to me, never comingsingly in this world to any one. That all things might be of a piece, my poor mother, attempting to reach the bell, fell against and broke thecheval-glass, thus further saddening herself with the conviction--forno amount of reasoning ever succeeded in purging her Welsh blood ofits natural superstition--that whatever might be the result of futurebattles with my evil star, the first seven years of tiny existence hadbeen, by her act, doomed to disaster. 

"And I must confess, " added the knobbly Mrs. Fursey, with a sigh, "itdoes look as though there must be some truth in the saying, after all. "

"Then ain't I a lucky little boy?" I asked. For hitherto it had beenMrs. Fursey's method to impress upon me my exceptional good fortune. That I could and did, involuntarily, retire to bed at six, while lesshappily placed children were deprived of their natural rest until eightor nine o'clock, had always been held up to me as an astounding piece ofluck. Some little boys had not a bed at all; for the which, in my moreriotous moments, I envied them. Again, that at the first sign of a coldit became my unavoidable privilege to lunch off linseed gruel and supoff brimstone and treacle--a compound named with deliberate intent todeceive the innocent, the treacle, so far as taste is concerned, beingwickedly subordinated to the brimstone--was another example of Fortune'sfavouritism: other little boys were so astoundingly unlucky as to beleft alone when they felt ill. If further proof were needed to convincethat I had been signalled out by Providence as its especial protege, there remained always the circumstance that I possessed Mrs. Furseyfor my nurse. The suggestion that I was not altogether the luckiest ofchildren was a new departure. 

The good dame evidently perceived her error, and made haste to correctit. 

"Oh, you! You are lucky enough, " she replied; "I was thinking of yourpoor mother. "

"Isn't mamma lucky?"

"Well, she hasn't been too lucky since you came. "

"Wasn't it lucky, her having me?"

"I can't say it was, at that particular time. "

"Didn't she want me?"

Mrs. Fursey was one of those well-meaning persons who are of opinionthat the only reasonable attitude of childhood should be that ofperpetual apology for its existence. 

"Well, I daresay she could have done without you, " was the answer. 

I can see the picture plainly still. I am sitting on a low chair beforethe nursery fire, one knee supported in my locked hands, meanwhile Mrs. Fursey's needle grated with monotonous regularity against her thimble. At that moment knocked at my small soul for the first time the problemof life. 

Suddenly, without moving, I said:

"Then why did she take me in?"

The rasping click of the needle on the thimble ceased abruptly. 

"Took you in! What's the child talking about? Who's took you in?"

"Why, mamma. If she didn't want me, why did she take me in?"

But even while, with heart full of dignified resentment, I propoundedthis, as I proudly felt, logically unanswerable question, I was gladthat she had. The vision of my being refused at the bedroom windowpresented itself to my imagination. I saw the stork, perplexed andannoyed, looking as I had sometimes seen Tom Pinfold look when the fishhe had been holding out by the tail had been sniffed at by Anna, andthe kitchen door shut in his face. Would the stork also have gone awaythoughtfully scratching his head with one of those long, compass-likelegs of his, and muttering to himself. And here, incidentally, I fella-wondering how the stork had carried me. In the garden I had oftenwatched a blackbird carrying a worm, and the worm, though no doubtreally safe enough, had always appeared to me nervous and uncomfortable. Had I wriggled and squirmed in like fashion? And where would the storkhave taken me to then? Possibly to Mrs. Fursey's: their cottage was thenearest. But I felt sure Mrs. Fursey would not have taken me in; andnext to them, at the first house in the village, lived Mr. Chumdley, the cobbler, who was lame, and who sat all day hammering boots withvery dirty hands, in a little cave half under the ground, his wholeappearance suggesting a poor-spirited ogre. I should have hated beinghis little boy. Possibly nobody would have taken me in. I grew pensive, thinking of myself as the rejected of all the village. What would thestork have done with me, left on his hands, so to speak. The reflectionprompted a fresh question. 

"Nurse, where did I come from?"

"Why, I've told you often. The stork brought you. "

"Yes, I know. But where did the stork get me from?" Mrs. Fursey pausedfor quite a long while before replying. Possibly she was reflectingwhether such answer might not make me unduly conceited. Eventually shemust have decided to run that risk; other opportunities could be reliedupon for neutralising the effect. 

"Oh, from Heaven. "

"But I thought Heaven was a place where you went to, " I answered; "notwhere you comed from. " I know I said "comed, " for I remember that atthis period my irregular verbs were a bewildering anxiety to my poormother. "Comed" and "goned, " which I had worked out for myself, wereparticular favourites of mine. 

Mrs. Fursey passed over my grammar in dignified silence. She hadbeen pointedly requested not to trouble herself with that part of myeducation, my mother holding that diverging opinions upon the samesubject only confused a child. 

"You came from Heaven, " repeated Mrs. Fursey, "and you'll go toHeaven--if you're good. "

"Do all little boys and girls come from Heaven?"

"So they say. " Mrs. Fursey's tone implied that she was stating whatmight possibly be but a popular fallacy, for which she individually tookno responsibility. 

"And did you come from Heaven, Mrs. Fursey?" Mrs. Fursey's reply to thiswas decidedly more emphatic. 

"Of course I did. Where do you think I came from?"

At once, I am ashamed to say, Heaven lost its exalted position in myeyes. Even before this, it had puzzled me that everybody I knew shouldbe going there--for so I was always assured; now, connected as itappeared to be with the origin of Mrs. Fursey, much of its charmdisappeared. 

But this was not all. Mrs. Fursey's information had suggested to me afresh grief. I stopped not to console myself with the reflection that myfate had been but the fate of all little boys and girls. With a child'segoism I seized only upon my own particular case. 

"Didn't they want me in Heaven then, either?" I asked. "Weren't theyfond of me up there?"

The misery in my voice must have penetrated even Mrs. Fursey's bosom, for she answered more sympathetically than usual. 

"Oh, they liked you well enough, I daresay. I like you, but I like toget rid of you sometimes. " There could be no doubt as to this last. Evenat the time, I often doubted whether that six o'clock bedtime was notoccasionally half-past five. 

The answer comforted me not. It remained clear that I was not wantedeither in Heaven nor upon the earth. God did not want me. He was gladto get rid of me. My mother did not want me. She could have done withoutme. Nobody wanted me. Why was I here?

And then, as the sudden opening and shutting of the door of a dark room, came into my childish brain the feeling that Something, somewhere, musthave need of me, or I could not be, Something I felt I belonged to andthat belonged to me, Something that was as much a part of me as I of It. The feeling came back to me more than once during my childhood, though Icould never put it into words. Years later the son of the Portuguese Jewexplained to me my thought. But all that I myself could have told wasthat in that moment I knew for the first time that I lived, that I wasI. 

The next instant all was dark again, and I once more a puzzled littleboy, sitting by a nursery fire, asking of a village dame questionsconcerning life. 

Suddenly a new thought came to me, or rather the recollection of an old. 

"Nurse, why haven't we got a husband?"

Mrs. Fursey left off her sewing, and stared at me. 

"What maggot has the child got into its head now?" was her observation;"who hasn't got a husband?"

"Why, mamma. "

"Don't talk nonsense, Master Paul; you know your mamma has got ahusband. "

"No, she ain't. "

"And don't contradict. Your mamma's husband is your papa, who lives inLondon. "

"What's the good of _him_!"

Mrs. Fursey's reply appeared to me to be unnecessarily vehement. 

"You wicked child, you; where's your commandments? Your father is inLondon working hard to earn money to keep you in idleness, and you sitthere and say 'What's the good of him!' I'd be ashamed to be such anungrateful little brat. "

I had not meant to be ungrateful. My words were but the repetition ofa conversation I had overheard the day before between my mother and myaunt. 

Had said my aunt: "There she goes, moping again. Drat me if ever I sawsuch a thing to mope as a woman. "

My aunt was entitled to preach on the subject. She herself grumbled allday about all things, but she did it cheerfully. 

My mother was standing with her hands clasped behind her--a favouriteattitude of hers--gazing through the high French window into the gardenbeyond. It must have been spring time, for I remember the white andyellow crocuses decking the grass. 

"I want a husband, " had answered my mother, in a tone so ludicrouslychildish that at sound of it I had looked up from the fairy story I wasreading, half expectant to find her changed into a little girl; "I hatenot having a husband. "

"Help us and save us, " my aunt had retorted; "how many more does a girlwant? She's got one. "

"What's the good of him all that way off, " had pouted my mother; "I wanthim here where I can get at him. "

I had often heard of this father of mine, who lived far away inLondon, and to whom we owed all the blessings of life; but my childishendeavours to square information with reflection had resulted in myassigning to him an entirely spiritual existence. I agreed with mymother that such an one, however to be revered, was no substitute forthe flesh and blood father possessed by luckier folk--the big, strong, masculine thing that would carry a fellow pig-a-back round the garden, or take a chap to sail in boats. 

"You don't understand me, nurse, " I explained; "what I mean is a husbandyou can get at. "

"Well, and you'll 'get at him, ' poor gentleman, one of these days, "answered Mrs. Fursey. "When he's ready for you he'll send for you, andthen you'll go to him in London. "

I felt that still Mrs. Fursey didn't understand. But I foresaw thatfurther explanation would only shock her, so contented myself with asimple, matter-of-fact question. 

"How do you get to London; do you have to die first?"

"I do think, " said Mrs. Fursey, in the voice of resigned despair ratherthan of surprise, "that, without exception, you are the silliest littleboy I ever came across. I've no patience with you. "

"I am very sorry, nurse, " I answered; "I thought--"

"Then, " interrupted Mrs. Fursey, in the voice of many generations, "youshouldn't think. London, " continued the good dame, her experience nodoubt suggesting that the shortest road to peace would be through myunderstanding of this matter, "is a big town, and you go there in atrain. Some time--soon now--your father will write to your mother thateverything is ready. Then you and your mother and your aunt will leavethis place and go to London, and I shall be rid of you. "

"And shan't we come back here ever any more?"

"Never again. "

"And I'll never play in the garden again, never go down to thepebble-ridge to tea, or to Jacob's tower?"

"Never again. " I think Mrs. Fursey took a pleasure in the phrase. Itsounded, as she said it, like something out of the prayer-book. 

"And I'll never see Anna, or Tom Pinfold, or old Yeo, or Pincher, oryou, ever any more?" In this moment of the crumbling from under me ofall my footholds I would have clung even to that dry tuft, Mrs. Furseyherself. 

"Never any more. You'll go away and begin an entirely new life. And I dohope, Master Paul, " added Mrs. Fursey, piously, "it may be a better one. That you will make up your mind to--"

But Mrs. Fursey's well-meant exhortations, whatever they may have been, fell upon deaf ears. Here was I face to face with yet another problem. This life into which I had fallen: it was understandable! One went away, leaving the pleasant places that one knew, never to return to them. One left one's labour and one's play to enter upon a new existence in astrange land. One parted from the friends one had always known, one sawthem never again. Life was indeed a strange thing; and, would a bodycomprehend it, then must a body sit staring into the fire, thinking veryhard, unheedful of all idle chatter. 

That night, when my mother came to kiss me good-night, I turned myface to the wall and pretended to be asleep, for children as well asgrown-ups have their foolish moods; but when I felt the soft curls brushmy cheek, my pride gave way, and clasping my arms about her neck, anddrawing her face still closer down to mine; I voiced the question thatall the evening had been knocking at my heart:

"I suppose you couldn't send me back now, could you? You see, you've hadme so long. "

"Send you back?"

"Yes. I'd be too big for the stork to carry now, wouldn't I?"

My mother knelt down beside the bed so that her face and mine were ona level, and looking into her eyes, the fear that had been haunting mefell from me. 

"Who has been talking foolishly to a foolish little boy?" asked mymother, keeping my arms still clasped about her neck. 

"Oh, nurse and I were discussing things, you know, " I answered, "and shesaid you could have done without me. " Somehow, I did not mind repeatingthe words now; clearly it could have been but Mrs. Fursey's fun. 

My mother drew me closer to her. 

"And what made her think that?"

"Well, you see, " I replied, "I came at a very awkward time, didn't I;when you had a lot of other troubles. "

My mother laughed, but the next moment looked grave again. 

"I did not know you thought about such things, " she said; "we must bemore together, you and I, Paul, and you shall tell me all you think, because nurse does not quite understand you. It is true what she saidabout the trouble; it came just at that time. But I could not have donewithout you. I was very unhappy, and you were sent to comfort me andhelp me to bear it. " I liked this explanation better. 

"Then it was lucky, your having me?" I said. Again my mother laughed, and again there followed that graver look upon her childish face. 

"Will you remember what I am going to say?" She spoke so earnestly thatI, wriggling into a sitting posture, became earnest also. 

"I'll try, " I answered; "but I ain't got a very good memory, have I?"

"Not very, " smiled my mother; "but if you think about it a good deal itwill not leave you. When you are a good boy, and later on, when you area good man, then I am the luckiest little mother in all the world. Andevery time you fail, that means bad luck for me. You will remember thatafter I'm gone, when you are a big man, won't you, Paul?"

So, both of us quite serious, I promised; and though I smile now whenI remember, seeing before me those two earnest, childish faces, yet Ithink, however little success it may be I have to boast of, it wouldperhaps have been still less had I entirely forgotten. 

From that day my mother waxes in my memory; Mrs. Fursey, of the manypromontories, waning. There were sunny mornings in the neglected garden, where the leaves played round us while we worked and read; twilightevenings in the window seat where, half hidden by the dark red curtains, we would talk in whispers, why I know not, of good men and noble women, ogres, fairies, saints and demons; they were pleasant days. 

Possibly our curriculum lacked method; maybe it was too varied andextensive for my age, in consequence of which chronology became confusedwithin my brain, and fact and fiction more confounded than has usuallybeen considered permissible, even in history. I saw Aphrodite, readyarmed and risen from the sea, move with stately grace to meet KingCanute, who, throned upon the sand, bade her come no further lestshe should wet his feet. In forest glade I saw King Rufus fall from apoisoned arrow shot by Robin Hood; but thanks to sweet Queen Eleanor, who sucked the poison from his wound, I knew he lived. Oliver Cromwell, having killed King Charles, married his widow, and was in turn stabbedby Hamlet. Ulysses, in the Argo, it was fixed upon my mind, haddiscovered America. Romulus and Remus had slain the wolf and rescuedLittle Red Riding Hood. Good King Arthur, for letting the cakes burn, had been murdered by his uncle in the Tower of London. Prometheus, boundto the Rock, had been saved by good St. George. Paris had given theapple to William Tell. What matter! the information was there. It neededrearranging, that was all. 

Sometimes, of an afternoon, we would climb the steep winding pathwaythrough the woods, past awful precipices, spirit-haunted, by grassyswards where fairies danced o' nights, by briar and bracken shelteredCaves where fearsome creatures lurked, till high above the creeping seawe would reach the open plateau where rose old Jacob's ruined tower. "Jacob's Folly" it was more often called about the country side, and bysome "The Devil's Tower;" for legend had it that there old Jacob and hismaster, the Devil, had often met in windy weather to wave false wreckinglights to troubled ships. Who "old Jacob" was, I never, that I canremember, learned, nor how nor why he built the Tower. Certain only itis his memory was unpopular, and the fisher folk would swear thatstill on stormy nights strange lights would gleam and flash from theivy-curtained windows of his Folly. 

But in day time no spot was more inviting, the short moss-grass beforeits shattered door, the lichen on its crumbling stones. From its topmostplatform one saw the distant mountains, faint like spectres, and thesilent ships that came and vanished; and about one's feet the pleasantfarm lands and the grave, sweet river. 

Smaller and poorer the world has grown since then. Now, behind thosehills lie naught but smoky towns and dingy villages; but then theyscreened a land of wonder where princesses dwelt in castles, where thecities were of gold. Now the ocean is but six days' journey wide, endingat the New York Custom House. Then, had one set one's sail upon it, onewould have travelled far and far, beyond the golden moonlight, beyondthe gate of clouds; to the magic land of the blood red shore, t'otherside o' the sun. I never dreamt in those days a world could be so small. 

Upon the topmost platform a wooden seat ran round within the parapet, and sitting there hand in hand, sheltered from the wind which ever blewabout the tower, my mother would people for me all the earth and airwith the forms of myth and legend--perhaps unwisely, yet I do notknow. I took no harm from it, good rather, I think. They were beautifulfancies, most of them; or so my mother turned them, making for love andpity, as do all the tales that live, whether poems or old wives fables. But at that time of course they had no meaning for me other than theliteral; so that my mother, looking into my eyes, would often hastento add: "But that, you know, is only an old superstition, and of coursethere are no such things nowadays. " Yet, forgetful sometimes of thetime, and overtaken homeward by the shadows, we would hasten swiftlythrough the darkening path, holding each other tightly by the hand. 

Spring had waxed to summer, summer waned to autumn. Then my aunt and Ione morning, waiting at the breakfast table, saw through the open windowmy mother skipping, dancing, pirouetting up the garden path. She helda letter open in her hand, which as she drew near she waved about herhead, singing:

"Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, then comes Wednesday morning. "

She caught me to her and began dancing with me round the room. 

Observed my aunt, who continued steadily to eat bread and butter:

"Just like 'em all. Goes mad with joy. What for? Because she's going toleave a decent house, to live in a poky hole in the East End of London, and keep one servant. "

To my aunt the second person ever remained a grammatical superfluity. Invariably she spoke not to but of a person, throwing out herconversation in the form of commentary. This had the advantageof permitting the party intended to ignore it as mere impersonalphilosophy. Seeing it was generally uncomplimentary, most peoplepreferred so to regard it; but my mother had never succeeded inschooling herself to indifference. 

"It's not a poky hole, " she replied; "it's an old-fashioned house, nearthe river. "

"Plaistow marshes!" ejaculated my aunt, "calls it the river!"

"So it is the river, " returned my mother; "the river is the other sideof the marshes. "

"Let's hope it will always stop there, " said my aunt. 

"And it's got a garden, " continued my mother, ignoring my aunt's lastremark; "which is quite an unusual feature in a London house. And itisn't the East End of London; it is a rising suburb. And you won't makeme miserable because I am too happy. "

"Drat the woman!" said my aunt, "why can't she sit down and give us ourtea before it's all cold?"

"You are a disagreeable thing!" said my mother. 

"Not half milk, " said my aunt. My aunt was never in the least disturbedby other people's opinion of her, which was perhaps well for her. 

For three days my mother packed and sang; and a dozen times a dayunpacked and laughed, looking for things wanted that were always foundat the very bottom of the very last box looked into, so that Anna, waiting for a certain undergarment of my aunt's which shall be nameless, suggested a saving of time:

"If I were you, ma'am, " said Anna, "I'd look into the last box you'regoing to look into first. "

But it was found eventually in the first box-the box, that is, my motherhad intended to search first, but which, acting on Anna's suggestion, she had reserved till the last. This caused my mother to be quite shortwith Anna, who she said had wasted her time. But by Tuesday afternoonall stood ready: we were to start early Wednesday morning. 

That evening, missing my mother in the house, I sought her in the gardenand found her, as I had expected, on her favourite seat under the greatlime tree; but to my surprise there were tears in her eyes. 

"But I thought you were glad we were going, " I said. 

"So I am, " answered my mother, drying her eyes only to make room forfresh tears. 

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because I'm sorry to leave here. "

Grown-up folks with their contradictory ways were a continual puzzle tome in those days; I am not sure I quite understand them even now, myselfincluded. 

We were up and off next day before the dawn. The sun rose as the wagonreached the top of the hill; and there we paused and took our farewelllook at Old Jacob's Tower. My mother cried a little behind her veil; butmy aunt only said, "I never did care for earwigs in my tea;" and asfor myself I was too excited and expectant to feel much sentiment aboutanything. 

On the journey I sat next to an exceptionally large and heavy man, whoin his sleep--and he slept often--imagined me to be a piece of stuffingout of place. Then, grunting and wriggling, he would endeavour to rubme out, until the continued irritation of my head between the windowand his back would cause him to awake, when he would look down upon mereprovingly but not unkindly, observing to the carriage generally: "It'sa funny thing, ain't it, nobody's ever made a boy yet that could keepstill for ten seconds. " After which he would pat me heartily on thehead, to show he was not vexed with me, and fall to sleep again upon me. He was a good-tempered man. 

My mother sat occupied chiefly with her own thoughts, and my aunt hadfound a congenial companion in a lady who had had her cap basket satupon; so I was left mainly to my own resources. When I could get my headfree of the big man's back, I gazed out of the window, and watched theflying fragments as we shed the world. Now a village would fall from us, now the yellow corn-land would cling to us for awhile, or a wood catchat our rushing feet, and sometimes a strong town would stop us, and holdus, panting for a space. Or, my eyes weary, I would sit and listen tothe hoarse singing of the wheels beneath my feet. It was a monotonouschaunt, ever the same two lines:

 "Here we suffer grief and pain, Here we meet to part again, "

followed by a low, rumbling laugh. Sometimes fortissimo, sometimespianissimo; now vivace, now largo; but ever those same two lines, andever followed by the same low, rumbling laugh; still to this day theiron wheels sing to me that same song. 

Later on I also must have slept, for I dreamt that as the result of myhaving engaged in single combat with a dragon, the dragon, ignoring allthe rules of Fairyland, had swallowed me. It was hot and stuffy in thedragon's stomach. He had, so it appeared to me, disgracefully overeatenhimself; there were hundreds of us there, entirely undigested, includingMother Hubbard and a gentleman named Johnson, against whom, at thatperiod, I entertained a strong prejudice by reason of our divergentviews upon the subject of spelling. Even in this hour of our mutualdiscomfort Johnson would not leave me alone, but persisted in asking mehow I spelt Jonah. Nobody was looking, so I kicked him. He sprang upand came after me. I tried to run away, but became wedged betweenHop-o'-my-Thumb and Julius Caesar. I suppose our tearing about musthave hurt the dragon, for at that moment he gave vent to a most fearfulscream, and I awoke to find the fat man rubbing his left shin, whilewe struggled slowly, with steps growing ever feebler, against a sea ofbrick that every moment closed in closer round us. 

We scrambled out of the carriage into a great echoing cave thatmight have been the dragon's home, where, to my alarm, my mother wasimmediately swooped down upon by a strange man in grey. 

"Why's he do that?" I asked of my aunt. 

"Because he's a fool, " answered my aunt; "they all are. "

He put my mother down and came towards us. He was a tall, thin man, witheyes one felt one would never be afraid of; and instinctively even thenI associated him in my mind with windmills and a lank white horse. 

"Why, how he's grown, " said the grey man, raising me in his arms untilmy mother beside me appeared to me in a new light as quite a littleperson; "and solid too. "

My mother whispered something. I think from her face, for I knew thesigns, it was praise of me. 

"And he's going to be our new fortune, " she added aloud, as the grey manlowered me. 

"Then, " said my aunt, who had this while been sitting rigid upon a flatblack box, "don't drop him down a coal-mine. That's all I say. "

I wondered at the time why the grey man's pale face should flush socrimson, and why my mother should whisper angrily:

"Flow can you be so wicked, Fanny? How dare you say such a thing?"

"I only said 'don't drop him down a coal-mine, '" returned my aunt, apparently much surprised; "you don't want to drop him down a coal-mine, do you?"

We passed through glittering, joyous streets, piled high each side withall the good things of the earth; toys and baubles, jewels and gold, things good to eat and good to drink, things good to wear and good tosee; through pleasant ways where fountains splashed and flowers bloomed. The people wore bright clothes, had happy faces. They rode in beautifulcarriages, they strolled about, greeting one another with smiles. Thechildren ran and laughed. London, thought I to myself, is the city ofthe fairies. 

It passed, and we sank into a grim city of hoarse, roaring streets, wherein the endless throngs swirled and surged as I had seen the yellowwaters curve and fret, contending, where the river pauses, rock-bound. Here were no bright costumes, no bright faces, none stayed to greetanother; all was stern, and swift, and voiceless. London, then, said Ito myself, is the city of the giants. They must live in these toweringcastles side by side, and these hurrying thousands are their drivenslaves. 

But this passed also, and we sank lower yet until we reached a thirdcity, where a pale mist filled each sombre street. None of the beautifulthings of the world were to be seen here, but only the things coarseand ugly. And wearily to and fro its sunless passages trudged with heavysteps a weary people, coarse-clad, and with dull, listless faces. AndLondon, I knew, was the city of the gnomes who labour sadly all theirlives, imprisoned underground; and a terror seized me lest I, too, should remain chained here, deep down below the fairy city that wasalready but a dream. 

We stopped at last in a long, unfinished street. I remember our pushingour way through a group of dirty urchins, all of whom, my aunt remarkedin passing, ought to be skinned. It was my aunt's one prescription forall to whom she took objection; but really in the present instance Ithink it would have been of service; nothing else whatever could haverestored them to cleanliness. Then the door closed behind us with anechoing clang, and the small, cold rooms came forward stiffly to greetus. 

The man in grey went to the one window and drew back the curtain; itwas growing dusk now. My aunt sat on a straight, hard chair and staredfixedly at the three-armed gaselier. My mother stood in the centre ofthe room with one small ungloved hand upon the table, and I noticed--forI was very near--that the poor little one-legged thing was trembling. 

"Of course it's not what you've been accustomed to, Maggie, " said theman in grey; "but it's only for a little while. "

He spoke in a new, angry voice; but I could not see his face, his backbeing to the light. 

My mother drew his arms around us both. 

"It is the best home in all the world, " she said; and thus we stayed forawhile. 

"Nonsense, " said my aunt, suddenly; and this aroused us; "it's a pokyhole, as I told her it would be. Let her thank the Lord she's got aman clever enough to get her out of it. I know him; he never could restwhere he was put. Now he's at the bottom; he'll go up. "

It sounded to me a very disagreeable speech; but the grey man laughed--Ihad not heard him laugh till then--and my mother ran to my aunt andkissed her; and somehow the room seemed to become lighter. 

For some reason I slept downstairs that night, on the floor, behind ascreen improvised out of a clothes horse and a blanket; and later in theevening the clatter of knives and forks and the sound of subdued voicesawoke me. My aunt had apparently gone to bed; my mother and the man ingrey were talking together over their supper. 

"We must buy land, " said the voice of the grey man; "London is comingthis way. The Somebodies" (I forget the name my father mentioned) "madeall their money by buying up land round New York for a mere song. Then, as the city spread, they became worth millions. "

"But where will you get the money from, Luke?" asked the voice of mymother. 

The voice of the grey man answered airily:

"Oh, that's merely a matter of business. You grant a mortgage. Theproperty goes up in value. You borrow more. Then you buy more--and soon. "

"I see, " said my mother. 

"Being on the spot gives one such an advantage, " said the grey man. "Ishall know just when to buy. It's a great thing, being on the spot. "

"Of course, it must be, " said my mother. 

I suppose I must have dozed, for the next words I heard the grey man saywere:

"Of course you have the park opposite, but then the house is small. "

"But shall we need a very large one?" asked my mother. 

"One never knows, " said the grey man. "If I should go into Parliament--"

At this point a hissing sound arose from the neighbourhood of the fire. 

"It _looks_, " said my mother, "as if it were done. "

"If you will hold the dish, " said the grey man, "I think I can pour itin without spilling. "

Again I must have dozed. 

"It depends, " said the grey man, "upon what he is going to be. For theclassics, of course, Oxford. "

"He's going to be very clever, " said my mother. She spoke as one whoknows. 

"We'll hope so, " said the grey man. 

"I shouldn't be surprised, " said my mother, "if he turned out a poet. "

The grey man said something in a low tone that I did not hear. 

"I'm not so sure, " answered my mother, "it's in the blood. I've oftenthought that you, Luke, ought to have been a poet. "

"I never had the time, " said the grey man. "There were one or two littlethings--"

"They were very beautiful, " interrupted my mother. The clatter of theknives and forks continued undisturbed for a few moments. Then continuedthe grey man:

"There would be no harm, provided I made enough. It's the law of nature. One generation earns, the next spends. We must see. In any case, I thinkI should prefer Oxford for him. "

"It will be so hard parting from him, " said my mother. 

"There will be the vacations, " said the grey man, "when we shalltravel. "

CHAPTER II. 

IN WHICH PAUL MAKES ACQUAINTANCE OF THE MAN WITH THE UGLY MOUTH. 

The case of my father and mother was not normal. You understand theyhad been separated for some years, and though they were not young inage--indeed, before my childish eyes they loomed quite ancient folk, and in fact my father must have been nearly forty and my mother quit ofthirty--yet, as you will come to think yourself, no doubt, during thecourse of my story, they were in all the essentials of life little morethan boy and girl. This I came to see later on, but at that time, had Ibeen consulted by enquiring maid or bachelor, I might unwittingly havegiven wrong impressions concerning marriage in the general. I shouldhave described a husband as a man who could never rest quite contentunless his wife were by his side; who twenty times a day would call fromhis office door: "Maggie, are you doing anything important? I want totalk to you about a matter of business. " . . . "Maggie, are you alone? Oh, all right, I'll come down. " Of a wife I should have said she was a womanwhose eyes were ever love-lit when resting on her man; who was gladwhere he was and troubled where he was not. But in every case this mightnot have been correct. 

Also, I should have had something to say concerning the alarms andexcursions attending residence with any married couple. I should haverecommended the holding up of feet under the table lest, mistaken forother feet, they should be trodden on and pressed. Also, I should haveadvised against entry into any room unpreceded by what in Stagelandis termed "noise without. " It is somewhat disconcerting to the nervousincomer to be met, the door still in his hand, by a sound as of peoplespringing suddenly into the air, followed by a weird scuttling of feet, and then to discover the occupants sitting stiffly in opposite corners, deeply engaged in book or needlework. But, as I have said, with regardto some households, such precautions might be needless. 

Personally, I fear, I exercised little or no controlling influence uponmy parents in this respect, my intrusions coming soon to be greetedwith: "Oh, it's only Spud, " in a tone of relief, accompanied generallyby the sofa cushion; but of my aunt they stood more in awe. Not that sheever said anything, and, indeed, to do her justice, in her efforts tospare their feelings she erred, if at all, on the side of excess. Never did she move a footstep about the house except to the music ofa sustained and penetrating cough. As my father once remarked, ungratefully, I must confess, the volume of bark produced by my aunt ina single day would have done credit to the dying efforts of a hospitalload of consumptives; to a robust and perfectly healthy lady the cost innervous force must have been prodigious. Also, that no fear should livewith them that her eyes had seen aught not intended for them, she wouldinvariably enter backwards any room in which they might be, closing thedoor loudly and with difficulty before turning round: and through darkpassages she would walk singing. No woman alive could have done more;yet--such is human nature!--neither my father nor my mother was gratefulto her, so far as I could judge. 

Indeed, strange as it may appear, the more sympathetic towards them sheshowed herself, the more irritated against her did they become. 

"I believe, Fanny, you hate seeing Luke and me happy together, " said mymother one day, coming up from the kitchen to find my aunt preparingfor entry into the drawing-room by dropping teaspoons at five-secondintervals outside the door: "Don't make yourself so ridiculous. " Mymother spoke really quite unkindly. 

"Hate it!" replied my aunt. "Why should I? Why shouldn't a pair ofturtle doves bill and coo, when their united age is only a little overseventy, the pretty dears?" The mildness of my aunt's answers oftensurprised me. 

As for my father, he grew positively vindictive. I remember the occasionwell. It was the first, though not the last time I knew him lose histemper. What brought up the subject I forget, but my father stoppedsuddenly; we were walking by the canal bank. 

"Your aunt"--my father may not have intended it, but his tone and mannerwhen speaking of my aunt always conveyed to me the impression that heregarded me as personally responsible for her existence. This used toweigh upon me. "Your aunt is the most cantankerous, the most--" he brokeoff, and shook his fist towards the setting sun. "I wish to God, " saidmy father, "your aunt had a comfortable little income of her own, witha freehold cottage in the country, by God I do!" But the next moment, ashamed, I suppose, of his brutality: "Not but what sometimes, ofcourse, she can be very nice, you know, " he added; "don't tell yourmother what I said just now. "

Another who followed with sympathetic interest the domestic comedy wasSusan, our maid-of-all-work, the first of a long and varied series, extending unto the advent of Amy, to whom the blessing of Heaven. Susanwas a stout and elderly female, liable to sudden fits of sleepiness, theresult, we were given to understand, of trouble; but her heart, it washer own proud boast, was always in the right place. She could never lookat my father and mother sitting anywhere near each other but she mustflop down and weep awhile; the sight of connubial bliss always remindingher, so she would explain, of the past glories of her own married state. 

Though an earnest enquirer, I was never able myself to grasp the insand outs of this past married life of Susan's. Whether her answers werepurposely framed to elude curiosity, or whether they were the result ofa naturally incoherent mind, I cannot say. Their tendency was to conveyconfusion. 

On Monday I have seen Susan shed tears of regret into the Brusselssprouts, that she had been debarred by the pressure of other duties fromlately watering "his" grave, which, I gathered, was at Manor Park. While on Tuesday I have listened, blood chilled, to the recital of herintentions should she ever again enjoy the luxury of getting her fingersnear the scruff of his neck. 

"But, I thought, Susan, he was dead, " was my very natural comment uponthis outbreak. 

"So did I, Master Paul, " was Susan's rejoinder; "that was hisartfulness. "

"Then he isn't buried in Manor Park Cemetery?"

"Not yet; but he'll wish he was, the half-baked monkey, when I get holdof him. "

"Then he wasn't a good man?"

"Who?"

"Your husband. "

"Who says he ain't a good man?" It was Susan's flying leaps from tenseto tense that most bewildered me. "If anybody says he ain't I'll gougetheir eye out!"

I hastened to assure Susan that my observation had been intended in thenature of enquiry, not of assertion. 

"Brings me a bottle of gin--for my headaches--every time he comes home, "continued Susan, showing cause for opinion, "every blessed time. "

And at some such point as this I would retire to the clearer atmosphereof German grammar or mixed fractions. 

We suffered a good deal from Susan one way and another; for havingregard to the admirable position of her heart, we all felt it our dutyto overlook mere failings of the flesh--all but my aunt, that is, whonever made any pretence of being a sentimentalist. 

"She's a lazy hussy, " was the opinion expressed of her one morning by myaunt, who was rinsing; "a gulping, snorting, lazy hussy, that's what sheis. " There was some excuse for my aunt's indignation. It was then eleveno'clock and Susan was still sleeping off an attack of what she called"new-ralgy. "

"She has seen a good deal of trouble, " said my mother, who was wiping. 

"And if she was my cook and housemaid, " replied my aunt, "she would seemore, the slut!"

"She's not a good servant in many respects, " admitted my mother, "but Ithink she's good-hearted. "

"Oh, drat her heart, " was my aunt's retort. "The right place for thatheart of hers is on the doorstep. And that's where I'd put it, and herand her box alongside it, if I had my way. "

The departure of Susan did take place not long afterwards. It occurredone Saturday night. My mother came upstairs looking pale. 

"Luke, " she said, "do please run for the doctor. "

"What's the matter?" asked my father. 

"Susan, " gasped my mother, "she's lying on the kitchen floor breathingin the strangest fashion and quite unable to speak. "

"I'll go for Washburn, " said my father; "if I am quick I shall catch himat the dispensary. "

Five minutes later my father came back panting, followed by the doctor. This was a big, black-bearded man; added to which he had the knack oflooking bigger than even he really was. He came down the kitchen stairstwo at a time, shaking the whole house. He brushed my mother aside, andbent over the unconscious Susan, who was on her back with her mouth wideopen. Then he rose and looked at my father and mother, who were watchinghim with troubled faces; and then he opened his mouth, and there camefrom it a roar of laughter, the like of which sound I had never heard. 

The next moment he had seized a pail half full of water and had flung itover the woman. She opened her eyes and sat up. 

"Feeling better?" said the doctor, with the pail still in his hand;"have another dose?"

Susan began to gather herself together with the evident intention ofexpressing her feelings; but before she could find the first word, hehad pushed the three of us outside and slammed the door behind us. 

From the top of the stairs we could hear Susan's thick, rancorous voiceraging fiercer and fiercer, drowned every now and then by the man'ssavage roar of laughter. And, when for want of breath she would flag fora moment, he would yell out encouragement to her, shouting: "Bravo!Go it, my beauty, give it tongue! Bark, bark! I love to hear you, "applauding her, clapping his hands and stamping his feet. 

"What a beast of a man, " said my mother. 

"He is really a most interesting man when you come to know him, "explained my father. 

Replied my mother, stiffly: "I don't ever mean to know him. " But it isonly concerning the past that we possess knowledge. 

The riot from below ceased at length, and was followed by a new voice, speaking quietly and emphatically, and then we heard the doctor's stepagain upon the stairs. 

My mother held her purse open in her hand, and as the man entered theroom she went forward to meet him. 

"How much do we owe you, Doctor?" said my mother. She spoke in a voicetrembling with severity. 

He closed the purse and gently pushed it back towards her. 

"A glass of beer and a chop, Mrs. Kelver, " he answered, "which I amcoming back in an hour to cook for myself. And as you will be withoutany servant, " he continued, while my mother stood staring at himincapable of utterance, "you had better let me cook some for you at thesame time. I am an expert at grilling chops. "

"But, really, Doctor--" my mother began. He laid his huge hand upon hershoulder, and my mother sat down upon the nearest chair. 

"My dear lady, " he said, "she's a person you never ought to have hadinside your house. She's promised me to be gone in half an hour, andI'm coming back to see she keeps her word. Give her a month's wages, andhave a clear fire ready for me. " And before my mother could reply, hehad slammed the front door. 

"What a very odd sort of a man, " said my mother, recovering herself. 

"He's a character, " said my father; "you might not think it, but he'sworshipped about here. "

"I hardly know what to make of him, " said my mother; "I suppose I hadbetter go out and get some chops;" which she did. 

Susan went, as sober as a judge, on Friday, as the saying is, her greatanxiety being to get out of the house before the doctor returned. Thedoctor himself arrived true to his time, and I lay awake--for no humanbeing ever slept or felt he wanted to sleep while Dr. Washburn wasanywhere near--and listened to the gusts of laughter that sweptcontinually through the house. Even my aunt laughed that supper time, and when the doctor himself laughed it seemed to me that the bed shookunder me. Not liking to be out of it, I did what spoilt little boysand even spoilt little girls sometimes will do under similar stress offeeling, wrapped the blanket round my legs and pattered down, withmy face set to express the sudden desire of a sensitive and possiblyshort-lived child for parents' love. My mother pretended to be angry, but that I knew was only her company manners. Besides, I really had, ifnot exactly a pain, an extremely uncomfortable sensation (one common tome about that period) as of having swallowed the dome of St. Paul's. Thedoctor said it was a frequent complaint with children, the result of tooearly hours and too much study; and, taking me on his knee, wrote thenand there a diet chart for me, which included one tablespoonful ofgolden syrup four times a day, and one ounce of sherbet to be placedupon the tongue and taken neat ten minutes before each meal. 

That evening will always live in my remembrance. My mother was brighterthan I had ever seen her. A flush was on her cheek and a sparkle in hereye, and looking across at her as she sat holding a small painted screento shield her face from the fire, the sense of beauty became suddenlyborn within me, and answering an impulse I could not have explained, Islipped down, still with my blanket around me, from the doctor's knee, and squatted on the edge of the fender, from where, when I thought noone was noticing me, I could steal furtive glances up into her face. 

So also my father seemed to me to have become all at once bigger andmore dignified, talking with a vigour and an enjoyment that sat newly onhim. Aunt Fan was quite witty and agreeable--for her; and even I askedone or two questions, at which, for some reason or another, everybodylaughed; which determined me to remember and ask those same questionsagain on some future occasion. 

That was the great charm of the man, that by the magnetic spell of hismagnificent vitality he drew from everyone their best. In his companyclever people waxed intellectual giants, while the dull sat amazed attheir own originality. Conversing with him, Podsnap might have beenpiquant, Dogberry incisive. But better than all else, I found itlistening to his own talk. Of what he spoke I could tell you no morethan could the children of Hamelin have told the tune the Pied Piperplayed. I only know that at the tangled music of his strong voicethe walls of the mean room faded away, and that beyond I saw a brave, laughing world that called to me; a world full of joyous fight, wheresome won and some lost. But that mattered not a jot, because whateverelse came of it there was a right royal game for all; a world wheremerry gentlemen feared neither life nor death, and Fate was but theMaster of the Revels. 

Such was my first introduction to Dr. Washburn, or to give him thename by which he was known in every slum and alley of that quarter, Dr. Fighting Hal; and in a minor key that evening was an index to the wholeman. Often he would wrinkle his nose as a dog before it bites, and thenhe was more brute than man--brutish in his instincts, in his appetites, brutish in his pleasure, brutish in his fun. Or his deep blue eyes wouldgrow soft as a mother's, and then you might have thought him an angelin a soft felt hat and a coat so loose-fitting as to suggest thepossibility of his wings being folded away underneath. Often have Itried to make up my mind whether it has been better for me or worse thatI ever came to know him; but as easy would it be for the tree tosay whether the rushing winds and the wild rains have shaped it ormis-shaped. 

Susan's place remained vacant for some time. My mother would explainto the few friends who occasionally came from afar to see us, that her"housemaid" she had been compelled to suddenly discharge, and thatwe were waiting for the arrival of a new and better specimen. But themonths passed and we still waited, and my father on the rare days whena client would ring the office bell, would, after pausing a decentinterval, open the front door himself, and then call downstairsindignantly and loudly, to know why "Jane" or "Mary" could not attend totheir work. And my mother, that the bread-boy or the milkman might notput it about the neighbourhood that the Kelvers in the big corner housekept no servant, would hide herself behind a thick veil and fetch allthings herself from streets a long way off. 

For this family of whom I am writing were, I confess, weak and human. Their poverty they were ashamed of as though it were a crime, and inconsequence their life was more full of paltry and useless subterfugethan should be perhaps the life of brave men and women. The larder, I fancy, was very often bare, but the port and sherry with the sweetbiscuits stood always on the sideboard; and the fire had often to be lowin the grate that my father's tall hat might shine resplendent and mymother's black silk rustle on Sundays. 

But I would not have you sneer at them, thinking all pretence mustspring from snobbishness and never from mistaken self-respect. Some finegentleman writers there be--men whose world is bounded on the east byBond Street--who see in the struggles of poverty to hide its darns onlymatter for jest. But myself, I cannot laugh at them. I know the longhopes and fears that centre round the hired waiter; the long cost of thecream and the ice jelly ordered the week before from the confectioner's. But to me it is pathetic, not ridiculous. Heroism is not all of onepattern. Dr. Washburn, had the Prince of Wales come to see him, wouldhave put his bread and cheese and jug of beer upon the table, and helpedHis Royal Highness to half. But my father and mother's tea was very weakthat Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith might have a glass of wine should they cometo dinner. I remember the one egg for breakfast, my mother arguing thatmy father should have it because he had his business to attend to; myfather insisting that my mother should eat it, she having to go outshopping, a compromise being effected by their dividing it between them, each clamouring for the white as the most nourishing. And I know howeverlittle the meal looked upon the table when we started I always rose wellsatisfied. These are small things to speak of, but then you must bear inmind this is a story moving in narrow ways. 

To me this life came as a good time. That I was encouraged to eattreacle in preference to butter seemed to me admirable. Personally, Ipreferred sausages for dinner; and a supper of fried fish and potatoes, brought in stealthily in a carpet bag, was infinitely more enjoyablethan the set meal where nothing was of interest till one came to thedessert. What fun there was about it all! The cleaning of the doorstepby night, when from the ill-lit street a gentleman with a pieceof sacking round his legs might very well pass for a somewhat tallcharwoman. I would keep watch at the gate to give warning should anyone looking like a possible late caller turn the corner of the street, coming back now and then in answer to a low whistle to help my fathergrope about in the dark for the hearthstone; he was always mislayingthe hearthstone. How much better, helping to clean the knives or runningerrands than wasting all one's morning dwelling upon the shockingirregularity of certain classes of French verbs; or making uselesscalculations as to how long X, walking four and a quarter miles an hour, would be overtaking Y, whose powers were limited to three and a half, but who had started two and three quarter hours sooner; the wholeargument being reduced to sheer pedantry by reason of no informationbeing afforded to the student concerning the respective thirstiness of Xand Y. 

Even my father and mother were able to take it lightly with plenty oflaughter and no groaning that I ever heard. For over all lay the morninglight of hope, and what prisoner, escaping from his dungeon, ever stayedto think of his torn hands and knees when beyond the distant opening hecould see the sunlight glinting through the brambles?

"I had no idea, " said my mother, "there was so much to do in a house. In future I shall arrange for the servants to have regular hours, and alittle time to themselves, for rest. Don't you think it right, Luke?"

"Quite right, " replied my father; "and I'll tell you another thing we'lldo. I shall insist on the landlord's putting a marble doorstep to thenext house we take; you pass a sponge over marble and it is alwaysclean. "

"Or tesselated, " suggested my mother. 

"Or tesselated, " agreed my father; "but marble is more uncommon. "

Only once, can I recall a cloud. That was one Sunday when my mother, speaking across the table in the middle of dinner, said to my father, "We might save the rest of that stew, Luke; there's an omelette coming. "

My father laid down the spoon. "An omelette!"

"Yes, " said my mother. "I thought I would like to try again. "

My father stepped into the back kitchen--we dined in the kitchen, as arule, it saved much carriage--returning with the wood chopper. 

"What ever are you going to do, Luke, with the chopper?" said my mother. 

"Divide the omelette, " replied my father. 

My mother began to cry. 

"Why, Maggie--!" said my father. 

"I know the other one was leathery, " said my mother, "but it was thefault of the oven, you know it was, Luke. "

"My dear, " said my father, "I only meant it as a joke. "

"I don't like that sort of joke, " said my mother; "it isn't nice of you, Luke. "

I don't think, to be candid, my mother liked much any joke that wasagainst herself. Indeed, when I come to think of it, I have never met awoman who did, nor man, either. 

There had soon grown up a comradeship between my father and myself forhe was the youngest thing I had met with as yet. Sometimes my motherseemed very young, and later I met boys and girls nearer to my own agein years; but they grew, while my father remained always the same. Thehair about his temples was turning grey, and when you looked close yousaw many crow's feet and lines, especially about the mouth. But his eyeswere the eyes of a boy, his laugh the laugh of a boy, and his heart theheart of a boy. So we were very close to each other. 

In a narrow strip of ground we called our garden we would play a cricketof our own, encompassed about by many novel rules, rendered necessary bythe locality. For instance, all hitting to leg was forbidden, as tendingto endanger neighbouring windows, while hitting to off was likewise notto be encouraged, as causing a temporary adjournment of the game, whilebatter and bowler went through the house and out into the street torecover the ball from some predatory crowd of urchins to whom it hadevidently appeared as a gift direct from Heaven. Sometimes rising veryearly we would walk across the marshes to bathe in a small creek thatled down to the river, but this was muddy work, necessitating muchwashing of legs on the return home. And on rare days we would, takingthe train to Hackney and walking to the bridge, row up the river Lea, perhaps as far as Ponder's End. 

But these sports being hedged around with difficulties, more commonlyfor recreation we would take long walks. There were pleasant nooks evenin the neighbourhood of Plaistow marshes in those days. Here and therea graceful elm still clung to the troubled soil. Surrounded on all sidesby hideousness, picturesque inns still remained hidden within greenwalls where, if you were careful not to pry too curiously, you mightsit and sip your glass of beer beneath the oak and dream yourself wherereeking chimneys and mean streets were not. During such walks my fatherwould talk to me as he would talk to my mother, telling me all his wild, hopeful plans, discussing with me how I was to lodge at Oxford, to whatparticular branches of study and of sport I was to give my preference, speaking always with such catching confidence that I came to regard mysojourn in this brick and mortar prison as only a question of months. 

One day, talking of this future, and laughing as we walked briskly. Through the shrill streets, I told him the words my mother hadsaid--long ago, as it seemed to me, for life is as a stone rollingdown-hill, and moves but slowly at first; she and I sitting on the mossat the foot of old "Jacob's Folly"--that he was our Prince fightingto deliver us from the grim castle called "Hard Times, " guarded by thedragon Poverty. 

My father laughed and his boyish face flushed with pleasure. 

"And she was right, Paul, " he whispered, pressing my small hand inhis--it was necessary to whisper, for the street where we were was verycrowded, but I knew that he wanted to shout. "I will fight him and Iwill slay him. " My father made passes in the air with his walking-stick, and it was evident from the way they drew aside that the people roundabout fancied he was mad. "I will batter down the iron gates and sheshall be free. I will, God help me, I will. "

The gallant gentleman! How long and how bravely he fought! But in theend it was the Dragon triumphed, the Knight that lay upon the ground, his great heart still. I have read how, with the sword of HonestIndustry, one may always conquer this grim Dragon. But such was infoolish books. In truth, only with the sword of Chicanery and the stoutbuckler of Unscrupulousness shall you be certain of victory over him. Ifyou care not to use these, pray to your Gods, and take what comes with astout heart. 

CHAPTER III. 

HOW GOOD LUCK KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE MAN IN GREY. 

"Louisa!" roared my father down the kitchen stairs, "are you all asleep?Here have I had to answer the front door myself. " Then my father strodeinto his office, and the door slammed. My father could be very angrywhen nobody was by. 

Quarter of an hour later his bell rang with a quick, authoritativejangle. My mother, who was peeling potatoes with difficulty inwash-leather gloves, looked at my aunt who was shelling peas. The bellrang again louder still this time. 

"Once for Louisa, twice for James, isn't it?" enquired my aunt. 

"You go, Paul, " said my mother; "say that Louisa--" but with the words asudden flush overspread my mother's face, and before I could lay downmy slate she had drawn off her gloves and had passed me. "No, don't stopyour lessons, I'll go myself, " she said, and ran out. 

A few minutes later the kitchen door opened softly, and my mother'shand, appearing through the jar, beckoned to me mysteriously. 

"Walk on your toes, " whispered my mother, setting the example as sheled the way up the stairs; which after the manner of stairs showed theirdisapproval of deception by creaking louder and more often than underany other circumstances; and in this manner we reached my parents'bedroom, where, in the old-fashioned wardrobe, relic of better days, reposed my best suit of clothes, or, to be strictly grammatical, mybetter. 

Never before had I worn these on a week-day morning, but allconversation not germane to the question of getting into them quicklymy mother swept aside; and when I was complete, down even to the newshoes--Bluchers, we called them in those days--took me by the hand, andtogether we crept down as we had crept up, silent, stealthy and alert. My mother led me to the street door and opened it. 

"Shan't I want my cap?" I whispered. But my mother only shook herhead and closed the door with a bang; and then the explanation of thepantomime came to me, for with such "business"--comic, shall I callit, or tragic?--I was becoming familiar; and, my mother's hand upon myshoulder, we entered my father's office. 

Whether from the fact that so often of an evening--our drawing-roombeing reserved always as a show-room in case of chance visitors;Cowper's poems, open face-downwards on the wobbly loo table; thehalf-finished crochet work, suggestive of elegant leisure, throwncarelessly over the arm of the smaller easy-chair--this office wouldbecome our sitting-room, its books and papers, as things of no account, being huddled out of sight; or whether from the readiness with which myfather would come out of it at all times to play at something else--atcricket in the back garden on dry days or ninepins in the passage onwet, charging back into it again whenever a knock sounded at the frontdoor, I cannot say. But I know that as a child it never occurred tome to regard my father's profession as a serious affair. To me he wasmerely playing there, surrounded by big books and bundles of documents, labelled profusely but consisting only of blank papers; by japannedtin boxes, lettered imposingly, but for the most part empty. "SuttonHampden, Esq. , " I remember was practically my mother's work-box. The"Drayton Estates" yielded apparently nothing but apples, a fruit ofwhich my father was fond; while "Mortgages" it was not until later inlife I discovered had no connection with poems in manuscript, some incourse of correction, others completed. 

Now, as the door opened, he rose and came towards us. His hair stood upfrom his head, for it was a habit of his to rumple it as he talked; andthis added to his evident efforts to compose his face into an expressionof businesslike gravity, added emphasis, if such were needed, to thesuggestion of the over long schoolboy making believe. 

"This is the youngster, " said my father, taking me from my mother, andpassing me on. "Tall for his age, isn't he?"

With a twist of his thick lips, he rolled the evil-smelling cigar he wassmoking from the left corner of his mouth to the right; and held out afat and not too clean hand, which, as it closed round mine, brought tomy mind the picture of the walrus in my natural history book; with theother he flapped me kindly on the head. 

"Like 'is mother, wonderfully like 'is mother, ain't 'e?" he observed, still holding my hand. "And that, " he added with a wink of one of hissmall eyes towards my father, "is about the 'ighest compliment I can pay'im, eh?"

His eyes were remarkably small, but marvellously bright and piercing; somuch so that when he turned them again upon me I tried to think quicklyof something nice about him, feeling sure that he could see right intome. 

"And where are you thinkin' of sendin' 'im?" he continued; "Eton or'Arrow?"

"We haven't quite made up our minds as yet, " replied my father; "atpresent we are educating him at home. "

"You take my tip, " said the fat man, "and learn all you can. Look atme! If I'd 'ad the opportunity of being a schollard I wouldn't be hereoffering your father an extravagant price for doin' my work; I'd be ableto do it myself. "

"You seem to have got on very well without it, " laughed my father;and in truth his air of prosperity might have justified greaterself-complacency. Rings sparkled on his blunt fingers, and upon theswelling billows of his waistcoat rose and sank a massive gold cable. 

"I'd 'ave done better with it, " he grunted. 

"But you look very clever, " I said; and though divining with a child'scuteness that it was desired I should make a favourable impression uponhim, I hoped this would please him, the words were yet spontaneous. 

He laughed heartily, his whole body shaking like some huge jelly. 

"Well, old Noel Hasluck's not exactly a fool, " he assented, "but I'dlike myself better if I could talk about something else than business, and didn't drop my aitches. And so would my little gell. "

"You have a daughter?" asked my mother, with whom a child, as a bondof sympathy with the stranger took the place assigned by most women todisrespectful cooks and incompetent housemaids. 

"I won't tell you about 'er. But I'll just bring 'er to see you now andthen, ma'am, if you don't mind, " answered Mr. Hasluck. "She don't oftenmeet gentle-folks, an' it'll do 'er good. "

My mother glanced across at my father, but the man, intercepting herquestion, replied to it himself. 

"You needn't be afraid, ma'am, that she's anything like me, " he assuredher quite good-temperedly; "nobody ever believes she's my daughter, except me and the old woman. She's a little lady, she is. Freak o'nature, I call it. "

"We shall be delighted, " explained my mother. 

"Well, you will when you see 'er, " replied Mr. Hasluck, quitecontentedly. 

He pushed half-a-crown into my hand, overriding my parents'susceptibilities with the easy good-temper of a man accustomed to havehis way in all things. 

"No squanderin' it on the 'eathen, " was his parting injunction as I leftthe room; "you spend that on a Christian tradesman. "

It was the first money I ever remember having to spend, that half-crownof old Hasluck's; suggestions of the delights to be derived from a newpair of gloves for Sunday, from a Latin grammar, which would then be allmy own, and so on, having hitherto displaced all less exalted visionsconcerning the disposal of chance coins coming into my small hands. Buton this occasion I was left free to decide for myself. 

The anxiety it gave me! the long tossing hours in bed! the tramping ofthe bewildering streets! Even advice when asked for was denied me. 

"You must learn to think for yourself, " said my father, who spokeeloquently on the necessity of early acquiring sound judgment and whathe called "commercial aptitude. "

"No, dear, " said my mother, "Mr. Hasluck wanted you to spend it as youlike. If I told you, that would be spending it as I liked. Your fatherand I want to see what you will do with it. "

The good little boys in the books bought presents or gave away to peoplein distress. For this I hated them with the malignity the lower natureever feels towards the higher. I consulted my aunt Fan. 

"If somebody gave you half-a-crown, " I put it to her, "what would youbuy with it?"

"Side-combs, " said my aunt; she was always losing or breaking herside-combs. 

"But I mean if you were me, " I explained. 

"Drat the child!" said my aunt; "how do I know what he wants if he don'tknow himself. Idiot!"

The shop windows into which I stared, my nose glued to the pane! Thethings I asked the price of! The things I made up my mind to buy andthen decided that I wouldn't buy! Even my patient mother began to showsigns of irritation. It was rapidly assuming the dimensions of a familycurse, was old Hasluck's half-crown. 

Then one day I made up my mind, and so ended the trouble. In the windowof a small plumber's shop in a back street near, stood on view amongbrass taps, rolls of lead piping and cistern requisites, various squaresof coloured glass, the sort of thing chiefly used, I believe, forlavatory doors and staircase windows. Some had stars in the centre, and others, more elaborate, were enriched with designs, severe butinoffensive. I purchased a dozen of these, the plumber, an affableman who appeared glad to see me, throwing in two extra out of sheergenerosity. 

Why I bought them I did not know at the time, and I do not know now. My mother cried when she saw them. My father could get no further than:"But what are you going to do with them?" to which I was unable toreply. My aunt, alone, attempted comfort. 

"If a person fancies coloured glass, " said my aunt, "then he's a foolnot to buy coloured glass when he gets the chance. We haven't all thesame tastes. "

In the end, I cut myself badly with them and consented to their beingthrown into the dust-bin. But looking back, I have come to regard myselfrather as the victim of Fate than of Folly. Many folks have I met since, recipients of Hasluck's half-crowns--many a man who has slapped hispocket and blessed the day he first met that "Napoleon of Finance, "as later he came to be known among his friends--but it ever ended so;coloured glass and cut fingers. Is it fairy gold that he and his kindfling round? It would seem to be. 

Next time old Hasluck knocked at our front door a maid in cap and apronopened it to him, and this was but the beginning of change. New oilclothglistened in the passage. Lace curtains, such as in that neighbourhoodwere the hall-mark of the plutocrat, advertised our rising fortunes tothe street, and greatest marvel of all, at least to my awed eyes, myfather's Sunday clothes came into weekday wear, new ones taking theirplace in the great wardrobe that hitherto had been the stronghold ofour gentility; to which we had ever turned for comfort when rendereddespondent by contemplation of the weakness of our outer walls. "Seeingthat everything was all right" is how my mother would explain it. Shewould lay the lilac silk upon the bed, fondly soothing down its rustlingundulations, lingering lovingly over its deep frosted flounces of richHoniton. Maybe she had entered the room weary looking and depressed, butsoon there would proceed from her a gentle humming as from some smallwinged thing when the sun first touches it and warms it, and sometimesby the time the Indian shawl, which could go through a wedding ring, butnever would when it was wanted to, had been refolded and fastened againwith the great cameo brooch, and the poke bonnet, like some fractiouschild, shaken and petted into good condition, she would be singingsoftly to herself, nodding her head to the words: which were generallyto the effect that somebody was too old and somebody else too bold andanother too cold, "so he wouldn't do for me;" and stepping lightly asthough the burden of the years had fallen from her. 

One evening--it was before the advent of this Hasluck--I rememberclimbing out of bed, for trouble was within me. Creatures, indescribablebut heavy, had sat upon my chest, after which I had fallen downstairs, slowly and reasonably for the first few hundred flights, then with hastefor the next million miles or so, until I found myself in the streetwith nothing on but my nightshirt. Personally, I was shocked, but nobodyelse seemed to mind, and I hailed a two-penny 'bus and climbed in. Butwhen I tried to pay I found I hadn't any pockets, so I jumped out andran away and the conductor came after me. My feet were like lead, andwith every step he gained on me, till with a scream I made one mightyeffort and awoke. 

Feeling the need of comfort after these unpleasant but by no meansunfamiliar experiences, I wrapped some clothes round me and creptdownstairs. The "office" was dark, but to my surprise a light shone fromunder the drawing-room door, and I opened it. 

The candles in the silver candlesticks were lighted, and in state, one in each easy-chair, sat my father and mother, both in their bestclothes; my father in the buckled shoes and the frilled shirt that I hadnever seen him wear before, my mother with the Indian shawl about hershoulders, and upon her head the cap of ceremony that reposed threehundred and sixty days out of the year in its round wicker-work nestlined with silk. They started guiltily as I pushed open the door, but Icongratulate myself that I had sense enough--or was it instinct--to askno questions. 

The last time I had seen them, three hours ago, they had been engaged, the lights carefully extinguished, cleaning the ground floor windows, my father the outside, my mother within, and it astonished me the changenot only in their appearance, but in their manner and bearing, and evenin their very voices. My father brought over from the sideboard thesherry and sweet biscuits and poured out and handed a glass to mymother, and he and my mother drank to each other, while I between themate the biscuits, and the conversation was of Byron's poems and thegreat glass palace in Hyde Park. 

I wonder am I disloyal setting this down? Maybe to others it shows buta foolish man and woman, and that is far from my intention. I dwellupon such trifles because to me the memory of them is very tender. Thevirtues of our loved ones we admire, yet after all 'tis but what weexpected of them: how could they do otherwise? Their failings we wouldforget; no one of us is perfect. But over their follies we love tolinger, smiling. 

To me personally, old Hasluck's coming and all that followed thereuponmade perhaps more difference than to any one else. My father now wasbusy all the day; if not in his office, then away in the grim city ofthe giants, as I still thought of it; while to my mother came every daymore social and domestic duties; so that for a time I was left much tomy own resources. 

Rambling--"bummelling, " as the Germans term it--was my bent. This mymother would have checked, but my father said:

"Don't molly-coddle him. Let him learn to be smart. "

"I don't think the smart people are always the nicest, " demurred mymother. "I don't call you at all 'smart, ' Luke. "

My father appeared surprised, but reflected. 

"I should call myself smart--in a sense, " he explained, afterconsideration. 

"Perhaps you are right, dear, " replied my mother; "and of course boysare different from girls. "

Sometimes I would wander Victoria Park way, which was then surrounded bymany small cottages in leafy gardens; or even reach as far as Clapton, where old red brick Georgian houses still stood behind high palings, andtall elms gave to the wide road on sunny afternoons an old-world air ofpeace. But such excursions were the exception, for strange though it mayread, the narrow, squalid streets had greater hold on me. Not the fewmain thoroughfares, filled ever with a dull, deep throbbing as of sometireless iron machine; where the endless human files, streaming ever upand down, crossing and recrossing, seemed mere rushing chains of fleshand blood, working upon unseen wheels; but the dim, weary, lifelessstreets--the dark, tortuous roots, as I fancied them, of that grimforest of entangled brick. Mystery lurked in their gloom. Fear whisperedfrom behind their silence. Dumb figures flitted swiftly to and fro, never pausing, never glancing right nor left. Far-off footsteps, risingswiftly into sound, as swiftly fading, echoed round their lonely comers. Dreading, yet drawn on, I would creep along their pavements as throughsome city of the dead, thinking of the eyes I saw not watching from thethousand windows; starting at each muffled sound penetrating the long, dreary walls, behind which that close-packed, writhing life lay hid. 

One day there came a cry from behind a curtained window. I stood stillfor a moment and then ran; but before I could get far enough away Iheard it again, a long, piercing cry, growing fiercer before it ceased;so that I ran faster still, not heeding where I went, till I foundmyself in a raw, unfinished street, ending in black waste land, bordering the river. I stopped, panting, wondering how I should findmy way again. To recover myself and think I sat upon the doorstep ofan empty house, and there came dancing down the road with a curious, half-running, half-hopping step--something like a water wagtail's--achild, a boy about my own age, who, after eyeing me strangely sat downbeside me. 

We watched each other for a few minutes; and I noticed that his mouthkept opening and shutting, though he said nothing. Suddenly, edgingcloser to me, he spoke in a thick whisper. It sounded as though hismouth were full of wool. 

"Wot 'appens to yer when yer dead?"

"If you're good you go to Heaven. If you're bad you go to Hell. "

"Long way off, both of 'em, ain't they?"

"Yes. Millions of miles. "

"They can't come after yer? Can't fetch yer back again?"

"No, never. "

The doorstep that we occupied was the last. A yard beyond began theblack waste of mud. From the other end of the street, now growing dark, he never took his staring eyes for an instant. 

"Ever seen a stiff 'un--a dead 'un?"

"No. "

"I 'ave--stuck a pin into 'im. 'E never felt it. Don't feel anythingwhen yer dead, do yer?"

All the while he kept swaying his body to and fro, twisting his armsand legs, and making faces. Comical figures made of ginger-bread, withquaintly curved limbs and grinning features, were to be bought then inbakers' shops: he made me hungry, reminding me of such. 

"Of course not. When you are dead you're not there, you know. Our bodiesare but senseless clay. " I was glad I remembered that line. I tried tothink of the next one, which was about food for worms; but it evaded me. 

"I like you, " he said; and making a fist, he gave me a punch inthe chest. It was the token of palship among the youth of thatneighbourhood, and gravely I returned it, meaning it, for friendshipwith children is an affair of the instant, or not at all, and I knew himfor my first chum. 

He wormed himself up. 

"Yer won't tell?" he said. 

I had no notion what I was not to tell, but our compact demanded that Ishould agree. 

"Say 'I swear. '"

"I swear. "

The heroes of my favourite fiction bound themselves by such like secretoaths. Here evidently was a comrade after my own heart. 

"Good-bye, cockey. "

But he turned again, and taking from his pocket an old knife, thrust itinto my hand. Then with that extraordinary hopping movement of his ranoff across the mud. 

I stood watching him, wondering where he could be going. He stumbleda little further, where the mud began to get softer and deeper, butstruggling up again, went hopping on towards the river. 

I shouted to him, but he never looked back. At every few yards he wouldsink down almost to his knees in the black mud, but wrenching himselffree would flounder forward. Then, still some distance from the river, he fell upon his face, and did not rise again. I saw his arms beatingfeebler and feebler as he sank till at last the oily slime closed overhim, and I could detect nothing but a faint heaving underneath the mud. And after a time even that ceased. 

It was late before I reached home, and fortunately my father and motherwere still out. I did not tell any one what I had seen, having sworn notto; and as time went on the incident haunted me less and less untilit became subservient to my will. But of my fancy for those silent, lifeless streets it cured me for the time. From behind their still wallsI would hear that long cry; down their narrow vistas see that writhingfigure, like some animated ginger-bread, hopping, springing, falling. 

Yet in the more crowded streets another trouble awaited me, one moretangible. 

Have you ever noticed a pack of sparrows round some crumbs perchancethat you have thrown out from your window? Suddenly the rest of theflock will set upon one. There is a tremendous Lilliputian hubbub, a tossing of tiny wings and heads, a babel of shrill chirps. It iscomical. 

"Spiteful little imps they are, " you say to yourself, much amused. 

So I have heard good-tempered men and women calling out to one anotherwith a laugh. 

"There go those young devils chivvying that poor little beggar again;ought to be ashamed of theirselves. "

But, oh! the anguish of the poor little beggar! Can any one who has notbeen through it imagine it! Reduced to its actualities, what was it?Gibes and jeers that, after all, break no bones. A few pinches, kicks and slaps; at worst a few hard knocks. But the dreading of itbeforehand! Terror lived in every street, hid, waiting for me, roundeach corner. The half-dozen wrangling over their marbles--had they seenme? The boy whistling as he stood staring into the print shop, would Iget past him without his noticing me; or would he, swinging round uponhis heel, raise the shrill whoop that brought them from every doorway tohunt me?

The shame, when caught at last and cornered: the grinning face thatwould stop to watch; the careless jokes of passers-by, regarding thewhole thing but as a sparrows' squabble: worst of all, perhaps, the rarepity! The after humiliation when, finally released, I would dart away, followed by shouted taunts and laughter; every eye turned to watch me, shrinking by; my whole small carcass shaking with dry sobs of bitternessand rage!

If only I could have turned and faced them! So far as the mere bearingof pain was concerned, I knew myself brave. The physical sufferingresulting from any number of stand-up fights would have been trivialcompared with the mental agony I endured. That I, the comrade of ahundred heroes--I, who nightly rode with Richard Coeur de Lion, who against Sir Lancelot himself had couched a lance, and that notaltogether unsuccessful, I to whom all damsels in distress were wont tolook for succour--that I should run from varlets such as these!

My friend, my bosom friend, good Robin Hood! how would he have behavedunder similar circumstances? how Ivanhoe, my chosen companion in allquests of knightly enterprise? how--to come to modern times--JackHarkaway, mere schoolboy though he might be? Would not one and allhave welcomed such incident with a joyous shout, and in a trice havescattered to the winds the worthless herd?

But, alas! upon my pale lips the joyous shout sank into an unheardwhisper, and the thing that became scattered to the wind was myself, thefirst opening that occurred. 

Sometimes, the blood boiling in my veins, I would turn, thinking to goback and at all risk defying my tormentors, prove to myself I was nocoward. But before I had retraced my steps a dozen paces, I would seein imagination the whole scene again before me: the laughing crowd, the halting passers-by, the spiteful, mocking little faces every way Iturned; and so instead would creep on home, and climbing stealthily upinto my own room, cry my heart out in the dark upon my bed. 

Until one blessed day, when a blessed Fairy, in the form of a smallkitten, lifted the spell that bound me, and set free my limbs. 

I have always had a passionate affection for the dumb world, if it bedumb. My first playmate, I remember, was a water rat. A stream ran atthe bottom of our garden; and sometimes, escaping the vigilant eye ofMrs. Fursey, I would steal out with my supper and join him on the banks. There, hidden behind the osiers, we would play at banquets, he, it istrue, doing most of the banqueting, and I the make-believe. But it wasa good game; added to which it was the only game I could ever get him toplay, though I tried. He was a one-ideaed rat. 

Later I came into the possession of a white specimen all my own. Helived chiefly in the outside breast pocket of my jacket, in company withmy handkerchief, so that glancing down I could generally see his littlepink eyes gleaming up at me, except on very cold days, when it would beonly his tail that I could see; and when I felt miserable, somehow hewould know it, and, swarming up, push his little cold snout againstmy ear. He died just so, clinging round my neck; and from many of myfellow-men and women have I parted with less pain. It sounds callous tosay so; but, after all, our feelings are not under our own control; andI have never been able to understand the use of pretending to emotionsone has not. All this, however, comes later. Let me return now to myfairy kitten. 

I heard its cry of pain from afar, and instinctively hastened my steps. Three or four times I heard it again, and at each call I ran faster, till, breathless, I arrived upon the scene, the opening of a narrowcourt, leading out of a by-street. At first I saw nothing but the backsof a small mob of urchins. Then from the centre of them came anotherwailing appeal for help, and without waiting for any invitation, Ipushed my way into the group. 

What I saw was Hecuba to me--gave me the motive and the cue for passion, transformed me from the dull and muddy-mettled little John-a-dreams Ihad been into a small, blind Fury. Pale Thought, that mental emetic, banished from my system, I became the healthy, unreasoning animal, andacted as such. 

From my methods, I frankly admit, science was absent. In simple, primitive fashion that would have charmed a Darwinian disciple toobserve, I "went for" the whole crowd. To employ the expressive idiom ofthe neighbourhood, I was "all over it and inside. " Something clung aboutmy feet. By kicking myself free and then standing on it I gained theadvantage of quite an extra foot in height; I don't know what it was anddidn't care. I fought with my arms and I fought with my legs; where Icould get in with my head I did. I fought whatever came to hand ina spirit of simple thankfulness, grateful for what I could reach andindifferent to what was beyond me. 

That the "show"--if again I may be permitted the local idiom--was notentirely mine I was well aware. That not alone my person but my propertyalso was being damaged in the rear became dimly conveyed to me throughthe sensation of draught. Already the world to the left of me was merepicturesque perspective, while the growing importance of my nose wasthreatening the absorption of all my other features. These things didnot trouble me. I merely noted them as phenomena and continued to punchsteadily. 

Until I found that I was punching something soft and yet unyielding. I looked up to see what this foreign matter that thus mysteriously hadentered into the mixture might be, and discovered it to be a policeman. Still I did not care. The felon's dock! the prison cell! a fig for suchmere bogies. An impudent word, an insulting look, and I would have gonefor the Law itself. Pale Thought--it must have been a livid green bythis time--still trembled at respectful distance from me. 

Fortunately for all of us, he was not impertinent, and though he spokethe language of his order, his tone disarmed offence. 

"Now, then. Now, then. What is all this about?"

There was no need for me to answer. A dozen voluble tongues were readyto explain to him; and to explain wholly in my favour. This time thecrowd was with me. Let a man school himself to bear dispraise, forthereby alone shall he call his soul his own. But let no man lie, sayinghe is indifferent to popular opinion. That was my first taste of publicapplause. The public was not select, and the applause might, by thesticklers for English pure and undefiled, have been deemed ill-worded, but to me it was the sweetest music I had ever heard, or have heardsince. I was called a "plucky little devil, " a "fair 'ot 'un, " not onlya "good 'un, " but a "good 'un" preceded by the adjective that inthe East bestows upon its principal every admirable quality that canpossibly apply. Under the circumstances it likewise fitted me literally;but I knew it was intended rather in its complimentary sense. 

Kind, if dirty, hands wiped my face. A neighbouring butcher presented mewith a choice morsel of steak, not to eat but to wear; and I found it, if I may so express myself without infringing copyright, "grateful andcomforting. " My enemies had long since scooted, some of them, I hadrejoiced to notice, with lame and halting steps. The mutilated kittenhad been restored to its owner, a lady of ample bosom, who, carriedbeyond judgment by emotion, publicly offered to adopt me on the spot. The Law suggested, not for the first time, that everybody should nowmove on; and slowly, followed by feminine commendation mingled withmasculine advice as to improved methods for the future, I was allowed todrift away. 

My bones ached, my flesh stung me, yet I walked as upon air. GraduallyI became conscious that I was not alone. A light, pattering step wastrying to keep pace with me. Graciously I slacked my speed, and thepattering step settled down beside me. Every now and again she would runahead and then turn round to look up into my face, much as your smalldog does when he happens not to be misbehaving himself and desires youto note the fact. Evidently she approved of me. I was not at my best, as far as appearance was concerned, but women are kittle cattle, andI think she preferred me so. Thus we walked for quite a long distancewithout speaking, I drinking in the tribute of her worship and enjoyingit. Then gaining confidence, she shyly put her hand into mine, andfinding I did not repel her, promptly assumed possession of me, according to woman's way. 

For her age and station she must have been a person of means, for havingtried in vain various methods to make me more acceptable to followersand such as having passed would turn their heads, she said:

"I know, gelatines;" and disappearing into a sweetstuff shop, returnedwith quite a quantity. With these, first sucked till glutinous, wejoined my many tatters. I still attracted attention, but felt warmer. 

She informed me that her name was Cissy, and that her father's shop wasin Three Colt Street. I informed her that my name was Paul, and thatmy father was a lawyer. I also pointed out to her that a lawyer is muchsuperior in social position to a shopkeeper, which she acknowledgedcheerfully. We parted at the corner of the Stainsby Road, and I let herkiss me once. It was understood that in the Stainsby Road we might meetagain. 

I left Eliza gaping after me, the front door in her hand, and ranstraight up into my own room. Robinson Crusoe, King Arthur, The Last ofthe Barons, Rob Roy! I looked them all in the face and was not ashamed. I also was a gentleman. 

My mother was much troubled when she saw me, but my father, hearing thestory, approved. 

"But he looks so awful, " said my mother. "In this world, " said myfather, "one must occasionally be aggressive--if necessary, brutal. "

My father would at times be quite savage in his sentiments. 

CHAPTER IV. 

PAUL, FALLING IN WITH A GOODLY COMPANY OF PILGRIMS, LEARNS OF THEM THEROAD THAT HE MUST TRAVEL. AND MEETS THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS. 

The East India Dock Road is nowadays a busy, crowded thoroughfare. Thejingle of the tram-bell and the rattle of the omnibus and cart minglecontinuously with the rain of many feet, beating ceaselessly upon itspavements. But at the time of which I write it was an empty, voicelessway, bounded on the one side by the long, echoing wall of the docks andon the other by occasional small houses isolated amid market gardens, drying grounds and rubbish heaps. Only one thing remains--or did remainlast time I passed along it, connecting it with its former self--andthat is the one-storeyed brick cottage at the commencement of thebridge, and which was formerly the toll-house. I remember thistoll-house so well because it was there that my childhood fell from me, and sad and frightened I saw the world beyond. 

I cannot explain it better. I had been that afternoon to Plaistow on avisit to the family dentist. It was an out-of-the-way place in which tokeep him, but there existed advantages of a counterbalancing nature. 

"Have the half-crown in your hand, " my mother would direct me, whilemaking herself sure that the purse containing it was safe at the bottomof my knickerbocker pocket; "but of course if he won't take it, why, youmust bring it home again. "

I am not sure, but I think he was some distant connection of ours; atall events, I know he was a kind friend. I, seated in the velvet chairof state, he would unroll his case of instruments before me, and ask meto choose, recommending with affectionate eulogisms the most murderouslooking. 

But on my opening my mouth to discuss the fearful topic, lo! a pairwould shoot from under his coat-sleeve, and almost before I knew whathad happened, the trouble would be over. After that we would havetea together. He was an old bachelor, and his house stood in a greatgarden--for Plaistow in those days was a picturesque village--and out ofthe plentiful fruit thereof his housekeeper made the most wonderfulof jams and jellies. Oh, they were good, those teas! Generally ourconversation was of my mother who, it appeared, was once a little girl:not at all the sort of little girl I should have imagined her; on thecontrary, a prankish, wilful little girl, though good company, I shouldsay, if all the tales he told of her were true. And I am inclined tothink they were, in spite of the fact that my mother, when I repeatedthem to her, would laugh, saying she was sure she had no recollection ofanything of the kind, adding severely that it was a pity he and I couldnot find something better to gossip about. Yet her next question wouldbe:

"And what else did he say, if you please?" explaining impatiently whenmy answer was not of the kind expected: "No, no, I mean about me. "

The tea things cleared away, he would bring out his great microscope. To me it was a peep-hole into a fairy world where dwelt strange dragons, mighty monsters, so that I came to regard him as a sort of harmlessmagician. It was his pet study, and looking back, I cannot helpassociating his enthusiasm for all things microscopical with the factthat he was an exceptionally little man himself, but one of the biggesthearted that ever breathed. 

On leaving I would formally hand him my half-crown, "with mamma'scompliments, " and he would formally accept it. But on putting my handinto my jacket pocket when outside the gate I would invariably findit there. The first time I took it back to him, but unblushingly herepudiated all knowledge. 

"Must be another half-crown, " he suggested; "such things do happen. One puts change into a pocket and overlooks it. Slippery things, half-crowns. "

Returning home on this particular day of days, I paused upon the bridge, and watched for awhile the lazy barges manoeuvring their way between thepiers. It was one of those hushed summer evenings when the air even ofgrim cities is full of whispering voices; and as, turning away from theriver, I passed through the white toll-gate, I had a sense of leavingmyself behind me on the bridge. So vivid was the impression, that Ilooked back, half expecting to see myself still leaning over the ironparapet, looking down into the sunlit water. 

It sounds foolish, but I leave it standing, wondering if to others alike experience has ever come. The little chap never came back to me. He passed away from me as a man's body may possibly pass away from him, leaving him only remembrance and regret. For a time I tried to play hisgames, to dream his dreams, but the substance was wanting. I was only athin ghost, making believe. 

It troubled me for quite a spell of time, even to the point of tears, this feeling that my childhood lay behind me, this sudden realisationthat I was travelling swiftly the strange road called growing up. I didnot want to grow up; could nothing be done to stop it? Rather would Ibe always as I had been, playing, dreaming. The dark way frightened me. Must I go forward?

Then gradually, but very slowly, with the long months and years, cameto me the consciousness of a new being, new pulsations, sensories, throbbings, rooted in but differing widely from the old; and littlePaul, the Paul of whom I have hitherto spoken, faded from my life. 

So likewise must I let him fade with sorrow from this book. But beforeI part with him entirely, let me recall what else I can remember of him. Thus we shall be quit of him, and he will interfere with us no more. 

Chief among the pictures that I see is that of my aunt Fan, crouchingover the kitchen fire; her skirt and crinoline rolled up round herwaist, leaving as sacrifice to custom only her petticoat. Up and downher body sways in rhythmic motion, her hands stroking affectionatelyher own knees; the while I, with paper knife for sword, or horse ofbroomstick, stand opposite her, flourishing and declaiming. Sometimes Iam a knight and she a wicked ogre. She is slain, growling and swearing, and at once becomes the beautiful princess that I secure and bear awaywith me upon the prancing broomstick. So long as the princess is merelyholding sweet converse with me from her high-barred window, the sceneis realistic, at least, to sufficiency; but the bearing away has to bemake-believe; for my aunt cannot be persuaded to leave her chair beforethe fire, and the everlasting rubbing of her knees. 

At other times, with the assistance of the meat chopper, I am an Indianbrave, and then she is Laughing Water or Singing Sunshine, and we go outscalping together; or in less bloodthirsty moods I am the Fairy Princeand she the Sleeping Beauty. But in such parts she is not at her best. Better, when seated in the centre of the up-turned table, I am CaptainCook, and she the Cannibal Chief. 

"I shall skin him and hang him in the larder till Sunday week, " says myaunt, smacking her lips, "then he'll be just in right condition; not tootough and not too high. " She was always strong in detail, was my auntFan. 

I do not wish to deprive my aunt of any credit due to her, but the moreI exercise my memory for evidence, the more I am convinced that hercompliance on these occasions was not conceived entirely in the spiritof self-sacrifice. Often would she suggest the game and even the theme;in such case, casting herself invariably for what, in old theatricalparlance, would have been termed the heavy lead, the dragons and thewicked uncles, the fussy necromancers and the uninvited fairies. Asauthoress of a new cookery book for use in giant-land, my aunt, I amsure, would have been successful. Most recipes that one reads are somonotonously meagre: "Boil him, " "Put her on the spit and roast her forsupper, " "Cook 'em in a pie--with plenty of gravy;" but my aunt into thedomestic economy of Ogredom introduced variety and daintiness. 

"I think, my dear, " my aunt would direct, "we'll have him stuffed withchestnuts and served on toast. And don't forget the giblets. They makesuch excellent sauce. "

With regard to the diet of imprisoned maidens she would advise:

"Not too much fish--it spoils the flesh for roasting. "

The things that she would turn people into--king's sons, rightfulprincesses, such sort of people--people who after a time, one wouldthink, must have quite forgotten what they started as. To let herhave her way was a lesson to me in natural history both present andpre-historic. The most beautiful damsel that ever lived she wouldwithout a moment's hesitation turn into a Glyptodon or a Hippocrepian. Afterwards, when I could guess at the spelling, I would look thesecreatures up in the illustrated dictionary, and feel that under nocircumstances could I have loved the lady ever again. Warriors and kingsshe would delight in transforming into plaice or prawns, and haughtyqueens into Brussels sprouts. 

With gusto would she plan a complicated slaughter, paying heed to everydetail: the sharpening of the knives, the having ready of mops and pailsof water for purposes of after cleaning up. As a writer she would havefollowed the realistic school. 

Her death, with which we invariably wound up the afternoon, was anotherconscientious effort. Indeed, her groans and writhings would sometimesfrighten me. I always welcomed the last gurgle. That finished, but not amoment before, my aunt would let down her skirt--in this way suggestingthe fall of the curtain upon our play--and set to work to get the tea. 

Another frequently recurring picture that I see is of myself inglazed-peaked cap explaining many things the while we walk through dingystreets to yet a smaller figure curly haired and open eyed. Still everynow and then she runs ahead to turn and look admiringly into my face ason the day she first became captive to the praise and fame of me. 

I was glad of her company for more reasons than she knew of. For one, she protected me against my baser self. With her beside me I shouldnot have dared to flee from sudden foes. Indeed, together we courtedadventure; for once you get used to it this standing hazard of attackadds a charm to outdoor exercise that older folk in districts betterpoliced enjoy not. So possibly my dog feels when together we take theair. To me it is a simple walk, maybe a little tiresome, suggestedrather by contemplation of my waistband than by desire for walking formere walking's sake; to him an expedition full of danger and surprises:"The gentleman asleep with one eye open on The Chequer's doorstep!will he greet me with a friendly sniff or try to bite my head off? Thiscross-eyed, lop-eared loafer, lurching against the lamp-post! shall wepass with a careless wag and a 'how-do, ' or become locked in a life anddeath struggle? Impossible to say. This coming corner, now, 'Ware! Isanybody waiting round there to kill me, or not?"

But the trusting face beside me nerved me. As reward in lonely places Iwould let her hold my hand. 

A second advantage I derived from her company was that of being lesstrampled on, less walked over, less swept aside into doorway or gutterthan when alone. A pretty, winsome face had this little maid, if Memoryplays me not kindly false; but also she had a vocabulary; and when theblind idiot, male or female, instead of passing us by walking round us, would, after the custom of the blind idiot, seek to gain the other sideof us by walking through us, she would use it. 

"Now, then, where yer coming to, old glass-eye? We ain't sperrits. Can'tyer see us?"

And if they attempted reply, her child's treble, so strangely atvariance with her dainty appearance, would only rise more shrill. 

"Garn! They'd run out of 'eads when they was making you. That's only aturnip wot you've got stuck on top of yer!" I offer but specimens. 

Nor was it of the slightest use attempting personal chastisement, assometimes an irate lady or gentleman would be foolish enough to do. Aswell might an hippopotamus attempt to reprove a terrier. The only resultwas to provide comedy for the entire street. 

On these occasions our positions were reversed, I being the admiringspectator of her prowess. Yet to me she was ever meek, almostirritatingly submissive. She found out where I lived and would oftencome and wait for me for hours, her little face pressed tight againstthe iron railings, until either I came out or shook my head at her frommy bedroom window, when she would run off, the dying away into silenceof her pattering feet leaving me a little sad. 

I think I cared for her in a way, yet she never entered into myday-dreams, which means that she existed for me only in the outer worldof shadows that lay round about me and was not of my real life. 

Also, I think she was unwise, introducing me to the shop, for childrenand dogs--one seems unconsciously to bracket them in one's thoughts--aresnobbish little wretches. If only her father had been a dealer infirewood I could have soothed myself by imagining mistakes. It wasa common occurrence, as I well knew, for children of quite thebest families to be brought up by wood choppers. Fairies, the bestintentioned in the world, but born muddlers, were generally responsiblefor these mishaps, which, however, always became righted in time for thewedding. Or even had he been a pork butcher, and there were many in theneighbourhood, I could have thought of him as a swineherd, and so foundprecedent for hope. 

But a fishmonger--from six in the evening a fried fishmonger! I searchedhistory in vain. Fried fishmongers were without the pale. 

So gradually our meetings became less frequent, though I knew thatevery afternoon she waited in the quiet Stainsby Road, where dwelt insemi-detached, six-roomed villas the aristocracy of Poplar, and thatafter awhile, for arriving late at times I have been witness to thesad fact, tears would trace pathetic patterns upon her dust-besprinkledcheeks; and with the advent of the world-illuminating Barbara, to whichevent I am drawing near, they ceased altogether. 

So began and ended my first romance. One of these days--some quietsummer's afternoon, when even the air of Pigott Street vibrates withtenderness beneath the whispered sighs of Memory, I shall walk into thelittle grocer's shop and boldly ask to see her. So far have I alreadygone as to trace her, and often have I tried to catch sight of herthrough the glass door, but hitherto in vain. I know she is the moreor less troubled mother of a numerous progeny. I am told she has grownstout, and probable enough it is that her tongue has gained rather thanlost in sharpness. Yet under all the unrealities the clumsy-handed worldhas built about her, I shall see, I know, the lithesome little maid withfond, admiring eyes. What help they were to me I never knew till I hadlost them. How hard to gain such eyes I have learned since. Were we towrite the truth in our confession books, should we not admit the qualitywe most admire in others is admiration of ourselves? And is it not awise selection? If you would have me admirable, my friend, admire me, and speak your commendation without stint that in the sunshine of yourpraises I may wax. For indifference maketh an indifferent man, andcontempt a contemptible man. Come, is it not true? Does not all that isworthy in us grow best by honour?

Chief among the remaining figures on my childhood's stage were the manyservants of our house, the "generals, " as they were termed. So rapid, as a rule, was their transit through our kitchen that only one or two, conspicuous by reason of their lingering, remain upon my view. It was aneighbourhood in which domestic servants were not much required. Thoseintending to take up the calling seriously went westward. The localranks were recruited mainly from the discontented or the disappointed, from those who, unappreciated at home, hoped from the stranger morediscernment; or from the love-lorn, the jilted and the jealous, who tookthe cap and apron as in an earlier age their like would have taken theveil. Maybe, to the comparative seclusion of our basement, as contrastedwith the alternative frivolity of shop or factory, they felt in suchmood more attuned. With the advent of the new or the recovery of the oldyoung man they would plunge again into the vain world, leaving my poormother to search afresh amid the legions of the cursed. 

With these I made such comradeship as I could, for I had no childfriends. Kind creatures were most of them, at least so I found them. They were poor at "making believe, " but would always squeeze ten minutesfrom their work to romp with me, and that, perhaps, was healthier forme. What, perhaps, was not so good for me was that, staggered atthe amount of "book-learning" implied by my conversation (for thejournalistic instinct, I am inclined to think, was early displayed inme), they would listen open-mouthed to all my information, regarding meas a precocious oracle. Sometimes they would obtain permission to takeme home with them to tea, generously eager that their friends shouldalso profit by me. Then, encouraged by admiring, grinning faces, I would"hold forth, " keenly enjoying the sound of my own proud piping. 

"As good as a book, ain't he?" was the tribute most often paid to me. 

"As good as a play, " one enthusiastic listener, an old greengrocer, wentso far as to say. 

Already I regarded myself as among the Immortals. 

One girl, a dear, wholesome creature named Janet, stayed with us formonths and might have stayed years, but for her addiction to stronglanguage. The only and well-beloved child of the captain of thebarge "Nancy Jane, " trading between Purfleet and Ponder's End, herconversation was at once my terror and delight. 

"Janet, " my mother would exclaim in agony, her hands going upinstinctively to guard her ears, "how can you use such words?"

"What words, mum?"

"The things you have just called the gas man. "

"Him! Well, did you see what he did, mum? Walked straight into my cleankitchen, without even wiping his boots, the--" And before my mothercould stop her, Janet had relieved her feelings by calling him it--orrather them--again, without any idea that she had done aught else thanexpress in fitting phraseology a natural human emotion. 

We were good friends, Janet and I, and therefore it was that Ipersonally undertook her reformation. It was not an occasion for mincingone's words. The stake at issue was, I felt, too important. I toldher bluntly that if she persisted in using such language she wouldinevitably go to hell. 

"Then where's my father going?" demanded Janet. 

"Does he use language?"

I gathered from Janet that no one who had enjoyed the privilege ofhearing her father could ever again take interest in the feeble effortsof herself. 

"I am afraid, Janet, " I explained, "that if he doesn't give it up--"

"But it's the only way he can talk, " interrupted Janet. "He don't meananything by it. "

I sighed, yet set my face against weakness. "You see, Janet, people whoswear do go there. "

But Janet would not believe. 

"God send my dear, kind father to hell just because he can't talk likethe gentlefolks! Don't you believe it of Him, Master Paul. He's got moresense. "

I hope I pain no one by quoting Janet's common sense. For that I shouldbe sorry. I remember her words because so often, when sinking in sloughsof childish despond, they afforded me firm foothold. More often thanI can tell, when compelled to listen to the sententious voice ofimmeasurable Folly glibly explaining the eternal mysteries, has itcomforted me to whisper to myself: "I don't believe it of Him. He's gotmore sense. "

And about that period I had need of all the comfort I could get. Aswe descend the road of life, the journey, demanding so much of ourattention, becomes of more importance than the journey's end; but to thechild, standing at the valley's gate, the terminating hills areclearly visible. What lies beyond them is his constant wonder. I neverquestioned my parents directly on the subject, shrinking as so strangelywe all do, both young and old, from discussion of the very mattersof most moment to us; and they, on their part, not guessing my need, contented themselves with the vague generalities with which we seekto hide even from ourselves the poverty of our beliefs. But there werefoolish voices about me less reticent; while the literature, illustratedand otherwise, provided in those days for serious-minded youth, answeredall questionings with blunt brutality. If you did wrong you burnt in afiery furnace for ever and ever. Were your imagination weak you couldturn to the accompanying illustration, and see at a glance how youyourself would writhe and shrink and scream, while cheerful devils, wellorganised, were busy stoking. I had been burnt once, rather badly, inconsequence of live coals, in course of transit on a shovel, being letfall upon me. I imagined these burning coals, not confined to a merepart of my body, but pressing upon me everywhere, not snatched swiftlyoff by loving hands, the pain assuaged by applications of soft soap andthe blue bag, but left there, eating into my flesh and veins. And thiscontinued for eternity. You suffered for an hour, a day, a thousandyears, and were no nearer to the end; ten thousand, a million years, andyet, as at the very first, it was for ever, and for ever still it wouldalways be for ever! I suffered also from insomnia about this period. 

"Then be good, " replied the foolish voices round me; "never do wrong, and so avoid this endless agony. "

But it was so easy to do wrong. There were so many wrong things to do, and the doing of them was so natural. 

"Then repent, " said the voices, always ready. 

But how did one repent? What was repentance? Did I "hate my sin, " as Iwas instructed I must, or merely hate the idea of going to hell forit? Because the latter, even my child's sense told me, was no truerepentance. Yet how could one know the difference?

Above all else there haunted me the fear of the "Unforgivable Sin. " Whatthis was I was never able to discover. I dreaded to enquire too closely, lest I should find I had committed it. Day and night the terror of itclung to me. 

"Believe, " said the voices; "so only shall you be saved. " How believe?How know you did believe? Hours would I kneel in the dark, repeating ina whispered scream:

"I believe, I believe. Oh, I do believe!" and then rise with whiteknuckles, wondering if I really did believe. 

Another question rose to trouble me. In the course of my meanderings Ihad made the acquaintance of an old sailor, one of the most disreputablespecimens possible to find; and had learned to love him. Our firstmeeting had been outside a confectioner's window, in the CommercialRoad, where he had discovered me standing, my nose against the glass, amere palpitating Appetite on legs. He had seized me by the collar, andhauled me into the shop. There, dropping me upon a stool, he bade meeat. Pride of race prompted me politely to decline, but his languagebecame so awful that in fear and trembling I obeyed. So soon as I wasfinished--it cost him two and fourpence, I remember--we walked down tothe docks together, and he told me stories of the sea and land that mademy blood run cold. Altogether, in the course of three weeks or a month, we met about half a dozen times, when much the same programme was gonethrough. I think I was a fairly frank child, but I said nothing abouthim at home, feeling instinctively that if I did there would be an endof our comradeship, which was dear to me: not merely by reason ofthe pastry, though I admit that was a consideration, but also for hiswondrous tales. I believed them all implicitly, and so came to regardhim as one of the most interesting criminals as yet unhanged: and whatwas sad about the case, as I felt myself, was that his recital of hismany iniquities, instead of repelling, attracted me to him. If everthere existed a sinner, here was one. He chewed tobacco--one of thehundred or so deadly sins, according to my theological library--and wasgenerally more or less drunk. Not that a stranger would havenoticed this; the only difference being that when sober he appearedconstrained--was less his natural, genial self. In a burst of confidencehe once admitted to me that he was the biggest blackguard in themerchant service. Unacquainted with the merchant service, as at the timeI was, I saw no reason to doubt him. 

One night in a state of intoxication he walked over a gangway and wasdrowned. Our mutual friend, the confectioner, seeing me pass the window, came out to tell me so; and having heard, I walked on, heavy of heart, and pondering. 

About his eternal destination there could be no question. The knownfacts precluded the least ray of hope. How could I be happy in heaven, supposing I eventually did succeed in slipping in, knowing that he, thelovable old scamp, was burning for ever in hell?

How could Janet, taking it that she reformed and thus escaped damnation, be contented, knowing the father she loved doomed to torment? Theheavenly hosts, so I argued, could be composed only of the callous andindifferent. 

I wondered how people could go about their business, eat, drink andbe merry, with tremendous fate hanging thus ever suspended over theirheads. When for a little space I myself forgot it, always it fell backupon me with increased weight. 

Nor was the contemplation of heaven itself particularly attractive tome, for it was a foolish paradise these foolish voices had fashioned outof their folly. You stood about and sang hymns--for ever! I was assuredthat my fear of finding the programme monotonous was due only to mystate of original sin, that when I got there I should discover I likedit. But I would have given much for the hope of avoiding both theirheaven and their hell. 

Fortunately for my sanity I was not left long to brood unoccupied uponsuch themes. Our worldly affairs, under the sunshine of old Hasluck'sround red face, prospered--for awhile; and one afternoon my father, whohad been away from home since breakfast time, calling me into his officewhere also sat my mother, informed me that the long-talked-of school wasbecome at last a concrete thing. 

"The term commences next week, " explained my father. "It is not exactlywhat I had intended, but it will do--for the present. Later, of course, you will go to one of the big public schools; your mother and I have notyet quite decided which. "

"You will meet other boys there, good and bad, " said my mother, whosat clasping and unclasping her hands. "Be very careful, dear, how youchoose your companions. "

"You will learn to take your own part, " said my father. "School is anepitome of the world. One must assert oneself, or one is sat upon. "

I knew not what to reply, the vista thus opened out to me was sounexpected. My blood rejoiced, but my heart sank. 

"Take one of your long walks, " said my father, smiling, "and think itover. "

"And if you are in any doubt, you know where to go for guidance, don'tyou?" whispered my mother, who was very grave. 

Yet I went to bed, dreaming of quite other things that night: ofQueens of Beauty bending down to crown my brows with laurel: of wrongedPrincesses for whose cause I rode to death or victory. For on myreturn home, being called into the drawing-room by my father, I stoodtransfixed, my cap in hand, staring with all my eyes at the vision thatI saw. 

No such wonder had I ever seen before, at all events, not to myremembrance. The maidens that one meets in Poplar streets may be fairenough in their way, but their millinery displays them not to advantage;and the few lady visitors that came to us were of a staid and matronlyappearance. Only out of pictures hitherto had such witchery looked uponme; and from these the spell faded as one gazed. 

I heard old Hasluck's smoky voice saying, "My little gell, Barbara, " andI went nearer to her, moving unconsciously. 

"You can kiss 'er, " said the smoky voice again; "she won't bite. " But Idid not kiss her. Nor ever felt I wanted to, upon the mouth. 

I suppose she must have been about fourteen, and I a little over ten, though tall for my age. Later I came to know she had that rare goldhair that holds the light, so that upon her face, which seemed of daintyporcelain, there ever fell a softened radiance as from some shiningaureole; those blue eyes where dwell mysteries, shadow veiled. At thetime I knew nothing, but that it seemed to me as though the fairy-taleshad all come true. 

She smiled, understanding and well pleased with my confusion. Childthough I was--little more than child though she was, it flattered hervanity. 

Fair and sweet, you had but that one fault. Would it had been another, less cruel to you yourself. 

CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH THERE COMES BY ONE BENT UPON PURSUING HIS OWN WAY. 

"Correct" is, I think, the adjective by which I can best describeDoctor Florret and all his attributes. He was a large man, but nottoo large--just the size one would select for the head-master of animportant middle-class school; stout, not fat, suggesting comfort, notgrossness. His hands were white and well shaped. On the left he worea fine diamond ring, but it shone rather than sparkled. He spoke ofcommonplace things in a voice that lent dignity even to the weather. Hisface, which was clean-shaven, radiated benignity tempered by discretion. 

So likewise all about him: his wife, the feminine counterpart ofhimself. Seeing them side by side one felt tempted to believe thatfor his special benefit original methods had been reverted to, and shefashioned, as his particular helpmeet, out of one of his own ribs. His furniture was solid, meant for use, not decoration. His pictures, following the rule laid down for dress, graced without drawing attentionto his walls. He ever said the correct thing at the correct time in thecorrect manner. Doubtful of the correct thing to do, one could alwayslearn it by waiting till he did it; when one at once felt that nothingelse could possibly have been correct. He held on all mattersthe correct views. To differ from him was to discover oneself arevolutionary. 

In practice, as I learned at the cost of four more or less wastedyears, he of course followed the methods considered correct by Englishschoolmen from the days of Edward VI. Onwards. 

Heaven knows I worked hard. I wanted to learn. Ambition--the allcontaining ambition of a boy that "has its centre everywhere nor caresto fix itself to form" stirred within me. Did I pass a speaker at somecorner, hatless, perspiring, pointing Utopias in the air to restlesshungry eyes, at once I saw myself, a Demosthenes swaying multitudes, astatesman holding the House of Commons spellbound, the Prime Minister ofEngland, worshipped by the entire country. Even the Opposition papers, had I known of them, I should have imagined forced to reluctantadmiration. Did the echo of a distant drum fall upon my ear, then beforeme rose picturesque fields of carnage, one figure ever conspicuous:Myself, well to the front, isolated. Promotion in the British army ofmy dream being a matter purely of merit, I returned Commander-in-Chief. Vast crowds thronged every flag-decked street. I saw white waving handsfrom every roof and window. I heard the dull, deep roar of welcome, aswith superb seat upon my snow-white charger--or should it be coal-black?The point cost me much consideration, so anxious was I that the dayshould be without a flaw--I slowly paced at the head of my victorioustroops, between wild waves of upturned faces: walked into a lamp-postor on to the toes of some irascible old gentleman, and awoke. A drunkensailor stormed from between swing doors and tacked tumultuously down thestreet: the factory chimney belching smoke became a swaying mast. Thecosters round about me shouted "Ay, ay, sir. 'Ready, ay, ready. " Iwas Christopher Columbus, Drake, Nelson, rolled into one. Spurningthe presumption of modern geographers, I discovered new continents. I defeated the French--those useful French! I died in the moment ofvictory. A nation mourned me and I was buried in Westminster Abbey. Also I lived and was created a Duke. Either alternative had its charm:personally I was indifferent. Boys who on November the ninth, asexplained by letters from their mothers, read by Doctor Florret with asnort, were suffering from a severe toothache, told me on Novemberthe tenth of the glories of Lord Mayor's Shows. I heard their chatterfainter and fainter as from an ever-increasing distance. The bells ofBow were ringing in my ears. I saw myself a merchant prince, thoughstill young. Nobles crowded my counting house. I lent them millionsand married their daughters. I listened, unobserved in a corner, todiscussion on some new book. Immediately I was a famous author. All menpraised me: for of reviewers and their density I, in those days, knewnothing. Poetry, fiction, history, I wrote them all; and all men read, and wondered. Only here was a crumpled rose leaf in the pillow on whichI laid my swelling head: penmanship was vexation to me, and spellingpuzzled me, so that I wrote with sorrow and many blots and scratchingsout. Almost I put aside the idea of becoming an author. 

But along whichever road I might fight my way to the Elysian Fieldsof fame, education, I dimly but most certainly comprehended, was anecessary weapon to my hand. And so, with aching heart and aching head, I pored over my many books. I see myself now in my small bedroom, myelbows planted on the shaky, one-legged table, startled every now andagain by the frizzling of my hair coming in contact with the solitarycandle. On cold nights I wear my overcoat, turned up about the neck, ablanket round my legs, and often I must sit with my fingers in my ears, the better to shut out the sounds of life, rising importunately frombelow. "A song, Of a song, To a song, A song, O! song!" "I love, Thoulovest, He she or it loves. I should or would love" over and over again, till my own voice seems some strange buzzing thing about me, whilemy head grows smaller and smaller till I put my hands up frightened, wondering if it still be entire upon my shoulders. 

Was I more stupid than the average, or is a boy's brain physicallyincapable of the work our educational system demands of it?

"Latin and Greek" I hear repeating the suave tones of Doctor Florret, echoing as ever the solemn croak of Correctness, "are useful as mentalgymnastics. " My dear Doctor Florret and Co. , cannot you, out of the vaststorehouse of really necessary knowledge, select apparatus better fittedto strengthen and not overstrain the mental muscles of ten-to-fourteen?You, gentle reader, with brain fully grown, trained by years of practiceto its subtlest uses, take me from your bookshelf, say, your Browning oreven your Shakespeare. Come, you know this language well. You have notmerely learned: it is your mother tongue. Construe for me this shortpassage, these few verses: parse, analyse, resolve into component parts!And now, will you maintain that it is good for Tommy, tear-stained, ink-bespattered little brat, to be given AEsop's Fables, Ovid'sMetamorphoses to treat in like manner? Would it not be just as sensibleto insist upon his practising his skinny little arms with hundred poundsdumb-bells?

We were the sons of City men, of not well-to-do professional men, ofminor officials, clerks, shopkeepers, our roads leading through theworkaday world. Yet quite half our time was taken up in studies utterlyuseless to us. How I hated them, these youth-tormenting Shades. Homer!how I wished the fishermen had asked him that absurd riddle earlier. Horace! why could not that shipwreck have succeeded: it would have inthe case of any one but a classic. 

Until one blessed day there fell into my hands a wondrous talisman. 

Hearken unto me, ye heavy burdened little brethren of mine. Waste notyour substance upon tops and marbles, nor yet upon tuck (Do ye stillcall it "tuck"?), but scrape and save. For in the neighbourhood ofPaternoster Row there dwells a good magician who for silver will provideyou with a "Key" that shall open wide for you the gates of Hades. 

By its aid, the Frogs of Aristophanes became my merry friends. WithUlysses I wandered eagerly through Wonderland. Doctor Florret wascharmed with my progress, which was real, for now, at last, I wasstudying according to the laws of common sense, understanding first, explaining afterwards. Let Youth, that the folly of Age would imprisonin ignorance, provide itself with "Keys. "

But let me not seem to claim credit due to another. Dan it was--Dan ofthe strong arm and the soft smile, Dan the wise hater of all uselesslabour, sharp-witted, easy-going Dan, who made this grand discovery. 

Dan followed me a term later into the Lower Fourth, but before he hadbeen there a week was handling Latin verse with an ease and dexteritysuggestive of unholy dealings with the Devil. In a lonely corner ofRegent's Park, first making sure no one was within earshot, he revealedto me his magic. 

"Don't tell the others, " he commanded; "or it will get out, and thennobody will be any the better. "

"But is it right?" I asked. 

"Look here, young 'un, " said Dan; "what are you here for--what'syour father paying school fees for (it was the appeal to ourconscientiousness most often employed by Dr. Florret himself), for youto play a silly game, or to learn something?

"Because if it's only a game--we boys against the masters, " continuedDan, "then let's play according to rule. If we're here to learn--well, you've been in the class four months and I've just come, and I bet Iknow more Ovid than you do already. " Which was true. 

So I thanked Dan and shared with him his key; and all the Latin Iremember, for whatever good it may be to me, I take it I owe to him. 

And knowledge of yet greater value do I owe to the good fortune thathis sound mother wit was ever at my disposal to correct my dreamyunfeasibility; for from first to last he was my friend; and to havebeen the chosen friend of Dan, shrewd judge of man and boy, I deem nounimportant feather in my cap. He "took to" me, he said, because I wasso "jolly green"--"such a rummy little mug. " No other reason would heever give me, save only a sweet smile and a tumbling of my hair with hisgreat hand; but I think I understood. And I loved him because he wasbig and strong and handsome and kind; no one but a little boy knowshow brutal or how kind a big boy can be. I was still somewhat of aneffeminate little chap, nervous and shy, with a pink and white face, andhair that no amount of wetting would make straight. I was growing toofast, which took what strength I had, and my journey every day, addedto school work and home work, maybe was too much for my years. Everymorning I had to be up at six, leaving the house before seven to catchthe seven fifteen from Poplar station; and from Chalk Farm I had to walkyet another couple of miles. But that I did not mind, for at Chalk Farmstation Dan was always waiting for me. In the afternoon we walked backtogether also; and when I was tired and my back ached--just as if someone had cut a piece out of it, I felt--he would put his arm roundme, for he always knew, and oh, how strong and restful it was to leanagainst, so that one walked as in an easy-chair. 

It seems to me, remembering how I would walk thus by his side, lookingup shyly into his face, thinking how strong and good he was, feeling soglad he liked me, I can understand a little how a woman loves. He was sosolid. With his arm round me, it was good to feel weak. 

At first we were in the same class, the Lower Third. He had no businessthere. He was head and shoulders taller than any of us and years older. It was a disgrace to him that he was not in the Upper Fourth. The Doctorwould tell him so before us all twenty times a week. Old Waterhouse(I call him "Old Waterhouse" because "Mister Waterhouse, M. A. , "would convey no meaning to me, and I should not know about whom Iwas speaking) who cordially liked him, was honestly grieved. We, hisfriends, though it was pleasant to have him among us, suffered in ourpride of him. The only person quite contented was Dan himself. It washis way in all things. Others had their opinion of what was goodfor him. He had his own, and his own was the only opinion that everinfluenced him. The Lower Third suited him. For him personally the UpperFourth had no attraction. 

And even in the Lower Third he was always at the bottom. He preferredit. He selected the seat and kept it, in spite of all allurements, inspite of all reproaches. It was nearest to the door. It enabled himto be first out and last in. Also it afforded a certain sense ofretirement. Its occupant, to an extent screened from observation, became in the course of time almost forgotten. To Dan's philosophicaltemperament its practical advantages outweighed all sentimentalobjection. 

Only on one occasion do I remember his losing it. As a rule, tiresomequestions, concerning past participles, square roots, or meridians neverreached him, being snapped up in transit by arm-waving lovers of suchtrifles. The few that by chance trickled so far he took no notice of. They possessed no interest for him, and he never pretended that theydid. But one day, taken off his guard, he gave voice quite unconsciouslyto a correct reply, with the immediate result of finding himself in anexposed position on the front bench. I had never seen Dan out oftemper before, but that moment had any of us ventured upon a whisperedcongratulation we would have had our head punched, I feel confident. 

Old Waterhouse thought that here at last was reformation. "Come, Brian, "he cried, rubbing his long thin hands together with delight, "after all, you're not such a fool as you pretend. "

"Never said I was, " muttered Dan to himself, with a backward glance ofregret towards his lost seclusion; and before the day was out he hadworked his way back to it again. 

As we were going out together, old Waterhouse passed us on the stairs:"Haven't you any sense of shame, my boy?" he asked sorrowfully, layinghis hand kindly on Dan's shoulder. 

"Yes, sir, " answered Dan, with his frank smile; "plenty. It isn't yours, that's all. "

He was an excellent fighter. In the whole school of over two hundredboys, not half a dozen, and those only Upper Sixth boys--fellows whocame in top hats with umbrellas, and who wouldn't out of regard to theirown dignity--could have challenged him with any chance of success. Yethe fought very seldom, and then always in a bored, lazy fashion, asthough he were doing it purely to oblige the other fellow. 

One afternoon, just as we were about to enter Regent's Park by thewicket opposite Hanover Gate, a biggish boy, an errand boy carrying anempty basket, and supported by two smaller boys, barred our way. 

"Can't come in here, " said the boy with the basket. 

"Why not?" inquired Dan. 

"'Cos if you do I shall kick you, " was the simple explanation. 

Without a word Dan turned away, prepared to walk on to the next opening. The boy with the basket, evidently encouraged, followed us: "Now, I'mgoing to give you your coward's blow, " he said, stepping in front of us;"will you take it quietly?" It is a lonely way, the Outer Circle, on awinter's afternoon. 

"I'll tell you afterwards, " said Dan, stopping short. 

The boy gave him a slight slap on the cheek. It could not have hurt, butthe indignity, of course, was great. No boy of honour, according to ourcode, could have accepted it without retaliating. 

"Is that all?" asked Dan. 

"That's all--for the present, " replied the boy with the basket. 

"Good-bye, " said Dan, and walked on. 

"Glad he didn't insist on fighting, " remarked Dan, cheerfully, as weproceeded; "I'm going to a party tonight. "

Yet on another occasion, in a street off Lisson Grove, he insistedon fighting a young rough half again his own weight, who, brushing upagainst him, had knocked his hat off into the mud. 

"I wouldn't have said anything about his knocking it off, " explainedDan afterwards, tenderly brushing the poor bruised thing with his coatsleeve, "if he hadn't kicked it. "

On another occasion I remember, three or four of us, Dan among thenumber, were on our way one broiling summer's afternoon to Hadley Woods. As we turned off from the highroad just beyond Barnet and struck intothe fields, Dan drew from his pocket an enormous juicy-looking pear. 

"Where did you get that from?" inquired one, Dudley. 

"From that big greengrocer's opposite Barnet Church, " answered Dan. "Have a bit?"

"You told me you hadn't any more money, " retorted Dudley, in reproachfultones. 

"No more I had, " replied Dan, holding out a tempting slice at the end ofhis pocket-knife. 

"You must have had some, or you couldn't have bought that pear, " arguedDudley, accepting. 

"Didn't buy it. "

"Do you mean to say you stole it?"

"Yes. "

"You're a thief, " denounced Dudley, wiping his mouth and throwing away apip. 

"I know it. So are you. "

"No, I'm not. "

"What's the good of talking nonsense. You robbed an orchard only lastWednesday at Mill Hill, and gave yourself the stomach-ache. "

"That isn't stealing. "

"What is it?"

"It isn't the same thing. "

"What's the difference?"

And nothing could make Dan comprehend the difference. "Stealing isstealing, " he would have it, "whether you take it off a tree or out of abasket. You're a thief, Dudley; so am I. Anybody else say a piece?"

The thermometer was at that point where morals become slack. We all hada piece; but we were all of us shocked at Dan, and told him so. It didnot agitate him in the least. 

To Dan I could speak my inmost thoughts, knowing he would understand me, and sometimes from him I received assistance and sometimes confusion. The yearly examination was approaching. My father and mother saidnothing, but I knew how anxiously each of them awaited the result; myfather, to see how much I had accomplished; my mother, how much I hadendeavoured. I had worked hard, but was doubtful, knowing that prizesdepend less upon what you know than upon what you can make othersbelieve you know; which applies to prizes beyond those of school. 

"Are you going in for anything, Dan?" I asked him. We were discussingthe subject, crossing Primrose Hill, one bright June morning. 

I knew the question absurd. I asked it of him because I wanted him toask it of me. 

"They're not giving away anything I particularly want, " murmured Dan, inhis lazy drawl: looked at from that point of view, school prizes are, itmust be confessed, not worth their cost. 

"You're sweating yourself, young 'un, of course?" he asked next, as Iexpected. 

"I mean to have a shot at the History, " I admitted. "Wish I was betterat dates. "

"It's always two-thirds dates, " Dan assured me, to my discouragement. "Old Florret thinks you can't eat a potato until you know the date thatchap Raleigh was born. "

"I've prayed so hard that I may win the History prize, " I explained tohim. I never felt shy with Dan. He never laughed at me. 

"You oughtn't to have done that, " he said. I stared. "It isn't fair tothe other fellows. That won't be your winning the prize; that will beyour getting it through favouritism. "

"But they can pray, too, " I reminded him. 

"If you all pray for it, " answered Dan, "then it will go, not to thefellow that knows most history, but to the fellow that's prayed thehardest. That isn't old Florret's idea, I'm sure. "

"But we are told to pray for things we want, " I insisted. 

"Beastly mean way of getting 'em, " retorted Dan. And no argument thatcame to me, neither then nor at any future time, brought him to rightthinking on this point. 

He would judge all matters for himself. In his opinion Achilles was acoward, not a hero. 

"He ought to have told the Trojans that they couldn't hurt any part ofhim except his heel, and let them have a shot at that, " he argued;"King Arthur and all the rest of them with their magic swords, it wasn'tplaying the game. There's no pluck in fighting if you know you're boundto win. Beastly cads, I call them all. "

I won no prize that year. Oddly enough, Dan did, for arithmetic; theonly subject studied in the Lower Fourth that interested him. He likedto see things coming right, he explained. 

My father shut himself up with me for half an hour and examined mehimself. 

"It's very curious, Paul, " he said, "you seem to know a good deal. "

"They asked me all the things I didn't know. They seemed to do it onpurpose, " I blurted out, and laid my head upon my arm. My father crossedthe room and sat down beside me. 

"Spud!" he said--it was a long time since he had called me by thatchildish nickname--"perhaps you are going to be with me, one of theunlucky ones. "

"Are you unlucky?" I asked. 

"Invariably, " answered my father, rumpling his hair. "I don't know why. I try hard--I do the right thing, but it turns out wrong. It alwaysdoes. "

"But I thought Mr. Hasluck was bringing us such good fortune, " I said, looking up in surprise. "We're getting on, aren't we?"

"I have thought so before, so often, " said my father, "and it has alwaysended in a--in a collapse. "

I put my arms round his neck, for I always felt to my father as toanother boy; bigger than myself and older, but not so very much. 

"You see, when I married your mother, " he went on, "I was a rich man. She had everything she wanted. "

"But you will get it all back, " I cried. 

"I try to think so, " he answered. "I do think so--generally speaking. But there are times--you would not understand--they come to you. "

"But she is happy, " I persisted; "we are all happy. "

He shook his head. 

"I watch her, " he said. "Women suffer more than we do. They live morein the present. I see my hopes, but she--she sees only me, and I havealways been a failure. She has lost faith in me. "

I could say nothing. I understood but dimly. 

"That is why I want you to be an educated man, Paul, " he continued aftera silence. "You can't think what a help education is to a man. I don'tmean it helps you to get on in the world; I think for that it ratherhampers you. But it helps you to bear adversity. To a man with awell-stored mind, life is interesting on a piece of bread and a cupof tea. I know. If it were not for you and your mother I should nottrouble. "

And yet at that time our fortunes were at their brightest, so far as Iremember them; and when they were dark again he was full of fresh hope, planning, scheming, dreaming again. It was never acting. A worse actornever trod this stage on which we fret. His occasional attempts at acheerfulness he did not feel inevitably resulted in our all three cryingin one another's arms. No; it was only when things were going wellthat experience came to his injury. Child of misfortune, he ever rose, Antaeus-like, renewed in strength from contact with his mother. 

Nor must it be understood that his despondent moods, even in time ofprosperity, were oft recurring. Generally speaking, as he himself said, he was full of confidence. Already had he fixed upon our new house inGuilford Street, then still a good residential quarter; while at thesame time, as he would explain to my mother, sufficiently central foroffice purposes, close as it was to Lincoln and Grey's Inn and BedfordRow, pavements long worn with the weary footsteps of the Law's sadcourtiers. 

"Poplar, " said my father, "has disappointed me. It seemed a good idea--arapidly rising district, singularly destitute of solicitors. It ought tohave turned out well, and yet somehow it hasn't. "

"There have been a few come, " my mother reminded him. 

"Of a sort, " admitted my father; "a criminal lawyer might gathersomething of a practice here, I have no doubt. But for general work, of course, you must be in a central position. Now, in Guilford Streetpeople will come to me. "

"It should certainly be a pleasanter neighbourhood to live in, " agreedmy mother. 

"Later on, " said my father, "in case I want the whole house for offices, we could live ourselves in Regent's Park. It is quite near to the Park. "

"Of course you have consulted Mr. Hasluck?" asked my mother, who of thetwo was by far the more practical. 

"For Hasluck, " replied my father, "it will be much more convenient. Hegrumbles every time at the distance. "

"I have never been quite able to understand, " said my mother, "why Mr. Hasluck should have come so far out of his way. There must surely beplenty of solicitors in the City. "

"He had heard of me, " explained my father. "A curiou[s] oldfellow--likes his own way of doing things. It's not everyone who wouldcare for him as a client. But I seem able to manage him. "

Often we would go together, my father and I, to Guilford Street. It wasa large corner house that had taken his fancy, half creeper covered, with a balcony, and pleasantly situated, overlooking the gardens of theFoundling Hospital. The wizened old caretaker knew us well, and havingopened the door, would leave us to wander through the empty, echoingrooms at our own will. We furnished them handsomely in later QueenAnne style, of which my father was a connoisseur, sparing no necessaryexpense; for, as my father observed, good furniture is always worth itsprice, while to buy cheap is pure waste of money. 

"This, " said my father, on the second floor, stepping from the bedroominto the smaller room adjoining, "I shall make your mother's boudoir. We will have the walls in lavender and maple green--she is fond of softtones--and the window looks out upon the gardens. There we will put herwriting-table. "

My own bedroom was on the third floor, a sunny little room. 

"You will be quiet here, " said my father, "and we can shut out the bedand the washstand with a screen. "

Later, I came to occupy it; though its rent--eight and sixpence a week, including attendance--was somewhat more than at the time I ought to haveafforded. Nevertheless, I adventured it, taking the opportunity of beingan inmate of the house to refurnish it, unknown to my stout landlady, inlater Queen Anne style, putting a neat brass plate with my father'sname upon the door. "Luke Kelver, Solicitor. Office hours, 10 till 4. "A medical student thought he occupied my mother's boudoir. He was a dulldog, full of tiresome talk. But I made acquaintanceship with him;and often of an evening would smoke my pipe there in silence whilepretending to be listening to his monotonous brag. 

The poor thing! he had no idea that he was only a foolish ghost;that his walls, seemingly covered with coarse-coloured printsof wooden-looking horses, simpering ballet girls and petrifiedprize-fighters, were in reality a delicate tone of lavender and maplegreen; that at her writing-table in the sunlit window sat my mother, hersoft curls curtaining her quiet face. 

CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE SHADOW THAT CAME BETWEEN THE MAN IN GREY AND THE LADY OF THELOVE-LIT EYES. 

"There's nothing missing, " said my mother, "so far as I can find out. Depend upon it, that's the explanation: she has got frightened and hasrun away. 

"But what was there to frighten her?" said my father, pausing with adecanter in one hand and the bottle in the other. 

"It was the idea of the thing, " replied my mother. "She has never beenused to waiting at table. She was actually crying about it only lastnight. "

"But what's to be done?" said my father. "They will be here in less thanan hour. "

"There will be no dinner for them, " said my mother, "unless I put on anapron and bring it up myself. "

"Where does she live?" asked my father. 

"At Ilford, " answered my mother. 

"We must make a joke of it, " said my father. 

My mother, sitting down, began to cry. It had been a trying week for mymother. A party to dinner--to a real dinner, beginning with anchoviesand ending with ices from the confectioner's; if only they would remainices and not, giving way to unaccustomed influences, present themselvesas cold custard--was an extraordinary departure from the even tenor ofour narrow domestic way; indeed, I recollect none previous. First therehad been the house to clean and rearrange almost from top to bottom;endless small purchases to be made of articles that Need never misses, but which Ostentation, if ever you let her sneering nose inside thedoor, at once demands. Then the kitchen range--it goes without saying:one might imagine them all members of a stove union, controlled by someagitating old boiler out of work--had taken the opportunity to strike, refusing to bake another dish except under permanently improvedconditions, necessitating weary days with plumbers. Fat cookery books, long neglected on their shelf, had been consulted, argued with andabused; experiments made, failures sighed over, successes noted; costcalculated anxiously; means and ways adjusted, hope finally achieved, shadowed by fear. 

And now with victory practically won, to have the reward thus dashedfrom her hand at the last moment! Downstairs in the kitchen would bethe dinner, waiting for the guests; upstairs round the glittering tablewould be the assembled guests, waiting for their dinner. But between thetwo yawned an impassable gulf. The bridge, without a word of warning, had bolted--was probably by this time well on its way to Ilford. Therewas excuse for my mother's tears. 

"Isn't it possible to get somebody else?" asked my father. 

"Impossible, in the time, " said my mother. "I had been training her forthe whole week. We had rehearsed it perfectly. "

"Have it in the kitchen, " suggested my aunt, who was folding napkins tolook like ships, which they didn't in the least, "and call it a picnic. "Really it seemed the only practical solution. 

There came a light knock at the front door. 

"It can't be anybody yet, surely, " exclaimed my father in alarm, makingfor his coat. 

"It's Barbara, I expect, " explained my mother. "She promised to comeround and help me dress. But now, of course, I shan't want her. " Mymother's nature was pessimistic. 

But with the words Barbara ran into the room, for I had taken it uponmyself to admit her, knowing that shadows slipped out through the windowwhen Barbara came in at the door--in those days, I mean. 

She kissed them all three, though it seemed but one movement, she was soquick. And at once they saw the humour of the thing. 

"There's going to be no dinner, " laughed my father. "We are going tolook surprised and pretend that it was yesterday. It will be fun to seetheir faces. "

"There will be a very nice dinner, " smiled my mother, "but it will bein the kitchen, and there's no way of getting it upstairs. " And theyexplained to her the situation. 

She stood for an instant, her sweet face the gravest in the group. Thena light broke upon it. 

"I'll get you someone, " she said. 

"My dear, you don't even know the neighbourhood, " began my mother. ButBarbara had snatched the latchkey from its nail and was gone. 

With her disappearance, shadow fell again upon us. "If there were onlyan hotel in this beastly neighbourhood, " said my father. 

"You must entertain them by yourself, Luke, " said my mother; "and I mustwait--that's all. "

"Don't be absurd, Maggie, " cried my father, getting angry. "Can't cookbring it in?"

"No one can cook a dinner and serve it, too, " answered my mother, impatiently. "Besides, she's not presentable. "

"What about Fan?" whispered my father. 

My mother merely looked. It was sufficient. 

"Paul?" suggested my father. 

"Thank you, " retorted my mother. "I don't choose to have my son turnedinto a footman, if you do. "

"Well, hadn't you better go and dress?" was my father's next remark. 

"It won't take me long to put on an apron, " was my mother's reply. 

"I was looking forward to seeing you in that new frock, " said my father. In the case of another, one might have attributed such a speech to tact;in the case of my father, one felt it was a happy accident. 

My mother confessed--speaking with a certain indulgence, as one does ofone's own follies when past--that she herself also had looked forward toseeing herself therein. Threatening discord melted into mutual sympathy. 

"I so wanted everything to be all right, for your sake, Luke, " said mymother; "I know you were hoping it would help on the business. "

"I was only thinking of you, Maggie, dear, " answered my father. "You aremy business. "

"I know, dear, " said my mother. "It is hard. "

The key turned in the lock, and we all stood quiet to listen. 

"She's come back alone, " said my mother. "I knew it was hopeless. "

The door opened. 

"Please, ma'am, " said the new parlour-maid, "will I do?"

She stood there, framed by the lintel, in the daintiest of aprons, thedaintiest of caps upon her golden hair; and every objection she sweptaside with the wind of her merry wilfulness. No one ever had their waywith her, nor wanted it. 

"You shall be footman, " she ordered, turning to me--but this time mymother only laughed. "Wait here till I come down again. " Then to mymother: "Now, ma'am, are you ready?"

It was the first time I had seen my mother, or, indeed, any other fleshand blood woman, in evening dress, and to tell the truth I was a littleshocked. Nay, more than a little, and showed it, I suppose; for mymother flushed and drew her shawl over the gleaming whiteness of hershoulders, pleading coldness. But Barbara cried out against this, sayingit was a sin such beauty should be hid; and my father, filching a shawlwith a quick hand, so dextrously indeed as to suggest some previouspractice in the feat, dropped on one knee--as though the world were somesweet picture book--and raised my mother's hand with grave reverence tohis lips; and Barbara, standing behind my mother's chair, insisted onmy following suit, saying the Queen was receiving. So I knelt also, glancing up shyly as towards the gracious face of some fair ladyhitherto unknown, thus Catching my first glimpse of the philosophy ofclothes. 

My memory lingers upon this scene by contrast with the sad, changeddays that swiftly followed, when my mother's eyes would flash towardsmy father angry gleams, and her voice ring cruel and hard; though themoment he was gone her lips would tremble and her eyes grow soft againand fill with tears; when my father would sit with averted face andsullen lips tight pressed, or worse, would open them only to pour fortha rapid flood of savage speech; and fling out of the room, slamming thedoor behind him, and I would find him hours afterwards, sitting alone inthe dark, with bowed head between his hands. 

Wretched, I would lie awake, hearing through the flimsy walls theirpassionate tones, now rising high, now fiercely forced into coldwhispers; and then their words to each other sounded even crueller. 

In their estrangement from each other, so new to them, both clung closerto me, though they would tell me nothing, nor should I have understoodif they had. When my mother was sobbing softly, her arms clasping metighter and tighter with each quivering throb, then I hated my father, who I felt had inflicted this sorrow upon her. Yet when my father drewme down upon his knee, and I looked into his kind eyes so full of pain, then I felt angry with my mother, remembering her bitter tongue. 

It seemed to me as though some cruel, unseen thing had crept into thehouse to stand ever between them, so that they might never look intoeach other's loving eyes but only into the eyes of this evil shadow. Theidea grew upon me until at times I could almost detect its outline inthe air, feel a chillness as it passed me. It trod silently through thepokey rooms, always alert to thrust its grinning face before them. Now beside my mother it would whisper in her ear; and the next moment, stealing across to my father, answer for him with his voice, butstrangely different. I used to think I could hear it laughing to itselfas it stepped back into enfolding space. 

To this day I seem to see it, ever following with noiseless footstepsman and woman, waiting patiently its opportunity to thrust its facebetween them. So that I can read no love tale, but, glancing round, Isee its mocking eyes behind my shoulder, reading also, with a silentlaugh. So that never can I meet with boy and girl, whispering in thetwilight, but I see it lurking amid the half lights, just behind them, creeping after them with stealthy tread, as hand in hand they pass me inquiet ways. 

Shall any of us escape, or lies the road of all through this darkvalley of the shadow of dead love? Is it Love's ordeal? testing thefeeble-hearted from the strong in faith, who shall find each other yetagain, the darkness passed?

Of the dinner itself, until time of dessert, I can give no consecutiveaccount, for as footman, under the orders of this enthusiasticparlour-maid, my place was no sinecure, and but few opportunities ofobservation through the crack of the door were afforded me. All thatwas clear to me was that the chief guest was a Mr. Teidelmann--orTiedelmann, I cannot now remember which--a snuffy, mumbling old frump, with whose name then, however, I was familiar by reason of seeing itso often in huge letters, though with a Co. Added, on dreary long blankwalls, bordering the Limehouse reach. He sat at my mother's right hand;and I wondered, noticing him so ugly and so foolish seeming, how shecould be so interested in him, shouting much and often to him; for addedto his other disattractions he was very deaf, which necessitated hisputting his hand up to his ear at every other observation made tohim, crying querulously: "Eh, what? What are you talking about? Say itagain, "--smiling upon him and paying close attention to his every want. Even old Hasluck, opposite to him, and who, though pleasant enoughin his careless way, was far from being a slave to politeness, roaredhimself purple, praising some new disinfectant of which this sameTeidelmann appeared to be the proprietor. 

"My wife swears by it, " bellowed Hasluck, leaning across the table. 

"Our drains!" chimed in Mrs. Hasluck, who was a homely soul; "well, you'd hardly know there was any in the house since I've took to usingit. "

"What are they talking about?" asked Teidelmann, appealing to my mother. "What's he say his wife does?"

"Your disinfectant, " explained my mother; "Mrs. Hasluck swears by it. "

"Who?"

"Mrs. Hasluck. "

"Does she? Delighted to hear it, " grunted the old gentleman, evidentlybored. 

"Nothing like it for a sick-room, " persisted Hasluck; "might almost callit a scent. "

"Makes one quite anxious to be ill, " remarked my aunt, addressing no onein particular. 

"Reminds me of cocoanuts, " continued Hasluck. 

Its proprietor appeared not to hear, but Hasluck was determined hisflattery should not be lost. 

"I say it reminds me of cocoanuts. " He screamed it this time. 

"Oh, does it?" was the reply. 

"Doesn't it you?"

"Can't say it does, " answered Teidelmann. "As a matter of fact, don'tknow much about it myself. Never use it. "

Old Teidelmann went on with his dinner, but Hasluck was still full ofthe subject. 

"Take my advice, " he shouted, "and buy a bottle. "

"Buy a what?"

"A bottle, " roared the other, with an effort palpably beyond hisstrength. 

"What's he say? What's he talking about now?" asked Teidelmann, againappealing to my mother. 

"He says you ought to buy a bottle, " again explained my mother. 

"What of?"

"Of your own disinfectant. "

"Silly fool!"

Whether he intended the remark to be heard and thus to close the topic(which it did), or whether, as deaf people are apt to, merely misjudgedthe audibility of an intended sotto vocalism, I cannot say. I only knowthat outside in the passage I heard the words distinctly, and thereforeassume they reached round the table also. 

A lull in the conversation followed, but Hasluck was not thin-skinned, and the next thing I distinguished was his cheery laugh. 

"He's quite right, " was Hasluck's comment; "that's what I amundoubtedly. Because I can't talk about anything but shop myself, Ithink everybody else is the same sort of fool. "

But he was doing himself an injustice, for on my next arrival in thepassage he was again shouting across the table, and this time Teidelmannwas evidently interested. 

"Well, if you could spare the time, I'd be more obliged than I can tellyou, " Hasluck was saying. "I know absolutely nothing about picturesmyself, and Pearsall says you are one of the best judges in Europe. "

"He ought to know, " chuckled old Teidelmann. "He's tried often enough topalm off rubbish onto me. "

"That last purchase of yours must have been a good thing for young--"Hasluck mentioned the name of a painter since world famous; "been themaking of him, I should say. "

"I gave him two thousand for the six, " replied Teidelmann, "and they'llsell for twenty thousand. "

"But you'll never sell them?" exclaimed my father. 

"No, " grunted old Teidelmann, "but my widow will. " There came a soft, low laugh from a corner of the table I could not see. 

"It's Anderson's great disappointment, " followed a languid, caressingvoice (the musical laugh translated into prose, it seemed), "that he hasnever been able to educate me to a proper appreciation of art. He'll paythousands of pounds for a child in rags or a badly dressed Madonna. Sucha waste of money, it appears to me. "

"But you would pay thousands for a diamond to hang upon your neck, "argued my father's voice. 

"It would enhance the beauty of my neck, " replied the musical voice. 

"An even more absolute waste of money, " was my father's answer, spokenlow. And I heard again the musical, soft laugh. 

"Who is she?" I asked Barbara. 

"The second Mrs. Teidelmann, " whispered Barbara. "She is quite a swell. Married him for his money--I don't like her myself, but she's verybeautiful. "

"As beautiful as you?" I asked incredulously. We were sitting on thestairs, sharing a jelly. 

"Oh, me!" answered Barbara. "I'm only a child. Nobody takes any noticeof me--except other kids, like you. " For some reason she appeared out ofconceit with herself, which was not her usual state of mind. 

"But everybody thinks you beautiful, " I maintained. 

"Who?" she asked quickly. 

"Dr. Hal, " I answered. 

We were with our backs to the light, so that I could not see her face. 

"What did he say?" she asked, and her voice had more of contentment init. 

I could not remember his exact words, but about the sense of them I waspositive. 

"Ask him what he thinks of me, as if you wanted to know yourself, "Barbara instructed me, "and don't forget what he says this time. I'mcurious. " And though it seemed to me a foolish command--for what couldhe say of her more than I myself could tell her--I never questionedBarbara's wishes. 

Yet if I am right in thinking that jealousy of Mrs. Teidelmann may haveclouded for a moment Barbara's sunny nature, surely there was no reasonfor this, seeing that no one attracted greater attention throughout thedinner than the parlour-maid. 

"Where ever did you get her from?" asked Mrs. Florret, Barbara havingjust descended the kitchen stairs. 

"A neat-handed Phillis, " commented Dr. Florret with approval. 

"I'll take good care she never waits at my table, " laughed the wifeof our minister, the Rev. Cottle, a broad-built, breezy-voiced woman, mother of eleven, eight of them boys. 

"To tell the truth, " said my mother, "she's only here temporarily. "

"As a matter of fact, " said my father, "we have to thank Mrs. Hasluckfor her. "

"Don't leave me out of it, " laughed Hasluck; "can't let the old girltake all the credit. "

Later my father absent-mindedly addressed her as "My dear, " at whichMrs. Cottle shot a swift glance towards my mother; and before thatincident could have been forgotten, Hasluck, when no one waslooking, pinched her elbow, which would not have mattered had not theunexpectedness of it drawn from her an involuntary "augh, " upon which, for the reputation of the house, and the dinner being then towardsits end; my mother deemed it better to take the whole company intoher confidence. Naturally the story gained for Barbara still greateradmiration, so that when with the dessert, discarding the apron butstill wearing the dainty cap, which showed wisdom, she and the footmantook their places among the guests, she was even more than before thecentre of attention and remark. 

"It was very nice of you, " said Mrs. Cottle, thus completing the circleof compliments, "and, as I always tell my girls, that is better thanbeing beautiful. "

"Kind hearts, " added Dr. Florret, summing up the case, "are more thancoronets. " Dr. Florret had ever ready for the occasion the correctquotation, but from him, somehow, it never irritated; rather it fellupon the ear as a necessary rounding and completing of the theme; likethe Amen in church. 

Only to my aunt would further observations have occurred. 

"When I was a girl, " said my aunt, breaking suddenly upon the passingsilence, "I used to look into the glass and say to myself: 'Fanny, you've got to be amiable, ' and I was amiable, " added my aunt, challenging contradiction with a look; "nobody can say that I wasn't, for years. "

"It didn't pay?" suggested Hasluck. 

"It attracted, " replied my aunt, "no attention whatever. "

Hasluck had changed places with my mother, and having after manyexperiments learned the correct pitch for conversation with oldTeidelmann, talked with him as much aside as the circumstances of thecase would permit. Hasluck never wasted time on anything else thanbusiness. It was in his opera box on the first night of Verdi's Aida (Iam speaking of course of days then to come) that he arranged the detailsof his celebrated deal in guano; and even his very religion, so I havebeen told and can believe, he varied to suit the enterprise of themoment, once during the protracted preliminaries of a cocoa schemebecoming converted to Quakerism. 

But for the most of us interest lay in a discussion between Washburn andFlorret concerning the superior advantages attaching to residence in theEast End. 

As a rule, incorrect opinion found itself unable to exist in Dr. Florret's presence. As no bird, it is said, can continue its song oncelooked at by an owl, so all originality grew silent under the cold stareof his disapproving eye. But Dr. "Fighting Hal" was no gentle warblerof thought. Vehement, direct, indifferent, he swept through all politeargument as a strong wind through a murmuring wood, carrying hispartisans with him further than they meant to go, and quite unable toturn back; leaving his opponents clinging desperately--upside down, anyhow--to their perches, angry, their feathers much ruffled. 

"Life!" flung out Washburn--Dr. Florret had just laid down unimpeachablerules for the conduct of all mankind on all occasions--"what do yourespectable folk know of life? You are not men and women, you aremarionettes. You don't move to your natural emotions implanted by God;you dance according to the latest book of etiquette. You live and love, laugh and weep and sin by rule. Only one moment do you come face to facewith life; that is in the moment when you die, leaving the other puppetsto be dressed in black and make believe to cry. "

It was a favourite subject of denunciation with him, the artificialityof us all. 

"Little doll, " he had once called me, and I had resented the term. 

"That's all you are, little Paul, " he had persisted, "a good littlehard-working doll, that does what it's made to do, and thinks whatit's made to think. We are all dolls. Your father is a gallant-hearted, soft-headed little doll; your mother the sweetest and primmest of dolls. And I'm a silly, dissatisfied doll that longs to be a man, but hasn'tthe pluck. We are only dolls, little Paul. "

"He's a trifle--a trifle whimsical on some subjects, " explained myfather, on my repeating this conversation. 

"There are a certain class of men, " explained my mother--"you will meetwith them more as you grow up--who talk for talking's sake. They don'tknow what they mean. And nobody else does either. "

"But what would you have?" argued Dr. Florret, "that every man should dothat which is right in his own eyes?"

"Far better than, like the old man in the fable, he should do what everyother fool thinks right, " retorted Washburn. "The other day I calledto see whether a patient of mine was still alive or not. His wife waswashing clothes in the front room. 'How's your husband?' I asked. 'Ithink he's dead, ' replied the woman. Then, without leaving off her work, 'Jim, ' she shouted, 'are you there?' No answer came from the inner room. 'He's a goner, ' she said, wringing out a stocking. "

"But surely, " said Dr. Florret, "you don't admire a woman for beingindifferent to the death of her husband?"

"I don't admire her for that, " replied Washburn, "and I don't blame her. I didn't make the world and I'm not responsible for it. What I do admireher for is not pretending a grief she didn't feel. In Berkeley Squareshe'd have met me at the door with an agonised face and a handkerchiefto her eyes. 

"Assume a virtue, if you have it not, " murmured Dr. Florret. 

"Go on, " said Washburn. "How does it run? 'That monster, custom, who allsense doth eat, of devil's habit, is angel yet in this, that to the useof actions fair and good he gives a frock that aptly is put on. ' So wasthe lion's skin by the ass, but it showed him only the more an ass. Hereasses go about as asses, but there are lions also. I had a woman undermy hands only a little while ago. I could have cured her easily. Why shegot worse every day instead of better I could not understand. Then byaccident learned the truth: instead of helping me she was doing allshe could to kill herself. 'I must, Doctor, ' she cried. 'I must. I havepromised. If I get well he will only leave me, and if I die now he hassworn to be good to the children. ' Here, I tell you, they live--thinktheir thoughts, work their will, kill those they hate, die for thosethey love; savages if you like, but savage men and women, not bloodlessdolls. "

"I prefer the dolls, " concluded Dr. Florret. 

"I admit they are pretty, " answered Washburn. 

"I remember, " said my father, "the first masked ball I ever went to whenI was a student in Paris. It struck me just as you say, Hal; everybodywas so exactly alike. I was glad to get out into the street and seefaces. "

"But I thought they always unmasked at midnight, " said the second Mrs. Teidelmann in her soft, languid tones. 

"I did not wait, " explained my father. 

"That was a pity, " she replied. "I should have been interested to seewhat they were like, underneath. "

"I might have been disappointed, " answered my father. "I agree with Dr. Florret that sometimes the mask is an improvement. "

Barbara was right. She was a beautiful woman, with a face that wouldhave been singularly winning if one could have avoided the hard coldeyes ever restless behind the half-closed lids. 

Always she was very kind to me. Moreover, since the disappearance ofCissy she was the first to bestow again upon me a good opinion of mysmall self. My mother praised me when I was good, which to her was theone thing needful; but few of us, I fear, child or grown-up, take muchpride in our solid virtues, finding them generally hindrances to ourdesires: like the oyster's pearl, of more comfort to the world than toourselves. If others there were who admired me, very guardedly must theyhave kept the secret I would so gladly have shared with them. But thisnew friend of ours--or had I not better at once say enemy--made me feelwhen in her presence a person of importance. How it was accomplishedI cannot explain. No word of flattery nor even of mere approval everpassed her lips. Her charm to me was not that she admired me, but thatshe led me by some mysterious process to admire myself. 

And yet in spite of this and many lesser kindnesses she showed to me, I never really liked her; but rather feared her, dreading always thesudden raising of those ever half-closed eyelids. 

She sat next to my father at the corner of the table, her chin restingon her long white hands, her sweet lips parted, and as often as hiseyes were turned away from her, her soft low voice would draw them backagain. Once she laid her hand on his, laughing the while at some lightjest of his, and I saw that he flushed; and following his quick glance, saw that my mother's eyes were watching also. 

I have spoken of my father only as he then appeared to me, a child--anolder chum with many lines about his mobile mouth, the tumbled hairedged round with grey; but looking back with older eyes, I see him aslightly stooping, yet still tall and graceful man, with the face of apoet--the face I mean a poet ought to possess but rarely does, natureapparently abhorring the obvious--with the shy eyes of a boy, and avoice tender as a woman's. Never the dingiest little drab that enteredthe kitchen but adored him, speaking always of "the master" in tones offond proprietorship, for to the most slatternly his "orders" had everthe air of requests for favours. Women, I so often read, can care foronly masterful men. But may there not be variety in women as in otherspecies? Or perhaps--if the suggestion be not over-daring--the manywriters, deeming themselves authorities upon this subject of woman, mayin this one particular have erred? I only know my father spoke tofew women whose eyes did not brighten. Yet hardly should I call him amasterful man. 

"I think it's all right, " whispered Hasluck to my father in thepassage--they were the last to go. "What does she think of it, eh?"

"I think she'll be with us, " answered my father. 

"Nothing like food for bringing people together, " said Hasluck. "Good-night. "

The door closed, but Something had crept into the house. It stoodbetween my father and mother. It followed them silently up the narrowcreaking stairs. 

CHAPTER VII. 

OF THE PASSING OF THE SHADOW. 

Better is little, than treasure and trouble therewith. Better a dinnerof herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. Nonebut a great man would have dared to utter such a glaring commonplace asthat. Not only on Sundays now, but all the week, came the hot joint totable, and on every day there was pudding, till a body grew indifferentto pudding; thus a joy-giving luxury of life being lost and but anotheritem added to the long list of uninteresting needs. Now we could eat anddrink without stint. No need now to organise for the morrow's hash. No need now to cut one's bread instead of breaking it, thinking ofSaturday's bread pudding. But there the saying fails, for never now werewe merry. A silent unseen guest sat with us at the board, so that nolonger we laughed and teased as over the half pound of sausages or thetwo sweet-scented herrings; but talked constrainedly of empty thingsthat lay outside us. 

Easy enough would it have been for us to move to Guilford Street. Occasionally in the spiritless tones in which they now spoke on allsubjects save the one, my mother and father would discuss the project;but always into the conversation would fall, sooner or later, someloosened thought to stir it to anger, and so the aching months went by, and the cloud grew. 

Then one day the news came that old Teidelmann had died suddenly in hiscounting house. 

"You are going to her?" said my mother. 

"I have been sent for, " said my father; "I must--it may mean business. "

My mother laughed bitterly; why, at the time, I could not understand;and my father flung out of the house. During the many hours that he wasaway my mother remained locked in her room, and, stealing sometimes tothe door, I was sure I heard her crying; and that she should grieve soat old Teidelmann's death puzzled me. 

She came oftener to our house after that. Her mourning added, I think, to her beauty, softening--or seeming to soften--the hardness of hereyes. Always she was very sweet to my mother, who by contrast beside herappeared witless and ungracious; and to me, whatever her motive, she waskindness itself; hardly ever arriving without some trifling gift or planfor affording me some childish treat. By instinct she understood exactlywhat I desired and liked, the books that would appeal to me as those mymother gave me never did, the pleasures that did please me as opposed tothe pleasures that should have pleased me. Often my mother, talkingto me, would chill me with the vista of the life that lay before me:a narrow, viewless way between twin endless walls of "Must" and "Mustnot. " This soft-voiced lady set me dreaming of life as of sunny fieldsthrough which one wandered laughing, along the winding path of Will; sothat, although as I have said, there lurked at the bottom of my thoughtsa fear of her; yet something within me I seemed unable to control wentout to her, drawn by her subtle sympathy and understanding of it. 

"Has he ever seen a pantomime?" she asked of my father one morning, looking at me the while with a whimsical screwing of her mouth. 

My heart leaped within me. My father raised his eyebrows: "What wouldyour mother say, do you think?" he asked. My heart sank. 

"She thinks, " I replied, "that theatres are very wicked places. " Itwas the first time that any doubt as to the correctness of my mother'sjudgments had ever crossed my mind. 

Mrs. Teidelmann's smile strengthened my doubt. "Dear me, " she said, "Iam afraid I must be very wicked. I have always regarded a pantomime asquite a moral entertainment. All the bad people go down so very straightto--well, to the fit and proper place for them. And we could promise toleave before the Clown stole the sausages, couldn't we, Paul?"

My mother was called and came; and I could not help thinking howinsignificant she looked with her pale face and plain dark frock, standing stiffly beside this shining lady in her rustling clothes. 

"You will let him come, Mrs. Kelver, " she pleaded in her soft caressingtones; "it's Dick Whittington, you know--such an excellent moral. "

My mother had stood silent, clasping and unclasping her hands, achildish trick she had when troubled; and her lips were trembling. Important as the matter loomed before my own eyes, I wondered at heragitation. 

"I am very sorry, " said my mother, "it is very kind of you. But I wouldrather he did not go. "

"Just this once, " persisted Mrs. Teidelmann. "It is holiday time. "

A ray of sunlight fell into the room, lighting upon her coaxing face, making where my mother stood seem shadow. 

"I would rather he did not go, " repeated my mother, and her voicesounded harsh and grating. "When he is older others must judge for him, but for the present he must be guided by me--alone. "

"I really don't think there could be any harm, Maggie, " urged my father. "Things have changed since we were young. "

"That may be, " answered my mother, still in the same harsh voice; "it islong ago since then. "

"I didn't intend it that way, " said my father with a short laugh. 

"I merely meant that I may be wrong, " answered my mother. "I seem so oldamong you all--so out of place. I have tried to change, but I cannot. "

"We will say no more about it, " said Mrs. Teidelmann, sweetly. "I merelythought it would give him pleasure; and he has worked so hard this lastterm, his father tells me. "

She laid her hand caressingly on my shoulder, drawing me a little closerto her; and it remained there. 

"It was very kind of you, " said my mother, "I would do anything to givehim pleasure, anything-I could. He knows that. He understands. "

My mother's hand, I knew, was seeking mine, but I was angry and wouldnot see; and without another word she left the room. 

My mother did not allude again to the subject; but the very nextafternoon she took me herself to a hall in the neighbourhood, where wesaw a magic-lantern, followed by a conjurer. She had dressed herself ina prettier frock than she had worn for many a long day, and was brighterand gayer in herself than had lately been her wont, laughing and talkingmerrily. But I, nursing my wrongs, remained moody and sulky. At anyother time such rare amusement would have overjoyed me; but the wondersof the great theatre that from other boys I had heard so much of, thatfrom gaudy-coloured posters I had built up for myself, were floatingvague and undefined before me in the air; and neither the open-mouthedsleeper, swallowing his endless chain of rats; nor even the live rabbitfound in the stout old gentleman's hat--the last sort of person in whosehat one would have expected to find such a thing--could draw away mymind from the joy I had caught a glimpse of only to lose. 

So we walked home through the muddy, darkening streets, speaking butlittle; and that night, waking--or rather half waking, as children do--Ithought I saw a figure in white crouching at the foot of my bed. I musthave gone to sleep again; and later, though I cannot say whether theintervening time was short or long, I opened my eyes to see it stillthere; and frightened, I cried out; and my mother rose from her knees. 

She laughed, a curious broken laugh, in answer to my questions. "It wasa silly dream I had, " she explained "I must have been thinking of theconjurer we saw. I dreamt that a wicked Magician had spirited you awayfrom me. I could not find you and was all alone in the world. "

She put her arms around me, so tight as almost to hurt me. And thus weremained until again I must have fallen asleep. 

It was towards the close of these same holidays that my mother and Icalled upon Mrs. Teidelmann in her great stone-built house at Clapton. She had sent a note round that morning, saying she was suffering fromterrible headaches that quite took her senses away, so that she wasunable to come out. She would be leaving England in a few days totravel. Would my mother come and see her, she would like to say good-byeto her before she went. My mother handed the letter across the table tomy father. 

"Of course you will go, " said my father. "Poor girl, I wonder what thecause can be. She used to be so free from everything of the kind. "

"Do you think it well for me to go?" said my mother. "What can she haveto say to me?"

"Oh, just to say good-bye, " answered my father. "It would look sopointed not to go. "

It was a dull, sombre house without, but one entered through itscommonplace door as through the weed-grown rock into Aladdin's cave. OldTeidelmann had been a great collector all his life, and his treasures, now scattered through a dozen galleries, were then heaped there incurious confusion. Pictures filled every inch of wall, stood proppedagainst the wonderful old furniture, were even stretched unframed acrossthe ceilings. Statues gleamed from every corner (a few of the statueswere, I remember, the only things out of the entire collection that Mrs. Teidelmann kept for herself), carvings, embroideries, priceless china, miniatures framed in gems, illuminated missals and gorgeously boundbooks crowded the room. The ugly little thick-lipped man had surroundedhimself with the beauty of every age, brought from every land. Hehimself must have been the only thing cheap and uninteresting to befound within his own walls; and now he lay shrivelled up in his coffin, under a monument by means of which an unknown cemetery became quitefamous. 

Instructions had been given that my mother was to be shown up into Mrs. Teidelmann's boudoir. She was lying on a sofa near the fire when weentered, asleep, dressed in a loose lace robe that fell away, showingher thin but snow-white arms, her rich dark hair falling loose abouther. In sleep she looked less beautiful: harder and with a suggestion ofcoarseness about the face, of which at other times it showed no trace. My mother said she would wait, perhaps Mrs. Teidelmann would awake; andthe servant, closing the door softly, left us alone with her. 

An old French clock standing on the mantelpiece, a heart supported byCupids, ticked with a muffled, soothing sound. My mother, choosing achair by the window, sat with her eyes fixed on the sleeping woman'sface, and it seemed to me--though this may have been but my fancy bornof after-thought--that a faint smile relaxed for a moment the sleepingwoman's pained, pressed lips. Neither I nor my mother spoke, the onlysound in the room being the hushed ticking of the great gilt clock. Until the other woman after a few slight movements of unrest began totalk in her sleep. 

Only confused murmurs escaped her at first, and then I heard her whispermy father's name. Very low--hardly more than breathed--were the words, but upon the silence each syllable struck clear and distinct: "Ah no, wemust not. Luke, my darling. "

My mother rose swiftly from her chair, but she spoke in quitematter-of-fact tones. 

"Go, Paul, " she said, "wait for me downstairs;" and noiselessly openingthe door, she pushed me gently out, and closed it again behind me. 

It was half an hour or more before she came down, and at once we leftthe house, letting ourselves out. All the way home my mother never oncespoke, but walked as one in a dream with eyes that saw not. With herhand upon the lock of our gate she came back to life. 

"You must say nothing, Paul, do you understand?" she said. "When peopleare delirious they use strange words that have no meaning. Do youunderstand, Paul; you must never breathe a word--never. "

I promised, and we entered the house; and from that day my mother'swhole manner changed. Not another angry word ever again escaped herlips, never an angry flash lighted up again her eyes. Mrs. Teidelmannremained away three months. My father, of course, wrote to her often, for he was managing all her affairs. But my mother wrote to heralso--though this my father, I do not think, knew--long letters that shewould go away by herself to pen, writing them always in the twilight, close to the window. 

"Why do you choose this time, just when it's getting dark, to write yourletters, " my father would expostulate, when by chance he happened tolook into the room. "Let me ring for the lamp, you will strain youreyes. " But my mother would always excuse herself, saying she had only afew lines to finish. 

"I can think better in this light, " she would explain. 

And when Mrs. Teidelmann returned, it was my mother who was the firstto call upon her; before even my father knew that she was back. And fromthence onward one might have thought them the closest of friends, mymother visiting her often, speaking of her to all in terms of praise andliking. 

In this way peace returned unto the house, and my father was tenderagain in all his words and actions towards my mother, and my motherthoughtful as before of all his wants and whims, her voice soft and low, the sweet smile ever lurking around her lips as in the old days beforethis evil thing had come to dwell among us; and I might have forgottenit had ever cast its blight upon our life but that every day my mothergrew feebler, the little ways that had seemed a part of her gone fromher. 

The summer came and went--that time in towns of panting days andstifling nights, when through the open window crawls to one's face thehot foul air, heavy with reeking odours drawn from a thousand streets;when lying awake one seems to hear the fitful breathing of the myriadmass around, as of some over-laboured beast too tired to even rest; andmy mother moved about the house ever more listlessly. 

"There's nothing really the matter with her, " said Dr. Hal, "onlyweakness. It is the place. Cannot you get her away from it?"

"I cannot leave myself, " said my father, "just yet; but there is noreason why you and the boy should not take a holiday. This year I canafford it, and later I might possibly join you. "

My mother consented, as she did to all things now, and so it came aboutthat again of afternoons we climbed--though more slowly and with manypauses--the steep path to the ruined tower old Jacob in his happyfoolishness had built upon the headland, rested once again upon itstopmost platform, sheltered from the wind that ever blew about itscrumbling walls, saw once more the distant mountains, faint likespectres, and the silent ships that came and vanished, and about ourfeet the pleasant farm lands, and the grave, sweet river. 

We had taken lodgings in the village: smaller now it seemed thanpreviously; but wonderful its sunny calm, after the turmoil of thefierce dark streets. Mrs. Fursey was there still, but quite another thanthe Mrs. Fursey of my remembrance, a still angular but cheery dame, bent no longer on suppressing me, but rather on drawing me out beforeadmiring neighbours, as one saying: "The material was unpromising, asyou know. There were times when I almost despaired. But withpatience, and--may I say, a natural gift that way--you see what canbe accomplished!" And Anna, now a buxom wife and mother, with anuncontrollable desire to fall upon and kiss me at most unexpectedmoments, necessitating a never sleeping watchfulness on my part, anda choosing of positions affording means of ready retreat. And oldChumbley, still cobbling shoes in his tiny cave. On the bench beforehim in a row they sat and watched him while he tapped and tapped andhammered: pert little shoes piping "Be quick, be quick, we want to betoddling. You seem to have no idea, my good man, how much toddling thereis to be done. " Dapper boots, sighing: "Oh, please make haste, we arewaiting to dance and to strut. Jack walks in the lane, Jill waits bythe gate. Oh, deary, how slowly he taps. " Stout sober boots, saying: "Assoon as you can, old friend. Remember we've work to do. " Flat-footed oldboots, rusty and limp, mumbling: "We haven't much time, Mr. Chumbley. Just a patch, that is all, we haven't much further to go. " And old Joe, still peddling his pack, with the help of the same old jokes. And TomPinfold, still puzzled and scratching his head, the rejected fish stillhanging by its tail from his expostulating hand; one might almost haveimagined it the same fish. Grown-up folks had changed but little. Onlythe foolish children had been playing tricks; parties I had left meresucking babes now swaggering in pinafore or knickerbocker; children Ihad known now mincing it as men and women; such affectation annoyed me. 

One afternoon--it was towards the close of the last week of our stay--mymother and I had climbed, as was so often our wont, to the upperplatform of old Jacob's tower. My mother leant upon the parapet, hereyes fixed dreamingly upon the distant mountains, and a smile crept toher lips. 

"What are you thinking of?" I asked. 

"Oh, only of things that happened over there"--she nodded her headtowards the distant hills as to some old crony with whom she sharessecrets--"when I was a girl. "

"You lived there, long ago, didn't you, when you were young?" I asked. Boys do not always stop to consider whether their questions might ormight not be better expressed. 

"You're very rude, " said my mother--it was long since a tone of her oldself had rung from her in answer to any touch; "it was a very littlewhile ago. "

Suddenly she raised her head and listened. Perhaps some twenty secondsshe remained so with her lips parted, and then from the woods came afaint, long-drawn "Coo-ee. " We ran to the side of the tower commandingthe pathway from the village, and waited until from among the dark pinesmy father emerged into the sunlight. 

Seeing us, he shouted again and waved his stick, and from the light ofhis eyes and his gallant bearing, and the spring of his step across theheathery turf, we knew instinctively that trouble had come upon him. He always rose to meet it with that look and air. It was the old Norseblood in his veins, I suppose. So, one imagines, must those godless oldPirates have sprung to their feet when the North wind, loosed as a hawkfrom the leash, struck at the beaked prow. 

We heard his quick step on the rickety stair, and the next moment he wasbetween us, breathing a little hard, but laughing. 

He stood for awhile beside my mother without speaking, both of themgazing at the distant hills among which, as my mother had explained, things had happened long ago. And maybe, "over there, " their memoriesmet and looked upon each other with kind eyes. 

"Do you remember, " said my father, "we climbed up here--it was the firstwalk we took together after coming here. We discussed our plans for thefuture, how we would retrieve our fortunes. "

"And the future, " answered my mother, "has a way of making plans for usinstead. "

"It would seem so, " replied my father, with a laugh. "I am an unluckybeggar, Maggie. I dropped all your money as well as my own down thatwretched mine. "

"It was the will--it was Fate, or whatever you call it, " said my mother. "You could not help that, Luke. "

"If only that damned pump hadn't jambed, " said my father. 

"Do you remember that Mrs. Tharand?" asked my mother. 

"Yes, what of her?"

"A worldly woman, I always thought her. She called on me the morning wewere leaving; I don't think you saw her. 'I've been through more worriesthan you would think, to look at me, ' she said to me, laughing. I'vealways remembered her words: 'and of all the troubles that come to us inthis world, believe me, Mrs. Kelver, money troubles are the easiest tobear. '"

"I wish I could think so, " said my father. 

"She rather irritated me at the time, " continued my mother. "I thoughtit one of those commonplaces with which we console ourselves for otherpeople's misfortunes. But now I know she spoke the truth. "

There was silence between them for awhile. Then said my father in acheery tone:

"I've broken with old Hasluck. "

"I thought you would be compelled to sooner or later, " answered mymother. 

"Hasluck, " exclaimed my father, with sudden vehemence, "is little betterthan a thief; I told him so. "

"What did he say?" asked my mother. 

"Laughed, and said that was better than some people. "

My father laughed himself. 

I wish to do the memory of Noel Hasluck no injustice. Ever was he a kindfriend to me; not only then, but in later years, when, having come tolearn that kindness is rarer in the world than I had dreamt, I was gladof it. Added to which, if only for Barbara's sake, I would preferto write of him throughout in terms of praise. Yet even were hisgood-tempered, thick-skinned ghost (and unless it were good-temperedand thick-skinned it would be no true ghost of old Noel Hasluck) tobe reading over my shoulder the words as I write them down, I think itwould agree with me--I do not think it would be offended with me (forever in his life he was an admirer and a lover of the Truth, being oneof those good fighters capable of respecting even his foe, his enemy, against whom from ten to four, occasionally a little later, he foughtright valiantly) for saying that of all the men who go down into theCity each day in a cab or 'bus or train, he was perhaps one of the mostunprincipled: and whether that be saying much or little I leave to thosewith more knowledge to decide. 

To do others, as it was his conviction, right or wrong, that they woulddo him if ever he gave them half a chance, was his notion of "business;"and in most of his transactions he was successful. "I play a game, "he would argue, "where cheating is the rule. Nine out of every ten menround the table are sharpers like myself, and the tenth man is a foolwho has no business to be there. We prey upon each other, and the cutestof us is the winner. "

"But the innocent people, lured by your fine promises, " I ventured onceto suggest to him, "the widows and the orphans?"

"My dear lad, " he said, with a laugh, laying his fat hand upon myshoulder, "I remember one of your widows writing me a pathetic letterabout some shares she had taken in a Silver Company of mine. Lord knowswhere the mine is now--somewhere in Spain, I think. It looked as thoughall her savings were gone. She had an only son, and it was nearly allthey possessed in the world, etc. , etc. --you know the sort of thing. Well, I did what I've often been numskull enough to do in similar cases, wrote and offered to buy her out at par. A week later she answered, thanking me, but saying it did not matter. There had occurreda momentary rise, and she had sold out at a profit--to her ownbrother-in-law, as I discovered, happening to come across the transfers. You can find widows and orphans round the Monte Carlo card tables, ifyou like to look for them; they are no more deserving of considerationthan the rest of the crowd. Besides, if it comes to that, I'm an orphanmyself;" and he laughed again, one of his deep, hearty, honest laughs. No one ever possessed a laugh more suggestive in its every cadenceof simple, transparent honesty. He used to say himself it was worththousands to him. 

Better from the Moralists' point of view had such a man been anout-and-out rogue. Then might one have pointed, crying: "Behold:Dishonesty, as you will observe in the person of our awful example, tobe hated, needs but to be seen. " But the duty of the Chronicler is tobear witness to what he knows, leaving Truth with the whole case beforeher to sum up and direct the verdict. In the City, old Hasluck had abad reputation and deserved it; in Stoke-Newington--then a green suburb, containing many fine old houses, standing in great wooded gardens--hewas loved and respected. In his business, he was a man void of all moralsense, without bowels of compassion for any living thing; in retirement, a man with a strong sense of duty and a fine regard for the rights andfeelings of others, never happier than when planning to help or givepleasure. In his office, he would have robbed his own mother. At home, he would have spent his last penny to add to her happiness or comfort. Imake no attempt to explain. I only know that such men do exist, and thatHasluck was one of them. One avoids difficulties by dismissing them as aproduct of our curiously complex civilisation--a convenient phrase; letus hope the recording angel may be equally impressed by it. 

Casting about for some reason of excuse to myself for my liking of him, I hit upon the expedient of regarding him as a modern Robin Hood, whomwe are taught to admire without shame, a Robin Hood up to date, adaptedto the changed conditions of modern environment; making his livingrelieving the rich; taking pleasure relieving the poor. 

"What will you do?" asked my mother. 

"I shall have to give up the office, " answered my father. "Without himthere's not enough to keep it going. He was quite good-temperedabout the matter--offered to divide the work, letting me retainthe straightforward portion for whatever that might be worth. But Ideclined. Now I know, I feel I would rather have nothing more to do withhim. "

"I think you were quite right, " agreed my mother. 

"What I blame myself for, " said my father, "is that I didn't see throughhim before. Of course he has been making a mere tool of me from thebeginning. I ought to have seen through him. Why didn't I?"

They discussed the future, or, rather, my father discussed, my motherlistening in silence, stealing a puzzled look at him from time to time, as though there were something she could not understand. 

He would take a situation in the City. One had been offered him. Itmight sound poor, but it would be a steady income on which we mustcontrive to live. The little money he had saved must be kept forinvestments--nothing speculative--judicious "dealings, " by means ofwhich a cool, clear-headed man could soon accumulate capital. Here thetraining acquired by working for old Hasluck would serve him well. Oneman my father knew--quite a dull, commonplace man--starting a few yearsago with only a few hundreds, was now worth tens of thousands. Foresightwas the necessary qualification. You watched the "tendency" of things. So often had my father said to himself: "This is going to be abig thing. That other, it is no good, " and in every instance hisprognostications had been verified. He had "felt it;" some men had thatgift. Now was the time to use it for practical purposes. 

"Here, " said my father, breaking off, and casting an approving eye uponthe surrounding scenery, "would be a pleasant place to end one's days. The house you had was very pretty and you liked it. We might enlarge it, the drawing-room might be thrown out--perhaps another wing. " I felt thatour good fortune as from this day was at last established. 

But my mother had been listening with growing impatience, her puzzledglances giving place gradually to flashes of anger; and now she turnedher face full upon him, her question written plainly thereon, demandinganswer. 

Some idea of it I had even then, watching her; and since I have come toread it word for word: "But that woman--that woman that loves you, thatyou love. Ah, I know--why do you play with me? She is rich. With heryour life will be smooth. And the boy--it will be better far for him. Cannot you three wait a little longer? What more can I do? Cannot yousee that I am surely dying--dying as quickly as I can--dying as thatpoor creature your friend once told us of; knowing it was the only thingshe could do for those she loved. Be honest with me: I am no longerjealous. All that is past: a man is ever younger than a woman, and a manchanges. I do not blame you. It is for the best. She and I have talked;it is far better so. Only be honest with me, or at least silent. Willyou not honour me enough for even that?"

My father did not answer, having that to speak of that put my mother'squestion out of her mind for all time; so that until the end no wordconcerning that other woman passed again between them. Twenty yearslater, nearly, I myself happened to meet her, and then long physicalsuffering had chased the wantonness away for ever from the pain-wornmouth; but in that hour of waning voices, as some trouble of the fretfulday when evening falls, so she faded from their life; and if even theremembrance of her returned at times to either of them, I think it musthave been in those moments when, for no seeming reason, shyly theirhands sought one another. 

So the truth of the sad ado--how far my mother's suspicions wronged myfather; for the eye of jealousy (and what loving woman ever lived thatwas not jealous?) has its optic nerve terminating not in the brainbut in the heart, which was not constructed for the reception of truevision--I never knew. Later, long after the curtain of green earthhad been rolled down upon the players, I spoke once on the matter withDoctor Hal, who must have seen something of the play and with moreunderstanding eyes than mine, and who thereupon delivered to me a shortlecture on life in general, a performance at which he excelled. 

"Flee from temptation and pray that you may be delivered from evil, "shouted the Doctor--(his was not the Socratic method)--"but rememberthis: that as sure as the sparks fly upward there will come a time when, however fast you run, you will be overtaken--cornered--no one to deliveryou but yourself--the gods sitting round interested. It is a grim fight, for the Thing, you may be sure, has chosen its right moment. And everywoman in the world will sympathise with you and be just to you, not evendespising you should you be overcome; for however they may talk, everywoman in the world knows that male and female cannot be judged by thesame standard. To woman, Nature and the Law speak with one voice: 'Sinnot, lest you be cursed of your sex!' It is no law of man: it is thelaw of creation. When the woman sins, she sins not only against herconscience, but against her every instinct. But to the man Naturewhispers: 'Yield. ' It is the Law alone that holds him back. Thereforeevery woman in the world, knowing this, will be just to you--every womanin the world but one--the woman that loves you. From her, hope for nosympathy, hope for no justice. "

"Then you think--" I began. 

"I think, " said the Doctor, "that your father loved your motherdevotedly; but he was one of those fighters that for the firsthalf-dozen rounds or so cause their backers much anxiety. It is adangerous method. "

"Then you think my mother--"

"I think your mother was a good woman, Paul; and the good woman willnever be satisfied with man till the Lord lets her take him to piecesand put him together herself. "

My father had been pacing to and fro the tiny platform. Now he came to ahalt opposite my mother, placing his hands upon her shoulders. 

"I want you to help me, Maggie--help me to be brave. I have only a yearor two longer to live, and there's a lot to be done in that time. "

Slowly the anger died out of my mother's face. 

"You remember that fall I had when the cage broke, " my father went on. "Andrews, as you know, feared from the first it might lead to that. ButI always laughed at him. "

"How long have you known?" my mother asked. 

"Oh, about six months. I felt it at the beginning of the year, but Ididn't say anything to Washburn till a month later. I thought it mightbe only fancy. "

"And he is sure?"

My father nodded. 

"But why have you never told me?"

"Because, " replied my father, with a laugh, "I didn't want you to know. If I could have done without you, I should not have told you now. "

And at this there came a light into my mother's face that neveraltogether left it until the end. 

She drew him down beside her on the seat. I had come nearer; and myfather, stretching out his hand, would have had me with them. But mymother, putting her arms about him, held him close to her, as though inthat moment she would have had him to herself alone. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW THE MAN IN GREY MADE READY FOR HIS GOING. 

The eighteen months that followed--for the end came sooner than we hadexpected--were, I think, the happiest days my father and mother had everknown; or if happy be not altogether the right word, let me say the mostbeautiful, and most nearly perfect. To them it was as though God inHis sweet thoughtfulness had sent death to knock lightly at the door, saying: "Not yet. You have still a little longer to be together. In alittle while. " In those last days all things false and meaningless theylaid aside. Nothing was of real importance to them but that they shouldlove each other, comforting each other, learning to understand eachother. Again we lived poorly; but there was now no pitiful strainingto keep up appearances, no haunting terror of what the neighboursmight think. The petty cares and worries concerning matters not wortha moment's thought, the mean desires and fears with which we disfigureourselves, fell from them. There came to them broader thought, a widercharity, a deeper pity. Their love grew greater even than their needs, overflowing towards at things. Sometimes, recalling these months, ithas seemed to me that we make a mistake seeking to keep Death, God'sgo-between, ever from our thoughts. Is it not closing the door to afriend who would help us would we let him (for who knows life so well), whispering to us: "In a little while. Only a little longer that you haveto be together. Is it worth taking so much thought for self? Is it worthwhile being unkind?"

From them a graciousness emanated pervading all around. Even my aunt Fandecided for the second time in her career to give amiability a trial. This intention she announced publicly to my mother and myself oneafternoon soon after our return from Devonshire. 

"I'm a beast of an old woman, " said my aunt, suddenly. 

"Don't say that, Fan, " urged my mother. 

"What's the good of saying 'Don't say it' when I've just said it, "snapped back my aunt. 

"It's your manner, " explained my mother; "people sometimes think youdisagreeable. "

"They'd be daft if they didn't, " interrupted my aunt. "Of course youdon't really mean it, " continued my mother. 

"Stuff and nonsense, " snorted my aunt; "does she think I'm a fool. Ilike being disagreeable. I like to see 'em squirming. "

My mother laughed. 

"I can be agreeable, " continued my aunt, "if I choose. Nobody more so. "

"Then why not choose?" suggested my mother. "I tried it once, " said myaunt, "and it fell flat. Nothing could have fallen flatter. "

"It may not have attracted much attention, " replied my mother, with asmile, "but one should not be agreeable merely to attract attention. "

"It wasn't only that, " returned my aunt, "it was that it gave nosatisfaction to anybody. It didn't suit me. A disagreeable person is attheir best when they are disagreeable. "

"I can hardly agree with you there, " answered my mother. 

"I could do it again, " communed my aunt to herself. There was asuggestion of vindictiveness in her tones. "It's easy enough. Look atthe sort of fools that are agreeable. "

"I'm sure you could be if you tried, " urged my mother. 

"Let 'em have it, " continued my aunt, still to herself; "that's the wayto teach 'em sense. Let 'em have it. "

And strange though it may seem, my aunt was right and my motheraltogether wrong. My father was the first to notice the change. 

"Nothing the matter with poor old Fan, is there?" he asked. It was oneevening a day or two after my aunt had carried her threat into effect. "Nothing happened, has there?"

"No, " answered my mother, "nothing that I know of. "

"Her manner is so strange, " explained my father, "so--so weird. "

My mother smiled. "Don't say anything to her. She's trying to beagreeable. "

My father laughed and then looked wistful. "I almost wish she wouldn't, "he remarked; "we were used to it, and she was rather amusing. "

But my aunt, being a woman of will, kept her way; and about the sametime that occurred tending to confirm her in her new departure. Thiswas the introduction into our small circle of James Wellington Gadley. Properly speaking, it should have been Wellington James, that being theorder in which he had been christened in the year 1815. But in courseof time, and particularly during his school career, it had been borne inupon him that Wellington is a burdensome name for a commonplace mortalto bear, and very wisely he had reversed the arrangement. He was aslightly pompous but simpleminded little old gentleman, very proud ofhis position as head clerk to Mr. Stillwood, the solicitor to whom myfather was now assistant. Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal dated backto the Georges, and was a firm bound up with the history--occasionallyshady--of aristocratic England. True, in these later years its glorywas dwindling. Old Mr. Stillwood, its sole surviving representative, declined to be troubled with new partners, explaining frankly, inanswer to all applications, that the business was a dying one, andthat attempting to work it up again would be but putting new wineinto worn-out skins. But though its clientele was a yearly diminishingquantity, much business yet remained to it, and that of a good class, its name being still a synonym for solid respectability; and my fatherhad deemed himself fortunate indeed in securing such an appointment. James Gadley had entered the firm as office boy in the days of itspride, and had never awakened to the fact that it was not still the mostimportant legal firm within the half mile radius from Lombard Street. Nothing delighted him more than to discuss over and over again themany strange affairs in which Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal had beenconcerned, all of which he had at his tongue's tip. Could he find ahearer, these he would reargue interminably, but with professionalreticence, personages becoming Mr. Y. And Lady X. ; and places, "thecapital of, let us say, a foreign country, " or "a certain town nota thousand miles from where we are now sitting. " The majority of hisfriends, his methods being somewhat forensic, would seek to discouragehim, but my aunt was a never wearied listener, especially if the casewere one involving suspicion of mystery and crime. When, during theirvery first conversation, he exclaimed: "Now why--why, after keeping awayfrom his wife for nearly eighteen years, never even letting her knowwhether he was alive or dead, why this sudden resolve to return to her?That is what I want explained to me!" he paused, as was his wont, forsympathetic comment, my aunt, instead of answering as others, with ayawn: "Oh, I'm sure I don't know. Felt he wanted to see her, I suppose, "replied with prompt intelligence:

"To murder her--by slow poison. "

"To murder her! But why?"

"In order to marry the other woman. "

"What other woman?"

"The woman he had just met and fallen in love with. Before that it wasimmaterial to him what had become of his wife. This woman had said tohim: 'Come back to me a free man or never see my face again. '"

"Dear me! Now that's very curious. "

"Nothing of the sort. Plain common sense. "

"I mean, it's curious because, as a matter of fact, his wife did die alittle later, and he did marry again. "

"Told you so, " remarked my aunt. 

In this way every case in the Stillwood annals was reviewed, and lightthrown upon it by my aunt's insight into the hidden springs of humanaction. Fortunate that the actors remained mere Mr. X. And Lady Y. , forinto the most innocent seeming behaviour my aunt read ever dark criminalintent. 

"I think you are a little too severe, " Mr. Gadley would now and thenplead. 

"We're all of us miserable sinners, " my aunt would cheerfully affirm;"only we don't all get the same chances. "

An elderly maiden lady, a Miss Z. , residing in "a western town oncefamous as the resort of fashion, but which we will not name, " my auntwas convinced had burnt down a house containing a will, and forgedanother under which her children--should she ever marry and be blessedwith such--would inherit among them on coming of age a fortune of sevenhundred pounds. 

The freshness of her views on this, his favourite topic, alwaysfascinated Mr. Gadley. 

"I have to thank you, ma'am, " he would remark on rising, "for amost delightful conversation. I may not be able to agree with yourconclusions, but they afford food for reflection. "

To which my aunt would reply, "I hate talking to any one who agrees withme. It's like taking a walk to see one's own looking-glass. I'd rathertalk to somebody who didn't, even if he were a fool, " which for her wasgracious. 

He was a stout little gentleman with a stomach that protruded about afoot in front of him, and of this he appeared to be quite unaware. Norwould it have mattered had it not been for his desire when talking toapproach as close to his listener as possible. Gradually in the courseof conversation, his stomach acting as a gentle battering ram, he wouldin this way drive you backwards round the room, sometimes, unlessyou were artful, pinning you hopelessly into a corner, when it wouldsurprise him that in spite of all his efforts he never succeeded ingetting any nearer to you. His first evening at our house he was talkingto my aunt from the corner of his chair. As he grew more interested sohe drew his chair nearer and nearer, till at length, having withdrawninch by inch to avoid his encroachments, my aunt was sitting on theextreme edge of her own. His next move sent her on to the floor. Shesaid nothing, which surprised me; but on the occasion of his nextvisit she was busy darning stockings, an unusual occupation for her. He approached nearer and nearer as before; but this time she sather ground, and it was he who in course of time sprang back with anexclamation foreign to the subject under discussion. 

Ever afterwards my aunt met him with stockings in her hand, and theytalked with a space between their chairs. 

Nothing further came of it, though his being a widower added to theirintercourse that spice of possibility no woman is ever too old torelish; but that he admired her intellectually was evident. Once heeven went so far as to exclaim: "Miss Davies, you should have been asolicitor's wife!" to his thinking the crown of feminine ambition. Towhich my aunt had replied: "Chances are I should have been if one hadever asked me. " And warmed by appreciation, my aunt's amiability tookroot and flourished, though assuming, as all growth developed late isapt to, fantastic shape. 

There came to her the idea, by no means ill-founded, that by flatteryone can most readily render oneself agreeable; so conscientiously sheset to work to flatter in season and out. I am sure she meant to givepleasure, but the effect produced was that of thinly veiled sarcasm. 

My father would relate to us some trifling story, some incident noticedduring the day that had seemed to him amusing. At once she would breakout into enthusiasm, holding up her hands in astonishment. 

"What a funny man he is! And to think that it comes to him naturallywithout an effort. What a gift it is!"

On my mother appearing in a new bonnet, or an old one retrimmed, anevent not unfrequent; for in these days my mother took more thought thanever formerly for her appearance (you will understand, you women whohave loved), she would step back in simulated amazement. 

"Don't tell me it's a married woman with a boy getting on for fourteen. It's a girl. A saucy, tripping girl. That's what it is. "

Persons have been known, I believe, whose vanity, not checked in time, has grown into a hopeless disease. But I am inclined to think that adose of my aunt, about this period, would have cured the most obstinatecase. 

So also, and solely for our benefit, she assumed a vivacity andspriteliness that ill suited her, that having regard to her age andtendency towards rheumatism must have cost her no small effort. Fromthese experiences there remains to me the perhaps immoral opinion thatVirtue, in common with all other things, is at her best when unassuming. 

Occasionally the old Adam--or should one say Eve--would assert itself inmy aunt, and then, still thoughtful for others, she would descend intothe kitchen and be disagreeable to Amy, our new servitor, who neverminded it. Amy was a philosopher who reconciled herself to all thingsby the reflection that there were only twenty-four hours in a day. It sounds a dismal theory, but from it Amy succeeded in extractingperpetual cheerfulness. My mother would apologise to her for my aunt'sinterference. 

"Lord bless you, mum, it don't matter. If I wasn't listening to hersomething else worse might be happening. Everything's all the same whenit's over. "

Amy had come to us merely as a stop gap, explaining to my mother thatshe was about to be married and desired only a temporary engagement tobridge over the few weeks between then and the ceremony. 

"It's rather unsatisfactory, " had said my mother. "I dislike changes. "

"I can quite understand it, mum, " had replied Amy; "I dislike 'emmyself. Only I heard you were in a hurry, and I thought maybe that whileyou were on the lookout for somebody permanent--"

So on that understanding she came. A month later my mother asked herwhen she thought the marriage would actually take place. 

"Don't think I'm wishing you to go, " explained my mother, "indeed I'dlike you to stop. I only want to know in time to make my arrangements. "

"Oh, some time in the spring, I expect, " was Amy's answer. 

"Oh!" said my mother, "I understood it was coming off almostimmediately. "

Amy appeared shocked. 

"I must know a little bit more about him before I go as far as that, "she said. 

"But I don't understand, " said my mother; "you told me when you came tome that you were going to be married in a few weeks. "

"Oh, that one!" Her tone suggested that an unfair strain was being putupon her memory. "I didn't feel I wanted him as much as I thought I didwhen it came to the point. "

"You had meantime met the other one?" suggested my mother, with a smile. 

"Well, we can't help our feelings, can we, mum?" admitted Amy, frankly, "and what I always say is"--she spoke as one with experience eventhen--"better change your mind before it's too late afterwards. "

Amiable, sweet-faced, broad-hearted Amy! most faithful of friends, butoh! most faithless of lovers. Age has not withered nor custom staled herliking for infinite variety. Butchers, bakers, soldiers, sailors, Jacksof all trades! Does the sighing procession never pass before you, Amy, pointing ghostly fingers of reproach! Still Amy is engaged. To whom atthe particular moment I cannot say, but I fancy to an early one who haslately become a widower. After more exact knowledge I do not care toenquire; for to confess ignorance on the subject, implying that one hastreated as a triviality and has forgotten the most important detail ofa matter that to her is of vital importance, is to hurt her feelings;while to angle for information is but to entangle oneself. To speak ofHim as "Tom, " when Tom has belonged for weeks to the dead and buriedpast, to hastily correct oneself to "Dick" when there hasn't been a Dickfor years, clearly not to know that he is now Harry, annoys her evenmore. In my mother's time we always referred to him as "Dearest. " It wasthe title with which she herself distinguished them all, and it avoidedconfusion. 

"Well, and how's Dearest?" my mother would enquire, opening the door toAmy on the Sunday evening. 

"Oh, very well indeed, mum, thank you, and he sends you his respects, "or, "Well, not so nicely as I could wish. I'm a little anxious abouthim, poor dear!"

"When you are married you will be able to take good care of him. "

"That's really what he wants--some one to take care of him. It's whatthey all want, the poor dears. "

"And when is it coming off?"

"In the spring, mum. " She always chose the spring when possible. 

Amy was nice to all men, and to Amy all men were nice. Could she havemarried a dozen, she might have settled down, with only occasionalregrets concerning those left without in the cold. But to ask her toselect only one out of so many "poor dears" was to suggest shamefulwaste of affection. 

We had meant to keep our grim secret to ourselves; but to hide one'stroubles long from Amy was like keeping cold hands from the fire. Verysoon she knew everything that was to be known, drawing it all from mymother as from some overburdened child. Then she put my mother down intoa chair and stood over her. 

"Now you leave the house and everything connected with it to me, mum, "commanded Amy; "you've got something else to do. "

And from that day we were in the hands of Amy, and had nothing else todo but praise the Lord for His goodness. 

Barbara also found out (from Washburn, I expect), though she saidnothing, but came often. Old Hasluck would have come himself, I amsure, had he thought he would be welcome. As it was, he always sentkind messages and presents of fruit and flowers by Barbara, and alwayswelcomed me most heartily whenever she allowed me to see her home. 

She brought, as ever, sunshine with her, making all trouble seem far offand shadowy. My mother tended to the fire of love, but Barbara lit thecheerful lamp of laughter. 

And with the lessening days my father seemed to grow younger, life lyinglighter on him. 

One summer's night he and I were walking with Barbara to Poplar station, for sometimes, when he was not looking tired, she would order him tofetch his hat and stick, explaining to him with a caress, "I like themtall and slight and full grown. The young ones, they don't know how toflirt! We will take the boy with us as gooseberry;" and he, pretendingto be anxious that my mother did not see, would kiss her hand, and slipout quietly with her arm linked under his. It was admirable the way hewould enter into the spirit of the thing. 

The last cloud faded from before the moon as we turned the corner, andeven the East India Dock Road lay restful in front of us. 

"I have always regarded myself, " said my father, "as a failure in life, and it has troubled me. " I felt him pulled the slightest little bitaway from me, as though Barbara, who held his other arm, had drawn himtowards her with a swift pressure. "But do you know the idea that hascome to me within the last few months? That on the whole I have beensuccessful. I am like a man, " continued my father, "who in some deepwood has been frightened, thinking he has lost his way, and suddenlycoming to the end of it, finds that by some lucky chance he has beenguided to the right point after all. I cannot tell you what a comfort itis to me. 

"What is the right point?" asked Barbara. 

"Ah, that I cannot tell you, " answered my father, with a laugh. "I onlyknow that for me it is here where I am. All the time I thought I waswandering away from it I was drawing nearer to it. It is very wonderful. I am just where I ought to be. If I had only known I never need haveworried. "

Whether it would have troubled either him or my mother very much evenhad it been otherwise I cannot say, for Life, so small a thing whenlooked at beside Death, seemed to have lost all terror for them; but bethat as it may, I like to remember that Fortune at the last was kindto my father, prospering his adventures, not to the extent his sanguinenature had dreamt, but sufficiently: so that no fear for our futuremarred the peaceful passing of his tender spirit. 

Or should I award thanks not to Fate, but rather to sweet Barbara, and behind her do I not detect shameless old Hasluck, grinninggood-naturedly in the background?

"Now, Uncle Luke, I want your advice. Dad's given me this cheque as abirthday present. I don't want to spend it. How shall I invest it?"

"My dear, why not consult your father?"

"Now, Uncle Luke, dad's a dear, especially after dinner, but you andI know him. Giving me a present is one thing, doing business for meis another. He'd unload on me. He'd never be able to resist thetemptation. "

My father would suggest, and Barbara would thank him. But a minute laterwould murmur: "You don't know anything about Argentinos. "

My father did not, but Barbara did; to quite a remarkable extent for ayoung girl. 

"That child has insisted on leaving this cheque with me and I haveadvised her to buy Argentinos, " my father would observe after she wasgone. "I am going to put a few hundreds into them myself. I hope theywill turn out all right, if only for her sake. I have a presentimentsomehow that they will. "

A month later Barbara would greet him with: "Isn't it lucky we boughtArgentinos!"

"Yes; they haven't turned out badly, have they? I had a feeling, youknow, for Argentinos. "

"You're a genius, Uncle Luke. And now we will sell out and buyCalcuttas, won't we?"

"Sell out? But why?"

"You said so. You said, 'We will sell out in about a month and be quitesafe. '"

"My dear, I've no recollection of it. "

But Barbara had, and before she had done with him, so had he. And thenext day Argentinos would be sold--not any too soon--and Calcuttasbought. 

Could money so gained bring a blessing with it? The question wouldplague my father. 

"It's very much like gambling, " he would mutter uneasily to himself ateach success, "uncommonly like gambling. "

"It is for your mother, " he would impress upon me. "When she is gone, Paul, put it aside, Keep it for doing good; that may make it clean. Start your own life without any help from it. "

He need not have troubled. It went the road that all luck derivedhowever indirectly from old Hasluck ever went. Yet it served goodpurpose on its way. 

But the most marvellous feat, to my thinking, ever accomplished byBarbara was the bearing off of my father and mother to witness "A Voicefrom the Grave, or the Power of Love, New and Original Drama in fiveacts and thirteen tableaux. "

They had been bred in a narrow creed, both my father and my mother. ThatPuritan blood flowed in their veins that throughout our land has drownedmuch harmless joyousness; yet those who know of it only from hearsaydo foolishly to speak but ill of it. If ever earnest times shouldcome again, not how to enjoy but how to live being the question, Fatedemanding of us to show not what we have but what we are, we may regretthat they are fewer among us than formerly, those who trained themselvesto despise all pleasure, because in pleasure they saw the subtlest foeto principle and duty. No graceful growth, this Puritanism, for itsroots are in the hard, stern facts of life; but it is strong, and fromit has sprung all that is worth preserving in the Anglo-Saxon character. Its men feared and its women loved God, and if their words were harshtheir hearts were tender. If they shut out the sunshine from their livesit was that their eyes might see better the glory lying beyond; and iftheir view be correct, that earth's threescore years and ten are butas preparation for eternity, then who shall call them even foolish forturning away their thoughts from its allurements. 

"Still, I think I should like to have a look at one, just to see what itis like, " argued my father; "one cannot judge of a thing that one knowsnothing about. "

I imagine it was his first argument rather than his second thatconvinced my mother. 

"That is true, " she answered. "I remember how shocked my poor fatherwas when he found me one night at the bedroom window reading Sir WalterScott by the light of the moon. "

"What about the boy?" said my father, for I had been included in theinvitation. 

"We will all be wicked together, " said my mother. 

So an evening or two later the four of us stood at the corner of PigottStreet waiting for the 'bus. 

"It is a close evening, " said my father; "let's go the whole hog andride outside. "

In those days for a lady to ride outside a 'bus was as in these days fora lady to smoke in public. Surely my mother's guardian angel must havebetaken himself off in a huff. 

"Will you keep close behind and see to my skirt?" answered my mother, commencing preparations. If you will remember that these were the daysof crinolines, that the "knife-boards" of omnibuses were then approachedby a perpendicular ladder, the rungs two feet apart, you will understandthe necessity for such precaution. 

Which of us was the most excited throughout that long ride it would bedifficult to say. Barbara, feeling keenly her responsibility as prompterand leader of the dread enterprise, sat anxious, as she explained to usafterwards, hoping there would be nothing shocking in the play, nothingto belie its innocent title; pleased with her success so far, yetstill fearful of failure, doubtful till the last moment lest we shouldsuddenly repent, and stopping the 'bus, flee from the wrath to come. My father was the youngest of us all. Compared with him I was sober andcontained. He fidgeted: people remarked upon it. He hummed. But forthe stern eye of a thin young man sitting next to him trying to reada paper, I believe he would have broken out into song. Every minute hewould lean across to enquire of my mother: "How are you feeling--allright?" To which my mother would reply with a nod and a smile, She satvery silent herself, clasping and unclasping her hands. As for myself, I remember feeling so sorry for the crowds that passed us on their wayhome. It was sad to think of the long dull evening that lay before them. I wondered how they could face it. 

Our seats were in the front row of the upper circle. The lights were lowand the house only half full when we reached them. 

"It seems very orderly and--and respectable, " whispered my mother. Thereseemed a touch of disappointment in her tone. 

"We are rather early, " replied Barbara; "it will be livelier when theband comes in and they turn up the gas. "

But even when this happened my mother was not content. "There is solittle room for the actors, " she complained. 

It was explained to her that the green curtain would go up, that thestage lay behind. 

So we waited, my mother sitting stiffly on the extreme edge of herseat, holding me tightly by the hand; I believe with some vague idea offlight, should out of that vault-scented gloom the devil suddenly appearto claim us for his own. But before the curtain was quite up she hadforgotten him. 

You poor folk that go to the theatre a dozen times a year, perhapsoftener, what do you know of plays? You see no drama, you see butmiddle-aged Mr. Brown, churchwarden, payer of taxes, foolishlypretending to be a brigand; Miss Jones, daughter of old Jones theChemist, making believe to be a haughty Princess. How can you, a grownman, waste money on a seat to witness such tomfoolery! What we saw wassomething very different. A young and beautiful girl--true, not a ladyby birth, being merely the daughter of an honest yeoman, but one equalin all the essentials of womanhood to the noblest in the land--sufferedbefore our very eyes an amount of misfortune that, had one not seen itfor oneself, one would never have believed Fate could have accumulatedupon the head of any single individual. Beside her woes our own poortroubles sank into insignificance. We had used to grieve, as my motherin a whisper reminded my father, if now and again we had not been ableto afford meat for dinner. This poor creature, driven even from herwretched attic, compelled to wander through the snow without so much asan umbrella to protect her, had not even a crust to eat; and yet neverlost her faith in Providence. It was a lesson, as my mother remarkedafterwards, that she should never forget. And virtue had beentriumphant, let shallow cynics say what they will. Had we not proved itwith our own senses? The villain--I think his Christian name, if onecan apply the word "Christian" in connection with such a fiend, wasJasper--had never really loved the heroine. He was incapable of love. Mymother had felt this before he had been on the stage five minutes, andmy father--in spite of protests from callous people behind who appearedto be utterly indifferent to what was going on under their verynoses--had agreed with her. What he was in love with was herfortune--the fortune that had been left to her by her uncle inAustralia, but about which nobody but the villain knew anything. Hadshe swerved a hair's breadth from the course of almost supernaturalrectitude, had her love for the hero ever weakened, her belief inhim--in spite of damning evidence to the contrary--for a moment wavered, then wickedness might have triumphed. How at times, knowing all thefacts but helpless to interfere, we trembled, lest deceived by thecruel lies the villain told her; she should yield to importunity. Howwe thrilled when, in language eloquent though rude, she flung his falselove back into his teeth. Yet still we feared. We knew well that it wasnot the hero who had done the murder. "Poor dear, " as Amy would havecalled him, he was quite incapable of doing anything requiring one-halfas much smartness. We knew that it was not he, poor innocent lamb! whohad betrayed the lady with the French accent; we had heard her on thesubject and had formed a very shrewd conjecture. But appearances, we could not help admitting, were terribly to his disfavour. Thecircumstantial evidence against him would have hanged an Archbishop. Could she in face of it still retain her faith? There were moments whenmy mother restrained with difficulty her desire to rise and explain. 

Between the acts Barbara would whisper to her that she was not to mind, because it was only a play, and that everything would be sure to comeright in the end. 

"I know, my dear, " my mother would answer, laughing, "it is very foolishof me; I forget. Paul, when you see me getting excited, you must remindme. "

But of what use was I in such case! I, who only by holding on to thearms of my seat could keep myself from swarming down on to the stageto fling myself between this noble damsel and her persecutor--thisfair-haired, creamy angel in whose presence for the time being I hadforgotten even Barbara. 

The end came at last. The uncle from Australia was not dead. Thevillain--bungler as well as knave--had killed the wrong man, somebody ofno importance whatever. As a matter of fact, the comic man himself wasthe uncle from Australia--had been so all along. My mother had had asuspicion of this from the very first. She told us so three times, tomake up, I suppose, for not having mentioned it before. How we cheeredand laughed, in spite of the tears in our eyes. 

By pure accident it happened to be the first night of the piece, andthe author, in response to much shouting and whistling, came before thecurtain. He was fat and looked commonplace; but I deemed him a genius, and my mother said he had a good face, and waved her handkerchiefwildly; while my father shouted "Bravo!" long after everybody else hadfinished; and people round about muttered "packed house, " which I didn'tunderstand at the time, but came to later. 

And stranger still, it happened to be before that very same curtainthat many years later I myself stepped forth to make my first bow as aplaywright. I saw the house but dimly, for on such occasion one's visionis apt to be clouded. All that I saw clearly was in the front row of thesecond circle--a sweet face laughing though the tears were in her eyes;and she waved to me a handkerchief. And on one side of her stood agallant gentleman with merry eyes who shouted "Bravo!" and on the othera dreamy-looking lad; but he appeared disappointed, having expectedbetter work from me. And the fourth face I could not see, for it wasturned away from me. 

Barbara, determined on completeness, insisted upon supper. In thosedays respectability fed at home; but one resort possible there was, aneating-house with some pretence to gaiety behind St. Clement Danes, and to that she led us. It was a long, narrow room, divided into woodencompartments, after the old coffee-house plan, a gangway down thecentre. Now we should call it a dismal hole, and closing the door hastenaway. But to Adam, Eve in her Sunday fig-leaves was a stylishly dressedwoman; and to my eyes, with its gilded mirrors and its flaring gas, theplace seemed a palace. 

Barbara ordered oysters, a fish that familiarity with its empty shellhad made me curious concerning. Truly no spot on the globe is so rich inoyster shells as the East End of London. A stranger might be led to theimpression (erroneous) that the customary lunch of the East End labourerconsists of oysters. How they collect there in such quantities is amystery, though Washburn, to whom I once presented the problem, found nodifficulty in solving it to his own satisfaction: "To the rich man theoyster; to the poor man the shell; thus are the Creator's gifts dividedamong all His creatures; none being sent empty away. " For drink theothers had stout and I had ginger beer. The waiter, who called me "Sir, "advised against this mixture; but among us all the dominating sentimentby this time was that nothing really mattered very much. Afterwards myfather called for a cigar and boldly lighted it, though my mother lookedanxious; and fortunately perhaps it would not draw. And then it came outthat he himself had once written a play. 

"You never told me of that, " complained my mother. 

"It was a long while ago, " replied my father; "nothing came of it. "

"It might have been a success, " said my mother; "you always had a giftfor writing. "

"I must look it over again, " said my father; "I had quite forgotten it. I have an impression it wasn't at all bad. "

"It can be of much help, " said my mother, "a good play. It makes onethink. "

We put Barbara into a cab and rode home ourselves inside a 'bus. Mymother was tired, so my father slipped his arm round her, telling herto lean against him, and soon she fell asleep with her head upon hisshoulder. A coarse-looking wench sat opposite, her man's arm round herlikewise, and she also fell asleep, her powdered face against his coat. 

"They can do with a bit of nursing, can't they?" said the man with agrin to the conductor. 

"Ah, they're just kids, " agreed the conductor, sympathetically, "that'swhat they are, all of 'em, just kids. "

So the day ended. But oh, the emptiness of the morrow! Life withouta crime, without a single noble sentiment to brighten it!--no comicuncles, no creamy angels! Oh, the barrenness and dreariness of life!Even my mother at moments was quite irritable. 

We were much together again, my father and I, about this time. Often, making my way from school into the City, I would walk home with him, heleaning on each occasion a little heavier upon my arm. To this day I canalways meet and walk with him down the Commercial Road. And on Saturdayafternoons, crossing the river to Greenwich, we would climb the hill andsit there talking, or sometimes merely thinking together, watching thedim vast city so strangely still and silent at our feet. 

At first I did not grasp the fact that he was dying. The "year to two"of life that Washburn had allowed to him had somehow become converted inmy mind to vague years, a fate with no immediate meaning; the meanwhilehe himself appeared to grow from day to day in buoyancy. How could Iknow it was his great heart rising to his need. 

The comprehension came to me suddenly. It was one afternoon in earlyspring. I was on my way to the City to meet him. The Holborn Viaduct wasthen in building, and the traffic round about was in consequence alwaysmuch disorganised. The 'bus on which I was riding became entangled in ablock at the corner of Snow Hill, and for ten minutes we had been merelycrawling, one joint of a long, sinuous serpent moving by short, painfuljerks. It came to me while I was sitting there with a sharp spasm ofphysical pain. I jumped from the 'bus and began to run, and the terrorand the hurt of it grew with every step. I ran as if I feared he mightbe dead before I could reach the office. He was waiting for me with asmile as usual, and I flung myself sobbing into his arms. 

I think he understood, though I could explain nothing, but that I hadhad a fear something had happened to him, for from that time forwardhe dropped all reserve with me, and talked openly of our approachingparting. 

"It might have come to us earlier, my dear boy, " he would say with hisarm round me, "or it might have been a little later. A year or so oneway or the other, what does it matter? And it is only for a littlewhile, Paul. We shall meet again. "

But I could not answer him, for clutch them to me as I would, all mybeliefs--the beliefs in which I had been bred, the beliefs that untilthen I had never doubted, in that hour of their first trial, werefalling from me. I could not even pray. If I could have prayed foranything, it would have been for my father's life. But if prayer wereall powerful, as they said, would our loved ones ever die? Man has notfaith enough, they would explain; if he had there would be no parting. So the Lord jests with His creatures, offering with the one hand tosnatch back with the other. I flung the mockery from me. There was nofirm foothold anywhere. What were all the religions of the word butnarcotics with which Humanity seeks to dull its pain, drugs in which itdrowns its terrors, faith but a bubble that death pricks. 

I do not mean my thoughts took this form. I was little more than a lad, and to the young all thought is dumb, speaking only with a cry. But theywere there, vague, inarticulate. Thoughts do not come to us as we growolder. They are with us all our lives. We learn their language, that isall. 

One fair still evening it burst from me. We had lingered in the Parklonger than usual, slowly pacing the broad avenue leading from theObservatory to the Heath. I poured forth all my doubts and fears--thathe was leaving me for ever, that I should never see him again, I couldnot believe. What could I do to believe?

"I am glad you have spoken, Paul, " he said, "it would have been sad hadwe parted not understanding each other. It has been my fault. I did notknow you had these doubts. They come to all of us sooner or later. Butwe hide them from one another. It is foolish. "

"But tell me, " I cried, "what can I do? How can I make myself believe?"

"My dear lad, " answered my father, "how can it matter what we believe ordisbelieve? It will not alter God's facts. Would you liken Him to someirritable schoolmaster, angry because you cannot understand him?"

"What do you believe, " I asked, "father, really I mean. "

The night had fallen. My father put his arm round me and drew me to him. 

"That we are God's children, little brother, " he answered, "that what Hewills for us is best. It may be life, it may be sleep; it will be best. I cannot think that He will let us die: that were to think of Him aswithout purpose. But His uses may not be our desires. We must trust Him. 'Though He slay me yet will I trust in Him. '"

We walked awhile in silence before my father spoke again. 

"'Now abideth these three, Faith, Hope and Charity'--you rememberthe verse--Faith in God's goodness to us, Hope that our dreams maybe fulfiled. But these concern but ourselves--the greatest of all isCharity. "

Out of the night-shrouded human hive beneath our feet shone here andthere a point of light. 

"Be kind, that is all it means, " continued my father. "Often we do whatwe think right, and evil comes of it, and out of evil comes good. Wecannot understand--maybe the old laws we have misread. But the new Law, that we love one another--all creatures He has made; that is so clear. And if it be that we are here together only for a little while, Paul, the future dark, how much the greater need have we of one another. "

I looked up into my father's face, and the peace that shone from it slidinto my soul and gave me strength. 

CHAPTER IX. 

OF THE FASHIONING OF PAUL. 

Loves of my youth, whither are ye vanished? Tubby of the golden locks;Langley of the dented nose; Shamus stout of heart but faint of limb, easy enough to "down, " but utterly impossible to make to cry: "I giveyou best;" Neal the thin; and Dicky, "dicky Dick" the fat; Ballett ofthe weeping eye; Beau Bunnie lord of many ties, who always fought inblack kid gloves; all ye others, ye whose names I cannot recollect, though I well remember ye were very dear to me, whither are ye vanished, where haunt your creeping ghosts? Had one told me then there would comea day I should never see again your merry faces, never hear your wild, shrill whoop of greeting, never feel again the warm clasp of your inkyfingers, never fight again nor quarrel with you, never hate you, neverlove you, could I then have borne the thought, I wonder?

Once, methinks, not long ago, I saw you, Tubby, you with whom so oftenI discovered the North Pole, probed the problem of the sources of theNile, (Have you forgotten, Tubby, our secret camping ground beside thelonely waters of the Regent's Park canal, where discussing our frugalmeal of toasted elephant's tongue--by the uninitiated mistakable forjumbles--there would break upon our trained hunters' ear the hungrylion or tiger's distant roar, mingled with the melancholy, long-drawngrowling of the Polar Bear, growing ever in volume and impatience untilhalf-past four precisely; and we would snatch our rifles, andwith stealthy tread and every sense alert make our way through thejungle--until stopped by the spiked fencing round the ZoologicalGardens?) I feel sure it was you, in spite of your side whiskers and thegreyness and the thinness of your once clustering golden locks. You werehurrying down Throgmorton Street chained to a small black bag. I shouldhave stopped you, but that I had no time to spare, having to catch atrain at Liverpool Street and to get shaved on the way. I wonder ifyou recognised me: you looked at me a little hard, I thought. Gallant, kindly hearted Shamus, you who fought once for half an hour to savea frog from being skinned; they tell me you are now an Income Taxassessor; a man, it is reported, with power of disbelief unusual amongeven Inland Revenue circles; of little faith, lacking in the charitythat thinketh no evil. May Providence direct you to other districts thanto mine. 

So Time, Nature's handy-man, bustles to and fro about the many rooms, making all things tidy, covers with sweet earth the burnt volcanoes, turns to use the debris of the ages, smoothes again the ground above thedead, heals again the beech bark marred by lovers. 

In the beginning I was far from being a favourite with my schoolmates, and this was the first time trouble came to dwell with me. Later, we menand women generally succeed in convincing ourselves that whatever elsewe may have missed in life, popularity in a greater or less degreewe have at all events secured, for without it altogether few of us, Ithink, would care to face existence. But where the child suffers keenerthan the man is in finding himself exposed to the cold truth without theprotecting clothes of self-deception. My ostracism was painfully plainto me, and, as was my nature, I brooded upon it in silence. 

"Can you run?" asked of me one day a most important personage whose nameI have forgotten. He was head of the Lower Fourth, a tall youth with anose like a beak, and the manner of one born to authority. He was theson of a draper in the Edgware Road, and his father failing, he hadto be content for a niche in life with a lower clerkship in the CivilService. But to us youngsters he always appeared a Duke of Wellington inembryo, and under other circumstances might, perhaps, have become one. 

"Yes, " I answered. As a matter of fact it was my one accomplishment, andrumour of it maybe had reached him. 

"Run round the playground twice at your fastest, " he commanded; "let mesee you. "

I clinched my fists and charged off. How grateful I was to him forhaving spoken to me, the outcast of the class, thus publicly, I couldonly show by my exertions to please him. When I drew up before him I waspanting hard, but I could see that he was satisfied. 

"Why don't the fellows like you?" he asked bluntly. 

If only I could have stepped out of my shyness, spoken my real thoughts!"O Lord of the Lower Fourth! You upon whom success--the only success inlife worth having--has fallen as from the laps of the gods! You to whomall Lower Fourth hearts turn! tell me the secret of this popularity. Howmay I acquire it? No price can be too great for me to pay for it. Vainlittle egoist that I am, it is the sum of my desires, and will be tillthe long years have taught me wisdom. The want of it embitters all mydays. Why does silence fall upon their chattering groups when I drawnear? Why do they drive me from their games? What is it shuts me outfrom them, repels them from me? I creep into the corners and shedscalding tears of shame. I watch with envious eyes and ears all youto whom the wondrous gift is given. What is your secret? Is it Tommy'sswagger? Then I will swagger, too, with anxious heart, with mingled fearand hope. But why--why, seeing that in Tommy they admire it, do theywait for me with imitations of cock-a-doodle-do, strut beside memimicking a pouter pigeon? Is it Dicky's playfulness?--Dicky, who runsaway with their balls, snatches their caps from off their heads, springsupon their backs when they are least expecting it?

"Why should Dicky's reward be laughter, and mine a bloody nose and awidened, deepened circle of dislike? I am no heavier than Dicky; ifanything a pound or two lighter. Is it Billy's friendliness? I toowould fling my arms about their necks; but from me they angrily wrenchthemselves free. Is indifference the best plan? I walk apart with step Itry so hard to render careless; but none follows, no little friendlyarm is slipped through mine. Should one seek to win one's way by kindoffices? Ah, if one could! How I would fag for them. I could do theirsums for them--I am good at sums--write their impositions for them, gladly take upon myself their punishments, would they but returnmy service with a little love and--more important still--a littleadmiration. "

But all I could find to say was, sulkily: "They do like me, some ofthem. " I dared not, aloud, acknowledge the truth. 

"Don't tell lies, " he answered; "you know they don't--none of them. " AndI hung my head. 

"I'll tell you what I'll do, " he continued in his lordly way; "I'll giveyou a chance. We're starting hare and hounds next Saturday; you can be ahare. You needn't tell anybody. Just turn up on Saturday and I'll see toit. Mind, you'll have to run like the devil. "

He walked away without waiting for my answer, leaving me to meet Joyrunning towards me with outstretched hands. The great moment comesto all of us; to the politician, when the Party whip slips fromconfabulation with the Front Bench to congratulate him, smiling, on hisreally admirable little speech; to the youthful dramatist, reading inhis bed-sitting-room the managerial note asking him to call that morningat eleven; to the subaltern, beckoned to the stirrup of his chief--themoment when the sun breaks through the morning mists, and the world liesstretched before us, our way clear. 

Obeying orders, I gave no hint in school of the great fortune that hadcome to me; but hurrying home, I exploded in the passage before thefront door could be closed behind me. 

"I am to be a hare because I run so fast. Anybody can be a hound, butthere's only two hares, and they all want me. And can I have a jersey?We begin next Saturday. He saw me run. I ran twice round the playground. He said I was splendid! Of course, it's a great honour to be a hare. Westart from Hampstead Heath. And may I have a pair of shoes?"

The jersey and the shoes my mother and I purchased that very day, forthe fear was upon me that unless we hastened, the last blue and whitestriped jersey in London might be sold, and the market be empty ofrunning shoes. That evening, before getting into bed, I dressed myselfin full costume to admire myself before the glass; and from then tillthe end of the week, to the terror of my mother, I practised leapingover chairs, and my method of descending stairs was perilous androundabout. But, as I explained to them, the credit of the LowerFourth was at stake, and banisters and legs equally of small accountas compared with fame and honour; and my father, nodding his head, supported me with manly argument; but my mother added to her prayersanother line. 

Saturday came. The members of the hunt were mostly boys who lived in theneighbourhood; so the arrangement was that at half-past two we shouldmeet at the turnpike gate outside the Spaniards. I brought my lunch withme and ate it in Regent's Park, and then took the 'bus to the Heath. Oneby one the others came up. Beyond mere glances, none of them took anynotice of me. I was wearing my ordinary clothes over my jersey. I knewthey thought I had come merely to see them start, and I hugged to myselfthe dream of the surprise that was in store for them, and of which Ishould be the hero. He came, one of the last, our leader and chief, andI sidled up behind him and waited, while he busied himself organisingand constructing. 

"But we've only got one hare, " cried one of them. "We ought to have two, you know, in case one gets blown. "

"We've got two, " answered the Duke. "Think I don't know what I'm about?Young Kelver's going to be the other one. "

Silence fell upon the meet. 

"Oh, I say, we don't want him, " at last broke in a voice. "He's a muff. "

"He can run, " explained the Duke. 

"Let him run home, " came another voice, which was greeted with laughter. 

"You'll run home in a minute yourself, " threatened the Duke, "if I haveany of your cheek. Who's captain here--you or me? Now, young 'un, areyou ready?"

I had commenced unbuttoning my jacket, but my hands fell to my side. "Idon't want to come, " I answered, "if they don't want me. "

"He'll get his feet wet, " suggested the boy who had spoken first. "Don'tspoil him, he's his mother's pet. "

"Are you coming or are you not?" shouted the Duke, seeing me stillmotionless. But the tears were coming into my eyes and would not goback. I turned my face away without speaking. 

"All right, stop then, " cried the Duke, who, like all authoritativepeople, was impatient above all things of hesitation. "Here, Keefe, youtake the bag and be off. It'll be dark before we start. "

My substitute snatched eagerly at the chance, and away went the hares, while I, still keeping my face hid, moved slowly off. 

"Cry-baby!" shouted a sharp-eyed youngster. 

"Let him alone, " growled the Duke; and I went on to where the cedarsgrew. 

I heard them start off a few minutes later with a whoop. How could I gohome, confess my disappointment, my shame? My father would be expectingme with many questions, my mother waiting for me with hot water andblankets. What explanation could I give that would not betray mymiserable secret?

It was a chill, dismal afternoon, the Heath deserted, a thin raincommencing. I slipped off my shirt and jacket, and rolling them under myarm, trotted off alone, hare and hounds combined in one small carcass, to chase myself sadly by myself. 

I see it still, that pathetically ridiculous little figure, joggingdoggedly over the dank fields. Mile after mile it runs, the littleidiot; jumping--sometimes falling into the muddy ditches: it seemsanxious rather than otherwise to get itself into a mess; scramblingthrough the dripping hedges; swarming over tarry fence and slimy paling. On, on it pants--through Bishop's Wood, by tangled Churchyard Bottom, where now the railway shrieks; down sloppy lanes, bordering MuswellHill, where now stand rows of jerry-built, prim villas. At intervalsit stops an instant to dab its eyes with its dingy little rag of ahandkerchief, to rearrange the bundle under its arm, its chief anxietyto keep well out of sight of chance wanderers, to dodge farmhouses, todart across highroads when nobody is looking. And so tear-smeared andmud-bespattered up the long rise of darkening Crouch End Lane, whereto-night the electric light blazes from a hundred shops, and deadbeat into the Seven Sisters Road station, there to tear off its soakedjersey; and then home to Poplar, with shameless account of the jollyafternoon that it has spent, of the admiration and the praise that ithas won. 

You poor, pitiful little brat! Popularity? it is a shadow. Turn youreyes towards it, and it shall ever run before you, escaping you. Turnyour back upon it, walk joyously towards the living sun, and it shallfollow you. Am I not right? Why, then, do you look at me, your littleface twisted into that quizzical grin?

When one takes service with Deceit, one signs a contract that one maynot break but under penalty. Maybe it was good for my health, thoselonely runs; but oh, they were dreary! By a process of argument notuncommon I persuaded myself that truth was a matter of mere words, thatso long as I had actually gone over the ground I described I was notlying. To further satisfy my conscience, I bought a big satchel andscattered from it torn-up paper as I ran. 

"And they never catch you?" asked my mother. 

"Oh, no, never; they never even get within sight of me. "

"Be careful, dear, " would advise my mother; "don't overstrain yourself. "But I could see that she was proud of me. 

And after awhile imagination came to my help, so that often I could hearbehind me the sound of pursuing feet, catch through gaps in the trees asight of a merry, host upon my trail, and would redouble my speed. 

Thus, but for Dan, my loneliness would have been unbearable. Hisfriendship was always there for me to creep to, the shadow of a greatrock in a weary land. To this day one may always know Dan's politics:they are those of the Party out of power. Always without question onemay know the cause that he will champion, the unpopular cause; the manhe will defend, the man who is down. 

"You are such an un-understandable chap, " complained a fellow Clubman tohim once in my hearing. "I sometimes ask myself if you have any opinionsat all. "

"I hate a crowd, " was Dan's only confession of faith. 

He never claimed anything from me in return for his affection; he wasthere for me to hold to when I wanted him. When, baffled in all myattempts to win the affections of others, I returned to him for comfort, he gave it me, without even relieving himself of friendly advice. Whenat length childish success came to me and I needed him less, he wasneither hurt nor surprised. Other people--their thoughts, their actions, even when these concerned himself--never troubled him. He loved tobestow, but as to response was strangely indifferent; indeed, ifanything, it bored him. His nature appeared to be that of the fountain, which fulfils itself by giving, but is unable to receive. 

My popularity came to me unexpectedly after I had given up hoping forit; surprising me, annoying me. Gradually it dawned upon me that mycompany was being sought. 

"Come along, Kelver, " would say the spokesman of one group; "we're goingpart of your way home. You can walk with us. "

Maybe I would go with them, but more often, before we reached the gate, the delight of my society would be claimed by a rival troop. 

"He's coming with us this afternoon. He promised. "

"No, he didn't. "

"Yes, he did. "

"Well, he ain't, anyhow. See?"

"Oh, isn't he? Who says he isn't?"

"I do. "

"Punch his head, Dick!"

"Yes, you do, Jimmy Blake, and I'll punch yours. Come, Kelver. "

I might have been some Queen of Beauty offered as prize for knightlycontest. Indeed, more than once the argument concluded thus primitively, I being carried off in triumph by the victorious party. 

For a period it remained a mystery to me, until I asked explanation ofNorval--we called him "Norval, " he being one George Grampian: it was ourwit. From taking joy in teasing me, Norval had suddenly become one of mygreatest admirers. This by itself was difficult enough to understand. He was in the second eleven, and after Dan the best fighter in the lowerschool. If I could understand Norval's change of attitude all would beplain to me; so when next time, bounding upon me in the cloakroom andslipping his arm into mine, he clamoured for my company to Camden Town, I put the question to him bluntly. 

"Why should I walk home with you? Why do you want me?"

"Because we like you. "

"But why do you like me?"

"Why! Why, because you're such a funny chap. You say such funny things. "

It struck me like a slap in the face. I had thought to reach popularityupon the ladder of heroic qualities. In all the school books I had read, Leonard or Marmaduke (we had a Marmaduke in the Lower Fifth--theycalled him Marmalade: in the school books these disasters are notcontemplated), won love and admiration by reason of integrity ofcharacter, nobility of sentiment, goodness of heart, brilliance ofintellect; combined maybe with a certain amount of agility, instinct inthe direction of bowling, or aptitude for jumping; but such only by theway. Not one of them had ever said a funny thing, either consciously orunconsciously. 

"Don't be disagreeable, Kelver. Come with us and we will let you intothe team as an extra. I'll teach you batting. "

So I was to be their Fool--I, dreamer of knightly dreams, aspirant tohero's fame! I craved their wonder; I had won their laughter. I hadprayed for popularity; it had been granted to me--in this guise. Werethe gods still the heartless practical jokers poor Midas had found them?

Had my vanity been less I should have flung their gift back in theirfaces. But my thirst for approbation was too intense. I had to choose:Cut capers and be followed, or walk in dignity, ignored. I chose to cutthe capers. As time wore on I found myself striving to cut them quicker, quainter, thinking out funny stories, preparing ingenuous impromptus, twisting all ideas into odd expression. 

I had my reward. Before long my company was desired by all the school. But I was never content. I would rather have been the Captain of theirfootball club, even his deputy Vice; would have given all my meed oflaughter for stuttering Jerry's one round of applause when in our matchagainst Highbury he knocked up his century, and so won the victory forus by just three. 

Till the end I never quite abandoned hope of exchanging my vine leavesfor the laurels. I would rise an hour earlier in the morning to practisethrowing at broomsticks set up in waste places. At another time, thesport coming into temporary fashion, I wearied body and mind for weeksin vain attempts to acquire skill on stilts. That even fat Tubby couldout-distance me upon them saddened my life for months. 

A lad there was, a Sixth Form boy, one Wakeham by name, if I rememberrightly, who greatly envied me my gift of being able to amuse. He was ofthe age when the other sex begins to be of importance to a fellow, andthe desire had come to him to be regarded as a star of wit amongthe social circles of Gospel Oak. Need I say that by nature he was aponderously dull boy. 

One afternoon I happened to be the centre of a small group in theplayground. I had been holding forth and they had been laughing. WhetherI had delivered myself of anything really entertaining or not I cannotsay. It made no difference; they had got into the habit of laughing whenI talked. Sometimes I would say quite serious things on purpose; theywould laugh just the same. Wakeham was among them, his eyes fixed on me, watching me as boys watch a conjurer in the hope of finding out "how hedoes it. " Later in the afternoon he slipped his arm through mine, anddrew me away into an empty corner of the ground. 

"I say, Kelver, " he broke out, the moment we were beyond hearing, "youreally are funny!"

It gave me no pleasure. If he had told me that he admired my bowling Imight not have believed him, but should have loved him for it. 

"So are you, " I answered savagely, "only you don't know it. "

"No, I'm not, " he replied. "Wish I was. I say, Kelver"--he glanced roundto see that no one was within earshot--"do you think you could teach meto be funny?"

I was about to reply with conviction in the negative when an ideaoccurred to me. Wakeham was famous among us for one thing; he could, inserting two fingers in his mouth, produce a whistle capable ofconfusing dogs a quarter of a mile off, and of causing people near athand to jump from six to eighteen inches into the air. 

This accomplishment of his I envied him as keenly as he envied me mine. I did not admire it; I could not see the use of it. Generally speaking, it called forth irritation rather than affection. A purple-faced oldgentleman, close to whose ear he once performed, promptly cuffed hishead for it; and for so doing was commended by the whole street as apublic benefactor. Drivers of vehicles would respond by flicking at him, occasionally with success. Even youth, from whom sympathy might havebeen expected, appeared impelled, if anything happened to be at allhandy, to take it up and throw it at him. My own social circle would, I knew, regard it as a vulgar accomplishment, and even Wakeham himselfdared not perform it in the hearing of his own classmates. That anyhuman being should have desired to acquire it seems incomprehensible. Yet for weeks in secret I had wrestled to produce the hideous sound. Why? For three reasons, so far as I can analyse this youngster of whom Iam writing:

Firstly, here was a means of attracting attention; secondly, it wassomething that somebody else could do and that he couldn't; thirdly, itwas a thing for which he evidently had no natural aptitude whatever, andtherefore a thing to acquire which his soul yearned the more. Had a boycome across his path, clever at walking on his hands with his heels inthe air, Master Paul Kelver would in all probability have broken hisneck in attempts to copy and excel. I make no apologies for the brat:I merely present him as a study for the amusement of a world of wiserboys--and men. 

I struck a bargain with young Wakeham; I undertook to teach him to befunny in return for his teaching me this costermonger's whistle. 

Each of us strove conscientiously to impart knowledge. Neither of ussucceeded. Wakeham tried hard to be funny; I tried hard to whistle. Hedid all I told him; I followed his instructions implicitly. The resultwas the feeblest of wit and the feeblest of whistles. 

"Do you think anybody would laugh at that?" Wakeham would patheticallyenquire at the termination of his supremest effort. And honestly I wouldhave to confess I did not think any living being would. 

"How far off do you think any one could hear that?" I would demandanxiously, on recovering sufficient breath to speak at all. 

"Well, it would depend upon whether you knew it was coming, " Wakehamwould reply kindly, not wishing to discourage me. 

We abandoned the scheme by mutual consent at about the end of afortnight. 

"I suppose it's something that you've got to have inside you, " Isuggested to Wakeham in consolation. 

"I don't think the roof of your mouth can be quite the right shape forit, " concluded Wakeham. 

My success as story-teller, commentator, critic, jester, revivedmy childish ambition towards authorship. My first stirrings in thisdirection I cannot rightly place. I remember when very small fallinginto a sunk dust-bin--a deep hole, rather, into which the gardener shothis rubbish. The fall twisted my ankle so that I could not move; andthe time being evening and my prison some distance from the house, mypredicament loomed large before me. Yet one consolation remained withme: the incident would be of value to me in the autobiography upon whichI was then engaged. I can distinctly recollect lying on my back amongdecaying leaves and broken glass, framing my account. "On this day astrange adventure befell me. Walking in the garden, all unheeding, Isuddenly"--I did not want to add the truth--"tumbled into a dust-hole, six feet square, that any one but a moon calf might have seen. " Ipuzzled to evolve a more dignified situation. The dust-bin became acavern, the entrance to which had been artfully concealed; the six orseven feet I had really fallen, "an endless descent, terminating in avast and gloomy chamber. " I was divided between opposing desires: One, for rescue followed by sympathy and supper; the other, for the alarmingexperience of a night of terror where I lay. Nature conquering Art, I yelled; and the episode terminated prosaically with a warm bath andarnica. But from it I judge that desire for the woes and perils ofauthorship was with me somewhat early. 

Of my many other dreams I would speak freely, discussing them at lengthwith sympathetic souls, but concerning this one ambition I was curiouslyreticent. Only to two--my mother and a grey-bearded Stranger--did Iever breathe a word of it. Even from my father I kept it a secret, closecomrades in all else though we were. He would have talked of it much andfreely, dragged it into the light of day; and from this I shrank. 

My talk with the Stranger came about in this wise. One evening I hadtaken a walk to Victoria Park--a favourite haunt of mine at summer time. It was a fair and peaceful evening, and I fell a-wandering there inpleasant reverie, until the waning light hinted to me the question oftime. I looked about me. Only one human being was in sight, a man withhis back towards me, seated upon a bench overlooking the ornamentalwater. 

I drew nearer. He took no notice of me, and interested--though why, Icould not say--I seated myself beside him at the other end of the bench. He was a handsome, distinguished-looking man, with wonderfully bright, clear eyes and iron-grey hair and beard. I might have thought him a seacaptain, of whom many were always to be met with in that neighbourhood, but for his hands, which were crossed upon his stick, and which werewhite and delicate as a woman's. He turned his face and glanced at me. I fancied that his lips beneath the grey moustache smiled; andinstinctively I edged a little nearer to him. 

"Please, sir, " I said, after awhile, "could you tell me the right time?"

"Twenty minutes to eight, " he answered, looking at his watch. And hisvoice drew me towards him even more than had his beautiful strong face. I thanked him, and we fell back into silence. 

"Where do you live?" he turned and suddenly asked me. 

"Oh, only over there, " I answered, with a wave of my arm towards thechimney-fringed horizon behind us. "I needn't be in till half-pasteight. I like this Park so much, " I added, "I often come and sit here ofan evening. '

"Why do you like to come and sit here?" he asked. "Tell me. "

"Oh, I don't know, " I answered. "I think. "

I marvelled at myself. With strangers generally I was shy and silent;but the magic of his bright eyes seemed to have loosened my tongue. 

I told him my name; that we lived in a street always full of uglysounds, so that a gentleman could not think, not even in the eveningtime, when Thought goes a-visiting. 

"Mamma does not like the twilight time, " I confided to him. "It alwaysmakes her cry. But then mamma is--not very young, you know, and has hada deal of trouble; and that makes a difference, I suppose. "

He laid his hand upon mine. We were sitting nearer to each other now. "God made women weak to teach us men to be tender, " he said. "But you, Paul, like this 'twilight time'?"

"Yes, " I answered, "very much. Don't you?"

"And why do you like it?" he asked. 

"Oh, " I answered, "things come to you. "

"What things?"

"Oh, fancies, " I explained to him. "I am going to be an author when Igrow up, and write books. "

He took my hand in his and shook it gravely, and then returned it to me. "I, too, am a writer of books, " he said. 

And then I knew what had drawn me to him. 

So for the first time I understood the joy of talking "shop" with afellow craftsman. I told him my favourite authors--Scott, and Dumas, and Victor Hugo; and to my delight found they were his also; he agreeingwith me that real stories were the best, stories in which people didthings. 

"I used to read silly stuff once, " I confessed, "Indian tales and thatsort of thing, you know. But mamma said I'd never be able to write if Iread that rubbish. "

"You will find it so all through life, Paul, " he replied. "The thingsthat are nice are rarely good for us. And what do you read now?"

"I am reading Marlowe's Plays and De Quincey's Confessions just now, " Iconfided to him. 

"And do you understand them?"

"Fairly well, " I answered. "Mamma says I'll like them better as I goon. I want to learn to write very, very well indeed, " I admitted to him;"then I'll be able to earn heaps of money. "

He smiled. "So you don't believe in Art for Art's sake, Paul?"

I was puzzled. "What does that mean?" I asked. 

"It means in our case, Paul, " he answered, "writing books for thepleasure of writing books, without thinking of any reward, withoutdesiring either money or fame. "

It was a new idea to me. "Do many authors do that?" I asked. 

He laughed outright this time. It was a delightful laugh. It rangthrough the quiet Park, awaking echoes; and caught by it, I laughed withhim. 

"Hush!" he said; and he glanced round with a whimsical expression offear, lest we might have been overheard. "Between ourselves, Paul, " hecontinued, drawing me more closely towards him and whispering, "I don'tthink any of us do. We talk about it. But I'll tell you this, Paul; itis a trade secret and you must remember it: No man ever made money orfame but by writing his very best. It may not be as good as somebodyelse's best, but it is his best. Remember that, Paul. "

I promised I would. 

"And you must not think merely of the money and the fame, Paul, " headded the next moment, speaking more seriously. "Money and fame are verygood things, and only hypocrites pretend to despise them. But if youwrite books thinking only of money, you will be disappointed. It isearned easier in other ways. Tell me, that is not your only idea?"

I pondered. "Mamma says it is a very noble calling, authorship, " Iremembered, "and that any one ought to be very proud and glad to be ableto write books, because they give people happiness and make them forgetthings; and that one ought to be very good if one is going to be anauthor, so as to be worthy to help and teach others. "

"And do you try to be good, Paul?" he enquired. 

"Yes, " I answered; "but it's very hard to be quite good--until of courseyou're grown up. "

He smiled, but more to himself than to me. "Yes, " he said, "I suppose itis difficult to be good until you are grown up. Perhaps we shall all ofus be good when we're quite grown up. " Which, from a gentleman with agrey beard, appeared to me a puzzling observation. 

"And what else does mamma say about literature?" he asked. "Can youremember?"

Again I pondered, and her words came back to me. "That he who can writea great book is greater than a king; that the gift of being able towrite is given to anybody in trust; that an author should never forgethe is God's servant. "

He sat for awhile without speaking, his chin resting on his folded handssupported by his gold-topped cane. Then he turned and laid a hand uponmy shoulder, and his clear, bright eyes were close to mine. 

"Your mother is a wise lady, Paul, " he said. "Remember her words always. In later life let them come back to you; they will guide you better thanthe chatter of the Clubs. "

"And what modern authors do you read?" he asked after a silence: "any ofthem--Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, Dickens?"

"I have read 'The Last of the Barons, '" I told him; "I like that. AndI've been to Barnet and seen the church. And some of Mr. Dickens'. "

"And what do you think of Mr. Dickens?" he asked. But he did not seemvery interested in the subject. He had picked up a few small stones, andwas throwing them carefully into the water. 

"I like him very much, " I answered; "he makes you laugh. "

"Not always?" he asked. He stopped his stone-throwing, and turnedsharply towards me. 

"Oh, no, not always, " I admitted; "but I like the funny bits best. Ilike so much where Mr. Pickwick--"

"Oh, damn Mr. Pickwick!" he said. 

"Don't you like him?" I asked. 

"Oh, yes, I like him well enough, or used to, " he replied; "I'm a bittired of him, that's all. Does your mamma like Mr. --Mr. Dickens?"

"Not the funny parts, " I explained to him. "She thinks he isoccasionally--"

"I know, " he interrupted, rather irritably, I thought; "a triflevulgar. "

It surprised me that he should have guessed her exact words. "I don'tthink mamma has much sense of humour, " I explained to him. "Sometimesshe doesn't even see papa's jokes. "

At that he laughed again. "But she likes the other parts?" he enquired, "the parts where Mr. Dickens isn't--vulgar?"

"Oh, yes, " I answered. "She says he can be so beautiful and tender, whenhe likes. "

Twilight was deepening. It occurred to me to enquire of him again thetime. 

"Just over the quarter, " he answered, looking at his watch. 

"I'm so sorry, " I said. "I must go now. "

"So am I sorry, Paul, " he answered. "Perhaps we shall meet again. Good-bye. " Then as our hands touched: "You have never asked me my name, Paul, " he reminded me. 

"Oh, haven't I?" I answered. 

"No, Paul, " he replied, "and that makes me think of your future withhope. You are an egotist, Paul; and that is the beginning of all art. "

And after that he would not tell me his name. "Perhaps next time wemeet, " he said. "Good-bye, Paul. Good luck to you!"

So I went my way. Where the path winds out of sight I turned. He wasstill seated upon the bench, but his face was towards me, and he wavedhis hand to me. I answered with a wave of mine. And then the interveningboughs and bushes gradually closed in around me. And across the risingmist there rose the hoarse, harsh cry:

"All out! All out!"

CHAPTER X. 

IN WHICH PAUL IS SHIPWRECKED, AND CAST INTO DEEP WATERS. 

My father died, curiously enough, on the morning of his birthday. We hadnot expected the end to arrive for some time, and at first did not knowthat it had come. 

"I have left him sleeping, " said my mother, who had slipped out veryquietly in her dressing-gown. "Washburn gave him a draught last night. We won't disturb him. "

So we sat round the breakfast table, speaking in low tones, for thehouse was small and flimsy, all sound easily heard through its thinpartitions. Afterwards my mother crept upstairs, I following, andcautiously opened the door a little way. 

The blinds were still down, and the room dark. It seemed a long timethat my mother stood there listening, her ear against the jar. Thefirst costermonger--a girl's voice, it sounded--passed, crying shrilly:"Watercreases, fine fresh watercreases with your breakfast-a'pennya bundle watercreases;" and further off a hoarse youth was wailing:"Mee-ilk-mee-ilk-oi. "

Inch by inch my mother opened the door wider and we stole in. He waslying with his eyes still closed, the lips just slightly parted. I hadnever seen death before, and could not realise it. All that I could seewas that he looked even younger than I had ever seen him look before. By slow degrees only, it came home to me, the knowledge that he was goneaway from us. For days--for weeks, I would hear his step behind me inthe street, his voice calling to me, see his face among the crowds, and hastening to meet him, stand bewildered because it had mysteriouslydisappeared. But at first I felt no pain whatever. 

To my mother it was but a short parting. Into her placid faith had neverfallen fear nor doubt. He was waiting for her. In God's good time theywould meet again. What need of sorrow! Without him the days passedslowly: the house must ever be a little dull when the good man's away. But that was all. So my mother would speak of him always--of his dear, kind ways, of his oddities and follies we loved so to recall, notthrough tears, but smiles, thinking of him not as of one belonging tothe past, but as of one beckoning to her from the future. 

We lived on still in the old house though ever planning to move, forthe great brick monster had crept closer round about us year by year, devouring in his progress all things fair. Field and garden, tree andcottage, time-mellowed house suggesting story, kind hedgerow hidinghideousness beyond--the few spots yet in that doomed land lingering toremind one of the sunshine, one by one had he scrunched them between hisugly teeth. A world apart, this east end of London, this ghetto of thepoor for ever growing, dreariness added year by year to dreariness, hopelessness stretching ever farther its long, shrivelled arms, theseendless rows of reeking cells where London herds her slaves. Often of amisty afternoon when we knew that without this city of the dead life wasstirring in the sunshine, we would fare forth to house-hunt inpleasant suburbs, now themselves added to the weary catacomb of narrowstreets--to Highgate, then a tiny town connected by a coach with leafyHolloway; to Hampstead with its rows of ancient red-brick houses, fromwhose wind-blown heath one saw beyond the woods and farms, far London'sdomes and spires, to Wood Green among the pastures, where smock-coatedlabourers discussed their politics and ale beneath wide-spreading elms;to Hornsey, then a village consisting of an ivy-covered church and onegrass-bordered way. But though we often saw "the very thing for us" andwould discuss its possibilities from every point of view and find themgood, we yet delayed. 

"We must think it over, " would say my mother; "there is no hurry; forsome reasons I shall be sorry to leave Poplar. "

"For what reasons, mother?"

"Oh, well, no particular reason, Paul. Only we have lived there so long, you know. It will be a wrench leaving the old house. "

To the making of man go all things, even to the instincts of theclinging vine. We fling our tendrils round what is the nearestcastle-keep or pig-stye wall, rain and sunshine fastening them butfirmer. Dying Sir Walter Scott--do you remember?--hastening home fromItaly, fearful lest he might not be in time to breathe again the dampmists of the barren hills. An ancient dame I knew, they had carried herfrom her attic in slumland that she might be fanned by the sea breezes, and the poor old soul lay pining for what she called her "home. " Wife, mother, widow, she had lived there till the alley's reek smelt goodto her nostrils, till its riot was the voices of her people. Who shallunderstand us save He who fashioned us?

So the old house held us to its dismal bosom; and not until within itshomely but unlovely arms, first my aunt, and later on my mother haddied, and I had said good-bye to Amy, crying in the midst of litteredemptiness, did I leave it. 

My aunt died as she had lived, grumbling. 

"You will be glad to get rid of me, all of you!" she said, dropping forthe first and last time I can recollect into the retort direct; "and Ican't say I shall be very sorry to go myself. It hasn't been my idea oflife. "

Poor old lady! That was only a couple of weeks before the end. I do notsuppose she guessed it was so certain or perhaps she might have beenmore sentimental. 

"Don't be foolish, " said my mother, "you're not going to die!"

"What's the use of talking like an idiot, " retorted my aunt, "I've gotto do it some time. Why not now, when everything's all ready for it. Itisn't as if I was enjoying myself. "

"I am sure we do all we can for you, " said my mother. "I know you do, "replied my aunt. "I'm a burden to you. I always have been. "

"Not a burden, " corrected my mother. 

"What does the woman call it then, " snapped back my aunt. "Does shereckon I've been a sunbeam in the house? I've been a trial to everybody. That's what I was born for; it's my metier. "

My mother put her arms about the poor old soul and kissed her. "Weshould miss you very much, " she said. 

"I'm sure I hope they all will!" answered my aunt. "It's the only thingI've got to leave 'em, worth having. "

My mother laughed. 

"Maybe it's been a good thing for you, Maggie, " grumbled my aunt; "ifit wasn't for cantankerous, disagreeable people like me, gentle, patientpeople like you wouldn't get any practice. Perhaps, after all, I've beena blessing to you in disguise. "

I cannot honestly say we ever wished her back; though we certainlydid miss her--missed many a joke at her oddities, many a laugh at hercornery ways. It takes all sorts, as the saying goes, to make a world. Possibly enough if only we perfect folk were left in it we would find ituncomfortably monotonous. 

As for Amy, I believe she really regretted her. 

"One never knows what's good for one till one's lost it, " sighed Amy. 

"I'm glad to think you liked her, " said my mother. 

"You see, mum, " explained Amy, "I was one of a large family; and a bitof a row now and again cheers one up, I always think. I'll be losing thepower of my tongue if something doesn't come along soon. "

"Well, you are going to be married in a few weeks now, " my motherreminded her. 

But Amy remained despondent. "They're poor things, the men, at a fewwords, the best of them, " she replied. "As likely as not just whenyou're getting interested you turn round to find that they've put ontheir hat and gone out. "

My mother and I were very much alone after my aunt's death. Barbara hadgone abroad to put the finishing touches to her education--to learn thetricks of the Nobs' trade, as old Hasluck phrased it; and I had leftschool and taken employment with Mr. Stillwood, without salary, the ideabeing that I should study for the law. 

"You are in luck's way, my boy, in luck's way, " old Mr. Gadley hadassured me. "To have commenced your career in the office of Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal will be a passport for you anywhere. It will stampyou, my boy. "

Mr. Stillwood himself was an extremely old and feeble gentleman--so oldand feeble it seemed strange that he, a wealthy man, had not long agoretired. 

"I am always meaning to, " he explained to me one day soon after myadvent in his office. "When your poor father came to me he told me veryfrankly the sad fact--that he had only a few more years to live. 'Mr. Kelver, ' I answered him, 'do not let that trouble you, so far as I amconcerned. There are one or two matters in the office I should like tosee cleared up, and in these you can help me. When they are completed Ishall retire! Yet, you see, I linger on. I am like the old hackney coachhorse, Mr. Weller--or is it Mr. Jingle--tells us of; if the shafts weredrawn away I should probably collapse. So I jog on, I jog on. '"

He had married late in life a common woman much younger than himself, who had brought to him a horde of needy and greedy relatives, and nodoubt, as a refuge from her noisy neighbourhood, the daily peace ofLombard Street was welcome to him. We saw her occasionally. She wasone of those blustering, "managing" women who go through life underthe impression that making a disturbance is somehow "putting things torights. " Ridiculously ashamed of her origin, she sought to hide it underwhat her friends assured her was the air of a duchess, but which, asa matter of fact, resembled rather the Sunday manners of an elderlybarmaid. Mr. Gadley alone was not afraid of her; but, on the contrary, kept her always very much in fear of him, often speaking to her withrefreshing candour. He had known her in the days it was her desireshould be buried in oblivion, and had always resented as a personalinsult her entry into the old established aristocratic firm of Stillwood& Co. 

Her history was peculiar. Mr. Stillwood, when a blase man abouttown, verging on forty, had first seen her, then a fair-haired, ethereal-looking child, in spite of her dirt, playing in the gutter. Tohis lasting self-reproach it was young Gadley himself, accompanying hisemployer home from Westminster, who had drawn Mr. Stillwood's attentionto the girl by boxing her ears for having, as he passed, slapped hisface with a convenient sprat. Stillwood, acting on the impulse of themoment, had taken the child by the hand and dragged her, unwilling, to her father's place of business--a small coal shed in the HorseferryRoad. The arrangement he there made amounted practically to the purchaseof the child. She was sent abroad to school and the coal shed closed. On her return, ten years later, a big, handsome young woman, he marriedher, and learned at leisure the truth of the old saying, "what's bred inthe bone will come out in the flesh, " scrub it and paint it and hide itaway under fine clothes as you will. 

Her constant complaint against her husband was that he was only asolicitor, a profession she considered vulgar; and nothing "riled" oldGadley more than hearing her views upon this point. 

"It's not fair to the gals, " I once heard her say to him. I was workingin the next room, with the door not quite closed, added to which shetalked at the top of her voice on all subjects. "What real gentleman, Ishould like to know, is going to marry the daughter of a City attorney?As I told him years ago, he ought to have retired and gone into theHouse. "

"The very thing your poor father used to talk of doing whenever thingswere going a bit queer in the retail coal and potato business, " gruntedold Gadley. 

Mrs. Stillwood called him a "low beast" in her most aristocratic tones, and swept out of the room. 

Not that old Stillwood himself ever expressed fondness for the law. 

"I am not at all sure, Kelver, " I remember his saying to me on oneoccasion, "that you have done wisely in choosing the law. It makesone regard humanity morally as the medical profession regards itphysically:--as universally unsound. You suspect everybody of being arogue. When people are behaving themselves, we lawyers hear nothing ofthem. All we hear of is roguery, trickery and hypocrisy. Itdeteriorates the character, Kelver. We live in a perpetual atmosphere oftransgression. I sometimes fancy it may be infectious. "

"It does not seem to have infected you, sir, " I replied; for, as I thinkI have already mentioned, the firm of Stillwood, Waterhead and Royalwas held in legal circles as the synonym for rectitude of dealing quiteold-fashioned. 

"I hope not, Kelver, I hope not, " the old gentleman replied; "and yet, do you know, I sometimes suspect myself--wonder if I may not perhapsbe a scamp without realising it. A rogue, you know, Kelver, can alwaysexplain himself into an honest man to his own satisfaction. A scamp isnever a scamp to himself. "

His words for the moment alarmed me, for, acting on old Gadley'sadvice, I had persuaded my mother to put all her small capital into Mr. Stillwood's hands for re-investment, a transaction that had resulted insubstantial increase of our small income. But, looking into his smilingeyes, my momentary fear vanished. 

Laughing, he laid his hand upon my shoulder. "One person always besuspicious of, Kelver--yourself. Nobody can do you so much harm asyourself. "

Of Washburn we saw more and more. "Hal" we both called him now, forremoving with his gentle, masterful hands my mother's shyness from abouther, he had established himself almost as one of the family, my motherregarding him as she might some absurdly bearded boy entrusted to hercare without his knowing it, I looking up to him as to some wonderfulelder brother. 

"You rest me, Mrs. Kelver, " he would say, lighting his pipe and sinkingdown into the deep leathern chair that always waited for him in ourparlour. "Your even voice, your soft eyes, your quiet hands, they sootheme. "

"It is good for a man, " he would say, looking from one to the other ofus through the hanging smoke, "to test his wisdom by two things:the face of a good woman, and the ear of a child--I beg your pardon, Paul--of a young man. A good woman's face is the white sunlight. Underthe gas-lamps who shall tell diamond from paste? Bring it into thesunlight: does it stand that test? Then it is good. And the children!they are the waiting earth on which we fling our store. Is it chaff anddust or living seed? Wait and watch. I shower my thoughts over our Paul, Mrs. Kelver. They seem to me brilliant, deep, original. The young beggarswallows them, forgets them. They were rubbish. Then I say somethingthat dwells with him, that grows. Ah, that was alive, that was a seed. The waiting earth, it can make use only of what is true. "

"You should marry, Hal, " my mother would say. It was her panacea for allmankind. 

"I would, Mrs. Kelver, " he answered her on one occasion, "I wouldto-morrow if I could marry half a dozen women. I should make an idealhusband for half a dozen wives. One I should neglect for five days, andbe a burden to upon the sixth. "

From any other than Hal my mother would have taken such a remark, madeeven in jest, as an insult to her sex. But Hal's smile was a coatingthat could sugar any pill. 

"I am not one man, Mrs. Kelver, I am half a dozen. If I were to marryone wife she would be married to six husbands. It is too many for anywoman to manage. "

"Have you never fallen in love?" asked my mother. 

"Three of me have, but on each occasion the other five of me out-votedhim. "

"You're sure six would be sufficient?" queried my mother, smiling. 

"Just the right number, Mrs. Kelver. There is one of me must worship, adore a woman madly, abjectly; grovel before her like the Troubadourbefore his Queen of Song, eat her slipper, drink the water she haswashed in, scourge himself before her window, die for a kiss of herglove flung down with a laugh. She must be scornful, contemptuous, cruel. There is another I would cherish, a tender, yielding creature, one whose face would light at my coming, cloud at my going; one to whomI should be a god. There is a third I, a child of Pan--an ugly littlebeast, Mrs. Kelver; horns on head and hoofs on feet, leering through thewood, seeking its fit mate. And a fourth would wed a wholesome, homelywench, deep of bosom, broad of hip; fit mother of a sturdy brood. Afifth could only be content with a true friend, a comrade wise andwitty, a sharer and understander of all joys and thoughts and feelings. And a last, Mrs. Kelver, yearns for a woman pure and sweet, clothed inlove and crowned with holiness. Shouldn't we be a handful, Mrs. Kelver, for any one woman in an eight-roomed house?"

But my mother was not to be discouraged. "You will find the woman oneday, Hal, who will be all of them to you--all of them that are worthhaving, that is. And your eight-roomed house will be a kingdom!"

"A man is many, and a woman but one, " answered Hal. 

"That is what men say who are too blind to see more than one side of awoman, " retorted my mother, a little sharply; for the honour and creditof her own sex in all things was very dear to my mother. And indeed thisI have learned, that the flag of Womanhood you shall ever find upheld byall true women, flouted only by the false. For a judge in petticoats isever but a witness in a wig. 

Hal laid aside his pipe and leant forward in his chair. "Now tell us, Mrs. Kelver, for our guidance, we two young bachelors, what must thelover of a young girl be?"

Always very serious on this subject of love, my mother answered gravely:"She asks for the whole of a man, Hal, not merely for a sixth, nor anyother part of him. She is a child asking for a lover to whom she canlook up, who will teach her, guide her, protect her. She is a queendemanding homage, and yet he is her king whom it is her joy to serve. She asks to be his partner, his fellow-worker, his playmate, and at thesame time she loves to think of him as her child, her big baby she musttake care of. Whatever he has to give she has also to respond with. Youneed not marry six wives, Hal; you will find your six in one. 

"'As the water to the vessel, woman shapes herself to man;' an oldheathen said that three thousand years ago, and others have repeatedhim; that is what you mean. "

"I don't like that way of putting it, " answered my mother. "I mean thatas you say of man, so in every true woman is contained all women. But toknow her completely you must love her with all love. "

Sometimes the talk would be of religion, for my mother's faith wasno dead thing that must be kept ever sheltered from the air, lest itcrumble. 

One evening "Who are we that we should live?" cried Hal. "The spideris less cruel; the very pig less greedy, gluttonous and foul; the tigerless tigerish; our cousin ape less monkeyish. What are we but savages, clothed and ashamed, nine-tenths of us?"

"But Sodom and Gomorrah, " reminded him my mother, "would have beenspared for the sake of ten just men. "

"Much more sensible to have hurried the ten men out, leaving theremainder to be buried with all their abominations under their ownashes, " growled Hal. 

"And we shall be purified, " continued my mother, "the evil in us washedaway. "

"Why have made us ill merely to mend us? If the Almighty were so anxiousfor our company, why not have made us decent in the beginning?" He hadjust come away from a meeting of Poor Law Guardians, and was in a stateof dissatisfaction with human nature generally. 

"It is His way, " answered my mother. "The precious stone lies hid inclay. He has His purpose. "

"Is the stone so very precious?"

"Would He have taken so much pains to fashion it if it were not? You seeit all around you, Hal, in your daily practice--heroism, self-sacrifice, love stronger than death. Can you think He will waste it, He who usesagain even the dead leaf?"

"Shall the new leaf remember the new flower?"

"Yes, if it ever knew it. Shall memory be the only thing to die?"

Often of an evening I would accompany Hal upon his rounds. By the savagetribe he both served and ruled he had come to be regarded as medicineman and priest combined. He was both their tyrant and their slave, working for them early and late, yet bullying them unmercifully, enforcing his commands sometimes with vehement tongue, and where thatwould not suffice with quick fists; the counsellor, helper, ruler, literally of thousands. Of income he could have made barely enough tolive upon; but few men could have enjoyed more sense of power; and thatI think it was that held him to the neighbourhood. 

"Nature laid me by and forgot me for a couple of thousand years, " washis own explanation of himself. "Born in my proper period, I should haveclimbed to chieftainship upon uplifted shields. I might have been anAttila, an Alaric. Among the civilised one can only climb by crawling, and I am too impatient to crawl. Here I am king at once by force ofbrain and muscle. " So in Poplar he remained, poor in fees but rich inhonour. 

The love of justice was a passion with him. The oppressors of the poorknew and feared him well. Injustice once proved before him, vengeancefollowed sure. If the law would not help, he never hesitated to employlawlessness, of which he could always command a satisfactory supply. Bumble might have the Board of Guardians at his back, Shylock legalsupport for his pound of flesh; but sooner or later the dark nightbrought punishment, a ducking in dock basin or canal, "Brutal AssaultUpon a Respected Resident" (according to the local papers), the"miscreants" always making and keeping good their escape, for he was anadmirable organiser. 

One night it seemed to him necessary that a child should go at once intothe Infirmary. 

"It ain't no use my taking her now, " explained the mother, "I'll onlyget bullyragged for disturbing 'em. My old man was carried there threemonths ago when he broke his leg, but they wouldn't take him in till themorning. "

"Oho! oho! oho!" sang Hal, taking the child up in his arms and puttingon his hat. "You follow me; we'll have some sport. Tally ho! tallyho!" And away we went, Hal heading our procession through the streets, shouting a rollicking song, the baby staring at him openmouthed. 

"Now ring, " cried Hal to the mother on our reaching the Workhouse gate. "Ring modestly, as becomes the poor ringing at the gate of Charity. " Andthe bell tinkled faintly. 

"Ring again!" cried Hal, drawing back into the shadow; and at last thewicket opened. 

"Oh, if you please, sir, my baby--"

"Blast your baby!" answered a husky voice, "what d'ye mean by cominghere this time of night?"

"Please, sir, I'm afraid it's dying, and the Doctor--"

The man was no sentimentalist, and to do him justice made nohypocritical pretence of being one. He consigned the baby and its motherand the doctor to Hell, and the wicket would have closed but for thepoint of Hal's stick. 

"Open the gate!" roared Hal. It was idle pretending not to hear Halanywhere within half a mile of him when he filled his lungs for a cry. "Open it quick, you blackguard! You gross vat-load of potato spirit, you--"

That the Governor should speak a language familiar to the governed washeld by the Romans, born rulers of men, essential to authority. Thistheory Hal also maintained. His command of idiom understanded by hispeople was one of his rods of power. In less time than it took thetrembling porter to loosen the bolts, Hal had presented him with aword picture of himself, as seen by others, that must have lessened hisself-esteem. 

"I didn't know as it was you, Doctor, " explained the man. 

"No, you thought you had only to deal with some helpless creature youcould bully. Stir your fat carcass, you ugly cur! I'm in a hurry. "

The House Surgeon was away, but an attendant or two were lounging about, unfortunately for themselves, for Hal, being there, took it upon himselfto go round the ward setting crooked things straight; and a busy andalarming time they had of it. Not till a couple of hours later did hefling himself forth again, having enjoyed himself greatly. 

A gentleman came to reside in the district, a firm believer in thewisdom of the couplet: "A woman, a spaniel and a walnut tree, The moreyou beat them the better they be. " The spaniel and the walnut tree hedid not possess, so his wife had the benefit of his undivided energies. Whether his treatment had improved her morally, one cannot say; herevident desire to do her best may have been natural or may have beenassisted; but physically it was injuring her. He used to beat her aboutthe head with his strap, his argument being that she always seemed halfasleep, and that this, for the time being, woke her up. Sympathisersbrought complaint to Hal, for the police in that neighbourhood are tokeep the streets respectable. With the life in the little cells thatline them they are no more concerned than are the scavengers of thesewers with the domestic arrangements of the rats. 

"What's he like?" asked Hal. 

"He's a big 'un, " answered the woman who had come with the tale, "andhe's good with his fists--I've seen him. But there's no getting at him. He's the sort to have the law on you if you interfere with him, andshe's the sort to help him. "

"Any likely time to catch him at it?" asked Hal. 

"Saturdays it's as regular as early closing, " answered the woman, "butyou might have to wait a bit. "

"I'll wait in your room, granny, next Saturday, " suggested Hal. 

"All right, " agreed the woman, "I'll risk it, even if I do get a bloodyhead for it. "

So that week end we sat very still on two rickety chairs listening to along succession of sharp, cracking sounds that, had one not known, one might have imagined produced by some child monotonously explodingpercussion caps, each one followed by an answering groan. Hal nevermoved, but sat smoking his pipe, an ugly smile about his mouth. Onlyonce he opened his lips, and then it was to murmur to himself: "And Godblessed them and said unto them, Be fruitful and multiply. "

The horror ceased at last, and later we heard the door unlock and aman's foot upon the landing above. Hal beckoned to me, and swiftly weslipped out and down the creaking stairs. He opened the front door, andwe waited in the evil-smelling little passage. The man came towardsus whistling. He was a powerfully built fellow, rather good-looking, I remember. He stopped abruptly upon catching sight of Hal, who stoodcrouching in the shadow of the door. 

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. 

"Waiting to pull your nose!" answered Hal, suiting the action to theword. And then laughing he ran down the street, I following. 

The man gave chase, calling to us with a string of imprecations to stop. But Hal only ran the faster, though after a street or two he slackened, and the man gained on us a little. 

So we continued, the distance between us and our pursuer now a littlemore, now a little less. People turned and stared at us. A few boys, scenting grim fun, followed shouting for awhile; but these we soonout-paced, till at last in deserted streets, winding among warehousesbordering the river, we three ran alone, between long, lifeless walls. Ilooked into Hal's face from time to time, and he was laughing; but everynow and then he would look over his shoulder at the man behind him stillfollowing doggedly, and then his face would be twisted into a comicallyterrified grimace. Turning into a narrow cul-de-sac, Hal suddenly duckedbehind a wide brick buttress, and the man, still running, passed us. And then Hal stood up and called to him, and the man turned, looked intoHal's eyes, and understood. 

He was not a coward. Besides, even a rat when cornered will fight forits life. He made a rush at Hal, and Hal made no attempt to defendhimself. He stood there laughing, and the man struck him full in theface, and the blood spurted out and flowed down into his mouth. Theman came on again, though terror was in every line of his face, all hisdesire being to escape. But this time Hal drove him back again. Theyfought for awhile, if one can call it fighting, till the man, mad forair, reeled against the wall, stood there quivering convulsively, hismouth wide open, resembling more than anything else some huge dyingfish. And Hal drew away and waited. 

I have no desire to see again the sight I saw that quiet, still evening, framed by those high, windowless walls, from behind which sounded withceaseless regularity the gentle swish of the incoming tide. All sense ofretribution was drowned in the sight of Hal's evident enjoyment of hissport. The judge had disappeared, leaving the work to be accomplished bya savage animal loosened for the purpose. 

The wretched creature flung itself again towards its only door ofescape, fought with the vehemence of despair, to be flung back again, ahideous, bleeding mass of broken flesh. I tried to cling to Hal's arm, but one jerk of his steel muscles flung me ten feet away. 

"Keep off, you fool!" he cried. "I won't kill him. I'm keeping my head. I shall know when to stop. " And I crept away and waited. 

Hal joined me a little later, wiping the blood from his face. We madeour way to a small public-house near the river, and from there Hal senta couple of men on whom he could rely with instructions how to act. Inever heard any more of the matter. It was a subject on which I did notcare to speak to Hal. I can only hope that good came of it. 

There was a spot--it has been cleared away since to make room for theapproach to Greenwich Tunnel--it was then the entrance to a grain depotin connection with the Milwall Docks. A curious brick well it resembled, in the centre of which a roadway wound downward, corkscrew fashion, disappearing at the bottom into darkness under a yawning arch. The placepossessed the curious property of being ever filled with a ceaselessmurmur, as though it were some aerial maelstrom, drawing into itssilent vacuum all wandering waves of sound from the restless human oceanflowing round it. No single tone could one ever distinguish: it wasa mingling of all voices, heard there like the murmur of a sea-soakedshell. 

We passed through it on our return. Its work for the day was finished, its strange, weary song uninterrupted by the mighty waggons thunderingup and down its spiral way. Hal paused, leaning against the railingsthat encircled its centre, and listened. 

"Hark, do you not hear it, Paul?" he asked. "It is the music ofHumanity. All human notes are needful to its making: the faint wail ofthe new-born, the cry of the dying thief; the beating of the hammers, the merry trip of dancers; the clatter of the teacups, the roaring ofthe streets; the crooning of the mother to her babe, the scream of thetortured child; the meeting kiss of lovers, the sob of those that part. Listen! prayers and curses, sighs and laughter; the soft breathing ofthe sleeping, the fretful feet of pain; voices of pity, voices of hate;the glad song of the strong, the foolish complaining of the weak. Listento it, Paul! Right and wrong, good and evil, hope and despair, it is butone voice--a single note, drawn by the sweep of the Player's hand acrossthe quivering strings of man. What is the meaning of it, Paul? Can youread it? Sometimes it seems to me a note of joy, so full, so endless, so complete, that I cry: 'Blessed be the Lord whose hammers have beatenupon us, whose fires have shaped us to His ends!' And sometimes itsounds to me a dying note, so that I could curse Him who in wantonnesshas wrung it from the anguish of His creatures--till I would thatI could fling myself, Prometheus like, between Him and His victims, calling: 'My darkness, but their light; my agony, O God; their hope!'"

The faint light from a neighbouring gas-lamp fell upon his face thatan hour before I had seen the face of a wild beast. The ugly mouth wasquivering, tears stood in his great, tender eyes. Could his prayer inthat moment have been granted, could he have pressed against his bosomall the pain of the world, he would have rejoiced. 

He shook himself together with a laugh. "Come, Paul, we have had a busyafternoon, and I'm thirsty. Let us drink some beer, my boy, good soundbeer, and plenty of it. "

My mother fell ill that winter. Mountain born and mountain bred, theclose streets had never agreed with her, and scolded by all of us, shepromised, "come the fine weather, " to put sentiment behind her, and goaway from them. 

"I'm thinking she will, " said Hal, gripping my shoulder with his stronghand, "but it'll be by herself that she'll go, lad. My wonder is, " hecontinued, "that she has held out so long. If anything, it is you thathave kept her alive. Now that you are off her mind to a certain extent, she is worrying about your father, I expect. These women, they neverwill believe a man can take care of himself, even in Heaven. She's neverquite trusted the Lord with him, and never will till she's there to givean eye to things herself. "

Hal's prophecy fell true. She left "come the fine weather, " as she hadpromised: I remember it was the first day primroses were hawked in thestreet. But another death had occurred just before; which, concerning meclosely as it does, I had better here dispose of; and that was the deathof old Mr. Stillwood, who passed away rich in honour and regret, and wasburied with much ostentation and much sincere sorrow; for he had been tomany of his clients, mostly old folk, rather a friend than a mere manof business, and had gained from all with whom he had come in contact, respect, and from many real affection. 

In conformity with the old legal fashions that in his life he had sofondly clung to, his will was read aloud by Mr. Gadley after the returnfrom the funeral, and many were the tears its recital called forth. Written years ago by himself and never altered, its quaint phraseologywas full of kindly thought and expression. No one had been forgotten. Clerks, servants, poor relations, all had been treated with even-handedjustice, while for those with claim upon him, ample provision hadbeen made. Few wills, I think, could ever have been read less open tocriticism. 

Old Gadley slipped his arm into mine as we left the house. "If you'venothing to do, young 'un, " he said, "I'll get you to come with me to theoffice. I have got all the keys in my pocket, and we shall be quiet. It will be sad work for me, and I had rather we were alone. A couple ofhours will show us everything. "

We lighted the wax candles--old Stillwood could never tolerate gas inhis own room--and opening the safe took out the heavy ledgers one byone, and from them Gadley dictated figures which I wrote down and addedup. 

"Thirty years I have kept these books for him, " said old Gadley, as welaid by the last of them, "thirty years come Christmas next, he and Itogether. No other hands but ours have ever touched them, and now peopleto whom they mean nothing but so much business will fling them about, drop greasy crumbs upon them--I know their ways, the brutes!--scribbleall over them. And he who always would have everything so neat andorderly!"

We came to the end of them in less than the time old Gadley had thoughtneedful: in such perfect order had everything been maintained. I waspreparing to go, but old Gadley had drawn a couple of small keys fromhis pocket, and was shuffling again towards the safe. 

"Only one more, " he explained in answer to my look, "his own privateledger. It will merely be in the nature of a summary, but we'll justglance through it. "

He opened an inner drawer and took from it a small thick volume boundin green leather and closed with two brass locks. An ancient volume, itappeared, its strong binding faded and stained. Old Gadley sat downwith it at the dead man's own desk, and snuffing the two shaded candles, unlocked and opened it. I was standing opposite, so that the book to mewas upside down, but the date on the first page, "1841, " caught my eye, as also the small neat writing now brown with age. 

"So neat, so orderly he always was, " murmured old Gadley again, smoothing the page affectionately with his hand, and I waited for hisdictation. 

But no glib flow of figures fell from him. His eyebrows suddenlycontracted, his body stiffened itself. Then for the next quarter of anhour nothing sounded in the quiet room but his turning of the creaklingpages. Once or twice he glanced round swiftly over his shoulder, asthough haunted by the idea of some one behind him; then back to theneat, closely written folios, his little eyes, now exhibiting a comicallook of horror, starting out of his round red face. First slowly, thenquickly with trembling hands he turned the pages, till the continualratling of the leaves sounded like strange, mocking laughter throughthe silent, empty room; almost one could imagine it coming from somewatching creature hidden in the shadows. 

The end reached, he sat staring before him, his whole body quivering, great beads of sweat upon his shiny bald head. 

"Am I mad?" was all he could find to say. "Kelver, am I mad?"

He handed me the book. It was a cynically truthful record of fraud, extending over thirty years. Every client, every friend, every relativethat had fallen into his net he had robbed: the fortunate ones of apart, the majority of their all. Its very first entry debited himwith the proceeds of his own partner's estate. Its last ran--"ReKelver--various sales of stock. " To his credit were his payments yearafter year of imaginary interests on imaginary securities, the surplusaccounted for with simple brevity: "Transferred to own account. " Norecord could have been more clear, more frank. Beneath each transactionwas written its true history; the actual investments, sometimesnecessary, carefully distinguished from the false. In neat red ink wouldoccur here and there a note for his own guidance: "Eldest child comes ofage August, '73. Be prepared for trustees desiring production. " Turningto "August, '73, " one found that genuine investment had been made, tobe sold again a few months later on. From beginning to end not a singlefalse step had he committed. Suspicious clients had been ear-marked:the trusting discriminated with gratitude, and milked again and again tomeet emergency. 

As a piece of organisation it was magnificent. No one but a financialgenius could have picked a dozen steps through such a network ofchicanery. For half a lifetime he had moved among it, dignified, respected and secure. 

Whether even he could have maintained his position for another month wasdoubtful. Suicide, though hinted at, was proved to have been impossible. It seemed as though with his amazing audacity he had tricked even Deathinto becoming his accomplice. 

"But it is impossible, Kelver!" cried Gadley, "this must be some dream. Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal! What is the meaning of it?"

He took the book into his hands again, then burst into tears. "You neverknew him, " wailed the poor little man. "Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal!I came here as office boy fifty years ago. He was more like a friend tome than--" and again the sobs shook his little fat body. 

I locked the books away and put him into his hat and coat. But I hadmuch difficulty in getting him out of the office. 

"I daren't, young 'un, " he cried, drawing back. "Fifty years I havewalked out of this office, proud of it, proud of being connected withit. I daren't face the street!"

All the way home his only idea was: Could it not be hidden? Honest, kindly little man that he was, he seemed to have no thought for theunfortunate victims. The good name of his master, of his friend, gone!Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal, a by-word! To have avoided that Ibelieve he would have been willing for yet another hundred clients to beruined. 

I saw him to his door, then turned homeward; and to my surprise ina dark by-street heard myself laughing heartily. I checked myselfinstantly, feeling ashamed of my callousness, of my seeming indifferenceto the trouble even of myself and my mother. Yet as there passed beforeme the remembrance of that imposing and expensive funeral with itsmournful following of tearful faces; the hushed reading of the will withits accompaniment of rustling approval; the picture of the admirablysympathetic clergyman consoling with white hands Mrs. Stillwood, inclined to hysteria, but anxious concerning her two hundred pounds'worth of crape which by no possibility of means could now be paidfor--recurred to me the obituary notice in "The Chelsea WeeklyChronicle": the humour of the thing swept all else before it, and Ilaughed again--I could not help it--loud and long. It was my firstintroduction to the comedy of life, which is apt to be more brutal thanthe comedy of fiction. 

But nearing home, the serious side of the matter forced itselfuppermost. Fortunately, our supposed dividends had been paid to usby Mr. Stillwood only the month before. Could I keep the thing fromtroubling my mother's last days? It would be hard work. I should have todo it alone, for a perhaps foolish pride prevented my taking Hal into myconfidence, even made his friendship a dread to me, lest he should cometo learn and offer help. There is a higher generosity, it is said, thatcan receive with pleasure as well as bestow favour; but I have neverfelt it. Could I be sure of acting my part, of not betraying myself toher sharp eyes, of keeping newspapers and chance gossip away from her?Good shrewd Amy I cautioned, but I shrank from even speaking on thesubject to Hal, and my fear was lest he should blunder into the subject, which for the usual nine days occupied much public attention. Butfortunately he appeared not even to have heard of the scandal. 

Possibly had the need lasted longer I might have failed, but as it was, a few weeks saw the end. 

"Don't leave me to-day, Paul, " whispered my mother to me one morning. SoI stayed, and in the evening my mother put her arms around my neck and Ilay beside her, my head upon her breast, as I used to when a little boy. And when the morning came I was alone. 

BOOK II. 

CHAPTER I

DESCRIBES THE DESERT ISLAND TO WHICH PAUL WAS DRIFTED. 

"Room to let for a single gentleman. " Sometimes in an idle hour, impelled by foolishness, I will knock at the door. It is opened after alonger or shorter interval by the "slavey"--in the morning, slatternly, her arms concealed beneath her apron; in the afternoon, smart in dirtycap and apron. How well I know her! Unchanged, not grown an inch--herround bewildered eyes, her open mouth, her touzled hair, her scored redhands. With an effort I refrain from muttering: "So sorry, forgotmy key, " from pushing past her and mounting two at a time the narrowstairs, carpeted to the first floor, but bare beyond. Instead, I say, "Oh, what rooms have you to let?" when, scuttling to the top of thekitchen stairs, she will call over the banisters: "A gentleman to seethe rooms. " There comes up, panting, a harassed-looking, elderlyfemale, but genteel in black. She crushes past the little "slavey, " andapproaching, eyes me critically. 

"I have a very nice room on the first floor, " she informs me, "and onebehind on the third. "

I agree to see them, explaining that I am seeking them for a youngfriend of mine. We squeeze past the hat and umbrella stand: there isjust room, but one must keep close to the wall. The first floor israther an imposing apartment, with a marble-topped sideboard measuringquite three feet by two, the doors of which will remain closed if youintroduce a wad of paper between them. A green table-cloth, matching thecurtains, covers the loo-table. The lamp is perfectly safe so long asit stands in the exact centre of the table, but should not be shifted. A paper fire-stove ornament in some mysterious way bestows upon the rooman air of chastity. Above the mantelpiece is a fly-blown mirror, betweenthe once gilt frame and glass of which can be inserted invitationcards; indeed, one or two so remain, proving that the tenants even of"bed-sitting-rooms" are not excluded from social delights. The wallopposite is adorned by an oleograph of the kind Cheap Jacks sellby auction on Saturday nights in the Pimlico Road, and warrant as"hand-made. " Generally speaking, it is a Swiss landscape. There appearsto be more "body" in a Swiss landscape than in scenes from less favouredlocalities. A dilapidated mill, a foaming torrent, a mountain, a maidenand a cow can at the least be relied upon. An easy chair (I disclaimall responsibility for the adjective), stuffed with many coils of steelwire, each possessing a "business end" in admirable working order, andcovered with horsehair, highly glazed, awaits the uninitiated. There isone way of sitting upon it, and only one: by using the extreme edge, andplanting your feet firmly on the floor. If you attempt to lean back init you inevitably slide out of it. When so treated it seems to say toyou: "Excuse me, you are very heavy, and you would really be much morecomfortable upon the floor. Thank you so much. " The bed is behind thedoor, and the washstand behind the bed. If you sit facing the window youcan forget the bed. On the other hand, if more than one friend cometo call on you, you are glad of it. As a matter of fact, experiencedvisitors prefer it--make straight for it, refusing with firmness toexchange it for the easy chair. 

"And this room is?"

"Eight shillings a week, sir--with attendance, of course. "

"Any extras?"

"The lamp, sir, is eighteenpence a week; and the kitchen fire, if thegentleman wishes to dine at home, two shillings. "

"And fire?"

"Sixpence a scuttle, sir, I charge for coals. "

"It's rather a small scuttle. "

The landlady bridles a little. "The usual size, I think, sir. " Onepresumes there is a special size in coal-scuttles made exclusively forlodging-house keepers. 

I agree that while I am about it I may as well see the other room, the third floor back. The landlady opens the door for me, but remainsherself on the landing. She is a stout lady, and does not wish to dwarfthe apartment by comparison. The arrangement here does not allow of yourignoring the bed. It is the life and soul of the room, and itdeclines to efface itself. Its only possible rival is the washstand, straw-coloured; with staring white basin and jug, together with otherappurtenances. It glares defiantly from its corner. "I know I'm small, "it seems to say; "but I'm very useful; and I won't be ignored. "The remaining furniture consists of a couple of chairs--there is nohypocrisy about them: they are not easy and they do not pretend to beeasy; a small chest of light-painted drawers before the window, withwhite china handles, upon which is a tiny looking-glass; and, occupyingthe entire remaining space, after allowing three square feet for thetenant, when he arrives, an attenuated four-legged table apparentlyhome-made. The only ornament in the room is, suspended above thefireplace, a funeral card, framed in beer corks. As the corpseintroduced by the ancient Egyptians into their banquets, it is hungthere perhaps to remind the occupant of the apartment that the luxuriesand allurements of life have their end; or maybe it consoles him indespondent moments with the reflection that after all he might be worseoff. 

The rent of this room is three-and-sixpence a week, also includingattendance; lamp, as for the first floor, eighteen-pence; but kitchenfire a shilling. 

"But why should kitchen fire for the first floor be two shillings, andfor this only one?"

"Well, as a rule, sir, the first floor wants more cooking done. "

You are quite right, my dear lady, I was forgetting. The gentlemanin the third floor back! cooking for him is not a great tax upon thekitchen fire. His breakfast, it is what, madam, we call plain, I think. His lunch he takes out. You may see him, walking round the quiet square, up and down the narrow street that, leading to nowhere in particular, isbetween twelve and two somewhat deserted. He carries a paper bag, into which at intervals, when he is sure nobody is looking, his mouthdisappears. From studying the neighbourhood one can guess what itcontains. Saveloys hereabouts are plentiful and only twopence each. There are pie shops, where meat pies are twopence and fruit pies apenny. The lady behind the counter, using deftly a broad, flat knife, lifts the little dainty with one twist clean from its tiny dish: it ismarvellous, having regard to the thinness of the pastry, that she neverbreaks one. Roley-poley pudding, sweet and wonderfully satisfying, moreespecially when cold, is but a penny a slice. Peas pudding, though thisis an awkward thing to eat out of a bag, is comforting upon cold days. Then with his tea he takes two eggs or a haddock, the fourpenny size;maybe on rare occasions, a chop or steak; and you fry it for him, madam, though every time he urges on you how much he would prefer it grilled, for fried in your one frying-pan its flavour becomes somewhat confused. But maybe this is the better for him, for, shutting his eyes andtrusting only to smell and flavour, he can imagine himself enjoyingvariety. He can begin with herrings, pass on to liver and bacon, openinghis eyes again for a moment perceive that he has now arrived at thejoint, and closing them again, wind up with distinct suggestion oftoasted cheese, thus avoiding monotony. For dinner he goes out again. Maybe he is not hungry, late meals are a mistake; or, maybe, puttinghis hand into his pocket and making calculations beneath a lamp-post, appetite may come to him. Then there are places cheerful with the soundof frizzling fat, where fried plaice brown and odorous may be had forthree halfpence, and a handful of sliced potatoes for a penny; where forfourpence succulent stewed eels may be discussed; vinegar ad lib. ; orfor sevenpence--but these are red-letter evenings--half a sheep's headmay be indulged in, which is a supper fit for any king, who happened tobe hungry. 

I explain that I will discuss the matter with my young friend when hearrives. The landlady says, "Certainly, sir:" she is used to what shecalls the "wandering Christian;" and easing my conscience by slipping ashilling into the "slavey's" astonished, lukewarm hand, I pass outagain into the long, dreary street, now echoing maybe to the sad cry of"Muffins!"

Or sometimes of an evening, the lamp lighted, the remnants of the meattea cleared away, the flickering firelight cosifying the dingy rooms, I go a-visiting. There is no need for me to ring the bell, to mount thestairs. Through the thin transparent walls I can see you plainly, old friends of mine, fashions a little changed, that is all. We worebell-shaped trousers; eight-and-six to measure, seven-and-six if fromstock; fastened our neckties in dashing style with a horseshoe pin. Ithink in the matter of waistcoats we had the advantage of you; ours weregayer, braver. Our cuffs and collars were of paper: sixpence-halfpennythe dozen, three-halfpence the pair. On Sunday they were white andglistening; on Monday less aggressively obvious; on Tuesday morningdecidedly dappled. But on Tuesday evening, when with natty cane, orumbrella neatly rolled in patent leather case, we took our promenadedown Oxford Street--fashionable hour nine to ten p. M. --we could shootour arms and cock our chins with the best. Your india-rubber linen hasits advantages. Storm does not wither it; it braves better the heat andturmoil of the day. The passing of a sponge! and your "Dicky" is itselfagain. We had to use bread-crumbs, and so sacrifice the glaze. Yet Icannot help thinking that for the first few hours, at all events, ourpaper was more dazzling. 

For the rest I see no change in you, old friends. I wave you greetingfrom the misty street. God rest you, gallant gentlemen, lonely andfriendless and despised; making the best of joyless lives; keepingyourselves genteel on twelve, fifteen, or eighteen (ah, but you areplutocrats!) shillings a week; saving something even of that, maybe, tohelp the old mother in the country, so proud of her "gentleman" son whohas book learning and who is "something in the City. " May nothing youdismay. Bullied, and badgered, and baited from nine to six though youmay be, from then till bedtime you are rorty young dogs. The half-guineatopper, "as worn by the Prince of Wales" (ah, how many a meal has it notcost!), warmed before the fire, brushed and polished and coaxed, shinesresplendent. The second pair of trousers are drawn from beneath the bed;in the gaslight, with well-marked crease from top to toe, they will passfor new. A pleasant evening to you! May your cheap necktie make all theimpression your soul can desire! May your penny cigar be mistaken forHavana! May the barmaid charm your simple heart by addressing you as"Baby!" May some sweet shop-girl throw a kindly glance at you, invitingyou to walk with her! May she snigger at your humour; may other dogscast envious looks at you, and may no harm come of it!

You dreamers of dreams, you who while your companions play and sleepwill toil upward in the night! You have read Mr. Smiles' "Self-Help, "Longfellow's "Psalm of Life, " and so strengthened attack with confidence"French Without a Master, " "Bookkeeping in Six Lessons. " With a sigh toyourselves you turn aside from the alluring streets, from the bright, bewitching eyes, into the stuffy air of Birkbeck Institutions, Polytechnic Schools. May success compensate you for your youth devoidof pleasure! May the partner's chair you seen in visions be yours beforethe end! May you live one day in Clapham in a twelve-roomed house!

And, after all, we have our moments, have we not? The Saturday night atthe play. The hours of waiting, they are short. We converse with kindredsouls of the British Drama, its past and future: we have our views. Wedream of Florence This, Kate That; in a little while we shall seeher. Ah, could she but know how we loved her! Her photo is on ourmantelpiece, transforming the dismal little room into a shrine. The poemwe have so often commenced! when it is finished we will post it to her. At least she will acknowledge its receipt; we can kiss the paper herhand has rested on. The great doors groan, then quiver. Ah, the wildthrill of that moment! Now push for all you are worth: charge, wriggle, squirm! It is an epitome of life. We are through--collarless, panting, pummelled from top to toe: but what of that? Upward, still upward; thendownward with leaps at risk of our neck, from bench to bench through thegloom. We have gained the front row! Would we exchange sensations withthe stallite, strolling languidly to his seat? The extravagant dinneronce a week! We banquet _a la Francais_, in Soho, for one-and-six, including wine. Does Tortoni ever give his customers a repast they enjoymore? I trow not. 

My first lodging was an attic in a square the other side of BlackfriarsBridge. The rent of the room, if I remember rightly, was three shillingsa week with cooking, half-a-crown without. I purchased a methylatedspirit stove with kettle and frying-pan, and took it without. 

Old Hasluck would have helped me willingly, and there were others towhom I might have appealed, but a boy's pride held me back. I would makemy way alone, win my place in the world by myself. To Hal, knowing hewould sympathise with me, I confided the truth. 

"Had your mother lived, " he told me, "I should have had something to sayon the subject. Of course, I knew what had happened, but as it is--well, you need not be afraid, I shall not offer you help; indeed, I shouldrefuse it were you to ask. Put your Carlyle in your pocket: he is notall voices, but he is the best maker of men I know. The great thing tolearn of life is not to be afraid of it. "

"Look me up now and then, " he added, "and we'll talk about the stars, the future of Socialism, and the Woman Question--anything you likeexcept about yourself and your twopenny-half-penny affairs. "

From another it would have sounded brutal, but I understood him. Andso we shook hands and parted for longer than either of us at the timeexpected. The Franco-German War broke out a few weeks later on, andHal, the love of adventure always strong within him, volunteered hisservices, which were accepted. It was some years before we met again. 

On the door-post of a house in Farringdon Street, not far from theCircus, stood in those days a small brass plate, announcing that the"Ludgate News Rooms" occupied the third and fourth floors, and that theadmission to the same was one penny. We were a seedy company that everymorning crowded into these rooms: clerks, shopmen, superior artisans, travellers, warehousemen--all of us out of work. Most of us were young, but with us was mingled a sprinkling of elder men, and these latter werealways the saddest and most silent of this little whispering army ofthe down-at-heel. Roughly speaking, we were divided into two groups:the newcomers, cheery, confident. These would flit from newspaper tonewspaper with buzz of pleasant anticipation, select their advertisementas one choosing some dainty out of a rich and varied menu card, andreplying to it as one conferring favour. 

"Dear Sir, --in reply to your advertisement in to-day's _Standard_, Ishall be pleased to accept the post vacant in your office. I am of goodappearance and address. I am an excellent--" It was really marvellousthe quality and number of our attainments. French! we wrote and spoke itfluently, _a la Ahn_. German! of this we possessed a slighter knowledge, it was true, but sufficient for mere purposes of commerce. Bookkeeping!arithmetic! geometry! we played with them. The love of work! it was apassion with us. Our moral character! it would have adorned a Free KirkElder. "I could call on you to-morrow or Friday between eleven and one, or on Saturday any time up till two. Salary required, two guineas aweek. An early answer will oblige. Yours truly. "

The old stagers did not buzz. Hour after hour they sat writing, steadily, methodically, with day by day less hope and heavier fears:

"Sir, --Your advt. In to-day's _D. T. _ I am--" of such and such an age. List of qualifications less lengthy, set forth with more modesty; objectdesired being air of verisimilitude. --"If you decide to engage me I willendeavour to give you every satisfaction. Any time you like to appointI will call on you. I should not ask a high salary to start with. Yoursobediently. "

Dozens of the first letter, hundreds of the second, I wrote with painfulcare, pen carefully chosen, the one-inch margin down the left hand sideof the paper first portioned off with dots. To three or four I receiveda curt reply, instructing me to call. But the shyness that had stood soin my way during the earlier half of my school days had now, I know notwhy, returned upon me, hampering me at every turn. A shy child grown-upfolks at all events can understand and forgive; but a shy young manis not unnaturally regarded as a fool. I gave the impression of beingawkward, stupid, sulky. The more I strove against my temperamentthe worse I became. My attempts to be at my ease, to assert myself, resulted--I could see it myself--only in rudeness. 

"Well, I have got to see one or two others. We will write and let youknow, " was the conclusion of each interview, and the end, as far as Iwas concerned, of the enterprise. 

My few pounds, guard them how I would, were dwindling rapidly. Lookingback, it is easy enough to regard one's early struggles from a humorouspoint of view. One knows the story, it all ended happily. But at thetime there is no means of telling whether one's biography is going to becomedy or tragedy. There were moments when I felt confident it was goingto be the latter. Occasionally, when one is feeling well, it is notunpleasant to contemplate with pathetic sympathy one's own death-bed. One thinks of the friends and relations who at last will understand andregret one, be sorry they had not behaved themselves better. But myself, there was no one to regret. I felt very small, very helpless. The worldwas big. I feared it might walk over me, trample me down, never seeingme. I seemed unable to attract its attention. 

One morning I found waiting for me at the Reading Room another of theusual missives. It ran: "Will Mr. P. Kelver call at the above addressto-morrow morning between ten-thirty and eleven. " The paper was headed:"Lott and Co. , Indian Commission Agents, Aldersgate Street. " Withoutmuch hope I returned to my lodgings, changed my clothes, donned mysilk hat, took my one pair of gloves, drew its silk case over my holeyumbrella; and so equipped for fight with Fate made my way to AldersgateStreet. For a quarter of an hour or so, being too soon, I walked up anddown the pavement outside the house, gazing at the second-floor windows, behind which, so the door-plate had informed me, were the offices ofLott & Co. I could not recall their advertisement, nor my reply to it. The firm was evidently not in a very flourishing condition. I wonderedidly what salary they would offer. For a moment I dreamt of a CheerybleBrother asking me kindly if I thought I could do with thirty shillingsa week as a beginning; but the next I recalled my usual fate, andconsidered whether it was even worth while to climb the stairs, gothrough what to me was a painful ordeal, merely to be impressed againwith the sense of my own worthlessness. 

A fine rain began to fall. I did not wish to unroll my umbrella, yet felt nervous for my hat. It was five minutes to the half hour. Listlessly I crossed the road and mounted the bare stairs to the secondfloor. Two doors faced me, one marked "Private. " I tapped lightly at thesecond. Not hearing any response, after a second or two I tapped again. A sound reached me, but it was unintelligible. I knocked yet again, still louder. This time I heard a reply in a shrill, plaintive tone:

"Oh, do come in. "

The tone was one of pathetic entreaty. I turned the handle and entered. It was a small room, dimly lighted by a dirty window, the bottom half ofwhich was rendered opaque by tissue paper pasted to its panes. The placesuggested a village shop rather than an office. Pots of jam, jars ofpickles, bottles of wine, biscuit tins, parcels of drapery, boxes ofcandles, bars of soap, boots, packets of stationery, boxes of cigars, tinned provisions, guns, cartridges--things sufficient to furnish adesert island littered every available corner. At a small desk under thewindow sat a youth with a remarkably small body and a remarkablylarge head; so disproportionate were the two I should hardly have beensurprised had he put up his hands and taken it off. Half in the room andhalf out, I paused. 

"Is this Lott & Co. ?" I enquired. 

"No, " he answered; "it's a room. " One eye was fixed upon me, dull andglassy; it never blinked, it never wavered. With the help of the otherhe continued his writing. 

"I mean, " I explained, coming entirely into the room, "are these theoffices of Lott & Co. ?"

"It's one of them, " he replied; "the back one. If you're really anxiousfor a job, you can shut the door. "

I complied with his suggestion, and then announced that I was Mr. Kelver--Mr. Paul Kelver. 

"Minikin's my name, " he returned, "Sylvanus Minikin. You don't happen byany chance to know what you've come for, I suppose?"

Looking at his body, my inclination was to pick my way among the goodsthat covered the floor and pull his ears for him. From his grave andmassive face, he might, for all I knew, be the head clerk. 

"I have called to see Mr. Lott, " I replied, with dignity; "I have anappointment. " I produced the letter from my pocket, and leaning acrossa sewing-machine, I handed it to him for his inspection. Having read it, he suddenly took from its socket the eye with which he had been hithertoregarding me, and proceeding to polish it upon his pocket handkerchief, turned upon me his other. Having satisfied himself, he handed me back myletter. 

"Want my advice?" he asked. 

I thought it might be useful to me, so replied in the affirmative. 

"Hook it, " was his curt counsel. 

"Why?" I asked. "Isn't he a good employer?"

Replacing his glass eye, he turned again to his work. "If employment iswhat you want, " answered Mr. Minikin, "you'll get it. Best employer inLondon. He'll keep you going for twenty-four hours a day, and then offeryou overtime at half salary. "

"I must get something to do, " I confessed. 

"Sit down then, " suggested Mr. Minikin. "Rest while you can. "

I took the chair; it was the only chair in the room, with the exceptionof the one Minikin was sitting on. 

"Apart from his being a bit of a driver, " I asked, "what sort of a manis he? Is he pleasant?"

"Never saw him put out but once, " answered Minikin. 

It sounded well. "When was that?" I asked. 

"All the time I've known him. "

My spirits continued to sink. Had I been left alone with Minikin muchlonger, I might have ended by following his advice, "hooking it" beforeMr. Lott arrived. But the next moment I heard the other door open, andsome one entered the private office. Then the bell rang, and Minikindisappeared, leaving the communicating door ajar behind him. Theconversation that I overheard was as follows:

"Why isn't Mr. Skeat here?"

"Because he hasn't come. "

"Where are the letters?"

"Under your nose. "

"How dare you answer me like that?"

"Well, it's the truth. They are under your nose. "

"Did you give Thorneycroft's man my message?"

"Yes. "

"What did he answer?"

"Said you were a liar. "

"Oh, he did, did he! What did you reply?"

"Asked him to tell me something I didn't know. "

"Thought that clever, didn't you?"

"Not bad. "

Whatever faults might be laid to Mr. Lott's door, he at least, Iconcluded, possesssed the virtue of self-control. 

"Anybody been here?"

"Yes. "

"Who?"

"Mr. Kelver--Mr. Paul Kelver. "

"Kelver, Kelver. Who's Kelver?"

"Know what he is--a fool. "

"What do you mean?"

"He's come after the place. "

"Is he there?"

"Yes. "

"What's he like?"

"Not bad looking; fair--"

"Idiot! I mean is he smart?"

"Just at present--got all his Sunday clothes on. "

"Send him in to me. Don't go, don't go. "

"How can I send him in to you if I don't go?"

"Take these. Have you finished those bills of lading?"

"No. "

"Good God! when will you have finished them?"

"Half an hour after I have begun them. "

"Get out, get out! Has that door been open all the time?"

"Well, I don't suppose it's opened itself. "

Minikin re-entered with papers in his hand. "In you go, " he said. "Heaven help you!" And I passed in and closed the door behind me. 

The room was a replica of the one I had just left. If possible, it wasmore crowded, more packed with miscellaneous articles. I picked myway through these and approached the desk. Mr. Lott was a small, dingy-looking man, with very dirty hands, and small, restless eyes. Iwas glad that he was not imposing, or my shyness might have descendedupon me; as it was, I felt better able to do myself justice. At once heplunged into the business by seizing and waving in front of my eyes abulky bundle of letters tied together with red tape. 

"One hundred and seventeen answers to an advertisement, " he cried withevident satisfaction, "in one day! That shows you the state of thelabour market!"

I agreed it was appalling. 

"Poor devils, poor devils!" murmured Mr. Lott "what will become of them?Some of them will starve. Terrible death, starvation, Kelver; takes sucha long time--especially when you're young. "

Here also I found myself in accord with him. 

"Living with your parents?"

I explained to him my situation. 

"Any friends?"

I informed him I was entirely dependent upon my own efforts. 

"Any money? Anything coming in?"

I told him I had a few pounds still remaining to me, but that after thatwas gone I should be penniless. 

"And to think, Kelver, that there are hundreds, thousands of youngfellows precisely in your position! How sad, how very sad! How long haveyou been looking for a berth?"

"A month, " I answered him. 

"I thought as much. Do you know why I selected your letter out of thewhole batch?"

I replied I hoped it was because he judged from it I should provesatisfactory. 

"Because it's the worst written of them all. " He pushed it across to me. "Look at it. Awful, isn't it?"

I admitted that handwriting was not my strong point. 

"Nor spelling either, " he added, and with truth. "Who do you think willengage you if I don't?"

"Nobody, " he continued, without waiting for me to reply. "A month henceyou will still be looking for a berth, and a month after that. Now, I'mgoing to do you a good turn; save you from destitution; give you a startin life. "

I expressed my gratitude. 

He waived it aside. "That is my notion of philanthropy: help those thatnobody else will help. That young fellow in the other room--he isn't abad worker, he's smart, but he's impertinent. "

I murmured that I had gathered so much. 

"Doesn't mean to be, can't help it. Noticed his trick of looking at youwith his glass eye, keeping the other turned away from you?"

I replied that I had. 

"Always does it. Used to irritate his last employer to madness. Said tohim one day: 'Do turn that signal lamp of yours off, Minikin, and lookat me with your real eye. ' What do you think he answered? That it wasthe only one he'd got, and that he didn't want to expose it to shocks. Wouldn't have mattered so much if it hadn't been one of the ugliest menin London. "

I murmured my indignation. 

"I put up with him. Nobody else would. The poor fellow must live. "

I expressed admiration at Mr. Lott's humanity. 

"You don't mind work? You're not one of those good-for-nothings whosleep all day and wake up when it's time to go home?"

I assured him that in whatever else I might fail I could promise himindustry. 

"With some of them, " complained Mr. Lott, in a tone of bitterness, "it'snothing but play, girls, gadding about the streets. Work, business--oh, no. I may go bankrupt; my wife and children may go into the workhouse. No thought for me, the man that keeps them, feeds them, clothes them. How much salary do you want?"

I hesitated. I gathered this was not a Cheeryble Brother; it would benecessary to be moderate in one's demands. "Five-and-twenty shillings aweek, " I suggested. 

He repeated the figure in a scream. "Five-and-twenty shillings forwriting like that! And can't spell commission! Don't know anything aboutthe business. Five-and-twenty!--Tell you what I'll do: I'll give youtwelve. "

"But I can't live on twelve, " I explained. 

"Can't live on twelve! Do you know why? Because you don't know how tolive. I know you all. One veal and ham pie, one roley-poley, one Dutchcheese and a pint of bitter. "

His recital made my mouth water. 

"You overload your stomachs, then you can't work. Half the diseases youyoung fellows suffer from are brought about by overeating. "

"Now, you take my advice, " continued Mr. Lott; "try vegetarianism. Inthe morning, a little oatmeal. Wonderfully strengthening stuff, oatmeal:look at the Scotch. For dinner, beans. Why, do you know there'smore nourishment in half a pint of lentil beans than in a pound ofbeefsteak--more gluten. That's what you want, more gluten; no corpses, no dead bodies. Why, I've known young fellows, vegetarians, who havelived like fighting cocks on sevenpence a day. Seven times seven areforty-nine. How much do you pay for your room?"

I told him. 

"Four-and-a-penny and two-and-six makes six-and-seven. That leaves youfive and fivepence for mere foolery. Good God! what more do you want?"

"I'll take eighteen, sir, " I answered. "I can't really manage on less. "

"Very well, I won't beat you down, " he answered. "Fifteen shillings aweek. "

"I said eighteen, " I persisted. 

"Well, and I said fifteen, " he retorted, somewhat indignant at thequibbling. "That's splitting the difference, isn't it? I can't be fairerthan that. "

I dared not throw away the one opportunity that had occurred. Anythingwas better than return to the Reading Rooms, and the empty days full ofdespair. I accepted, and it was agreed that I should come the followingMonday morning. 

"Nabbed?" was Minikin's enquiry on my return to the back office for myhat. 

I nodded. 

"What's he wasting on you?"

"Fifteen shillings a week, " I whispered. 

"Felt sure somehow that he'd take a liking to you, " answered Minikin. "Don't be ungrateful and look thin on it. "

Outside the door I heard Mr. Lott's shrill voice demanding to know wherepostage stamps were to be found. 

"At the Post-office, " was Minikin's reply. 

The hours were long--in fact, we had no office hours; we got awaywhen we could, which was rarely before seven or eight--but my work wasinteresting. It consisted of buying for unfortunate clients in India orthe Colonies anything they might happen to want, from a stage coach toa pot of marmalade; packing it and shipping it across to them. Our"commission" was anything they could be persuaded to pay over and abovethe value of the article. I was not much interfered with. There was thatto be said for Lott & Co. , so long as the work was done he was quitecontent to leave one to one's own way of doing it. And hastening throughthe busy streets, bargaining in shop or warehouse, bustling important inand out the swarming docks, I often thanked my stars that I was not assome poor two-pound-a-week clerk chained to a dreary desk. 

The fifteen shillings a week was a tight fit; but that was not mytrouble. Reduce your denominator--you know the quotation. I found it nophilosophical cant, but a practical solution of life. My food cost meon the average a shilling a day. If more of us limited our commissariatbill to the same figure, there would be less dyspepsia abroad. GenerallyI cooked my own meals in my own frying-pan; but occasionally I wouldindulge myself with a more orthodox dinner at a cook shop, or tea withhot buttered toast at a coffee-shop; and but for the greasy table-clothand the dirty-handed waiter, such would have been even greaterdelights. The shilling a week for amusements afforded me at least one, occasionally two, visits to the theatre, for in those days there wereParadises where for sixpence one could be a god. Fourpence a week ontobacco gave me half-a-dozen cigarettes a day; I have spent more onsmoke and derived less satisfaction. Dress was my greatest difficulty. One anxiety in life the poor man is saved: he knows not the hauntingsense of debt. My tailor never dunned me. His principle was half-a-crowndown on receipt of order, the balance on the handing over of the goods. No system is perfect; the method avoided friction, it is true; yeton the other hand it was annoying to be compelled to promenade, comeSundays, in shiny elbows and frayed trousers, knowing all the whilethat finished, waiting, was a suit in which one might have made one'smark--had only one shut one's eyes passing that pastry-cook's window onpay-day. Surely there should be a sumptuary law compelling pastry-cooksto deal in cellars or behind drawn blinds. 

Were it because of its mere material hardships that to this day I thinkof that period of my life with a shudder, I should not here confess toit. I was alone. I knew not a living soul to whom I dared to speak, whocared to speak to me. For those first twelve months after my mother'sdeath I lived alone, thought alone, felt alone. In the morning, duringthe busy day, it was possible to bear; but in the evenings the senseof desolation gripped me like a physical pain. The summer eveningscame again, bringing with them the long, lingering light so laden withmelancholy. I would walk into the Parks and, sitting there, watch withhungry eyes the men and women, boys and girls, moving all around me, talking, laughing, interested in one another; feeling myself somespeechless ghost, seeing but not seen, crying to the living with a voicethey heard not. Sometimes a solitary figure would pass by and glanceback at me; some lonely creature like myself longing for human sympathy. In the teeming city must have been thousands such--young men and womento whom a friendly ear, a kindly voice, would have been as the water oflife. Each imprisoned in his solitary cell of shyness, we looked at oneanother through the grating with condoling eyes; further than thatwas forbidden to us. Once, in Kensington Gardens, a woman turned, thenslowly retracing her steps, sat down beside me on the bench. Neither ofus spoke; had I done so she would have risen and moved away; yet therewas understanding between us. To each of us it was some comfort to sitthus for a little while beside the other. Had she poured out her heartto me, she could have told me nothing more than I knew: "I, too, amlonely, friendless; I, too, long for the sound of a voice, the touch ofa hand. It is hard for you, it is harder still for me, a girl; shut outfrom the bright world that laughs around me; denied the right ofyouth to joy and pleasure; denied the right of womanhood to love andtenderness. "

The footsteps to and fro grew fewer. She moved to rise. Stirred by animpulse, I stretched out my hand, then seeing the flush upon her face, drew it back hastily. But the next moment, changing her mind, she heldhers out to me, and I took it. It was the first clasp of a hand I hadfelt since six months before I had said good-bye to Hal. She turned andwalked quickly away. I stood watching her; she never looked round, and Inever saw her again. 

I take no credit to myself for keeping straight, as it is termed, duringthese days. For good or evil, my shyness prevented my taking part in theflirtations of the streets. Whether inviting eyes were ever thrown to meas to others, I cannot say. Sometimes, fancying so--hoping so, I wouldfollow. Yet never could I summon up sufficient resolution to face thepossible rebuff before some less timid swain would swoop down upon thequarry. Then I would hurry on, cursing myself for the poorness of myspirit, fancying mocking contempt in the laughter that followed me. 

On a Sunday I would rise early and take long solitary walks into thecountry. One winter's day--I remember it was on the road between Edgwareand Stanmore--there issued from a by-road a little ahead of me a partyof boys and girls, young people about my own age, bound evidently ona skating expedition. I could hear the musical ring of their blades, clattering as they walked, and the sound of their merry laughter soclear and bell-like through the frosty air. And an aching anguish fellupon me. I felt a mad desire to run after them, to plead with them tolet me walk with them a little way, to let me laugh and talk with them. Every now and then they would pirouette to cry some jest to one another. I could see their faces: the girls' so sweetly alluring, framed by theirdainty hats and furs, the bright colour in their cheeks, the lightin their teasing eyes. A little further on they turned aside into aby-lane, and I stood at the corner listening till the last echo of theirjoyous voices died away, and on a stone that still remains standingthere I sat down and sobbed. 

I would walk about the streets always till very late. I dreaded theechoing clang of the little front door when I closed it behind me, theclimbing of the silent stairs, the solitude that waited for me in myempty room. It would rise and come towards me like some living thing, kissing me with cold lips. Often, unable to bear the closeness of itspresence, I would creep out into the streets. There, even though itfollowed me, I was not alone with it. Sometimes I would pace them thewhole night, sharing them with the other outcasts while the city slept. 

Occasionally, during these nightly wanderings would come to me momentsof exaltation when fear fell from me and my blood would leap with joy atprospect of the fierce struggle opening out before me. Then it was theghostly city sighing round me that seemed dead, I the only living thingreal among a world of shadows. In long, echoing streets I would laughand shout. Misunderstanding policemen would turn their bull's-eyes onme, gruffly give me practical advice: they knew not who I was! I stoodthe centre of a vast galanty-show: the phantom houses came and went;from some there shone bright lights; the doors were open, and littlefigures flitted in and out, the tiny coaches glided to and fro, manikinsgrotesque but pitiful crept across the star-lit curtain. 

Then the mood would change. The city, grim and vast, stretched roundme endless. I crawled, a mere atom, within its folds, helpless, insignificant, absurd. The houseless forms that shared my vigil weremy fellows. What were we? Animalcule upon its bosom, that it saw not, heeded not. For company I would mingle with them: ragged men, frowsywomen, ageless youths, gathered round the red glow of some coffee stall. 

Rarely would we speak to one another. More like animals we browsedthere, sipping the halfpenny cup of hot water coloured with coffeegrounds (at least it was warm), munching the moist slab of coarse cake;looking with dull, indifferent eyes each upon the wretchedness ofthe others. Perhaps some two would whisper to each other in listless, monotonous tone, broken here and there by a short, mirthless laugh; someshivering creature, not yet case-hardened to despair, seek, perhaps, the relief of curses that none heeded. Later, a faint chill breeze wouldshake the shadows loose, a thin, wan light streak the dark air withshade, and silently, stealthily, we would fade away and disappear. 

CHAPTER II. 

PAUL, ESCAPING FROM HIS SOLITUDE, FALLS INTO STRANGE COMPANY. ANDBECOMES CAPTIVE TO ONE OF HAUGHTY MIEN. 

All things pass, even the self-inflicted sufferings of shy young men, condemned by temperament to solitude. Came the winter evenings, I tookto work: in it one may drown much sorrow for oneself. With its handfulof fire, its two candles lighted, my "apartment" was more inviting. I bought myself paper, pens and ink. Great or small, what more can awriter do? He is but the would-be medium: will the spirit voices employhim or reject him?

London, with its million characters, grave and gay; its ten thousandromances, its mysteries, its pathos, and its humour, lay to my hand. Itstretched before me, asking only intelligent observation, more or lesstruthful report. But that I could make a story out of the things Ireally knew never occurred to me. My tales were of cottage maidens, ofbucolic yeomen. My scenes were laid in windmills, among mountains, or inmoated granges. I fancy this phase of folly is common to most youthfulfictionists. 

A trail of gentle melancholy lay over them. Sentiment was more popularthen than it is now, and, as do all beginners, I scrupulously followedfashion. Generally speaking, to be a heroine of mine was fatal. Howevernaturally her hair might curl--and curly hair, I believe, is thehall-mark of vitality; whatever other indications of vigorous health shemight exhibit in the first chapter, such as "dancing eyes, " "colourthat came and went, " "ringing laughter, " "fawn-like agility, " she wastolerably certain, poor girl, to end in an untimely grave. Snowdrops andearly primroses (my botany I worked up from a useful little volume, "OurGarden Favourites, Illustrated") grew there as in a forcing house; andif in the neighbourhood of the coast, the sea-breezes would choosethat particular churchyard, somewhat irreverently, for their favouriteplayground. Years later a white-haired man would come there leadinglittle children by the hand, and to them he would tell the tale anew, which must have been a dismal entertainment for them. 

Now and then, by way of change, it would be the gentleman who wouldfall a victim of the deadly atmosphere of my literature. It was ofno particular consequence, so he himself would conclude in his lastsoliloquy; "it was better so. " Snowdrops and primroses, for whateverconsolation they might have been to him, it was hopeless for him toexpect; his grave, marked by a rude cross, being as a rule situate in anexceptionally unfrequented portion of the African veldt or amid burningsands. For description of final scenery on these occasions a visit tothe British Museum reading-room would be necessary. 

Dismal little fledgelings! And again and again would I drive them fromthe nest; again and again they fluttered back to me, soiled, crumpled, physically damaged. Yet one person had admired them, cried overthem--myself. 

All methods I tried. Sometimes I would send them forth accompanied bya curt business note of the take-it-or-leave-it order. At other times Iwould attach to it pathetic appeals for its consideration. SometimesI would give value to it, stating that the price was five guineas andrequesting that the cheque should be crossed; at other times seek totickle editorial cupidity by offering this, my first contribution totheir pages, for nothing--my sample packet, so to speak, sent gratis, one trial surely sufficient. Now I would write sarcastically, enclosingtogether with the stamped envelope for return a brutally penned note ofrejection. Or I would write frankly, explaining elaborately that I was abeginner, and asking to be told my faults--if any. 

Not one found a resting place for its feet. A month, a week, a couple ofdays, they would remain away from me, then return. I never lost a singleone. I wished I had. It would have varied the monotony. 

I hated the poor little slavey who, bursting joyously into the room, would hold them out to me from between her apron-hidden thumb andfinger; her chronic sniff I translated into contempt. If flying down thestairs at the sound of the postman's knock I secured it from his hands, it seemed to me he smiled. Tearing them from their envelopes, I wouldcurse them, abuse them, fling them into the fire sometimes; but beforethey were more than scorched I would snatch them out, smooth them, reread them. The editor himself could never have seen them; it wasimpossible; some jealous underling had done this thing. I had sent themto the wrong paper. They had arrived at the inopportune moment. Theirtriumph would come. Rewriting the first and last sheets, I would sendthem forth again with fresh hope. 

Meanwhile, understanding that the would-be happy warrior must shine incamp as well as field, I sought to fit myself also for the social sideof life. Smoking and drinking were the twin sins I found most difficultyin acquiring. I am not claiming a mental excellence so much asconfessing a bodily infirmity. The spirit had always been willing, butmy flesh was weak. Fired by emulation, I had at school occasionallyessayed a cigarette. The result had been distinctly unsatisfactory, andafter some two or three attempts, I had abandoned, for the time being, all further endeavour; excusing my faint-heartedness by telling myselfwith sanctimonious air that smoking was bad for growing boys; attemptingto delude myself by assuming, in presence of contemporaries of strongerstomach, fine pose of disapproval; yet in my heart knowing myself ayoung hypocrite, disguising physical cowardice in the robes of moralcourage: a self-deception to which human nature is prone. 

So likewise now and again I had tasted the wine that was red, and thatstood year in, year out, decanted on our sideboard. The trueinwardness of St. Paul's prescription had been revealed to me; theattitude--sometimes sneered at--of those who drink it under doctor'sorders, regarding it purely as a medicine, appeared to me reasonable. I had noticed also that others, some of them grown men even, making wryfaces, when drinking my mother's claret, and had concluded therefromthat taste for strong liquor was an accomplishment less easily acquiredthan is generally supposed. The lack of it in a young man could be nodisgrace, and accordingly effort in that direction also had I weaklypostponed. 

But now, a gentleman at large, my education could no longer be delayed. To the artist in particular was training--and severe training--anabsolute necessity. Recently fashion has changed somewhat, but a quarterof a century ago a genius who did not smoke and drink--and that morethan was good for him--would have been dismissed without furtherevidence as an impostor. About the genius I was hopeful, but at no timepositively certain. As regarded the smoking and drinking, so much atleast I could make sure of. I set to work methodically, conscientiously. Smoking, experience taught me, was better practised on Saturday nights, Sunday affording me the opportunity of walking off the effects. Patienceand determination were eventually crowned with success: I learned tosmoke a cigarette to all appearance as though I were enjoying it. Youngmen of less character might here have rested content, but attainmentof the highest has always been with me a motive force. The cigaretteconquered, I next proceeded to attack the cigar. My first one I rememberwell: most men do. It was at a smoking concert held in the IslingtonDrill Hall, to which Minikin had invited me. Not feeling sure whether mygrowing dizziness were due solely to the cigar, or in part to the hot, over-crowded room, I made my excuses and slipped out. I found myself ina small courtyard, divided from a neighbouring garden by a low wall. Thecause of my trouble was clearly the cigar. My inclination was to take itfrom my mouth and see how far I could throw it. Conscience, on the otherhand, urged me to persevere. It occurred to me that if climbing on tothe wall I could walk along it from end to end, there would be no excusefor my not heeding the counsels of perfection. If, on the contrary, tryas I might, the wall proved not wide enough for my footsteps, then Ishould be entitled to lose the beastly thing, and, as best I could, make my way home to bed. I attained the wall with some difficulty andcommenced my self-inflicted ordeal. Two yards further I foundmyself lying across the wall, my legs hanging down one side, my headoverhanging the other. The position proving suitable to my requirements, I maintained it. Inclination, again seizing its opportunity, urged methen and there to take a solemn vow never to smoke again. I am proudto write that through that hour of temptation I remained firm;strengthening myself by whispering to myself: "Never despair. Whatothers can do, so can you. Is not all victory won through suffering?"

A liking for drink I had found, if possible, even yet more difficult ofachievement. Spirits I almost despaired of. Once, confusing bottles, Idrank some hair oil in mistake for whiskey, and found it decidedly lessnauseous. But twice a week I would force myself to swallow a glass ofbeer, standing over myself insisting on my draining it to the bitterdregs. As reward afterwards, to take the taste out of my mouth, Iwould treat myself to chocolates; at the same time comforting myselfby assuring myself that it was for my good, that there would come a daywhen I should really like it, and be grateful to myself for having beensevere with myself. 

In other and more sensible directions I sought also to progress. Gradually I was overcoming my shyness. It was a slow process. I foundthe best plan was not to mind being shy, to accept it as part of mytemperament, and with others laugh at it. The coldness of an indifferentworld is of service in hardening a too sensitive skin. The gradualrubbings of existence were rounding off my many corners. I becamepossible to my fellow creatures, and they to me. I began to takepleasure in their company. 

By directing me to this particular house in Nelson Square, Fate haddone to me a kindness. I flatter myself we were an interesting menageriegathered together under its leaky roof. Mrs. Peedles, our landlady, whoslept in the basement with the slavey, had been an actress in CharlesKeane's company at the old Princess's. There, it is true, she had playedonly insignificant parts. London, as she would explain to us was eventhen but a poor judge of art, with prejudices. Besides an actor-manager, hampered by a wife--we understood. But previously in the Provinces therehad been a career of glory: Juliet, Amy Robsart, Mrs. Haller in "TheStranger"--almost the entire roll of the "Legitimates". Showed we anysigns of disbelief, proof was forthcoming: handbills a yard long, richin notes of exclamation: "On Tuesday Evening! By Special Desire!!!Blessington's Theatre! In the Meadow, adjoining the Falcon Arms!"--"OnSaturday! Under the Patronage of Col. Sir William and the Officers ofthe 74th!!!! In the Corn Exchange!" Maybe it would convince us furtherwere she to run through a passage here and there, say Lady Macbeth'ssleep-walking scene, or from Ophelia's entrance in the fourth act? Itwould be no trouble; her memory was excellent. We would hasten to assureher of our perfect faith. 

Listening to her, it was difficult, as she herself would frankly admit, to imagine her the once "arch Miss Lucretia Barry;" looking at her, toremember there had been an evening when she had been "the cynosure ofevery eye. " One found it necessary to fortify oneself with perusal ofunderlined extracts from ancient journals, much thumbed and creased, thoughtfully lent to one for the purpose. Since those days Fate hadwoven round her a mantle of depression. She was now a faded, watery-eyedlittle woman, prone on the slightest provocation to sit down suddenly Onthe nearest chair and at once commence a history of her troubles. Quiteunconscious of this failing, it was an idea of hers that she was anexceptionally cheerful person. 

"But there, fretting's no good. We must grin and bear things in thisworld, " she would conclude, wiping her eyes upon her apron. "It's betterto laugh than to cry, I always say. " And to prove that this was no mereidle sentiment, she would laugh then and there upon the spot. 

Much stair-climbing had bestowed upon her a shortness of breath, whichno amount of panting in her resting moments was able to make good. 

"You don't know 'ow to breathe, " explained our second floor front toher on one occasion, a kindly young man; "you don't swallow it, youonly gargle with it. Take a good draught and shut your mouth; don'tbe frightened of it; don't let it out again till it's done something:that's what it's 'ere for. "

He stood over her with his handkerchief pressed against her mouth toassist her; but it was of no use. 

"There don't seem any room for it inside me, " she explained. 

Bells had become to her the business of life; she lived listeningfor them. Converse to her was a filling in of time while waiting forinterruptions. 

A bottle of whiskey fell into my hands that Christmas time, a presentfrom a commercial traveller in the way of business. Not liking whiskeymyself, it was no sacrifice for me to reserve it for the occasionalcomfort of Mrs. Peedles, when, breathless, with her hands to her side, she would sink upon the chair nearest to my door. Her poor, washed-outface would lighten at the suggestion. 

"Ah, well, " she would reply, "I don't mind if I do. It's a poor heartthat never rejoices. "

And then, her tongue unloosened, she would sit there and tell me storiesof my predecessors, young men lodgers who like myself had taken herbed-sitting-rooms, and of the woes and misfortunes that had overtakenthem. I gathered that a more unlucky house I could not have selected. A former tenant of my own room, of whom I strangely reminded her, hadwritten poetry on my very table. He was now in Portland doing five yearsfor forgery. Mrs. Peedles appeared to regard the two accomplishments asmerely different expressions of the same art. Another of her young men, as she affectionately called us, had been of studious ambition. Hiscareer up to a point appeared to have been brilliant. "What he mightn'thave been, " according to Mrs. Peedles, there was practically no saying;what he happened to be at the moment of conversation was an unpromisinginmate of the Hanwell lunatic asylum. 

"I've always noticed it, " Mrs. Peedles would explain; "it's always themost deserving, those that try hardest, to whom trouble comes. I'm sureI don't know why. "

I was glad on the whole when that bottle of whiskey was finished. Asecond might have driven me to suicide. 

There was no Mr. Peedles--at least, not for Mrs. Peedles, though as anindividual he continued to exist. He had been "general utility" atthe Princess's--the old terms were still in vogue at that time--a finefigure of a man in his day, so I was given to understand, but one easilyled away, especially by minxes. Mrs. Peedles spoke bitterly of generalutilities as people of not much use. 

For working days Mrs. Peedles had one dress and one cap, both blackand void of ostentation; but on Sundays and holidays she would appearmetamorphosed. She had carefully preserved the bulk of her stagewardrobe, even to the paste-decked shoes and tinsel jewelry. Shapelessin classic garb as Hermia, or bulgy in brocade and velvet as LadyTeazle, she would receive her few visitors on Sunday evenings, discardedpuppets like herself, with whom the conversation was of gayer nightsbefore their wires had been cut; or, her glory hid from the ribaldstreet beneath a mackintosh, pay her few calls. Maybe it was the unusualexcitement that then brought colour into her furrowed cheeks, thatstraightened and darkened her eyebrows, at other times so singularlyunobtrusive. Be this how it may, the change was remarkable, onlythe thin grey hair and the work-worn hands remaining for purposes ofidentification. Nor was the transformation merely one of surface. Mrs. Peedles hung on her hook behind the kitchen door, dingy, limp, discarded; out of the wardrobe with the silks and satins was lifted downto be put on as an undergarment Miss Lucretia Barry, like her costumessomewhat aged, somewhat withered, but still distinctly "arch. "

In the room next to me lived a law-writer and his wife. They were veryold and miserably poor. The fault was none of theirs. Despite copy-booksmaxims, there is in this world such a thing as ill-luck-persistent, monotonous, that gradually wears away all power of resistance. Ilearned from them their history: it was hopelessly simple, hopelesslyuninstructive. He had been a schoolmaster, she a pupil teacher; they hadmarried young, and for a while the world had smiled upon them. Then cameillness, attacking them both: nothing out of which any moral could bededuced, a mere case of bad drains resulting in typhoid fever. They hadstarted again, saddled by debt, and after years of effort had succeededin clearing themselves, only to fall again, this time in helping afriend. Nor was it even a case of folly: a poor man who had helped themin their trouble, hardly could they have done otherwise without provingthemselves ungrateful. And so on, a tedious tale, commonplace, trivial. Now listless, patient, hard working, they had arrived at an animal-likeindifference to their fate, content so long as they could obtain thebare necessities of existence, passive when these were not forthcoming, their interest in life limited to the one luxury of the poor--anoccasional glass of beer or spirits. Often days would go by withouthis obtaining any work, and then they would more or less starve. Lawdocuments are generally given out to such men in the evening, to bereturned finished the next morning. Waking in the night, I would hearthrough the thin wooden partition that divided our rooms the evenscratching of his pen. 

Thus cheek by jowl we worked, I my side of the screen, he his: youth andage, hope and realisation. 

Out of him my fears fashioned a vision of the future. Past his door Iwould slink on tiptoe, dread meeting him upon the stairs. Once had nothe said to himself: "The world's mine oyster?" May not the voices of thenight have proclaimed him also king? Might I not be but an idle dreamer, mistaking desire for power? Would not the world prove stronger than I?At such times I would see my life before me: the clerkship at thirtyshillings a week rising by slow instalments, it may be, to one hundredand fifty a year; the four-roomed house at Brixton; the girl wife, pretty, perhaps, but sinking so soon into the slatternly woman; thesqualling children. How could I, unaided, expect to raise myself fromthe ruck? Was not this the more likely picture?

Our second floor front was a young fellow in the commercial line. Jarmanwas Young London personified--blatant yet kind-hearted; aggressivelyself-assertive, generous to a fault; cunning, yet at the same timefrank; shrewd, cheery, and full of pluck. "Never say die" was his motto, and anything less dead it would be difficult to imagine. All day longhe was noisy, and all night long he snored. He woke with a start, bathedlike a porpoise, sang while dressing, roared for his boots, andwhistled during his breakfast. His entrance and exit were always to anorchestration of banging doors, directions concerning his meals shoutedat the top of his voice as he plunged up or down the stairs, theclattering and rattling of brooms and pails flying before his feet. Hisdeparture always left behind it the suggestion that the house was now tolet; it came almost as a shock to meet a human being on the landing. Hewould have conveyed an atmosphere of bustle to the Egyptian pyramids. 

Sometimes carrying his own supper-tray, arranged for two, he would marchinto my room. At first, resenting his familiarity, I would hint at mydesire to be alone, would explain that I was busy. 

"You fire away, Shakespeare Redivivus, " he would reply. "Don't delay thetragedy. Why should London wait? I'll keep quiet. "

But his notion of keeping quiet was to retire into a corner and thereamuse himself by enacting a tragedy of his own in a hoarse whisper, accompanied by appropriate gesture. 

"Ah, ah!" I would hear him muttering to himself, "I 'ave killed 'er goodold father; I 'ave falsely accused 'er young man of all the crimes thatI 'ave myself committed; I 'ave robbed 'er of 'er ancestral estates. Yetshe loves me not! It is streeange!" Then changing his bass to a shrillfalsetto: "It is a cold and dismal night: the snow falls fast. I willleave me 'at and umbrella be'ind the door and go out for a walk with thechee-ild. Aha! who is this? 'E also 'as forgotten 'is umbrella. Ah, nowI know 'im in the pitch dark by 'is cigarette! Villain, murderer, sillyjosser! it is you!" Then with lightning change of voice and gesture:"Mary, I love yer!" "Sir Jasper Murgatroyd, let me avail myself of thisopportunity to tell you what I think of you--" "No, no; the 'ouses closein 'alf an hour; there is not tee-ime. Fly with me instead!" "Never!Un'and me!" "'Ear me! Ah, what 'ave I done? I 'ave slipped upon a pieceof orange peel and broke me 'ead! If you will kindly ask them to turnoff the snow and give me a little moonlight, I will confess all. "

Finding it (much to Jarman's surprise) impossible to renew the thread ofmy work, I would abandon my attempts at literature, and instead listento his talk, which was always interesting. His conversation was, it istrue, generally about himself, but it was none the less attractive onthat account. His love affairs, which appeared to be numerous, formedhis chief topic. There was no reserve about Jarman: his life containedno secret chambers. What he "told her straight, " what she "up and saidto him" in reply was for all the world that cared to hear. So far hissearch after the ideal had met with but ill success. 

"Girls, " he would say, "they're all alike, till you know 'em. So long asthey're trying to palm themselves off on yer, they'll persuade youthere isn't such another article in all the market. When they've got yerorder--ah, then yer find out what they're really made of. And you takeit from me, 'Omer Junior, most of 'em are put together cheap. Bah!it sickens me sometimes to read the way you paper-stainers talk about'em-angels, goddesses, fairies! They've just been getting at yer. You'regiving 'em just the price they're asking without examining the article. Girls ain't a special make, like what you seem to think 'em. We're allturned out of the same old slop shop. "

"Not that I say, mind yer, " he would continue, "that there are none ofthe right sort. They're to be 'ad--real good 'uns. All I say is, taking'em at their own valuation ain't the way to do business with 'em. "

What he was on the look out for--to quote his own description--was areally first class article, not something from which the paint wouldcome off almost before you got it home. 

"They're to be found, " he would cheerfully affirm, "but you've got tolook for 'em. They're not the sort that advertises. "

Behind Jarman in the second floor back resided one whom Jarman hadnicknamed "The Lady 'Ortensia. " I believe before my arrival there hadbeen love passages between the two; but neither of them, so I gathered, had upon closer inspection satisfied the other's standard. Their presentattitude towards each other was that of insult thinly veiled underexaggerated politeness. Miss Rosina Sellars was, in her own language, a "lady assistant, " in common parlance, a barmaid at the Ludgate HillStation refreshment room. She was a large, flabby young woman. With lesspowder, her complexion might by admirers have been termed creamy; as itwas, it presented the appearance rather of underdone pastry. To be onall occasions "quite the lady" was her pride. There were those who heldthe angle of her dignity to be exaggerated. Jarman would beg her for herown sake to be more careful lest one day she should fall down backwardsand hurt herself. On the other hand, her bearing was certainlycalculated to check familiarity. Even stockbrokers' clerks--young menas a class with the bump of reverence but poorly developed--would in herpresence falter and grow hesitating. She had cultivated the art ofnot noticing to something approaching perfection. She could draw thenoisiest customer a glass of beer, which he had never ordered; exchangeit for three of whiskey, which he had; take his money and return him hischange without ever seeing him, hearing him, or knowing he was there. Itshattered the self-assertion of the youngest of commercial travellers. Her tone and manner, outside rare moments of excitement, were suggestiveof an offended but forgiving iceberg. Jarman invariably passed her withhis coat collar turned up to his ears, and even thus protected mighthave been observed to shiver. Her stare, in conjunction with her "I begyour pardon!" was a moral douche that would have rendered apologetic andexplanatory Don Juan himself. 

To me she was always gracious, which by contrast to her general attitudetowards my sex of studied disdain, I confess flattered me. She was goodenough to observe to Mrs. Peedles, who repeated it to me, that I was theonly gentleman in the house who knew how to behave himself. 

The entire first floor was occupied by an Irishman and--they neverminced the matter themselves, so hardly is there need for me to do so. She was a charming little dark-eyed woman, an ex-tight-rope dancer, andalways greatly offended Mrs. Peedles by claiming Miss Lucretia Barry asa sister artiste. 

"Of course I don't know how it may be now, " would reply Mrs. Peedles, with some slight asperity; "but in my time we ladies of the legitimatestage used to look down upon dancers and such sort. Of course, nooffence to you, Mrs. O'Kelly. "

Neither of them was in the least offended. 

"Sure, Mrs. Peedles, ye could never have looked down upon the Signora, "the O'Kelly would answer laughing. "Ye had to lie back and look up toher. Why, I've got the crick in me neck to this day!"

"Ah! my dear, and you don't know how nervous I was when glancing downI'd see his handsome face just underneath me, thinking that with onefalse step I might spoil it for ever, " would reply the Signora. 

"Me darling! I'd have died happy, just smothered in loveliness!" wouldreturn the O'Kelly; and he and the Signora would rush into each other'sarms, and the sound of their kisses would quite excite the little slaveysweeping down the stairs outside. 

He was a barrister attached in theory to the Western Circuit; inpractice, somewhat indifferent to it, much more attached to the lowerstrata of Bohemia and the Signora. At the present he was earning allsufficient for the simple needs of himself and the Signora as a teacherof music and singing. His method was simple and suited admirably thelocality. Unless specially requested, he never troubled his pupils withsuch tiresome things as scales and exercises. His plan was to discoverthe song the young man fancied himself singing, the particular jinglethe young lady yearned to knock out of the piano, and to teach it tothem. Was it "Tom Bowling?" Well and good. Come on; follow your leader. The O'Kelly would sing the first line. 

"Now then, try that. Don't be afraid. Just open yer mouth and gave ittongue. That's all right. Everything has a beginning. Sure, later on, we'll get the time and tune, maybe a little expression. "

Whether the system had any merit in it, I cannot answer. Certain it wasthat as often as not it achieved success. Gradually--say, by the endof twelve eighteen-penny lessons--out of storm and chaos "Tom Bowling"would emerge, recognisable for all men to hear. Had the pupil any voiceto start with, the O'Kelly improved it; had he none, the O'Kelly wouldhelp him to disguise the fact. 

"Take it easy, now; take it easy, " the O'Kelly would counsel. "Sure, it's a delicate organ, yer voice. Don't ye strain it now. Ye're at yerbest when ye're just low and sweet. "

So also with the blushing pianiste. At the end of a month a tune wasdistinctly discernible; she could hear it herself, and was happy. Hisrepute spread. 

Twice already had he eloped with the Signora (and twice again was heto repeat the operation, before I finally lost sight of him: to breakoneself of habit is always difficult) and once by well-meaning friendshad he been induced to return to home, if not to beauty. His wife, whowas considerably older than himself, possessed, so he would informme with tears in his eyes, every moral excellence that should attractmankind. Upon her goodness and virtue, her piety and conscientiousnesshe would descant to me by the half hour. His sincerity it was impossibleto question. It was beyond doubt that he respected her, admired her, honoured her. She was a saint, an angel--a wretch, a villain such as he, was not fit to breathe the same pure air. To do him justice, it mustbe admitted he showed no particular desire to do so. As an aunt orgrandmother, I believe he would have suffered her gladly. He had nothingto say against her, except that he found himself unable to live withher. 

That she must have been a lady of exceptional merit one felt convinced. The Signora, who had met her only once, and then under somewhat tryingconditions, spoke her praises with equal enthusiasm. Had she, theSignora, enjoyed the advantage of meeting such a model earlier, she, the Signora, might have been a better woman. It seemed a pity theintroduction could not have taken place sooner and under differentcircumstances. Could they both have adopted her as a sort of mutualmother-in-law, it would have given them, I am positive, the greatestsatisfaction. On her occasional visits they would have vied with eachother in showing her affectionate attention. For the deserted lady Itried to feel sorry, but could not avoid the reflection that itwould have been better for all parties had she been less patient andforgiving. Her husband was evidently much more suited to the Signora. 

Indeed, the relationship between these two was more a true marriage thanone generally meets with. No pair of love-birds could have been moresnug together. In their virtues and failings alike they fitted eachother. When sober the immorality of their behaviour never troubled them;in fact, when sober nothing ever troubled them. They laughed, joked, played through life, two happy children. To be shocked at them wasimpossible. I tried it and failed. 

But now and again there came an evening when they were not sober. Ithappened when funds were high. On such occasion the O'Kelly would returnladen with bottles of a certain sweet champagne, of which they were bothextremely fond; and a friend or two would be invited to share in thefestivity. Whether any exceptional quality resided in this particularbrand of champagne I am not prepared to argue; my own personalexperience of it has prompted me to avoid it for the rest of my life. Its effect upon them was certainly unique. Instead of intoxicating them, it sobered them: there is no other way of explaining it. With the thirdor fourth glass they began to take serious views of life. Before the endof the second bottle they would be staring at each other, appalledat contemplation of their own transgression. The Signora, the tearsstreaming down her pretty face, would declare herself a wicked, wickedwoman; she had dragged down into shame the most blameless, the mostvirtuous of men. Emptying her glass, she would bury her face in herhands, and with her elbows on her knees, in an agony of remorse, sitrocking to and fro. The O'Kelly, throwing himself at her feet, wouldpassionately abjure her to "look up. " She had, it appeared, got hold ofthe thing at the wrong end; it was he who had dragged her down. 

At this point metaphor would become confused. Each had been draggeddown by the other one and ruined; also each one was the other one's goodangel. All that was commendable in the Signora, she owed to the O'Kelly. Whatever was not discreditable about the O'Kelly was in the nature of aloan from the Signora. With the help of more champagne the right coursewould grow plain to them. She would go back broken-hearted but repentantto the tight-rope; he would return a better but a blighted man toMrs. O'Kelly and the Western Circuit. This would be their last eveningtogether on earth. A fresh bottle would be broached, and the guest orguests called upon to assist in the ceremony of renunciation; glassesfull to the brim this time. 

So much tragedy did they continue to instil into the scene that on thefirst occasion of my witnessing it I was unable to refrain from minglingmy tears with theirs. As, however, the next morning they had forgottenall about it, and as nothing came of it, nor of several subsequentrepetitions, I should have believed a separation between them impossiblebut that even while I was an inmate of the house the thing actuallyhappened. 

It came about in this wise. His friends, having discovered him, hadpointed out to him again his duty. The Signora--a really excellentlittle woman so far as intention was concerned--had seconded theirendeavours, with the result that on a certain evening in autumn we ofthe house assembled all of us on the first floor to support them on theoccasion of their final--so we all deemed it then--leave-taking. Foreleven o'clock two four-wheeled cabs had been ordered, one to transportthe O'Kelly with his belongings to Hampstead and respectability; in theother the Signora would journey sorrowfully to the Tower Basin, there tojoin a circus company sailing for the Continent. 

I knocked at the door some quarter of an hour before the appointed hourof the party. I fancy the idea had originated with the Signora. 

"Dear Willie has something to say to you, " she had informed me thatmorning on the stairs. "He has taken a sincere liking to you, and it issomething very important. "

They were sitting one each side the fireplace, looking very serious; abottle of the sobering champagne stood upon the table. The Signora roseand kissed me gravely on the brow; the O'Kelly laid both hands upon myshoulders, and sat me down on a chair between them. 

"Mr. Kelver, " said the Signora, "you are very young. "

I hinted--it was one of those rare occasions upon which gallantry can becombined with truth--that I found myself in company. 

The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head. 

"Age, " said the O'Kelly, "is a matter of feeling. Kelver, may ye neverbe as old as I am feeling now. "

"As _we_ are feeling, " corrected the Signora. "Kelver, " said theO'Kelly, pouring out a third glass of champagne, "we want ye to promiseus something. "

"It will make us both happier, " added the Signora. 

"That ye will take warning, " continued the O'Kelly, "by our wretchedexample. Paul, in this world there is only one path to possiblehappiness. The path of strict--" he paused. 

"Propriety, " suggested the Signora. 

"Of strict propriety, " agreed the O'Kelly. "Deviate from it, " continuedthe O'Kelly, impressively, "and what is the result?"

"Unutterable misery, " supplied the Signora. 

"Ye think we two have been happy here together, " said the O'Kelly. 

I replied that such was the conclusion to which observation had directedme. 

"We tried to appear so, " explained the Signora; "it was merely on theoutside. In reality all the time we hated each other. Tell him, Willie, dear, how we have hated each other. "

"It is impossible, " said the O'Kelly, finishing and putting down hisglass, "to give ye any idea, Kelver, how we have hated each other. "

"How we have quarrelled!" said the Signora. "Tell him, dear, how we havequarrelled. "

"All day long and half the night, " concluded the O'Kelly. 

"Fought, " added the Signora. "You see, Mr. Kelver, people in--in ourposition always do. If it had been otherwise, if--if everything had beenproper, then of course we should have loved each other. As it is, it hasbeen a cat and dog existence. Hasn't it been a cat and dog existence, Willie?"

"It's been just hell upon earth, " murmured the O'Kelly, with his eyesfixed gloomily upon the fire-stove ornament. Deadly in earnest thoughthey both were, I could not repress a laugh, their excellent intentionwas so obvious. The Signora burst into tears. 

"He doesn't believe us, " she wailed. 

"Me dear, " replied the O'Kelly, throwing up his part with promptness andsatisfaction, "how could ye expect it? How could he believe that any mancould look at ye and hate ye?"

"It's all my fault, " cried the little woman; "I am such a wickedcreature. I cannot even be miserable when I am doing wrong. A decentwoman in my place would have been wretched and unhappy, and madeeverybody about her wretched and unhappy, and so have set a good exampleand have been a warning. I don't seem to have any conscience, and I dotry. " The poor little lady was sobbing her heart out. 

When not shy I could be sensible, and of the O'Kelly and the Signora onecould be no more shy than of a pair of robin redbreasts. Besides, I wasreally fond of them; they had been very good to me. 

"Dear Miss Beltoni, " I answered, "I am going to take warning by youboth. "

She pressed my hand. "Oh, do, please do, " she murmured. "We really havebeen miserable--now and then. "

"I am never going to be content, " I assured her, "until I find a ladyas charming and as amiable as you, and if ever I get her I'll take goodcare never to run any risk of losing her. "

It sounded well and pleased us all. The O'Kelly shook me warmly by thehand, and this time spoke his real feelings. 

"Me boy, " he said, "all women are good--for somebody. But the woman thatis good for yerself is better for ye than a better woman who's the bestfor somebody else. Ye understand?"

I said I did. 

At eight o'clock precisely Mrs. Peedles arrived--as Flora MacDonald, ingreen velvet jacket and twelve to fifteen inches of plaid stocking. Asa topic fitting the occasion we discussed the absent Mr. Peedles and thesubject of deserted wives in general. 

"A fine-looking man, " allowed Mrs. Peedles, "but weak--weak as water. "

The Signora agreed that unfortunately there did exist such men: 'twaspitiful but true. 

"My dear, " continued Mrs. Peedles, "she wasn't even a lady. "

The Signora expressed astonishment at the deterioration in Mr. Peedles'taste thus implied. 

"I won't go so far as to say we never had a difference, " continued Mrs. Peedles, whose object appeared to be an impartial statement of the wholecase. "There may have been incompatability of temperament, as they say. Myself, I have always been of a playful disposition--frivolous, somemight call me. "

The Signora protested; the O'Kelly declined to listen to such aspersionon her character even from Mrs. Peedles herself. 

Mrs. Peedles, thus corrected, allowed that maybe frivolous was toosweeping an accusation: say sportive. 

"But a good wife to him I always was, " asserted Mrs. Peedles, with afine sense of justice; "never flighty, like some of them. I challengeany one to accuse me of having been flighty. "

We felt we should not believe any one who did, and told her so. 

Mrs. Peedles, drawing her chair closer to the Signora, assumed aconfidential attitude. "If they want to go, let 'em go, I always say, "she whispered loudly into the Signora's ear. "Ten to one they'll findthey've only jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. One can alwayscomfort oneself with that. "

There seemed to be confusion in the mind of Mrs. Peedles. Her virtuoussympathies, I gathered, were with the Signora. Mr. O'Kelly's returnto Mrs. O'Kelly evidently manifested itself in the light of a shamefuldesertion. Having regard to the fact, patent to all who knew him, thatthe poor fellow was sacrificing every inclination to stern sense ofduty, such view of the matter was rough on him. But philosophers fromall ages have agreed that our good deeds are the whips with which Fatepunishes us for our bad. 

"My dear, " continued Mrs. Peedles, "when Mr. Peedles left me I thoughtthat I should never smile again. Yet here you see me laughing awaythrough life, just as ever. You'll get over it all right. " And Mrs. Peedles wiped away her tears and smiled upon the Signora; upon which theSignora commenced to cry again. 

Happily, timely diversion was made at this point by the bursting intothe room of Jarman, who upon perceiving Mrs. Peedles, at once gave ventto a hoot, supposed to be expressive of Scottish joy, and without amoment's hesitation commenced to dance a reel. 

My neighbours of the first floor knocked at the door a little whileafterwards; and genteelly late arrived Miss Rosina Sellars, coldlygleaming in a decollete but awe-inspiring costume of mingled blackand scarlet, out of which her fair, if fleshy, neck and arms shoneluxuriant. 

We did not go into supper; instead, supper came into us from therestaurant at the corner of the Blackfriars Road. I cannot say that atfirst it was a festive meal. The O'Kelly and the Signora made effort, as in duty bound, to be cheerful, but for awhile were somewhatunsuccessful. The third floor front wasted no time in speech, but ateand drank copiously. Miss Sellars, retaining her gloves--which wasperhaps wise, her hands being her weak point--signalled me out, much tomy embarrassment, as the recipient of her most polite conversation. Mrs. Peedles became reminiscent of parties generally. Seeing that most ofMrs. Peedles' former friends and acquaintances were either dead or inmore or less trouble, her efforts did not tend to enliven the table. Onegathering, of which the present strangely reminded her, was a funeral, chiefly remarkable from discovery of the romantic fact, late in theproceedings, that the gentleman in whose honour the whole affair hadbeen organised was not dead at all; but instead, having taken advantageof an error arising out of a railway accident, was at the moment elopingwith the wife of his own chief mourner. As Mrs. Peedles explained, and as one could well credit, it had been an awkward position for allpresent. Nobody had quite known whether to feel glad or sorry--with theexception of the chief mourner, upon whose personal undertaking that thecompany might regard the ceremony as merely postponed, festivities cameto an end. 

Our prop and stay from a convivial point of view was Jarman. Asa delicate attention to Mrs. Peedles and her costume he sunkhis nationality and became for the evening, according to his owndeclaration, "a braw laddie. " With her--his "sonsie lassie, " so hetermed her--he flirted in the broadest, if not purest, Scotch. TheO'Kelly for him became "the Laird;" the third floor "Jamie o' the Ilk;"Miss Sellars, "the bonnie wee rose;" myself, "the chiel. " Periods ofsilence were dispersed by suggestions that we should "hoot awa', " Jarmanhimself setting us the example. 

With the clearance away of the eatables, making room for the productionof a more varied supply of bottles, matters began to mend. Mrs. Peedlesbecame more arch, Jarman's Scotch more striking and extensive, theLady 'Ortensia's remarks less depressingly genteel, her aitches lessaccentuated. 

Jarman rose to propose the health of the O'Kelly, coupled with that ofthe Signora. To the O'Kelly, in a burst of generosity, Jarman promisedour united patronage. To Jarman it appeared that by employing theO'Kelly to defend us whenever we got into trouble with the police, andby recommending him to our friends, a steady income should be assured tohim. 

The O'Kelly replied feelingly to the effect that Nelson Square, Blackfriars, would ever remain engraved upon his memory as the fairestand brightest spot on earth. Personally, nothing would have given himgreater pleasure than to die among the dear friends who now surroundedhim. But there was such a thing as duty, and he and the Signora had cometo the conclusion that true happiness could only be obtained by actingaccording to one's conscience, even if it made one miserable. 

Jarman, warming to his work, then proposed the health of Mrs. Peedles, as true-hearted and hard-breathing a lady as ever it had been hisprivilege to know. Her talent for cheery conversation was familiar to usall, upon it he need not enlarge; all he would say was that personallynever did she go out of his room without leaving him more cheerful thanwhen she entered it. 

After that--I forget in what--we drank the health of the Lady 'Ortensia. Persons there were--Jarman would not attempt to disguise the fact--whocomplained that the Lady 'Ortensia was too distant, "too stand-offish. "With such complaint he himself had no sympathy; but tastes differed. Ifthe Lady 'Ortensia were inclined to be exclusive, who should blame her?Everybody knew their own business best. For use in a second floor fronthe could not honestly recommend the Lady 'Ortensia; it would not begiving her a fair chance, and it would not be giving the second floor afair chance. But for any gentleman fitting up marble halls, for any oneon the lookout for a really "toney article, " Jarman would say: Inquirefor Miss Rosina Sellars, and see that you get her. 

There followed my turn. There had been literary chaps in the past, Jarman admitted so much. Against them he had nothing to say. They had nodoubt done their best. But the gentleman whose health Jarman wished thecompany now to drink had this advantage over them: that they weredead, and he wasn't. Some of this gentleman's work Jarman had read--inmanuscript; but that was a distinction purely temporary. He, Jarman, claimed to be no judge of literature, but this he could and would say, it took a good deal to make him miserable, yet this the literary effortsof Mr. Kelver invariably accomplished. 

Mrs. Peedles, speaking without rising, from personal observation in thedaytime--which she hoped would not be deemed a liberty; literature, evenin manuscript, being, so to speak, public property--found herself in aposition to confirm all that Mr. Jarman had remarked. Speaking as onenot entirely without authority on the subject of literature and thedrama, Mrs. Peedles could say that passages she had read had struck heras distinctly not half bad. Some of the love-scenes, in particular, hadmade her to feel quite a girl again. How he had acquired such knowledgewas not for her to say. Cries of "Naughty!" from Jarman, and "Oh, Mr. Kelver, I shall be quite afraid of you, " roguishly from Miss Sellars. 

The O'Kelly, who, having abandoned his favourite champagne for lesssobering liquor, had since supper-time become rapidly more cheerful, felt sure there was a future before me. That he had not seen any of mywork, so he assured me, in no way lessened his opinion of it. One thingonly would he impress upon me: that the best work was the result ofstrict attention to virtue. His advice to me was to marry young and behappy. 

My persevering efforts of the last few months towards the acquisition ofconvivial habits appeared this evening to be receiving their reward. TheO'Kelly's sweet champagne I had drunk with less dislike than hitherto; awhite, syrupy sort of stuff, out of a fat and artistic-looking bottle, I had found distinctly grateful to the palate. Dimly the quotation abouttaking things at the flood, and so getting on quickly, floated throughmy brain, coupled with another one about fortune favouring the bold. Ithad seemed to me a good occasion to try for the second time in my lifea full flavoured cigar. I had selected with the caution of a connoisseurone of mottled green complexion from the O'Kelly's largest box. And sofar all had gone well. An easy self-confidence, delightful by reason ofits novelty, had replaced my customary shyness; a sense of lightness--ofpositive airiness, emanating from myself, pervaded all things. Tossingoff another glass of the champagne, I rose to reply. 

Modesty in my present mood would have been affectation. To such dear andwell-beloved friends I had no hesitation in admitting the truth, that Iwas a clever fellow--a damned clever fellow. I knew it, they knew it, ina short time everybody would know it. But they need not fear that inthe hour of my pride, when it arrived, I should prove ungrateful. Nevershould I forget their kindness to me, a lonely young man, alone in alonely--Here the pathos of my own situation overcame me; words seemedweak. "Jarman--" I meant, putting my hand upon his head, to have blessedhim for his goodness to me; but he being not exactly where he looked tobe, I just missed him, and sat down on the edge of my chair, which was ahard one. I had not intended this to be the end of my speech, by a longone; but Jarman, whispering to me: "Ended at exactly the right moment;shows the born orator, " strong inclination to remain seated, now that Iwas down seconding his counsel, and the company being clearly satisfied, I decided to leave things where they were. 

A delightful dreaminess was stealing over me. Everything and everybodyappeared to be a long way off, but, whether because of this or inspite of it, exceedingly attractive. Never had I noticed the Signoraso bewitching; in a motherly sort of way even the third floor front wasgood to look upon; Mrs. Peedles I could almost have believed to be thereal Flora MacDonald sitting in front of me. But the vision of MissRosina Sellars made literally my head to swim. Never before had I daredto cast upon female loveliness the satisfying gaze with which I nowboldly regarded her every movement. Evidently she noticed it, for sheturned away her eyes. I had heard that exceptionally strong-mindedpeople merely by concentrating their will could make other, ordinarypeople, do just whatever they, the exceptionally strong-minded people, wished. I willed that Miss Rosina Sellars should turn her eyes againtowards me. Victory crowned my efforts. Evidently I was one of theseexceptionally strong-minded persons. Slowly her eyes came round and metmine with a smile--a helpless, pathetic smile that said, so I read it:"You know no woman can resist you: be merciful!"

Inflamed by the brutal lust of conquest, I suppose I must have willedstill further, for the next thing I remember is sitting with MissSellars on the sofa, holding her hand, the while the O'Kelly sang asentimental ballad, only one line of which comes back to me: "For theangels must have told him, and he knows I love him now, " much stressupon the "now. " The others had their backs towards us. Miss Sellars, with a look that pierced my heart, dropped her somewhat large head uponmy shoulder, leaving, as I observed the next day, a patch of powder onmy coat. 

Miss Sellars observed that one of the saddest things in the world wasunrequited love. 

I replied gallantly, "Whateryou know about it?"

"Ah, you men, you men, " murmured Miss Sellars; "you're all alike. "

This suggested a personal aspersion on my character. "Not allus, " Imurmured. 

"You don't know what love is, " said Miss Sellars. "You're not oldenough. "

The O'Kelly had passed on to Sullivan's "Sweethearts, " then in its firstpopularity. 

 "Oh, love for a year--a week--a day! But oh for the love that loves al-wa-ay[s]!"

Miss Sellars' languishing eyes were fixed upon me; Miss Sellars' redlips pouted and twitched; Miss Sellars' white bosom rose and fell. Never, so it seemed to me, had so large an amount of beauty beenconcentrated in one being. 

"Yeserdo, " I said. "I love you. "

I stooped to kiss the red lips, but something was in my way. It turnedout to be a cold cigar. Miss Sellars thoughtfully removed it, and threwit away. Our lips met. Her large arms closed about my neck and held metight. 

"Well, I'm sure!" came the voice of Mrs. Peedles, as from afar. "Nicegoings on!"

I have vague remembrance of a somewhat heated discussion, in whicheverybody but myself appeared to be taking extreme interest--of MissSellars in her most ladylike and chilling tones defending me against thecharge of "being no gentleman, " which Mrs. Peedles was explaining nobodyhad said I wasn't. The argument seemed to be of the circular order. Nogentleman had ever kissed Miss Sellars who had not every right to do so, nor ever would. To kiss Miss Sellars without such right was to declareoneself no gentleman. Miss Sellars appealed to me to clear my characterfrom the aspersion of being no gentleman. I was trying to understandthe situation, when Jarman, seizing me somewhat roughly by the arm, suggested my going to bed. Miss Sellars, seizing my other arm, suggestedmy refusing to go to bed. So far I was with Miss Sellars. I didn't wantto go to bed, and said so. My desire to sit up longer was proof positiveto Miss Sellars that I was a gentleman, but to no one else. The argumentshifted, the question being now as to whether Miss Sellars were a lady. To prove the point it was, according to Miss Sellars, necessary thatI should repeat I loved her. I did repeat it, adding, with faintremembrance of my own fiction, that if a life's devotion was likely tobe of the slightest further proof, my heart's blood was at herservice. This cleared the air, Mrs. Peedles observing that under suchcircumstances it only remained for her to withdraw everything she hadsaid; to which Miss Sellars replied graciously that she had always knownMrs. Peedles to be a good sort at the bottom. 

Nevertheless, gaiety was gone from among us, and for this, in some wayI could not understand, I appeared to be responsible. Jarman wasdistinctly sulky. The O'Kelly, suddenly thinking of the time, went tothe door and discovered that the two cabs were waiting. The third floorrecollected that work had to be finished. I myself felt sleepy. 

Our host and hostess departed; Jarman again suggested bed, and thistime I agreed with him. After a slight misunderstanding with the door, Ifound myself upon the stairs. I had never noticed before that theywere quite perpendicular. Adapting myself to the changed conditions, Iclimbed them with the help of my hands. I accomplished the last flightsomewhat quickly, and feeling tired, sat down the moment I was withinmy own room. Jarman knocked at the door. I told him to come in; but hedidn't. It occurred to me that the reason was I was sitting on the floorwith my back against the door. The discovery amused me exceedingly andI laughed; and Jarman, baffled, descended to his own floor. I foundgetting into bed a difficulty, owing to the strange behaviour of theroom. It spun round and round. Now the bed was just in front of me, nowit was behind me. I managed at last to catch it before it could get pastme, and holding on by the ironwork, frustrated its efforts to throw meout again on to the floor. 

But it was some time before I went to sleep, and over my interveningexperiences I draw a veil. 

CHAPTER III. 

GOOD FRIENDS SHOW PAUL THE ROAD TO FREEDOM. BUT BEFORE SETTING OUT, HEWILL GO A-VISITING. 

The sun was streaming into my window when I woke in the morning. I satup and listened. The roar of the streets told me plainly that the dayhad begun without me. I reached out my hand for my watch; it was not inits usual place upon the rickety dressing-table. I raised myself stillhigher and looked about me. My clothes lay scattered on the floor. Oneboot, in solitary state, occupied the chair by the fireplace; the otherI could not see anywhere. 

During the night my head appeared to have grown considerably. Iwondered idly for the moment whether I had not made a mistake and puton Minikin's; if so, I should be glad to exchange back for my own. This thing I had got was a top-heavy affair, and was aching mostconfoundedly. 

Suddenly the recollection of the previous night rushed at me and shookme awake. From a neighbouring steeple rang chimes: I counted with care. Eleven o'clock. I sprang out of bed, and at once sat down upon thefloor. 

I remembered how, holding on to the bed, I had felt the room waltzingwildly round and round. It had not quite steadied itself even yet. Itwas still rotating, not whirling now, but staggering feebly, asthough worn out by its all-night orgie. Creeping to the wash-stand, Isucceeded, after one or two false plunges, in getting my head insidethe basin. Then, drawing on my trousers with difficulty and reachingthe easy-chair, I sat down and reviewed matters so far as I was able, commencing from the present and working back towards the past. 

I was feeling very ill. That was quite clear. Something had disagreedwith me. 

"That strong cigar, " I whispered feebly to myself; "I ought never tohave ventured upon it. And then the little room with all those peoplein it. Besides, I have been working very hard. I must really take moreexercise. "

It gave me some satisfaction to observe that, shuffling and cowardlythough I might be, I was not a person easily bamboozled. 

"Nonsense, " I told myself brutally; "don't try to deceive me. You weredrunk. "

"Not drunk, " I pleaded; "don't say drunk; it is such a coarseexpression. Some people cannot stand sweet champagne, so I have heard. It affected my liver. Do please make it a question of liver. "

"Drunk, " I persisted unrelentingly, "hopelessly, vulgarly drunk--drunkas any 'Arry after a Bank Holiday. "

"It is the first time, " I murmured. 

"It was your first opportunity, " I replied. 

"Never again, " I promised. 

"The stock phrase, " I returned. 

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen. "

"So you have not even the excuse of youth. How do you know that it willnot grow upon you; that, having thus commenced a downward career, youwill not sink lower and lower, and so end by becoming a confirmed sot?"

My heavy head dropped into my hands, and I groaned. Many a temperancetale perused on Sunday afternoons came back to me. Imaginative in alldirections, I watched myself hastening toward a drunkard's grave, nowheroically struggling against temptation, now weakly yielding, thecraving growing upon me. In the misty air about me I saw my father'swhite face, my mother's sad eyes. I thought of Barbara, of the scornthat could quiver round that bewitching mouth; of Hal, with histremendous contempt for all forms of weakness. Shame of the present andterror of the future between them racked my mind. 

"It shall be never again!" I cried aloud. "By God, it shall!" (Atnineteen one is apt to be vehement. ) "I will leave this house at once, "I continued to myself aloud; "I will get away from its unwholesomeatmosphere. I will wipe it out of my mind, and all connected with it. Iwill make a fresh start. I will--"

Something I had been dimly conscious of at the back of my brain cameforward and stood before me: the flabby figure of Miss Rosina Sellars. What was she doing here? What right had she to step between me and myregeneration?

"The right of your affianced bride, " my other half explained, with agrim smile to myself. 

"Did I really go so far as that?"

"We will not go into details, " I replied; "I do not wish to dwell uponthem. That was the result. "

"I was--I was not quite myself at the time. I did not know what I wasdoing. "

"As a rule, we don't when we do foolish things; but we have to abide bythe consequences, all the same. Unfortunately, it happened to be in thepresence of witnesses, and she is not the sort of lady to be easily gotrid of. You will marry her and settle down with her in two small rooms. Her people will be your people. You will come to know them better beforemany days are passed. Among them she is regarded as 'the lady, ' fromwhich you can judge of them. A nice commencement of your career, is itnot, my ambitious young friend? A nice mess you have made of it!"

"What am I to do?" I asked. 

"Upon my word, I don't know, " I answered. 

I passed a wretched day. Ashamed to face Mrs. Peedles or even theslavey, I kept to my room, with the door locked. At dusk, feeling alittle better--or, rather, less bad, I stole out and indulged in asimple meal, consisting of tea without sugar and a kippered herring, ata neighbouring coffee-house. Another gentleman, taking his seat oppositeto me and ordering hot buttered toast, I left hastily. 

At eight o'clock in the evening Minikin called round from the office toknow what had happened. Seeking help from shame, I confessed to him thetruth. 

"Thought as much, " he answered. "Seems to have been an A1 from the lookof you. "

"I am glad it has happened, now it is over, " I said to him. "It will bea lesson I shall never forget. "

"I know, " said Minikin. "Nothing like a fair and square drunk for makingyou feel real good; better than a sermon. "

In my trouble I felt the need of advice; and Minikin, though my junior, was, I knew, far more experienced in worldly affairs than I was. 

"That's not the worst, " I confided to him. "What do you think I'vedone?"

"Killed a policeman?" suggested Minikin. 

"Got myself engaged. "

"No one like you quiet fellows for going it when you do begin, "commented Minikin. "Nice girl?"

"I don't know, " I answered. "I only know I don't want her. How can I getout of it?"

Minikin removed his left eye and commenced to polish it upon hishandkerchief, a habit he had when in doubt. From looking into it heappeared to derive inspiration. 

"Take-her-own-part sort of a girl?"

I intimated that he had diagnosed Miss Rosina Sellars correctly. 

"Know how much you're earning?"

"She knows I live up here in this attic and do my own cooking, " Ianswered. 

Minikin glanced round the room. "Must be fond of you. "

"She thinks I'm clever, " I explained, "and that I shall make my way. 

"And she's willing to wait?"

I nodded. 

"Well, I should let her wait, " replied Minikin, replacing his eye. "There's plenty of time before you. "

"But she's a barmaid, and she'll expect me to walk with her, to take herout on Sundays, to go and see her friends. I can't do it. Besides, she'sright: I mean to get on. Then she'll stick to me. It's awful!"

"How did it happen?" asked Minikin. 

"I don't know, " I replied. "I didn't know I had done it till it wasover. "

"Anybody present?"

"Half-a-dozen of them, " I groaned. 

The door opened, and Jarman entered; he never troubled to knockanywhere. In place of his usual noisy greeting, he crossed in silenceand shook me gravely by the hand. 

"Friend of yours?" he asked, indicating Minikin. 

I introduced them to each other. 

"Proud to meet you, " said Jarman. 

"Glad to hear it, " said Minikin. "Don't look as if you'd got much elseto be stuck up about. "

"Don't mind him, " I explained to Jarman. "He was born like it. "

"Wonderful gift" replied Jarman. "D'ye know what I should do if I 'adit?" He did not wait for Minikin's reply. "'Ire myself out to break upevening parties. Ever thought of it seriously?"

Minikin replied that he would give the idea consideration. 

"Make your fortune going round the suburbs, " assured him Jarman. "Pityyou weren't 'ere last night, " he continued; "might 'ave saved our youngfriend 'ere a deal of trouble. Has 'e told you the news?"

I explained that I had already put Minikin in possession of all thefacts. 

"Now you've got a good, steady eye, " said Jarman, upon whom Minikin, according to his manner, had fixed his glass orb; "'ow d'ye think 'e islooking?"

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances, don't you think?"answered Minikin. 

"Does 'e know the circumstances? Has 'e seen the girl?" asked Jarman. 

I replied he had not as yet enjoyed that privilege. "Then 'e don't knowthe worst, " said Jarman. "A hundred and sixty pounds of 'er, and stillgrowing! Bit of a load for 'im, ain't it?"

"Some of 'em do have luck, " was Minikin's rejoinder. Jarmanleant forward and took further stock for a few seconds of his newacquaintance. 

"That's a fine 'ead of yours, " he remarked; "all your own? No offence, "continued Jarman, without giving Minikin time for repartee. "I wasmerely thinking there must be room for a lot of sense in it. Now, whatdo you, as a practical man, advise 'im: dose of poison, or WaterlooBridge and a brick?"

"I suppose there's no doubt, " I interjected, "that we are actuallyengaged?"

"Not a blooming shadow, " assured me Jarman, cheerfully, "so far as she'sconcerned. "

"I shall tell her plainly, " I explained, "that I was drunk at the time. "

"And 'ow are you going to convince 'er of it?" asked Jarman. "You thinkyour telling 'er you loved 'er proves it. So it would to anybody else, but not to 'er. You can't expect it. Besides, if every girl is going togive up 'er catch just because the fellow 'adn't all 'is wits about 'imat the time--well, what do you think?" He appealed to Minikin. 

To Minikin it appeared that if such contention were allowed girls mightas well shut up shop. 

Jarman, who now that he had "got even" with Minikin, was more friendlydisposed towards that young man, drew his chair closer to him andentered upon a private and confidential argument, from which I appearedto be entirely excluded. 

"You see, " explained Jarman, "this ain't an ordinary case. This chap'sgoing to be the future Poet Laureate. Now, when the Prince of Walesinvites him to dine at Marlborough 'ouse, 'e don't want to go theretacked on to a girl that carries aitches with her in a bag, and don'tknow which end of the spoon out of which to drink 'er soup. "

"It makes a difference, of course, " agreed Minikin. 

"What we've got to do, " said Jarman, "is to get 'im out of it. And uponmy sivvy, blessed if I see 'ow to do it!"

"She fancies him?" asked Minikin. 

"What she fancies, " explained Jarman, "is that nature intended 'er to bea lady. And it's no good pointing out to 'er the mistake she's making, because she ain't got sense enough to see it. "

"No good talking straight to her, " suggested Minikin, "telling her thatit can never be?"

"That's our difficulty, " replied Jarman; "it can be. This chap"--Ilistened as might a prisoner in the dock to the argument of counsel, interested but impotent--"don't know enough to come in out of the rain, as the saying is. 'E's just the sort of chap this sort of thing does'appen to. "

"But he don't want her, " urged Minikin. "He says he don't want her. "

"Yes, to you and me, " answered Jarman; "and of course 'e don't. I'mnot saying 'e's a natural born idiot. But let 'er come along and doa snivel--tell 'im that 'e's breaking 'er 'eart, and appeal to 'im tobe'ave as a gentleman, and all that sort of thing, and what do you thinkwill be the result?"

Minikin agreed that the problem presented difficulties. 

"Of course, if 'twas you or me, we should just tell 'er to put 'erselfaway somewhere where the moth couldn't get at 'er and wait till we sentround for 'er; and there'd be an end of the matter. But with 'im it'sdifferent. "

"He is a bit of a soft, " agreed Minikin. 

"'Tain't 'is fault, " explained Jarman; "'twas the way 'e was brought up. 'E fancies girls are the sort of things one sees in plays, going aboutsaying 'Un'and me!' 'Let me pass!' Maybe some of 'em are, but this ain'tone of 'em. "

"How did it happen?" asked Minikin. 

"'Ow does it 'appen nine times out of ten?" returned Jarman. "'E was abit misty, and she was wide awake. 'E gets a bit spoony, and--well, youknow. "

"Artful things, girls, " commented Minikin. 

"Can't blame 'em, " returned Jarman, with generosity; "it's theirbusiness. Got to dispose of themselves somehow. Oughtn't to be bindingwithout a written order dated the next morning; that'd make it allright. "

"Couldn't prove a prior engagement?" suggested Minikin. 

"She'd want to see the girl first before she'd believe it--onlynatural, " returned Jarman. 

"Couldn't get a girl?" urged Minikin. 

"Who could you trust?" asked the cautious Jarman. "Besides, there ain'ttime. She's letting 'im rest to-day; to-morrow evening she'll be down on'im. "

"Don't see anything for it, " said Minikin, "but for him to do a bunk. "

"Not a bad idea that, " mused Jarman; "only where's 'e to bunk to?"

"Needn't go far, " said Minikin. 

"She'd find 'im out and follow 'im, " said Jarman. "She can look afterherself, mind you. Don't you go doing 'er any injustice. "

"He could change his name, " suggested Minikin. 

"'Ow could 'e get a crib?" asked Jarman; "no character, no references. "

"I've got it, " cried Jarman, starting up; "the stage!"

"Can he act?" asked Minikin. 

"Can do anything, " retorted my supporter, "that don't want too muchsense. That's 'is sanctuary, the stage. No questions asked, no characterwanted. Lord! why didn't I think of it before?"

"Wants a bit of getting on to, doesn't it?" suggested Minikin. 

"Depends upon where you want to get, " replied Jarman. For the firsttime since the commencement of the discussion he turned to me. "Can yousing?" he asked me. 

I replied that I could a little, though I had never done so in public. 

"Sing something now, " demanded Jarman; "let's 'ear you. Wait a minute!"he cried. 

He slipped out of the room. I heard him pause upon the landing belowand knock at the door of the fair Rosina's room. The next minute hereturned. 

"It's all right, " he explained; "she's not in yet. Now, sing for allyou're worth. Remember, it's for life and freedom. "

I sang "Sally in Our Alley, " not with much spirit, I am inclined tothink. With every mention of the lady's name there rose before me theabundant form and features of my _fiancee_, which checked the feelingthat should have trembled through my voice. But Jarman, though notenthusiastic, was content. 

"It isn't what I call a grand opera voice, " he commented, "but it oughtto do all right for a chorus where economy is the chief point to beconsidered. Now, I'll tell you what to do. You go to-morrow straight tothe O'Kelly, and put the whole thing before 'im. 'E's a good sort; 'e'lltouch you up a bit, and maybe give you a few introductions. Lucky foryou, this is just the right time. There's one or two things comin'on, and if Fate ain't dead against you, you'll lose your amorita, orwhatever it's called, and not find 'er again till it's too late. "

I was not in the mood that evening to feel hopeful about anything; but Ithanked both of them for their kind intentions and promised to thinkthe suggestion over on the morrow, when, as it was generally agreed, Ishould be in a more fitting state to bring cool judgment to bear uponthe subject; and they rose to take their departure. 

Leaving Minikin to descend alone, Jarman returned the next minute. "Consols are down a bit this week, " he whispered, with the door in hishand. "If you want a little of the ready to carry you through, don'tgo sellin' out. I can manage a few pounds. Suck a couple of lemons andyou'll be all right in the morning. So long. "

I followed his advice regarding the lemons, and finding it correct, wentto the office next morning as usual. Lott & Co. , in consideration of myagreeing to a deduction of two shillings on the week's salary, allowedhimself to overlook the matter. I had intended acting on Jarman' Sadvice, to call upon the O'Kelly at his address of respectability inHampstead that evening, and had posted him a note saying I was coming. Before leaving the office, however, I received a reply to the effectthat he would be out that evening, and asking me to make it thefollowing Friday instead. Disappointed, I returned to my lodgings in adepressed state of mind. Jarman 's scheme, which had appeared hopefuland even attractive during the daytime, now loomed shadowy andimpossible before me. The emptiness of the first floor parlour asI passed its open door struck a chill upon me, reminding me of thedisappearance of a friend to whom, in spite of moral disapproval, I hadduring these last few months become attached. Unable to work, the oldpain of loneliness returned upon me. I sat for awhile in the darkness, listening to the scratching of the pen of my neighbour, the oldlaw-writer, and the sense of despair that its sound always communicatedto me encompassed me about this evening with heavier weight than usual. 

After all, was not the sympathy of the Lady 'Ortensia, stimulated forpersonal purposes though it might be, better than nothing? At least, here was some living creature to whom I belonged, to whom my existenceor nonexistence was of interest, who, if only for her own sake, wasbound to share my hopes, my fears. 

It was in this mood that I heard a slight tap at the door. In the dimpassage stood the small slavey, holding out a note. I took it, andreturning, lighted my candle. The envelope was pink and scented. It wasaddressed, in handwriting not so bad as I had expected, to "Paul Kelver, Esquire. " I opened it and read:

"Dr mr. Paul--I herd as how you was took hill hafter the party. I feeryou are not strong. You must not work so hard or you will be hill andthen I shall be very cros with you. I hop you are well now. If so I amgoing for a wark and you may come with me if you are good. With muchlove. From your affechonat ROSIE. "

In spite of the spelling, a curious, tingling sensation stole over meas I read this my first love-letter. A faint mist swam before my eyes. Through it, glorified and softened, I saw the face of my betrothed, pasty yet alluring, her large white fleshy arms stretched out invitinglytoward me. Moved by a sudden hot haste that seized me, I dressed myselfwith trembling hands; I appeared to be anxious to act without givingmyself time for thought. Complete, with a colour in my cheeks unusual tothem, and a burning in my eyes, I descended and knocked with a nervoushand at the door of the second floor back. 

"Who's that?" came in answer Miss Sellars' sharp tones. 

"It is I--Paul. "

"Oh, wait a minute, dear. " The tone was sweeter. There followed thesound of scurried footsteps, a rustling of clothes, a banging ofdrawers, a few moments' dead silence, and then:

"You can come in now, dear. "

I entered. It was a small, untidy room, smelling of smoky lamp; but allI saw distinctly at the moment was Miss Sellars with her arms above herhead, pinning her hat upon her straw-coloured hair. 

With the sight of her before me in the flesh, my feelings underwent asudden revulsion. During the few minutes she had kept me waiting outsidethe door I had suffered from an almost uncontrollable desire to turn thehandle and rush in. Now, had I acted on impulse, I should have run out. Not that she was an unpleasant-looking girl by any means; it was theatmosphere of coarseness, of commonness, around her that repelled me. The fastidiousness--finikinness; if you will--that would so often spoilmy rare chop, put before me by a waitress with dirty finger-nails, forced me to disregard the ample charms she no doubt did possess, tofasten my eyes exclusively upon her red, rough hands and the one or twowarts that grew thereon. 

"You're a very naughty boy, " told me Miss Sellars, finishing thefastening of her hat. "Why didn't you come in and see me in thedinner-_h_our? I've a great mind not to kiss you. "

The powder she had evidently dabbed on hastily was plainly visible uponher face; the round, soft arms were hidden beneath ill-fitting sleevesof some crapey material, the thought of which put my teeth on edge. Iwished her intention had been stronger. Instead, relenting, sheoffered me her flowery cheek, which I saluted gingerly, the taste of itreminding me of certain pale, thin dough-cakes manufactured by the wifeof our school porter and sold to us in playtime at four a penny, andwhich, having regard to their satisfying quality, had been popular withme in those days. 

At the top of the kitchen stairs Miss Sellars paused and called downshrilly to Mrs. Peedles, who in course of time appeared, panting. 

"Oh, me and Mr. Kelver are going out for a short walk, Mrs. Peedles. Ishan't want any supper. Good night. "

"Oh, good night, my dear, " replied Mrs. Peedles. "Hope you'll enjoyyourselves. Is Mr. Kelver there?"

"He's round the corner, " I heard Miss Sellars explain in a lower voice;and there followed a snigger. 

"He's a bit shy, ain't he?" suggested Mrs. Peedles in a whisper. 

"I've had enough of the other sort, " was Miss Sellars' answer in lowtones. 

"Ah, well; it's the shy ones that come out the strongest after abit--leastways, that's been my experience. "

"He'll do all right. So long. "

Miss Sellars, buttoning a burst glove, rejoined me. 

"I suppose you've never had a sweetheart before?" asked Miss Sellars, aswe turned into the Blackfriars Road. 

I admitted that this was my first experience. 

"I can't a-bear a flirty man, " explained Miss Sellars. "That's why Itook to you from the beginning. You was so quiet. "

I began to wish that nature had bestowed upon me a noisier temperament. 

"Anybody could see you was a gentleman, " continued Miss Sellars. "Heapsand heaps of hoffers I've had--_h_undreds you might almost say. But whatI've always told 'em is, 'I like you very much indeed as a friend, butI'm not going to marry any one but a gentleman. ' Don't you think I wasright?"

I murmured it was only what I should have expected of her. 

"You may take my harm, if you like, " suggested Miss Sellars, as wecrossed St. George's Circus; and linked, we pursued our way along theKennington Park Road. 

Fortunately, there was not much need for me to talk. Miss Sellars wascontent to supply most of the conversation herself, and all of it wasabout herself. 

I learned that her instincts since childhood had been toward gentility. Nor was this to be wondered at, seeing that her family--on her mother'sside, at all events, --were connected distinctly with "the _h_ighest inthe land. " _Mesalliances_, however, are common in all communities, andone of them, a particularly flagrant specimen--her "Mar" had, alas!contracted, having married--what did I think? I should never guess--awaiter! Miss Sellars, stopping in the act of crossing Newington Butts toshudder at the recollection of her female parent's shame, was nearly rundown by a tramcar. 

Mr. And Mrs. Sellars did not appear to have "hit it off" together. Couldone wonder: Mrs. Sellars with an uncle on the Stock Exchange, and Mr. Sellars with one on Peckham Rye? I gathered his calling to have been, chiefly, "three shies a penny. " Mrs. Sellars was now, however, happilydead; and if no other good thing had come out of the catastrophe, it haddetermined Miss Sellars to take warning by her mother's error and avoidconnection with the lowly born. She it was who, with my help, would liftthe family back again to its proper position in society. 

"It used to be a joke against me, " explained Miss Sellars, "heven whenI was quite a child. I never could tolerate anything low. Why, one daywhen I was only seven years old, what do you think happened?"

I confessed my inability to guess. 

"Well, I'll tell you, " said Miss Sellars; "it'll just show you. UncleJoseph--that was father's uncle, you understand?"

I assured Miss Sellars that the point was fixed in my mind. 

"Well, one day when he came to see us he takes a cocoanut out of hispocket and offers it to me. 'Thank you, ' I says; 'I don't heat cocoanutsthat have been shied at by just anybody and missed!' It made him sowild. After that, " explained Miss Sellars, "they used to call me at homethe Princess of Wales. "

I murmured it was a pretty fancy. 

"Some people, " replied Miss Sellars, with a giggle, "says it fits me;but, of course, that's only their nonsense. "

Not knowing what to reply, I remained silent, which appeared to somewhatdisappoint Miss Sellars. 

Out of the Clapham Road we turned into a by-street of two-storeyedhouses. 

"You'll come in and have a bit of supper?" suggested Miss Sellars. "Mar's quite hanxious to see you. "

I found sufficient courage to say I was not feeling well, and would muchrather return home. 

"Oh, but you must just come in for five minutes, dear. It'll look sofunny if you don't. I told 'em we was coming. "

"I would really rather not, " I urged; "some other evening. " I felta presentiment, I confided to her, that on this particular evening Ishould not shine to advantage. 

"Oh, you mustn't be so shy, " said Miss Sellars. "I don't like shyfellows--not too shy. That's silly. " And Miss Sellars took my arm witha decided grip, making it clear to me that escape could be obtained onlyby an unseemly struggle in the street; not being prepared for which, Imeekly yielded. 

We knocked at the door of one of the small houses, Miss Sellarsretaining her hold upon me until it had been opened to us by a lankyoung man in his shirt-sleeves and closed behind us. 

"Don't gentlemen wear coats of a hevening nowadays?" asked Miss Sellars, tartly, of the lank young man. "New fashion just come in?"

"I don't know what gentlemen wear in the evening or what they don't, "retorted the lank young man, who appeared to be in an aggressive mood. "If I can find one in this street, I'll ast him and let you know. "

"Mother in the droaring-room?" enquired Miss Sellars, ignoring theretort. 

"They're all of 'em in the parlour, if that's what you mean, " returnedthe lank young man, "the whole blooming shoot. If you stand up againstthe wall and don't breathe, there'll just be room for you. "

Sweeping by the lank young man, Miss Sellars opened the parlour door, and towing me in behind her, shut it. 

"Well, Mar, here we are, " announced Miss Sellars. An enormously stoutlady, ornamented with a cap that appeared to have been made out of abandanna handkerchief, rose to greet us, thus revealing the factthat she had been sitting upon an extremely small horsehair-coveredeasy-chair, the disproportion between the lady and her support beingquite pathetic. 

"I am charmed, Mr. --"

"Kelver, " supplied Miss Sellars. 

"Kelver, to make your ac-quain-tance, " recited Mrs. Sellars in the toneof one repeating a lesson. 

I bowed, and murmured that the honour was entirely mine. 

"Don't mention it, " replied Mrs. Sellars. "Pray be seated. "

Mrs. Sellars herself set the example by suddenly giving way and droppingdown into her chair, which thus again became invisible. It received herwith an agonised groan. 

Indeed, the insistence with which this article of furniture throughoutthe evening called attention to its sufferings was really quitedistracting. With every breath that Mrs. Sellars took it moaned wearily. There were moments when it literally shrieked. I could not have acceptedMrs. Sellars' offer had I wished, there being no chair vacant and noroom for another. A young man with watery eyes, sitting just behind mebetween a fat young lady and a lean one, rose and suggested my takinghis place. Miss Sellars introduced me to him as her cousin Josephsomething or other, and we shook hands. 

The watery-eyed Joseph remarked that it had been a fine day betweenthe showers, and hoped that the morrow would be either wet or dry; uponwhich the lean young lady, having slapped him, asked admiringly of thefat young lady if he wasn't a "silly fool;" to which the fat young ladyreplied, with somewhat unnecessary severity, I thought, that no onecould help being what they were born. To this the lean young ladyretorted that it was with precisely similar reflection that she herselfcontrolled her own feelings when tempted to resent the fat young lady's"nasty jealous temper. "

The threatened quarrel was nipped in the bud by the discretion of MissSellars, who took the opportunity of the fat young lady's momentaryspeechlessness to introduce me promptly to both of them. They also, I learned, were cousins. The lean girl said she had "erd on me, " andimmediately fell into an uncontrollable fit of giggles; of which thewatery-eyed Joseph requested me to take no notice, explaining that shealways went off like that at exactly three-quarters to the half-hourevery evening, Sundays and holidays excepted; that she had takeneverything possible for it without effect, and that what he himselfadvised was that she should have it off. 

The fat girl, seizing the chance afforded her, remarked genteelly thatshe too had "heard hof me, " with emphasis upon the "hof. " She alsoremarked it was a long walk from Blackfriars Bridge. 

"All depends upon the company, eh? Bet they didn't find it too long. "

This came from a loud-voiced, red-faced man sitting on the sofa beside asomewhat melancholy-looking female dressed in bright green. These twainI discovered to be Uncle and Aunt Gutton. From an observation droppedlater in the evening concerning government restrictions on the sale ofmethylated spirit, and hastily smothered, I gathered that their line wasoil and colour. 

Mr. Gutton's forte appeared to be badinage. He it was who, on myexplaining my heightened colour as due to the closeness of the evening, congratulated his niece on having secured so warm a partner. 

"Will be jolly handy, " shouted Uncle Gutton, "for Rosina, seeing she'salways complaining of her cold feet. "

Here the lank young man attempted to squeeze himself into the room, butfound his entrance barred by the square, squat figure of the watery-eyedyoung man. 

"Don't push, " advised the watery-eyed young man. "Walk over me quietly. "

"Well, why don't yer get out of the way, " growled the lank young man, now coated, but still aggressive. 

"Where am I to get to?" asked the watery-eyed young man, with somereason. "Say the word and I'll 'ang myself up to the gas bracket. "

"In my courting days, " roared Uncle Gutton, "the girls used to be ableto find seats, even if there wasn't enough chairs to go all round. "

The sentiment was received with varying degrees of approbation. Thewatery-eyed young man, sitting down, put the lean young lady on hisknee, and in spite of her struggles and sounding slaps, heroicallyretained her there. 

"Now, then, Rosie, " shouted Uncle Gutton, who appeared to haveconstituted himself master of the ceremonies, "don't stand about, mygirl; you'll get tired. "

Left to herself, I am inclined to think my _fiancee_ would have sparedme; but Uncle Gutton, having been invited to a love comedy, was notto be cheated of any part of the performance, and the audience clearlybeing with him, there was nothing for it but compliance. I seatedmyself, and amid plaudits accommodated the ample and heavy Rosina uponmy knee. 

"Good-bye, " called out to me the watery-eyed young man, as behind thefair Rosina I disappeared from his view. "See you again later on. "

"I used to be a plump girl myself before I married, " observed AuntGutton. "Plump as butter I was at one time. "

"It isn't what one eats, " said the maternal Sellars. "I myself don't eatenough to keep a fly, and my legs--"

"That'll do, Mar, " interrupted the filial Sellars, tartly. 

"I was only going to say, my dear--"

"We all know what you was going to say, Mar, " retorted Miss Sellars. "We've heard it before, and it isn't interesting. "

Mrs. Sellars relapsed into silence. 

"'Ard work and plenty of it keeps you thin enough, I notice, " remarkedthe lank young man, with bitterness. To him I was now introduced, hebeing Mr. George Sellars. "Seen 'im before, " was his curt greeting. 

At supper--referred to by Mrs. Sellars again in the tone of oneremembering a lesson, as a cold col-la-tion, with the accent on the"tion"--I sat between Miss Sellars and the lean young lady, with Auntand Uncle Gutton opposite to us. It was remarked with approval that Idid not appear to be hungry. 

"Had too many kisses afore he started, " suggested Uncle Gutton, withhis mouth full of cold roast pork and pickles. "Wonderfully nourishingthing, kisses, eh? Look at mother and me. That's all we live on. "

Aunt Gutton sighed, and observed that she had always been a poor feeder. 

The watery-eyed young man, observing he had never tasted themhimself--at which sally there was much laughter--said he would not mindtrying a sample if the lean young lady would kindly pass him one. 

The lean young lady opined that, not being used to high living, it mightdisagree with him. 

"Just one, " pleaded the watery-eyed young man, "to go with this bit ofcracklin'. "

The lean young lady, amid renewed applause, first thoughtfully wipingher mouth, acceded to his request. 

The watery-eyed young man turned it over with the air of a gourmet. 

"Not bad, " was his verdict. "Reminds me of onions. " At this there wasanother burst of laughter. 

"Now then, ain't Paul goin' to have one?" shouted Uncle Gutton, when thelaughter had subsided. 

Amid silence, feeling as wretched as perhaps I have ever felt in my lifebefore or since, I received one from the gracious Miss Sellars, wet andsounding. 

"Looks better for it already, " commented the delighted Uncle Gutton. "He'll soon get fat on 'em. "

"Not too many at first, " advised the watery-eyed young man. "Looks to meas if he's got a weak stomach. "

I think, had the meal lasted much longer, I should have made a dash forthe street; the contemplation of such step was forming in my mind. ButMiss Sellars, looking at her watch, declared we must be getting home atonce, for the which I could have kissed her voluntarily; and, being ayoung lady of decision, at once rose and commenced leave-taking. Politeprotests were attempted, but these, with enthusiastic assistance frommyself, she swept aside. 

"Don't want any one to walk home with you?" suggested Uncle Gutton. "Sure you won't feel lonely by yourselves, eh?"

"We shan't come to no harm, " assured him Miss Sellars. 

"P'raps you're right, " agreed Uncle Gutton. "There don't seem to be muchof the fiery and untamed about him, so far as I can see. "

"'Slow waters run deep, '" reminded us Aunt Gutton, with a waggish shakeof her head. 

"No question about the slow, " assented Uncle Gutton. "If you don't likehim--" observed Miss Sellars, speaking with dignity. 

"To be quite candid with you, my girl, I don't, " answered Uncle Gutton, whose temper, maybe as the result of too much cold pork and whiskey, seemed to have suddenly changed. 

"Well, he happens to be good enough for me, " recommenced Miss Sellars. 

"I'm sorry to hear a niece of mine say so, " interrupted Uncle Gutton. "If you want my opinion of him--"

"If ever I do I'll call round some time when you're sober and ast youfor it, " returned Miss Sellars. "And as for being your niece, you washere when I came, and I don't see very well as how I could have got outof it. You needn't throw that in my teeth. "

The gust was dispersed by the practical remark of brother George to theeffect that the last tram for Walworth left the Oval at eleven-thirty;to which he further added the suggestion that the Clapham Road was wideand well adapted to a row. 

"There ain't going to be no rows, " replied Uncle Gutton, returning toamiability as suddenly as he had departed from it. "We understand eachother, don't we, my girl?"

"That's all right, uncle. I know what you mean, " returned Miss Sellars, with equal handsomeness. 

"Bring him round again when he's feeling better, " added Uncle Gutton, "and we'll have another look at him. "

"What you want, " advised the watery-eyed young man on shaking hands withme, "is complete rest and a tombstone. "

I wished at the time I could have followed his prescription. 

The maternal Sellars waddled after us into the passage, which shecompletely blocked. She told me she was delight-ted to have met me, andthat she was always at home on Sundays. 

I said I would remember it, and thanked her warmly for a pleasantevening, at Miss Sellars' request calling her Ma. 

Outside, Miss Sellars agreed that my presentiment had provedcorrect--that I had not shone to advantage. Our journey home on atramcar was a somewhat silent proceeding. At the door of her room sheforgave me, and kissed me good night. Had I been frank with her, Ishould have thanked her for that evening's experience. It had made mycourse plain to me. 

The next day, which was Thursday, I wandered about the streets till twoo'clock in the morning, when I slipped in quietly, passing Miss Sellars'door with my boots in my hand. 

After Mr. Lott's departure on Friday, which, fortunately, was pay-day, I set my desk in order and confided to Minikin written instructionsconcerning all matters unfinished. 

"I shall not be here to-morrow, " I told him. "Going to follow youradvice. "

"Found anything to do?" he asked. 

"Not yet, " I answered. 

"Suppose you can't get anything?"

"If the worst comes to the worst, " I replied, "I can hang myself. "

"Well, you know the girl. Maybe you are right, " he agreed. 

"Hope it won't throw much extra work on you, " I said. 

"Well, I shan't be catching it if it does, " was his answer. "That's allright. "

He walked with me to the "Angel, " and there we parted. 

"If you do get on to the stage, " he said, "and it's anything worthseeing, and you send me an order, and I can find the time, maybe I'llcome and see you. "

I thanked him for his promised support and jumped upon the tram. 

The O'Kelly's address was in Belsize Square. I was about to ring andknock, as requested by a highly-polished brass plate, when I becameaware of pieces of small coal falling about me on the doorstep. Lookingup, I perceived the O'Kelly leaning out of an attic window. From signsI gathered I was to retire from the doorstep and wait. In a few minutesthe door opened and his hand beckoned me to enter. 

"Walk quietly, " he whispered; and on tip-toe we climbed up to the atticfrom where had fallen the coal. "I've been waiting for ye, " explainedthe O'Kelly, speaking low. "Me wife--a good woman, Paul; sure, a betterwoman never lived; ye'll like her when ye know her, later on--she mightnot care about ye're calling. She'd want to know where I met ye, and--yeunderstand? Besides, " added the O'Kelly, "we can smoke up here;" andseating himself where he could keep an eye upon the door, near to asmall cupboard out of which he produced a pipe still alight, the O'Kellyprepared himself to listen. 

I told him briefly the reason of my visit. 

"It was my fault, Paul, " he was good enough to say; "my fault entirely. Between ourselves, it was a damned silly idea, that party, the wholething altogether. Don't ye think so?"

I replied that I was naturally prejudiced against it myself. 

"Most unfortunate for me, " continued the O'Kelly; "I know that. Mecabman took me to Hammersmith instead of Hampstead; said I told himHammersmith. Didn't get home here till three o'clock in the morning. Most unfortunate--under the circumstances. "

I could quite imagine it. 

"But I'm glad ye've come, " said the O'Kelly. "I had a notion ye didsomething foolish that evening, but I couldn't remember precisely what. It's been worrying me. "

"It's been worrying me also, I can assure you, " I told him; and I gavehim an account of my Wednesday evening's experience. 

"I'll go round to-morrow morning, " he said, "and see one or two people. It's not a bad idea, that of Jarman's. I think I may be able to arrangesomething for ye. "

He fixed a time for me to call again upon him the next day, when Mrs. O'Kelly would be away from home. He instructed me to walk quietly up anddown on the opposite side of the road with my eye on the attic window, and not to come across unless he waved a handkerchief. 

Rising to go, I thanked him for his kindness. "Don't put it that way, medear Paul, " he answered. "If I don't get ye out of this scrape I shallnever forgive meself. If we damned silly fools don't help one another, "he added, with his pleasant laugh, "who is to help us?"

We crept downstairs as we had crept up. As we reached the first floor, the drawing-room door suddenly opened. 

"William!" cried a sharp voice. 

"Me dear, " answered the O'Kelly, snatching his pipe from his mouth andthrusting it, still alight, into his trousers pocket. I made the restof the descent by myself, and slipping out, closed the door behind me asnoiselessly as possible. 

Again I did not return to Nelson Square until the early hours, and thenext morning did not venture out until I had heard Miss Sellars, whoappeared to be in a bad temper, leave the house. Then running to the topof the kitchen stairs, I called for Mrs. Peedles. I told her I was goingto leave her, and, judging the truth to be the simplest explanation, Itold her the reason why. 

"My dear, " said Mrs. Peedles, "I am only too glad to hear it. It wasn'tfor me to interfere, but I couldn't help seeing you were making a foolof yourself. I only hope you'll get clear off, and you may depend uponme to do all I can to help you. "

"You don't think I'm acting dishonourably, do you, Mrs. Peedles?" Iasked. 

"My dear, " replied Mrs. Peedles, "it's a difficult world to livein--leastways, that's been my experience of it. "

I had just completed my packing--it had not taken me long--when Iheard upon the stairs the heavy panting that always announced to me theup-coming of Mrs. Peedles. She entered with a bundle of old manuscriptsunder her arm, torn and tumbled booklets of various shapes and sizes. These she plumped down upon the rickety table, and herself upon thenearest chair. 

"Put them in your box, my dear, " said Mrs. Peedles. "They'll come inuseful to you later on. "

I glanced at the bundle. I saw it was a collection of old plays inmanuscript-prompt copies, scored, cut and interlined. The top one Inoticed was "The Bloodspot: Or the Maiden, the Miser and the Murderer;"the second, "The Female Highwayman. "

"Everybody's forgotten 'em, " explained Mrs. Peedles, "but there's somegood stuff in all of them. "

"But what am I to do with them?" I enquired. 

"Just whatever you like, my dear, " explained Mrs. Peedles. "It's quitesafe. They're all of 'em dead, the authors of 'em. I've picked 'em outmost carefully. You just take a scene from one and a scene from theother. With judgment and your talent you'll make a dozen good plays outof that little lot when your time comes. "

"But they wouldn't be my plays, Mrs. Peedles, " I suggested. 

"They will if I give them to you, " answered Mrs. Peedles. "You put 'emin your box. And never mind the bit of rent, " added Mrs. Peedles; "youcan pay me that later on. "

I kissed the kind old soul good-bye and took her gift with me to my newlodgings in Camden Town. Many a time have I been hard put to it forplot or scene, and more than once in weak mood have I turned with guiltyintent the torn and crumpled pages of Mrs. Peedles's donation to myliterary equipment. It is pleasant to be able to put my hand upon myheart and reflect that never yet have I yielded to the temptation. Always have I laid them back within their drawer, saying to myself, withstern reproof:

"No, no, Paul. Stand or fall by your own merits. Never plagiarise--inany case, not from this 'little lot. '"

CHAPTER IV. 

LEADS TO A MEETING. 

"Don't be nervous, " said the O'Kelly, "and don't try to do too much. Youhave a very fair voice, but it's not powerful. Keep cool and open yourmouth. "

It was eleven o'clock in the morning. We were standing at the entranceof the narrow court leading to the stage door. For a fortnight past theO'Kelly had been coaching me. It had been nervous work for both of us, but especially for the O'Kelly. Mrs. O'Kelly, a thin, acid-looking lady, of whom I once or twice had caught a glimpse while promenading BelsizeSquare awaiting the O'Kelly's signal, was a serious-minded lady, with aconscientious objection to all music not of a sacred character. With thehope of winning the O'Kelly from one at least of his sinful tendencies, the piano had been got rid of, and its place in the drawing-room filledby an American organ of exceptionally lugubrious tone. With this wehad had to make shift, and though the O'Kelly--a veritable musicalgenius--had succeeded in evolving from it an accompaniment to "Sally inOur Alley" less misleading and confusing than might otherwise have beenthe case, the result had not been to lighten our labours. My renderingof the famous ballad had, in consequence, acquired a dolefulness notintended by the composer. Sung as I sang it, the theme became, to employa definition since grown hackneyed as applied to Art, a problem ballad. Involuntarily one wondered whether the marriage would turn out assatisfactorily as the young man appeared to anticipate. Was there not, when one came to think of it, a melancholy, a pessimism ingrained withinthe temperament of the complainful hero that would ill assort withthose instincts toward frivolity the careful observer could not avoiddiscerning in the charming yet nevertheless somewhat shallow characterof Sally. 

"Lighter, lighter. Not so soulful, " would demand the O'Kelly, as thesolemn notes rolled jerkily from the groaning instrument beneath hishands. 

Once we were nearly caught, Mrs. O'Kelly returning from a districtvisitors' committee meeting earlier than was expected. Hastily I washidden in a small conservatory adjutting from the first floor landing, where, crouching behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling tothe severe cross-examination of the O'Kelly. 

"William, do not prevaricate. It was not a hymn. "

"Me dear, so much depends upon the time. Let me give ye an example ofwhat I mean. "

"William, pray in my presence not to play tricks with sacred melodies. If you have no respect for religion, please remember that I have. Besides, why should you be playing hymns in any time at ten o'clockin the morning? It is not like you, William, and I do not credit yourexplanation. And you were singing. I distinctly heard the word 'Sally'as I opened the door. "

"Salvation, me dear, " corrected the O'Kelly. 

"Your enunciation, William, is not usually so much at fault. "

"A little hoarseness, me dear, " explained the O'Kelly. 

"Your voice did not sound hoarse. Perhaps it will be better if we do notpursue the subject further. "

With this the O'Kelly appeared to agree. 

"A lady a little difficult to get on with when ye're feeling well andstrong, " so the O'Kelly would explain her; "but if ye happen to be ill, one of the kindest, most devoted of women. When I was down with typhoidthree years ago, a tenderer nurse no man could have had. I shall neverforget it. And so she would be again to-morrow, if there was anythingserious the matter with me. "

I murmured the well-known quotation. 

"Mrs. O'Kelly to a T, " concurred the O'Kelly. "I sometimes wonder ifLady Scott may not have been the same sort of woman. "

"The unfortunate part of it is, " continued the O'Kelly, "that I'm sucha healthy beggar; it don't give her a chance. If I were only a chronicinvalid, now, there's nothing that woman would not do to make me happy. As it is--" The O'Kelly struck a chord. We resumed our studies. 

But to return to our conversation at the stage door. 

"Meet me at the Cheshire Cheese at one o'clock, " said the O'Kelly, shaking hands. "If ye don't get on here, we'll try something else; butI've spoken to Hodgson, and I think ye will. Good luck to ye!"

He went his way and I mine. In a glass box just behind the door acurved-nose, round-eyed little man, looking like an angry bird in acage, demanded of me my business. I showed him my letter of appointment. 

"Up the passage, across the stage, along the corridor, first floor, second door on the right, " he instructed me in one breath, and shut thewindow with a snap. 

I proceeded up the passage. It somewhat surprised me to discover thatI was not in the least excited at the thought of this, my firstintroduction to "behind the scenes. "

I recall my father's asking a young soldier on his return from theCrimea what had been his sensations at the commencement of his firstcharge. 

"Well, " replied the young fellow, "I was worrying all the time, remembering I had rushed out leaving the beer tap running in thecanteen, and I could not forget it. "

So far as the stage I found my way in safety. Pausing for a moment andglancing round, my impression was not so much disillusionment concerningall things theatrical as realisation of my worst forebodings. In thatone moment all glamour connected with the stage fell from me, nor has itsince ever returned to me. From the tawdry decorations of the auditoriumto the childish make-belief littered around on the stage, I saw theTheatre a painted thing of shreds and patches--the grown child'sdoll's-house. The Drama may improve us, elevate us, interest and teachus. I am sure it does; long may it flourish! But so likewise does thedressing and undressing of dolls, the opening of the front of the house, and the tenderly putting of them away to bed in rooms they completelyfill, train our little dears to the duties and the joys of motherhood. Toys! what wise child despises them? Art, fiction, the musical glasses:are they not preparing us for the time, however distant, when we shallat last be grown up?

In a maze of ways beyond the stage I lost myself, but eventually, guidedby voices, came to a large room furnished barely with many chairsand worn settees, and here I found some twenty to thirty ladiesand gentlemen already seated. They were of varying ages, sizesand appearance, but all of them alike in having about them thatimpossible-to-define but impossible-to-mistake suggestion oftheatricality. The men were chiefly remarkable for having no hair ontheir faces, but a good deal upon their heads; the ladies, one andall, were blessed with remarkably pink and white complexions andexceptionally bright eyes. The conversation, carried on in subdued butpenetrating voices, was chiefly of "him" and "her. " Everybody appearedto be on an affectionate footing with everybody else, the terms ofaddress being "My dear, " "My love, " "Old girl, " "Old chappie, " Christiannames--when name of any sort was needful--alone being employed. Ihesitated for a minute with the door in my hand, fearing I had stumbledupon a family gathering. As, however, nobody seemed disconcerted at myentry, I ventured to take a vacant seat next to an extremely small andboyish-looking gentleman and to ask him if this was the room in which I, an applicant for a place in the chorus of the forthcoming comic opera, ought to be waiting. 

He had large, fishy eyes, with which he looked me up and down. For sucha length of time he remained thus regarding me in silence that a massivegentleman sitting near, who had overheard, took it upon himself to replyin the affirmative, adding that from what he knew of Butterworth wewould all of us be waiting here a damned sight longer than any gentlemanshould keep other ladies and gentlemen waiting for no reason at all. 

"I think it exceedingly bad form, " observed the fishy-eyed gentleman, in deep contralto tones, "for any gentleman to take it upon himself toreply to a remark addressed to quite another gentleman. "

"I beg your pardon, " retorted the large gentleman. "I thought you wereasleep. "

"I think it very ill manners, " remarked the small gentlemen in the sameslow and impressive tones, "for any gentleman to tell another gentleman, who happens to be wide awake, that he thought he was asleep. "

"Sir, " returned the massive gentleman, assuming with the help of a largeumbrella a quite Johnsonian attitude, "I decline to alter my manners tosuit your taste. "

"If you are satisfied with them, " replied the small gentleman, "I cannothelp it. But I think you are making a mistake. "

"Does anybody know what the opera is about?" asked a bright little womanat the other end of the room. 

"Does anybody ever know what a comic opera is about?" asked anotherlady, whose appearance suggested experience. 

"I once asked the author, " observed a weary-looking gentleman, speakingfrom a corner. "His reply was: 'Well, if you had asked me at thebeginning of the rehearsals I might have been able to tell you, butdamned if I could now![']"

"It wouldn't surprise me, " observed a good-looking gentleman in a velvetcoat, "if there occurred somewhere in the proceedings a drinking chorusfor male voices. "

"Possibly, if we are good, " added a thin lady with golden hair, "theheroine will confide to us her love troubles, which will interest us andexcite us. "

The door at the further end of the room opened and a name was cal[l]ed. An elderly lady rose and went out. 

"Poor old Gertie!" remarked sympathetically the thin lady with thegolden hair. "I'm told that she really had a voice once. "

"When poor young Bond first came to London, " said the massive gentlemanwho was sitting on my left, "I remember his telling me he applied toLord Barrymore's 'tiger, ' Alexander Lee, I mean, of course, who was thenrunning the Strand Theatre, for a place in the chorus. Lee heard himsing two lines, and then jumped up. 'Thanks, that'll do; good morning, 'says Lee. Bond knew he had got a good voice, so he asked Lee what waswrong. 'What's wrong?' shouts Lee. 'Do you think I hire a chorus to showup my principals?'"

"Having regard to the company present, " commented the fishy-eyedgentleman, "I consider that anecdote as distinctly lacking in tact. "

The feeling of the company appeared to be with the fish-eyed young man. 

For the next half hour the door at the further end of the room continuedto open and close, devouring, ogre-fashion, each time some dainty humanmorsel, now chorus gentleman, now chorus lady. Conversation among ourthinning ranks became more fitful, a growing anxiety making for silence. 

At length, "Mr. Horace Moncrieff" called the voice of the unseen Charon. In common with the rest, I glanced round languidly to see what sort ofman "Mr. Horace Moncrieff" might be. The door was pushed open further. Charon, now revealed as a pale-faced young man with a droopingmoustache, put his head into the room and repeated impatiently hisinvitation to the apparently coy Moncrieff. It suddenly occurred to methat I was Mr. Horace Moncrieff. 

"So glad you've found yourself, " said the pale-faced young man, as Ijoined him at the door. "Please don't lose yourself again; we're ratherpressed for time. "

I crossed with him through a deserted refreshment bar--one of thesaddest of sights--into a room beyond. A melancholy-looking gentlemanwas seated at the piano. Beside him stood a tall, handsome man, whowas opening and reading rapidly from a bundle of letters he held in hishand. A big, burly, bored-looking gentleman was making desperateefforts to be amused at the staccato conversation of a sharp-faced, restless-eyed gentleman, whose peculiarity was that he never by anychance looked at the person to whom he was talking, but always atsomething or somebody else. 

"Moncrieff?" enquired the tall, handsome man--whom I later discovered tobe Mr. Hodgson, the manager--without raising his eyes from his letters. 

The pale-faced gentleman responded for me. 

"Fire away, " said Mr. Hodgson. 

"What is it?" asked of me wearily the melancholy gentleman at the piano. 

"'Sally in Our Alley, '" I replied. 

"What are you?" interrupted Mr. Hodgson. He had never once looked at me, and did not now. 

"A tenor, " I replied. "Not a full tenor, " I added, remembering theO'Kelly's instructions. 

"Utterly impossible to fill a tenor, " remarked the restless-eyedgentleman, looking at me and speaking to the worried-looking gentleman. "Ever tried?"

Everybody laughed, with the exception of the melancholy gentleman at thepiano, Mr. Hodgson throwing in his contribution without raising his eyesfrom his letters. Throughout the proceedings the restless-eyed gentlemancontinued to make humorous observations of this nature, at whicheverybody laughed, excepting always the melancholy pianist--a short, sharp, mechanical laugh, devoid of the least suggestion of amusement. The restless-eyed gentleman, it appeared, was the leading low comedianof the theatre. 

"Go on, " said the melancholy gentleman, and commenced the accompaniment. 

"Tell me when he's going to begin, " remarked Mr. Hodgson at theconclusion of the first verse. 

"He has a fair voice, " said my accompanist. "He's evidently nervous. "

"There is a prejudice throughout theatrical audiences, " observed Mr. Hodgson, "in favour of a voice they can hear. That is all I am trying toimpress upon him. "

The second verse, so I imagined, I sang in the voice of a trumpet. Theburly gentleman--the translator of the French libretto, as he turnedout to be; the author of the English version, as he preferred tobe called--acknowledged to having distinctly detected a sound. Therestless-eyed comedian suggested an announcement from the stagerequesting strict silence during my part of the performance. 

The sickness of fear was stealing over me. My voice, so it seemed to me, disappointed at the effect it had produced, had retired, sulky, into myboots, whence it refused to emerge. 

"Your voice is all right--very good, " whispered the musical conductor. "They want to hear the best you can do, that's all. "

At this my voice ran up my legs and out of my mouth. "Thirty shillingsa week, half salary for rehearsals. If that's all right, Mr. Catchpolewill give you your agreement. If not, very much obliged. Good morning, "said Mr. Hodgson, still absorbed in his correspondence. 

With the pale-faced young man I retired to a desk in the corner, wherea few seconds sufficed for the completion of the business. Leaving, Isought to catch the eye of my melancholy friend, but he appeared toosunk in dejection to notice anything. The restless-eyed comedian, looking at the author of the English version and addressing me asBoanerges, wished me good morning, at which the everybody laughed; and, informed as to the way out by the pale-faced Mr. Catchpole, I left. 

The first "call" was for the following Monday at two o'clock. I foundthe theatre full of life and bustle. The principals, who had justfinished their own rehearsal, were talking together in a group. Weladies and gentlemen of the chorus filled the centre of the stage. Inoticed the lady I had heard referred to as Gertie; as also the thinlady with the golden hair. The massive gentleman and the fishy-eyedyoung man were again in close proximity; so long as I knew them theyalways were together, possessed, apparently, of a sympathetic antipathyfor each other. The fishy-eyed young gentleman was explaining the age atwhich he thought decayed chorus singers ought, in justice to themselvesand the public, to retire from the profession; the massive gentleman, the age and size at which he thought parcels of boys ought to belearning manners across their mother's knee. 

Mr. Hodgson, still reading letters exactly as I had left him four daysago, stood close to the footlights. My friend, the musical director, armed with a violin and supported by about a dozen other musicians, occupied the orchestra. The adapter and the stage manager--a Frenchmanwhom I found it good policy to mistake for a born Englishman--satdeep in confabulation at a small table underneath a temporary gas jet. Quarter of an hour or so passed by, and then the stage manager, becomingsuddenly in a hurry, rang a small bell furiously. 

"Clear, please; all clear, " shouted a small boy, with important airsuggestive of a fox terrier; and, following the others, I retreated tothe wings. 

The comedian and the leading lady--whom I knew well from the front, but whom I should never have recognised--severed themselves from theircompanions and joined Mr. Hodgson by the footlights. As a preliminary wewere sorted out, according to our sizes, into loving couples. 

"Ah, " said the stage manager, casting an admiring gaze upon thefishy-eyed young man, whose height might have been a little over fivefeet two, "I have the very girl for you--a beauty!" Darting into thegroup of ladies, he returned with quite the biggest specimen, a ladyof magnificent proportions, whom, with the air of the virtuous uncleof melodrama, he bestowed upon the fishy-eyed young man. To the massivegentleman was given a sharp-faced little lady, who at a distanceappeared quite girlish. Myself I found mated to the thin lady with thegolden hair. 

At last complete, we took our places in the then approved semi-circle, and the attenuated orchestra struck up the opening chorus. My music, which had been sent me by post, I had gone over with the O'Kelly, andabout that I felt confident; but for the rest, ill at ease. 

"I am afraid, " said the thin lady, "I must ask you to put your arm roundmy waist. It's very shocking, I know, but, you see, our salary dependsupon it. Do you think you could manage it?"

I glanced into her face. A whimsical expression of fun replied to me anddrove away my shyness. I carried out her instructions to the best of myability. 

The indefatigable stage manager ran in and out among us while we sang, driving this couple back a foot or so, this other forward, herding thisgroup closer together, throughout another making space, suggesting theidea of a sheep-dog at work. 

"Very good, very good indeed, " commented Mr. Hodgson at the conclusion. "We will go over it once more, and this time in tune. "

"And we will make love, " added the stage manager; "not like marionettes, but like ladies and gentlemen all alive. " Seizing the lady nearest tohim, he explained to us by object lesson how the real peasant invariablybehaves when under influence of the grand passion, standing gracefullywith hands clasped upon heart, head inclined at an angle of forty-five, his whole countenance eloquent with tender adoration. 

"If he expects" remarked the massive gentleman _sotto voce_ to anexperienced-looking young lady, "a performance of Romeo thrown in, I, for one, shall want an extra ten shillings a week. "

Casting the lady aside and seizing upon a gentleman, our stage managerthen proceeded to show the ladies how a village maiden should receiveaffectionate advances: one shoulder a trifle higher than the other, bodyfrom the waist upward gently waggling, roguish expression in left eye. 

"Ah, he's a bit new to it, " replied the experienced young lady. "He'llget over all that. "

Again we started. Whether others attempted to follow the stage manager'sdirections I cannot say, my whole attention being centred upon thefishy-eyed young man, who did, implicitly. Soon it became apparent thatthe whole of us were watching the fishy-eyed young man to the utterneglect of our own business. Mr. Hodgson even looked up from hisletters; the orchestra was playing out of time; the author of theEnglish version and the leading lady exchanged glances. Three peopleonly appeared not to be enjoying themselves: the chief comedian, thestage manager and the fishy-eyed young gentleman himself, who pursuedhis labours methodically and conscientiously. There was a whisperedconfabulation between the leading low comedian, Mr. Hodgson and thestage manager. As a result, the music ceased and the fishy-eyed younggentleman was requested to explain what he was doing. 

"Only making love, " replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman. 

"You were playing the fool, sir, " retorted the leading low comedian, severely. 

"That is a very unkind remark, " replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman, evidently hurt, "to make to a gentleman who is doing his best. "

Mr. Hodgson behind his letters was laughing. "Poor fellow, " he murmured;"I suppose he can't help it. Go on. "

"We are not producing a pantomime, you know, " urged our comedian. 

"I want to give him a chance, poor devil, " explained Mr. Hodgson in alower voice. "Only support of a widowed mother. "

Our comedian appeared inclined to argue; but at this point Mr. Hodgson'scorrespondence became absorbing. 

For the chorus the second act was a busy one. We opened as soldiersand vivandieres, every warrior in this way possessing his own privatetravelling bar. Our stage manager again explained to us by example howa soldier behaves, first under stress of patriotic emotion, and secondlyunder stress of cheap cognac, the difference being somewhat subtle:patriotism displaying itself by slaps upon the chest, and cheap cognacby slaps upon the forehead. A little later we were conspirators; ourstage manager, with the help of a tablecloth, showed us how to conspire. Next we were a mob, led by the sentimental baritone; our stage manager, ruffling his hair, expounded to us how a mob led by a sentimentalbaritone would naturally behave itself. The act wound up with a fight. Our stage manager, minus his coat, demonstrated to us how to fight anddie, the dying being a painful and dusty performance, necessitating, asit did, much rolling about on the stage. The fishy-eyed young gentlemanthroughout the whole of it was again the centre of attraction. Whetherhe were solemnly slapping his chest and singing about glory, or solemnlypatting his head and singing about grapes, was immaterial: he was thesoldier for us. What the plot was about did not matter, so long as hewas in it. Who led the mob one did not care; one's desire was to seehim lead. How others fought and died was matter of no moment; to see himslaughtered was sufficient. Whether his unconsciousness was assumed ornatural I cannot say; in either case it was admirable. An earnest youngman, over-anxious, if anything, to do his duty by his employers, wasthe extent of the charge that could be brought against him. Our chiefcomedian frowned and fumed; our stage manager was in despair. Mr. Hodgson and the author of the English version, on the contrary, appearedkindly disposed towards the gentleman. In addition to the widowedmother, Mr. Hodgson had invented for him five younger brothers andsisters utterly destitute but for his earnings. To deprive so exemplarya son and brother of the means of earning a livelihood for dear onesdependent upon him was not in Mr. Hodgson's heart. Our chief comediandissociated himself from all uncharitable feelings--would subscribetowards the subsistence of the young man out of his own pocket, hisonly concern being the success of the opera. The author of the Englishversion was convinced the young man would not accept a charity; hadknown him for years--was a most sensitive creature. 

The rehearsal proceeded. In the last act it became necessary for me tokiss the thin lady. 

"I am very sorry, " said the thin lady, "but duty is duty. It has to bedone. "

Again I followed directions. The thin lady was good enough tocongratulate me on my performance. 

The last three or four rehearsals we performed in company with theprincipals. Divided counsels rendered them decidedly harassing. Ourchief comedian had his views, and they were decided; the leading ladyhad hers, and was generous with them. The author of the English versionpossessed his also, but of these nobody took much notice. Once everytwenty minutes the stage manager washed his hands of the whole affairand left the theatre in despair, and anybody's hat that happened tobe handy, to return a few minutes later full of renewed hope. Thesentimental baritone was sarcastic, the tenor distinctly rude toeverybody. Mr. Hodgson's method was to agree with all and listen tonone. The smaller fry of the company, together with the more pushing ofthe chorus, supported each in turn, when the others were not looking. Upto the dress rehearsal it was anybody's opera. 

About one thing, and about one thing, only, had the principals falleninto perfect agreement, and that was that the fishy-eyed young gentlemanwas out of place in a romantic opera. The tenor would be makingimpassioned love to the leading lady. Perception would come to both ofthem that, though they might be occupying geographically the centre ofthe stage, dramatically they were not. Without a shred of evidence, yet with perfect justice, they would unhesitatingly blame for this thefishy-eyed young man. 

"I wasn't doing anything, " he would explain meekly. "I was onlylooking. " It was perfectly true; that was all he was doing. 

"Then don't look, " would comment the tenor. 

The fishy-eyed young gentleman obediently would turn his face away fromthem; and in some mysterious manner the situation would thereupon becomeeven yet more hopelessly ridiculous. 

"My scene, I think, sir!" would thunder our chief comedian, a littlelater on. 

"I am only doing what I was told to do, " answered the fishy-eyed younggentleman; and nobody could say that he was not. 

"Take a circus, and run him as a side-show, " counselled our comedian. 

"I am afraid he would never be any good as a side-show, " replied Mr. Hodgson, who was reading letters. 

On the first night, passing the gallery entrance on my way to the stagedoor, the sight of the huge crowd assembled there waiting gave me myfirst taste of artistic joy. I was a part of what they had come to see, to praise or to condemn, to listen to, to watch. Within the theatrethere was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement, amounting almost tohysteria. The bird-like gentleman in his glass cage was fluttering, agitated. The hands of the stage carpenters putting the finishingtouches to the scenery were trembling, their voices passionatewith anxiety; the fox-terrier-like call-boy was pale with sense ofresponsibility. 

I made my way to the dressing-room--a long, low, wooden corridor, furnished from end to end with a wide shelf that served as commondressing-table, lighted by a dozen flaring gas-jets, wire-shielded. Hereawaited us gentlemen of the chorus the wigmaker's assistant, whose dutyit was to make us up. From one to another he ran, armed with his hare'sfoot, his box of paints and his bundle of crepe hair. My turn arriving, he seized me by the head, jabbed a wig upon me, and in less than acouple of minutes I left his hands the orthodox peasant of the stage, white of forehead and pink of cheek, with curly moustache and lips ofcoral. Glancing into the glass, I could not help feeling pleased withmyself; a moustache, without doubt, suited me. 

The chorus ladies, when I met them on the stage, were a revelationto me. Paint and powder though I knew their appearance to consistof chiefly, yet in that hot atmosphere of the theatre, under thatartificial glare, it seemed fit and fascinating. The close approximationto so much bare flesh, its curious, subtle odour was almostintoxicating. Dr. Johnson's excuse to Garrick for the rarity of hisvisits to the theatre recurred to me with understanding. 

"How do you like my costume?" asked the thin lady with the golden hair. 

"I think you--" We were standing apart behind a piece of projectingscenery. She laid her hand upon my mouth, laughing. 

"How old are you?" she asked me. 

"Isn't that a rude question?" I answered. "I don't ask your age. 

"Mine, " she replied, "entitles me to talk to you as I should to a boy ofmy own--I had one once. Get out of this life if you can. It's bad fora woman; it's worse still for a man. To you especially it will beharmful. "

"Why to me in particular?"

"Because you are an exceedingly foolish little boy, " she answered, withanother laugh, "and are rather nice. "

She slipped away and joined the others. The chorus was now entirelyassembled on the stage. The sound of the rapidly-filling house reachedus, softened through the thick baize curtain, a dull, continuousdroning, as of water pouring into some huge cistern. Suddenly there fellupon our ears a startling crash; the overture had commenced. The stagemanager--more suggestive of a sheep-dog than ever, but lacking the calmdignity, the self-possession born of conscious capability distinctive ofhis prototype; a fussy, argumentative sheep-dog--rushed into the midstof us and worried us into our positions, where the more experiencedcontinued to converse in whispers, the rest of us waiting nervously, trying to remember our words. The chorus master, taking his stand withhis back to the proscenium, held his white-gloved hand in readiness. Thecurtain rushed up, the house, a nightmare of white faces, appearing torun towards us. The chorus-master's white-gloved hand flung upward. Aroar of voices struck upon my ear, but whether my own were of themI could not say; if I were singing at all it was unconsciously, mechanically. Later, I found myself standing in the wings beside thethin lady; the stage was in the occupation of the principals. On my nextentrance my senses were more with me; I was able to look about me. Hereand there a strongly-marked face among the audience stood out, but themajority were as indistinguishable as so many blades of grass. Looked atfrom the stage, the house seemed no more real than from the front do thepainted faces upon a black cloth. 

The curtain fell amid the usual applause, sounding to us behind it likethe rattle of tiny stones against a window-pane. Three times it roseand fell, like the opening and shutting of a door; and then followed ascamper for the dressing-rooms, the long corridors being filled with therustling of skirts and the scurrying of feet. 

It was in the second act that the fishy-eyed young gentleman came intohis own. The chorus had lingered till it was quite apparent that thetenor and the leading lady were in love with each other; then, with theexquisite delicacy so characteristic of a chorus, foreseeing that itsfurther presence might be embarrassing, it turned to go, half to theeast, the other half to the west. The fishy-eyed young man, startingfrom the centre, was the last to leave the stage. In another moment hewould have disappeared from view. There came a voice from the gallery, clear, distinct, pathetic with entreaty:

"Don't go. Get behind a tree. "

The request was instantly seconded by a roar of applause from every partof the house, followed by laughter. From that point onward the house waschiefly concerned with the fortunes of the fishy-eyed young gentleman. At his next entrance, disguised as a conspirator, he was welcomedwith enthusiasm, his passing away regretted loudly. At the fall of thecurtain, the tenor, furious, rushed up to him, and, shaking a fist inhis face, demanded what he meant by it. 

"I wasn't doing anything, " explained the fishy-eyed young man. 

"You went off sideways!" roared the tenor. 

"Well, you told me not to look at you, " explained meekly the fishy-eyedyoung gentleman. "I must go off somehow. I regard you as a verydifficult man to please. "

At the final fall of the curtain the house appeared divided as regardedthe merits of the opera; but for "Goggles" there was a unanimous andenthusiastic call, and the while we were dressing a message came for"Goggles" that Mr. Hodgson wished to see him in his private room. 

"He can make a funny face, no doubt about it, " commented one gentleman, as "Goggles" left the room. 

"I defy him to make a funnier one than God Almighty's made for him, "responded the massive gentleman. 

"There's a deal in luck, " observed, with a sigh, another, a tall, handsome young gentleman possessed of a rich bass voice. 

Leaving the stage door, I encountered a group of gentlemen waiting uponthe pavement outside. Not interested in them myself, I was hurryingpast, when one laid a hand upon my shoulder. I turned. He was a big, broad-shouldered fellow, with a dark Vandyke beard and soft, dreamyeyes. 

"Dan!" I cried. 

"I thought it was you, young 'un, in the first act, " he answered. "Inthe second, when you came on without a moustache, I knew it. Are you ina hurry?"

"Not at all, " I answered. "Are you?"

"No, " he replied; "we don't go to press till Thursday, so I can write mynotice to-morrow. Come and have supper with me at the Albion and we willtalk. You look tired, young 'un. "

"No, " I assured him, "only excited--partly at meeting you. "

He laughed, and drew my arm through his. 

CHAPTER V. 

HOW ON A SWEET GREY MORNING THE FUTURE CAME TO PAUL. 

Over our supper Dan and I exchanged histories. They revealed points ofsimilarity. Leaving school some considerable time earlier than myself, Dan had gone to Cambridge; but two years later, in consequence of thedeath of his father, of a wound contracted in the Indian Mutiny andnever cured, had been compelled to bring his college career to anuntimely termination. 

"You might not have expected that to grieve me, " said Dan, with a smile, "but, as a matter of fact, it was a severe blow to me. At Cambridge Idiscovered that I was by temperament a scholar. The reason why at schoolI took no interest in learning was because learning was, of set purpose, made as uninteresting as possible. Like a Cook's tourist party through apicture gallery, we were rushed through education; the object being notthat we should see and understand, but that we should be able to saythat we had done it. At college I chose my own subjects, studied themin my own way. I fed on knowledge, was not stuffed with it like aStrassburg goose. "

Returning to London, he had taken a situation in a bank, the chairman ofwhich had been an old friend of his father. The advantage was that whileearning a small income he had time to continue his studies; but thedeadly monotony of the work had appalled him, and upon the death of hismother he had shaken the cloying dust of the City from his brain andjoined a small "fit-up" theatrical company. On the stage he had remainedfor another eighteen months; had played all roles, from "Romeo" to "PaulPry, " had helped to paint the scenery, had assisted in the bill-posting. The latter, so he told me, he had found one of the most difficult ofaccomplishments, the paste-laden poster having an innate tendency torecoil upon the amateur's own head, and to stick there. Wearying of thestage proper, he had joined a circus company, had been "Signor Ricardo, the daring bare-back rider, " also one of the "Brothers Roscius in theirmarvellous trapeze act;" inclining again towards respectability, hadbeen a waiter for three months at Ostend; from that, a footman. 

"One never knows, " remarked Dan. "I may come to be a society novelist;if so, inside knowledge of the aristocracy will give me decidedadvantage over the majority of my competitors. "

Other callings he had sampled: had tramped through Ireland with afiddle; through Scotland with a lecture on Palestine, assisted bydissolving views; had been a billiard-marker; next a schoolmaster. Forthe last three months he had been a journalist, dramatic and musicalcritic to a Sunday newspaper. Often had I dreamt of such a position formyself. 

"How did you obtain it?" I asked. 

"The idea occurred to me, " replied Dan, "late one afternoon, saunteringdown the Strand, wondering what I should do next. I was on my beam ends, with only a few shillings in my pocket; but luck has always been withme. I entered the first newspaper office I came to, walked upstairs tothe first floor, and opening the first door without knocking, passedthrough a small, empty room into a larger one, littered with books andpapers. It was growing dark. A gentleman of extremely youthful figurewas running round and round, cursing to himself because of three things:he had upset the ink, could not find the matches, and had broken thebell-pull. In the gloom, assuming him to be the office boy, I thoughtit would be fun to mistake him for the editor. As a matter of fact, he turned out to be the editor. I lit the gas for him, and found himanother ink-pot. He was a slim young man with the voice and manner of aschoolboy. I don't suppose he is any more than five or six-and-twenty. He owes his position to the fact of his aunt's being the proprietress. He asked me if he knew me. Before I could tell him that he didn't, hewent on talking. He appeared to be labouring under a general sense ofinjury. 

"'People come into this office, ' he said; 'they seem to look upon it asa shelter from the rain--people I don't know from Adam. And that damnedfool downstairs lets them march straight up--anybody, men with articleson safety valves, people who have merely come to kick up a row aboutsomething or another. Half my work I have to do on the stairs. 

"I recommended to him that he should insist upon strangers writing theirbusiness upon a slip of paper. He thought it a good idea. 

"'For the last three-quarters of an hour, ' he said, 'have I been tryingto finish this one column, and four times have I been interrupted. '

"At that precise moment there came another knock at the door. 

"'I won't see him!' he cried. 'I don't care who he is; I won't see him. Send him away! Send everybody away!'

"I went to the door. He was an elderly gentleman. He made to sweep byme; but I barred his way, and closed the editorial door behind me. Heseemed surprised; but I told him it was impossible for him to see theeditor that afternoon, and suggested his writing his business on a sheetof paper, which I handed to him for the purpose. I remained in thatante-room for half an hour, and during that time I suppose I must havesent away about ten or a dozen people. I don't think their businesscould have been important, or I should have heard about it afterwards. The last to come was a tired-looking gentleman, smoking a cigarette. Iasked him his name. 

"He looked at me in surprise, and then answered, 'Idiot!'

"I remained firm, however, and refused to let him pass. 

"'It's a bit awkward, ' he retorted. 'Don't you think you could make anexception in favour of the sub-editor on press night?'

"I replied that such would be contrary to my instructions. 

"'Oh, all right, ' he answered. 'I'd like to know who's going to theRoyalty to-night, that's all. It's seven o'clock already. '

"An idea occurred to me. If the sub-editor of a paper doesn't know whomto send to a theatre, it must mean that the post of dramatic critic onthat paper is for some reason or another vacant. 

"'Oh, that's all right, ' I told him. 'I shall be in time enough. '

"He appeared neither pleased nor displeased. 'Have you arranged with theGuv'nor?' he asked me. 

"'I'm just waiting to see him again for a few minutes, ' I returned. 'It'll be all right. Have you got the ticket?'

"'Haven't seen it, ' he replied. 

"'About a column?' I suggested. 

"'Three-quarters, ' he preferred, and went. 

"The moment he was gone, I slipped downstairs and met a printer's boycoming up. 

"'What's the name of your sub?' I asked him. 'Tall man with a blackmoustache, looks tired. '

"'Oh, you mean Penton, ' explained the boy. 

"'That's the name, ' I answered; 'couldn't think of it. '

"I walked straight into the editor; he was still irritable. 'What is it?What is it now?' he snapped out. 

"'I only want the ticket for the Royalty Theatre, ' I answered. 'Pentonsays you've got it. '

"'I don't know where it is, ' he growled. 

"I found it after some little search upon his desk. 

"'Who's going?' he asked. 

"'I am, ' I said. And I went. 

"They have never discovered to this day that I appointed myself. Pentonthinks I am some relation of the proprietress, and in consequenceeverybody treats me with marked respect. Mrs. Wallace herself, theproprietress, thinks I am the discovery of Penton, in whose judgmentshe has great faith; and with her I get on admirably. The paper Idon't think is doing too well, and the salary is small, but sufficient. Journalism suits my temperament, and I dare say I shall keep to it. "

"You've been somewhat of a rolling stone hitherto, " I commented. 

He laughed. "From the stone's point of view, " he answered, "I nevercould see the advantage of being smothered in moss. I should alwaysprefer remaining the stone, unhidden, able to move and see about me. Butnow, to speak of other matters, what are your plans for the immediatefuture? Your opera, thanks to the gentlemen, the gods have dubbed'Goggles, ' will, I fancy, run through the winter. Are you getting anysalary?"

"Thirty shillings a week, " I explained to him, "with full salary formatinees. "

"Say two pounds, " he replied. "With my three we could set up anestablishment of our own. I have an idea that is original. Shall we workit out together?"

I assured him with fervour that nothing would please me better. 

"There are four delightful rooms in Queen's Square, " he continued. "Theyare charmingly furnished: a fine sitting-room in the front, withtwo bedrooms and a kitchen behind. Their last tenant was a PolishRevolutionary, who, three months ago, poor fellow, was foolish enough toventure back to Russia, and who is now living rent free. The landlord ofthe house is an original old fellow, Deleglise the engraver. He occupiesthe rest of the house himself. He has told me I can have the rooms foranything I like to offer, and I should suggest thirty shillings a week, though under ordinary circumstances they would be worth three or fourpounds. But he will only let us have them on the understanding thatwe 'do for' ourselves. He is quite an oddity. He hates petticoats, especially elderly petticoats. He has one servant, an old Frenchwoman, who, I believe, was housekeeper to his mother, and he and she do thehousework together, most of their time quarrelling over it. Nothing elseof the genus domestic female will he allow inside the door; not even anoccasional charwoman would be permitted to us. On the other hand, itis a beautiful old Georgian house, with Adams mantelpieces, a stonestaircase, and oak-panelled rooms; and our portion would be the entiresecond floor: no pianos and no landlady. He is a widower with one child, a girl of about fourteen or maybe a little older. Now, what do you say?I am a very fair cook; will you be house-and-parlour-maid?"

I needed no pressing. A week later we were installed there, and fornearly two years we lived there. At the risk of offending an adorablebut somewhat touchy sex, convinced that man, left to himself, iscapable of little more than putting himself to bed, and that only ina rough-and-ready fashion, truth compels me to record the fact thatwithout female assistance or supervision of any kind we passed throughthose two years, and yet exist to tell the tale. Dan had not idlyboasted. Better plain cooking I never want to taste; so good a cup ofcoffee, omelette, or devilled kidney I rarely have tasted. Had he alwaysconfined his efforts within the boundaries of his abilities, therewould be little to record beyond continuous and monotonous success. But stirred into dangerous ambition at the call of an occasional tea orsupper party, lured out of his depths by the example of old Deleglise, our landlord--a man who for twenty years had made cooking his hobby--Danwould at intervals venture upon experiment. Pastry, it became evident, was a thing he should never have touched: his hand was heavy andhis temperament too serious. There was a thing called lemon sponge, necessitating much beating of eggs. In the cookery-book--a remarkablyfat volume, luscious with illustrations of highly-coloured food--itappeared an airy and graceful structure of dazzling whiteness. Served asDan sent it to table, it suggested rather in form and colour a miniatureearthquake. Spongy it undoubtedly was. One forced it apart with theassistance of one's spoon and fork; it yielded with a gentle tearingsound. Another favourite dainty of his was manna-cake. Concerning itI would merely remark that if it in any way resembled anything theChildren of Israel were compelled to eat, then there is explanationfor that fretfulness and discontent for which they have been, perhaps, unjustly blamed--some excuse even for their backward-flung desires inthe direction of the Egyptian fleshpots. Moses himself may have beenblessed with exceptional digestion. It was substantial, one must saythat for it. One slice of it--solid, firm, crusty on the outside, towards the centre marshy--satisfied most people to a sense ofrepletion. For supper parties Dan would essay trifles--by no means opento the criticism of being light as air--souffle's that guests, in spiteof my admonishing kicks, would persist in alluding to as pudding; and inwinter-time, pancakes. Later, as regards these latter, he acquired someskill; but at first the difficulty was the tossing. I think myself asafer plan would have been to turn them by the aid of a knife and fork;it is less showy, but more sure. At least, you avoid all danger ofcatching the half-baked thing upon your head instead of in the pan, of dropping it into the fire, or among the cinders. But "Thorough" wasalways Dan's motto; and after all, small particles of coal or a fewhairs can always be detected by the careful feeder, and removed. 

A more even-tempered man than Dan for twenty-three hours out of everytwenty-four surely never breathed. It was a revelation to me to discoverthat for the other he could be uncertain, irritable, even ungrateful. At first, in a spirit of pure good nature, I would offer him counsel andadvice; explain to him why, as it seemed to me, the custard was pimply, the mayonnaise sauce suggestive of hair oil. What was my return? Sneers, insult and abuse, followed, if I did not clear out quickly, by spoilttomatoes, cold coffee grounds--anything that happened to be handy. Pained, saddened, I would withdraw, he would kick the door to after me. His greatest enemy appeared to be the oven. The oven it was that setitself to thwart his best wrought schemes. Always it was the oven'sfault that the snowy bun appeared to have been made of red sandstone, the macaroni cheese of Cambrian clay. One might have sympathised withhim more had his language been more restrained. As it was, the virulenceof his reproaches almost inclined one to take the part of the oven. 

Concerning our house-maid, I can speak in terms of unqualified praise. There are, alas, fussy house-maids--who has not known and sufferedthem?--who overdo the thing, have no repose, no instinct tellingthem when to ease up and let the place alone. I have always held theperpetual stirring up of dust a scientific error; left to itself, it isharmless, may even be regarded as a delicate domestic bloom, bestowinga touch of homeliness upon objects that without it gleam cold andunsympathetic. Let sleeping dogs lie. Why be continually waking up thestuff, filling the air with all manner of unhealthy germs? Nature in herinfinite wisdom has ordained that upon table, floor, or picture frame itshall sink and settle. There it remains, quiet and inoffensive; there itwill continue to remain so long as nobody interferes with it: why worryit? So also with crumbs, odd bits of string, particles of egg-shell, stumps of matches, ends of cigarettes: what fitter place for such thanunder the nearest mat? To sweep them up is tiresome work. They cling tothe carpet, you get cross with them, curse them for their obstinacy, and feel ashamed of yourself for your childishness. For every one youdo persuade into the dust-pan, two jump out again. You lose your temper, feel bitter towards the man that dropped them. Your whole characterbecomes deteriorated. Under the mat they are always willing to go. Compromise is true statesmanship. There will come a day when you willbe glad of an excuse for not doing something else that you ought tobe doing. Then you can take up the mats and feel quite industrious, contemplating the amount of work that really must be done--some time oranother. 

To differentiate between the essential and the non-essential, thatis where woman fails. In the name of common sense, what is the use ofwashing a cup that half an hour later is going to be made dirty again?If the cat be willing and able to so clean a plate that not one speck ofgrease remain upon it, why deprive her of pleasure to inflict toil uponyourself? If a bed looks made and feels made, then for all practicalpurposes it is made; why upset it merely to put it straight again? Itwould surprise most women the amount of labour that can be avoided in ahouse. 

For needlework, I confess, I never acquired skill. Dan had learnt tohandle a thimble, but my own second finger was ever reluctant to comeforward when wanted. It had to be found, all other fingers removed outof its way. Then, feebly, nervously, it would push, slip, get itselfpricked badly with the head of the needle, and, thoroughly frightened, remain incapable of further action. More practical I found it to pushthe needle through by help of the door or table. 

The opera, as Dan had predicted, ran far into the following year. Whenit was done with, another--in which "Goggles" appeared as one of theprincipals--took its place, and was even more successful. After theexperience of Nelson Square, my present salary of thirty-five shillings, occasionally forty shillings, a week seemed to me princely. Therefloated before my eyes the possibility of my becoming a great operasinger. On six hundred pounds a week, I felt I could be content. But theO'Kelly set himself to dispel this dream. 

"Ye'd be making a mistake, me boy, " explained the O'Kelly. "Ye'd be justwasting ye're time. I wouldn't tell ye so if I weren't convinced of it. "

"I know it is not powerful, " I admitted. 

"Ye might almost call it thin, " added the O'Kelly. 

"It might be good enough for comic opera, " I argued. "People appear tosucceed in comic opera without much voice. 

"Sure, there ye're right, " agreed the O'Kelly, with a sigh. "An' ofcourse if ye had an exceptionally fine presence and were strikinglyhandsome--"

"One can do a good deal with make-up, " I suggested. 

The O'Kelly shook his head. "It's never quite the same thing. It woulddepend upon your acting. "

I dreamt of becoming a second Kean, of taking Macready's place. It neednot interfere with my literary ambition. I could combine the two: fillDrury Lane in the evening, turn out epoch-making novels in the morning, write my own plays. 

Every day I studied in the reading-room of the British Museum. Wearyingof success in Art, I might eventually go into Parliament: a PrimeMinister with a thorough knowledge of history: why not? With Ollendorffor guide, I continued French and German. It might be the diplomaticservice that would appeal to me in my old age. An ambassadorship! Itwould be a pleasant termination to a brilliant career. 

There was excuse for my optimistic mood about this period. All thingswere going well with me. A story of mine had been accepted. I forget forthe moment the name of the journal: it is dead now. Most of the papersin which my early efforts appeared are dead. My contributions mightbe likened to their swan songs. Proofs had been sent me, which I hadcorrected and returned. But proofs are not facts. This had happened tome once before, and I had been lifted to the skies only to fall the moreheavily. The paper had collapsed before my story had appeared. (Ah, whyhad they delayed? It might have saved them!) This time I remembered theproverb, and kept my own counsel, slipping out early each morning on theday of publication to buy the paper, to scan eagerly its columns. Forweeks I suffered hope deferred. But at last, one bright winter's day inJanuary, walking down the Harrow Road, I found myself standing still, suddenly stunned, before a bill outside a small news-vendor's shop. Itwas the first time I had seen my real name in print: "The Witch of MoelSarbod: a legend of Mona, by Paul Kelver. " (For this I had even riskeddiscovery by the Lady 'Ortensia. ) My legs trembling under me, I enteredthe shop. A ruffianly-looking man in dirty shirt-sleeves, who appearedastonished that any one should want a copy, found one at length onthe floor underneath the counter. With it in my pocket, I retraced myfootsteps as in a dream. On a seat in Paddington Green I sat down andread it. The hundred best books! I have waded through them all; theyhave never charmed me as charmed me that one short story in that nowforgotten journal. Need I add it was a sad and sentimental composition. Once upon a time there lived a mighty King; one--but with the names Iwill not bore you; they are somewhat unpronounceable. Their selectionhad cost me many hours of study in the British Museum reading-rooms, surrounded by lexicons of the Welsh language, gazetteers, translationsfrom the early Celtic poets--with footnotes. He loved and was beloved bya beautiful Princess, whose name, being translated, was Purity. Oneday the King, hunting, lost his way, and being weary, lay down and fellasleep. And by chance the spot whereon he lay was near to a place whichby infinite pains, with the aid of a magnifying glass, I had discoveredupon the map, and which means in English the Cave of the Waters, wheredwelt a wicked Sorceress, who, while he slept, cast her spells upon him, so that he awoke to forget his kingly honour and the good of all hispeople, his only desire being towards the Witch of Moel Sarbod. 

Now, there lived in this Kingdom by the sea a great Magician; andPurity, who loved the King far better than herself, bethought her ofhim, and of all she had heard concerning his power and wisdom; and wentto him and besought his aid that she might save the King. There was butone way to accomplish this: with bare feet Purity must climb the rockypath leading to the Witch's dwelling, go boldly up to her, not fearingher sharp claws nor her strong teeth, and kiss her upon the mouth. Inthis way the spirit of Purity would pass into the Witch's soul, and shewould become a woman. But the form and spirit of the Witch would passinto Purity, transforming her, and in the Cave of the Waters she mustforever abide. Thus Purity gave herself that the King might live. Withbleeding feet she climbed the rocky path, clasped the Witch's formwithin her arms, kissed her on the mouth. And the Witch became a womanand reigned with the King over his people, wisely and helpfully. ButPurity became a hideous witch, and to this day abides on Moel Sarbod, where is the Cave of the Waters. And they who climb the mountain's sidestill hear above the roaring of the cataract the sobbing of Purity, the King's betrothed. But many liken it rather to a joyous song of lovetriumphant. 

No writer worth his salt was ever satisfied with anything he ever wrote, so I have been told, and so I try to believe. Evidently I am not worthmy salt. Candid friends, and others, to whom in my salad days I usedto show my work, asking for a frank opinion, meaning, of course, thoughnever would they understand me, their unadulterated praise, would assureme for my good, that this, my first to whom the gods gave life, was buta feeble, ill-shaped child: its attempted early English a cross between"The Pilgrim's Progress" and "Old Moore's Almanac;" its scenery--whichhad cost me weeks of research--an apparent attempt to sum up in thelanguage of a local guide book the leading characteristics of the Gardenof Eden combined with Dante's Inferno; its pathos of the penny-plainand two-penny-coloured order. Maybe they were right. Much have I writtensince that at the time appeared to me good, that I have read laterwith regret, with burning cheek, with frowning brow. But of this, myfirst-born, the harbinger of all my hopes, I am no judge. Touching theyellowing, badly-printed pages, I feel again the deep thrill of joy withwhich I first unfolded them and read. Again I am a youngster, and lifeopens out before me--inmeasurable, no goal too high. This child of mybrain, my work: it shall spread my name throughout the world. It shallbe a household world in lands that I shall never see. Friends whosevoices I shall never hear will speak of me. I shall die, but it shalllive, yield fresh seed, bear fruit I know not of. Generations yet unbornshall read it and remember me. My thoughts, my words, my spirit: in it Ishall live again; it shall keep my memory green. 

The long, long thoughts of boyhood! We elders smile at them. Thelittle world spins round; the little voices of an hour sink hushed. Thecrawling generations come and go. The solar system drops from space. Theeternal mechanism reforms and shapes itself anew. Time, turning, ploughsanother furrow. So, growing sleepy, we murmur with a yawn. Is it thatwe see clearer, or that our eyes are growing dim? Let the young mensee their visions, dream their dreams, hug to themselves their hopes ofenduring fame; so shall they serve the world better. 

I brushed the tears from my eyes and looked up. Half-a-dozen urchins, male and female, were gaping at me open-mouthed. They scatteredshouting, whether compliment or insult I know not: probably the latter. I flung them a handful of coppers, which for the moment silenced them;and went upon my way. How bright, how fair the bustling streets, goldenin the winter sunshine, thronged with life, with effort! Laughter rangaround me. Sweet music rolled from barrel-organs. The strenuous voicesof the costermongers called invitation to the fruitful earth. Errandboys passed me whistling shrilly joyous melodies. Perspiring tradesmenshouted generous offers to the needy. Men and women hurried by withsmiling faces. Sleek cats purred in sheltered nooks, till merry dogsinvited them to sport. The sparrows, feasting in the roadway, chirpedtheir hymn of praise. 

At the Marble Arch I jumped upon a 'bus. I mentioned to the conductorin mounting that it was a fine day. He replied that he had noticed ithimself. The retort struck me as a brilliant repartee. Our coachman, allbut run into by a hansom cab driven by a surly old fellow of patriarchalappearance, remarked upon the danger of allowing horses out in charge ofbits of boys. How full the world of wit and humour!

Almost without knowing it, I found myself in earnest conversation witha young man sitting next to me. We conversed of life, of love. Not untilafterwards, reflecting upon the matter, did it surprise me that to amere chance acquaintance of the moment he had spoken of the one thingdearest to his heart: a sweet but clearly wayward maiden, the Hebe ofa small, old-fashioned coffee-shop the 'bus was at that moment passing. Hitherto I had not been the recipient of confidences. It occurred to methat as a rule not even my friends spoke much to me concerning theirown affairs; generally it was I who spoke to them of mine. I sympathisedwith him, advised him--how, I do not recollect. He said, however, hethought that I was right; and at Regent Street he left me, expressinghis determination to follow my counsel, whatever it may have been. 

Between Berners Street and the Circus I lent a shilling to a couple ofyoung ladies who had just discovered with amusement, quickly swallowedby despair, that they neither of them had any money with them. (Theyreturned it next day in postage stamps, with a charming note. ) Theassurance with which I tendered the slight service astonished me myself. At any other time I should have hesitated, argued with my fears, offeredit with an appearance of sulky constraint, and been declined. Fora moment they were doubtful, then, looking at me, accepted with adelightful smile. They consulted me as to the way to Paternoster Row. I instructed them, adding a literary anecdote, which seemed to interestthem. I even ventured on a compliment, neatly phrased, I am inclined tothink. Evidently it pleased--a result hitherto unusual in the case ofmy compliments. At the corner of Southampton Row I parted from them withregret. Why had I never noticed before how full of pleasant people thissweet and smiling London?

At the corner of Queen's Square a decent-looking woman stopped me to askthe way to the Children's Hospital at Chelsea, explaining she had made amistake, thinking it was the one in Great Ormond Street where her childlay. I directed her, then glancing into her face, noticed how tiredshe looked, and a vista of the weary pavements she would have to trampflashed before me. I slipped some money into her hand and told her totake a 'bus. She flushed, then thanked me. I turned a few yards furtheron; she was starting after me, amazement on her face. I laughed andwaved my hand to her. She smiled back in return, and went her way. 

A rain began to fall. I paused upon the doorstep for a minute, enjoyingthe cool drops upon by upturned face, the tonic sharpness of the keeneast wind; then slipped my key into the lock and entered. 

The door of old Deleglise's studio on the first floor happened to beopen. Hitherto, beyond the usual formal salutations, when by chance wemet upon the stairs, I had exchanged but few words with my eccentriclandlord; but remembering his kindly face, the desire came upon meto tell him my good fortune. I felt sure his eyes would lighten withdelight. By instinct I knew him for a young man's man. 

I tapped lightly; no answer came. Someone was talking; it sounded like agirl's voice. I pushed the door further open and walked in; such was thecustom of the house. It was a large room, built over the yard, lightedby one high window, before which was the engraving desk, shaded undera screen of tissue paper. At the further end of the room stood a largecheval-glass, and in front of this, its back towards me, was a figurethat excited my curiosity; so that remaining where I was, partly hiddenbehind a large easel, I watched it for awhile in silence. Above aheavily flounced blue skirt, which fell in creases on the floorand trailed a couple of yards or so behind, it wore a black low-cutsleeveless bodice--much too big for it--of the fashion early Victorian. A good deal of dark-brown hair, fastened up by hair-pins that stuck outin all directions like quills upon a porcupine, suggesting collapse withevery movement, was ornamented by three enormous green feathers, oneof which hung limply over the lady's left ear. Three times, while Iwatched, unnoticed, the lady propped it into a more befitting attitude, and three times, limp and intoxicated-looking, it fell back into itsformer foolish position. Her long, thin arms, displaying a pair ofbrilliantly red elbows, pointed to quite a dangerous degree, terminatedin hands so very sunburnt as to convey the impression of a pair ofremarkably well-fitting gloves. Her right hand grasped and waved withdetermination a large lace fan, her left clutched fiercely the front ofher skirt. With a sweeping curtsey to herself in the glass, which wouldhave been more effective could she have avoided tying her legs togetherwith her skirt--a _contretemps_ necessitating the use of both hands anda succession of jumps before she could disentangle herself--she remarkedso soon as she had recovered her balance:

"So sorry I am late. My carriage was unfortunately delayed. "

The excuse, I gathered, was accepted, for with a gracious smile anda vigorous bow, by help of which every hairpin made distinct furtheradvance towards freedom, she turned, and with much dignity and headover the right shoulder took a short walk to the left. At the end of sixshort steps she stopped and began kicking. For what reason, I, at first, could not comprehend. It dawned upon me after awhile that her objectwas the adjustment of her train. Finding the manoeuvre too difficult ofaccomplishment by feet alone, she stooped, and, taking the stuff up inher hands, threw it behind her. Then, facing north, she retracedher steps to the glass, talking to herself, as she walked, in thehigh-pitched drawl, distinctive, as my stage knowledge told me, ofaristocratic society. 

"Oh, do you think so--really? Ah, yes; you say that. Certainly not! Ishouldn't think of it. " There followed what I am inclined to believe wasintended for a laugh, musical but tantalising. If so, want of practicemarred the effort. The performance failed to satisfy even herself. Shetried again; it was still only a giggle. 

Before the glass she paused, and with a haughty inclination of her headsucceeded for the third time in displacing the intoxicated feather. 

"Oh, bother the silly thing!" she said in a voice so natural as to be, by contrast with her previous tone, quite startling. 

She fixed it again with difficulty, muttering something inarticulate. Then, her left hand resting on an imaginary coat-sleeve, her rightholding her skirt sufficiently high to enable her to move, she commencedto majestically gyrate. 

Whether, hampered as she was by excess of skirt, handicapped by thenatural clumsiness of her age, catastrophe in any case would not sooneror later have overtaken her, I have my doubts. I have since learnt herown view to be that but for catching sight, in turning, of my face, staring at her through the bars of the easel, all would have gone welland gracefully. Avoiding controversy on this point, the facts to berecorded are, that, seeing me, she uttered a sudden exclamation ofsurprise, dropped her skirt, trod on her train, felt her hair comingdown, tried to do two things at once, and sat upon the floor. I ran toher assistance. With flaming face and flashing eyes she sprang to herfeet. There was a sound as of the rushing down of avalanches. The blueflounced skirt lay round her on the floor. She stood above its billowyfolds, reminiscent of Venus rising from the waves--a gawky, angularVenus in a short serge frock, reaching a little below her knees, blackstockings and a pair of prunella boots of a size suggesting she had yetsome inches to grow before reaching her full height. 

"I hope you haven't hurt yourself, " I said. 

The next moment I didn't care whether she had or whether she hadn't. She did not reply to my kindly meant enquiry. Instead, her hand sweptthrough the air in the form of an ample semi-circle. It terminated onmy ear. It was not a small hand; it was not a soft hand; it was notthat sort of hand. The sound of the contact rang through the room like apistol shot; I beard it with my other ear. I sprang at her, and catchingher before she had recovered her equilibrium, kissed her. I did not kissher because I wanted to. I kissed her because I could not box her earsback in return, which I should have preferred doing. I kissed her, hoping it would make her mad. It did. If a look could have killed me, such would have been the tragic ending of this story. It did not killme; it did me good. 

"You horrid boy!" she cried. "You horrid, horrid boy!"

There, I admit, she scored. I did not in the least object to herthinking me horrid, but at nineteen one does object to being mistakenfor a boy. 

"I am not a boy, " I explained. 

"Yes, you are, " she retorted; "a beast of a boy!"

"If you do it again, " I warned her--a sudden movement on her parthinting to me the possibility--"I'll kiss you again! I mean it. "

"Leave the room!" she commanded, pointing with her angular arm towardsthe door. 

I did not wish to remain. I was about to retire with as much dignity ascircumstances permitted. 

"Boy!" she added. 

At that I turned. "Now I won't go!" I replied. "See if I do. "

We stood glaring at each other. 

"What right have you in here?" she demanded. 

"I came to see Mr. Deleglise, " I answered. "I suppose you are MissDeleglise. It doesn't seem to me that you know how to treat a visitor. "

"Who are you?" she asked. 

"Mr. Horace Moncrieff, " I replied. I was using at the period both mynames indiscriminately, but for this occasion Horace Moncrieff I judgedthe more awe-inspiring. 

She snorted. "I know. You're the house-maid. You sweep all the crumbsunder the mats. "

Now this was a subject about which at the time I was feeling somewhatsore. "Needs must when the Devil drives;" but as matters were, Dan and Icould well have afforded domestic assistance. It rankled in my mind thatto fit in with the foolish fad of old Deleglise, I the future Dickens, Thackeray and George Eliot, Kean, Macready and Phelps rolled into one, should be compelled to the performance of menial duties. On this morningof all others, my brilliant literary career just commenced, the anomalyof the thing appeared naturally more glaring. 

Besides, how came she to know I swept the crumbs under the mat--that itwas my method? Had she and Dan been discussing me, ridiculing me behindmy back? What right had Dan to reveal the secrets of our menage to thischit of a school-girl? Had he done so? or had she been prying, pokingher tilted nose into matters that did not concern her? Pity it was shehad no mother to occasionally spank her, teach her proper behaviour. 

"Where I sweep our crumbs is nothing to do with you, " I replied withsome spirit. "That I have to sweep them at all is the fault of yourfather. A sensible girl--"

"How dare you speak against my father!" she interrupted me with blazingeyes. 

"We will not discuss the question further, " I answered, with sense anddignity. 

"I think you had better not!" she retorted. 

Turning her back on me, she commenced to gather up her hairpins--theremust have been about a hundred of them. I assisted her to the extent ofpicking up about twenty, which I handed to her with a bow: it may havebeen a little stiff, but that was only to be expected. I wished to showher that her bad example had not affected my own manners. 

"I am sorry my presence should have annoyed you, " I said. "It was quitean accident. I entered the room thinking your father was here. "

"When you saw he wasn't, you might have gone out again, " she replied, "instead of hiding yourself behind a picture. "

"I didn't hide myself, " I explained. "The easel happened to be in theway. "

"And you stopped there and watched me. "

"I couldn't help it. "

She looked round and our eyes met. They were frank, grey eyes. Anexpression of merriment shot into them. I laughed. 

Then she laughed: it was a delightful laugh, the laugh one would haveexpected from her. 

"You might at least have coughed, " she suggested. 

"It was so amusing, " I pleaded. 

"I suppose it was, " she agreed, and held out her hand. "Did I hurt you?"she asked. 

"Yes, you did, " I answered, taking it. 

"Well, it was enough to annoy me, wasn't it?" she suggested. 

"Evidently, " I agreed. 

"I am going to a ball next week, " she explained, "a grown-up ball, andI've got to wear a skirt. I wanted to see if I could manage a train. "

"Well, to be candid, you can't, " I assured her. 

"It does seem difficult. "

"Shall I show you?" I asked. 

"What do you know about it?"

"Well, I see it done every night. "

"Oh, yes; of course, you're on the stage. Yes, do. "

We readjusted the torn skirt, accommodating it better to her figure bythe help of hairpins. I showed her how to hold the train, and, I humminga tune, we commenced to waltz. 

"I shouldn't count my steps, " I suggested to her. "It takes your mindaway from the music. "

"I don't waltz well, " she admitted meekly. "I know I don't do anythingwell--except play hockey. "

"And try not to tread on your partner's feet. That's a very bad fault. "

"I do try not to, " she explained. 

"It comes with practice, " I assured her. 

"I'll get Tom to give me half an hour every evening, " she said. "Hedances beautifully. "

"Who's Tom?"

"Oh, father. "

"Why do you call your father Tom? It doesn't sound respectful. "

"Oh, he likes it; and it suits him so much better than father. Besides, he isn't like a real father. He does everything I want him to. "

"Is that good for you?"

"No; it's very bad for me--everybody says so. When you come to think ofit, of course it isn't the way to bring up a girl. I tell him, but hemerely laughs--says it's the only way he knows. I do hope I turn out allright. Am I doing it better now?"

"A little. Don't be too anxious about it. Don't look at your feet. "

"But if I don't they go all wrong. It was you who trod on mine thattime. "

"I know. I'm sorry. It's a little difficult not to. "

"Am I holding my train all right?"

"Well, there's no need to grip it as if you were afraid it would runaway. It will follow all right. Hold it gracefully. "

"I wish I wasn't a girl. "

"Oh, you'll get used to it. " We concluded our dance. 

"What do I do--say 'Thank you'?"

"Yes, prettily. "

"What does he do?"

"Oh, he takes you back to your chaperon, or suggests refreshment, or yousit and talk. "

"I hate talking. I never know what to say. "

"Oh, that's his duty. He'll try and amuse you, then you must laugh. Youhave a nice laugh. "

"But I never know when to laugh. If I laugh when I want to it alwaysoffends people. What do you do if somebody asks you to dance and youdon't want to dance with them?"

"Oh, you say your programme is full. "

"But if it isn't?"

"Well, you tell a lie. "

"Couldn't I say I don't dance well, and that I'm sure they'd get onbetter with somebody else?"

"It would be the truth, but they might not believe it. "

"I hope nobody asks me that I don't want. "

"Well, he won't a second time, anyhow. "

"You are rude. "

"You are only a school-girl. "

"I look a woman in my new frock, I really do. "

"I should doubt it. "

"You shall see me, then you'll be polite. It is because you are a boyyou are rude. Men are much nicer. "

"Oh, are they?"

"Yes. You will be, when you are a man. "

The sound of voices rose suddenly in the hall. 

"Tom!" cried Miss Deleglise; and collecting her skirt in both hands, bolted down the corkscrew staircase leading to the kitchen, leaving mestanding in the centre of the studio. 

The door opened and old Deleglise entered, accompanied by a small, slight man with red hair and beard and somewhat watery eyes. 

Deleglise himself was a handsome old fellow, then a man of aboutfifty-five. His massive, mobile face, illuminated by bright, restlesseyes, was crowned with a lion-like mane of iron-grey hair. Till a fewyears ago he had been a painter of considerable note. But in questionsof art his temper was short. Pre-Raphaelism had gone out of fashion forthe time being; the tendency of the new age was towards impressionism, and in disgust old Deleglise had broken his palette across his knee, andswore never to paint again. Artistic work of some sort being necessaryto his temperament, he contented himself now with engraving. At themoment he was engaged upon the reproduction of Memlinc's Shrine of St. Ursula, with photographs of which he had just returned from Bruges. 

At sight of me his face lighted with a smile, and he advanced withoutstretched hand. 

"Ah; my lad, so you have got over your shyness and come to visit the oldbear in his den. Good boy. I like young faces. "

He had a clear, musical voice, ever with the suggestion of a laughbehind it. He laid his hand upon my shoulder. 

"Why, you are looking as if you had come into a fortune, " he added, "anddidn't know what a piece of bad luck that can be to a young fellow likeyourself. "

"How could it be bad luck?" I asked, laughing. 

"Takes all the sauce out of life, young man, " answered Deleglise. "Whatinterest is there in running a race with the prize already in yourpossession, tell me that?"

"It is not that kind of fortune, " I answered, "it is another. I have hadmy first story accepted. It is in print. Look. "

I handed him the paper. He spread it out upon the engraving board beforehim. 

"Ah, that's better, " he said, "that's better. Charlie, " he turned to thered-headed man, who had seated himself listlessly in the one easy-chairthe room contained, "come here. "

The red-headed man rose and wandered towards us. "Let me introduce youto Mr. Paul Kelver, our new fellow servant. Our lady has accepted him. He has just been elected; his first story is in print. "

The red-haired man stretched out his long thin hand. "I have thirtyyears of fame, " said the red-haired man--"could I say world-wide?"

He turned for confirmation to old Deleglise, who laughed. "I think youcan. "

"If I could give it you would you exchange with me--at this moment?"

"You would be a fool if you did, " he went on. "One's first success, one's first victory! It is the lover's first kiss. Fortune grows old andwrinkled, frowns more often than she smiles. We become indifferent toher, quarrel with her, make it up again. But the joy of her first kissafter the long wooing! Burn it into your memory, my young friend, thatit may live with you always!"

He strolled away. Old Deleglise took up the parable. 

"Ah, yes; one's first success, Paul! Laugh, my boy, cry! Shut yourselfup in your room, shout, dance! Throw your hat into the air and cryhurrah! Make the most of it, Paul. Hug it to your heart, think of it, dream of it. This is the finest hour of your life, my boy. There willnever come another like it--never!"

He crossed the studio, and taking from its nail a small oil painting, brought it over and laid it on the board beside my paper. It was afascinating little picture, painted with that exquisite minutiae anddevelopment of detail that a newer school was then ridiculing: as thoughArt had but one note to her voice. The dead figure of an old man layupon a bed. A child had crept into the darkened room, and supportingitself by clutching tightly at the sheet, was gazing with solemncuriosity upon the white, still face. 

"That was mine, " said old Deleglise. "It was hung in the Academythirty-six years ago, and bought for ten guineas by a dentist at BurySt. Edmunds. He went mad a few years later and died in a lunatic asylum. I had never lost sight of it, and the executors were quite agreeableto my having it back again for the same ten guineas. I used to go everymorning to the Academy to look at it. I thought it the cleverest bit ofwork in the whole gallery, and I'm not at all sure that it wasn't. Isaw myself a second Teniers, another Millet. Look how that light comingthrough the open door is treated; isn't it good? Somebody will pay athousand guineas for it before I have been dead a dozen years, and itis worth it. But I wouldn't sell it myself now for five thousand. One'sfirst success; it is worth all the rest of life!"

"All?" queried the red-haired man from his easy-chair. We looked round. The lady of the skirt had entered, now her own proper self: a young girlof about fifteen, angular, awkward-looking, but bringing into the roomwith her that atmosphere of life, of hope, that is the eternal messageof youth. She was not beautiful, not then--plain one might almost havecalled her but for her frank, grey eyes, her mass of dark-brown hairnow gathered into a long thick plait. A light came into old Deleglise'seyes. 

"You are right, not all, " he murmured to the red-haired man. 

She came forward shyly. I found it difficult to recognise in her theflaming Fury that a few minutes before had sprung at me from the billowsof her torn blue skirt. She shook hands with the red-haired man andkissed her father. 

"My daughter, " said old Deleglise, introducing me to her. "Mr. PaulKelver, a literary gent. "

"Mr. Kelver and I have met already, " she explained. "He has been waitingfor you here in the studio. "

"And have you been entertaining him?" asked Deleglise. "Oh, yes, I entertained him, " she replied. Her voice was singularly like herfather's, with just the same suggestion of ever a laugh behind it. 

"We entertained each other, " I said. 

"That's all right, " said old Deleglise. "Stop and lunch with us. We willmake ourselves a curry. "

CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE GLORY AND GOODNESS AND THE EVIL THAT GO TO THE MAKING OF LOVE. 

During my time of struggle I had avoided all communication with oldHasluck. He was not a man to sympathise with feelings he did notunderstand. With boisterous good humour he would have insisted uponhelping me. Why I preferred half starving with Lott and Co. To sellingmy labour for a fair wage to good-natured old Hasluck, merely becauseI knew him, I cannot explain. Though the profits may not have been solarge, Lott and Co. 's dealings were not one whit more honest: I do notbelieve it was that which decided me. Nor do I think it was because hewas Barbara's father. I never connected him, nor that good old soul, his vulgar, homely wife, in any way with Barbara. To me she was a beingapart from all the world. Her true Parents! I should have sought themrather amid the sacred groves of vanished lands, within the sky-domedshrines of banished gods. There are instincts in us not easilyanalysed, not to be explained by reason. I have always preferred thefinding--sometimes the losing--of my way according to the map, to thesurer and simpler method of vocal enquiry; working out a complicatedjourney, and running the risk of never arriving at my destination, by aid of a Continental Bradshaw, to putting myself into the handsof courteous officials maintained and paid to assist the perplexedtraveller. Possibly a far-off progenitor of mine may have been somemorose "rogue" savage with untribal inclinations, living in hiscave apart, fashioning his own stone hammer, shaping his own flintarrow-heads, shunning the merry war-dance, preferring to caper byhimself. 

But now, having gained my own foothold, I could stretch out my handwithout fear of the movement being mistaken for appeal. I wrote to oldHasluck; and almost by the next post received from him the friendliestof notes. He told me Barbara had just returned from abroad, took it uponhimself to add that she also would be delighted to see me, and, as Iknew he would, threw his doors open to me. 

Of my boyish passion for Barbara never had I spoken to a living soul, nor do I think, excepting Barbara herself, had any ever guessed it. Tomy mother, though she was very fond of her, Barbara was only a girl, with charms but also with faults, concerning which my mother wouldspeak freely; hurting me, as one unwittingly might hurt a neophyte byphilosophical discussion of his newly embraced religion. Often, choosingby preference late evening or the night, I would wander round and roundthe huge red-brick house standing in its ancient garden on the topof Stamford Hill; descending again into the noisome streets as onereturning to the world from praying at a shrine, purified, filled withpeace, all noble endeavour, all unselfish aims seeming within my grasp. 

During Barbara's four years' absence my adoration had grown andstrengthened. Out of my memory of her my desire had evolved its ideal; abeing of my imagination, but by reason of that, to me the more real, the more present. I looked forward to seeing her again, but with noimpatience, revelling rather in the anticipation than eager for therealisation. As a creature of flesh and blood, the child I had playedwith, talked with, touched, she had faded further and further into thedistance; as the vision of my dreams she stood out clearer day by day. Iknew that when next I saw her there would be a gulf between us I hadno wish to bridge. To worship her from afar was a sweeter thought to methan would have been the hope of a passionate embrace. To live with her, sit opposite to her while she ate and drank, see her, perhaps, with herhair in curl-papers, know possibly that she had a corn upon her foot, hear her speak maybe of a decayed tooth, or of a chilblain, would havebeen torture to me. Into such abyss of the commonplace there was no fearof my dragging her, and for this I was glad. In the future she would beyet more removed from me. She was older than I was; she must be now awoman. Instinctively I felt that in spite of years I was not yet a man. She would marry. The thought gave me no pain, my feeling for her wasutterly devoid of appetite. No one but myself could close the templeI had built about her, none deny to me the right of entry there. Nojealous priest could hide her from my eyes, her altar I had reared toohigh. Since I have come to know myself better, I perceive that she stoodto me not as a living woman, but as a symbol; not a fellow human beingto be walked with through life, helping and to be helped, but thatimpalpable religion of sex to which we raise up idols of poor humanclay, alas, not always to our satisfaction, so that foolishly we fallinto anger against them, forgetting they were but the work of our ownhands; not the body, but the spirit of love. 

I allowed a week to elapse after receiving old Hasluck's letter beforepresenting myself at Stamford Hill. It was late one afternoon in earlysummer. Hasluck had not returned from the City, Mrs. Hasluck was outvisiting, Miss Hasluck was in the garden. I told the superciliousfootman not to trouble, I would seek her there myself. I guessed whereshe would be; her favourite spot had always been a sunny corner, brightwith flowers, surrounded by a thick yew hedge, cut, after the Dutchfashion, into quaint shapes of animals and birds. She was walking there, as I had expected, reading a book. And again, as I saw her, came backto me the feeling that had swept across me as a boy, when first outlinedagainst the dusty books and papers of my father's office she had flashedupon my eyes: that all the fairy tales had suddenly come true, onlynow, instead of the Princess, she was the Queen. Taller she was, witha dignity that formerly had been the only charm she lacked. She did nothear my coming, my way being across the soft, short grass, and for alittle while I stood there in the shadow of the yews, drinking in thebeauty of her clear-cut profile, bent down towards her book, the curvinglines of her long neck, the wonder of the exquisite white hand againstthe lilac of her dress. 

I did not speak; rather would I have remained so watching; but turningat the end of the path, she saw me, and as she came towards me held outher hand. I knelt upon the path, and raised it to my lips. The actionwas spontaneous, till afterwards I was not aware of having done it. Herlips were smiling as I raised my eyes to them, the faintest suggestionof contempt mingling with amusement. Yet she seemed pleased, and hercontempt, even if I were not mistaken, would not have wounded me. 

"So you are still in love with me? I wondered if you would be. "

"Did you know that I was in love with you?"

"I should have been blind if I had not. "

"But I was only a boy. "

"You were not the usual type of boy. You are not going to be the usualtype of man. "

"You do not mind my loving you?"

"I cannot help it, can I? Nor can you. "

She seated herself on a stone bench facing a sun-dial, and leaning hack, her hands clasped behind her head, looked at me and laughed. 

"I shall always love you, " I answered, "but it is with a curious sort oflove. I do not understand it myself. "

"Tell me, " she commanded, still with a smile about her lips, "describeit to me. "

I was standing over against her, my arm resting upon the dial's stonecolumn. The sun was sinking, casting long shadows on the velvety grass, illuminating with a golden light her upturned face. 

"I would you were some great queen of olden days, and that I might bealways near you, serving you, doing your bidding. Your love in returnwould spoil all; I shall never ask it, never desire it. That I mightlook upon you, touch now and then at rare intervals with my lips yourhand, kiss in secret the glove you had let fall, the shoe you had flungoff, know that you knew of my love, that I was yours to do with as youwould, to live or die according to your wish. Or that you were priestessin some temple of forgotten gods, where I might steal at daybreak and atdusk to gaze upon your beauty; kneel with clasped hands, watching yoursandalled feet coming and going about the altar steps; lie with pressedlips upon the stones your trailing robes had touched. "

She laughed a light mocking laugh. "I should prefer to be the queen. The role of priestess would not suit me. Temples are so cold. " A slightshiver passed through her. She made a movement with her hand, beckoningme to her feet. "That is how you shall love me, Paul, " she said, "adoring me, worshipping me--blindly. I will be your queen and treatyou--as it chooses me. All I think, all I do, I will tell you, and youshall tell me it is right. The queen can do no wrong. "

She took my face between her hands, and bending over me, looked longand steadfastly into my eyes. "You understand, Paul, the queen can dono wrong--never, never. " There had crept into her voice a note ofvehemence, in her face was a look almost of appeal. 

"My queen can do no wrong, " I repeated. And she laughed and let herhands fall back upon her lap. 

"Now you may sit beside me. So much honour, Paul, shall you have to-day, but it will have to last you long. And you may tell me all you have beendoing, maybe it will amuse me; and afterwards you shall hear what I havedone, and shall say that it was right and good of me. "

I obeyed, sketching my story briefly, yet leaving nothing untold, noteven the transit of the Lady 'Ortensia, ashamed of the episode though Iwas. At that she looked a little grave. 

"You must do nothing again, Paul, " she commanded, "to make me feelashamed of you, or I shall dismiss you from my presence for ever. I mustbe proud of you, or you shall not serve me. In dishonouring yourself youare dishonouring me. I am angry with you, Paul. Do not let me be angrywith you again. "

And so that passed; and although my love for her--as I know well shewished and sought it should--failed to save me at all times from theapish voices whispering ever to the beast within us, I know the desireto be worthy of her, to honour her with all my being, helped my life asonly love can. The glory of the morning fades, the magic veil is rent;we see all things with cold, clear eyes. My love was a woman. She liesdead. They have mocked her white sweet limbs with rags and tatters, butthey cannot cheat love's eyes. God knows I loved her in all purity! Onlywith false love we love the false. Beneath the unclean clinging garmentsshe sleeps fair. 

My tale finished, "Now I will tell you mine, " she said. "I am going tobe married soon. I shall be a Countess, Paul, the Countess Huescar--Iwill teach you how to pronounce it--and I shall have a real castle inSpain. You need not look so frightened, Paul; we shall not live there. It is a half-ruined, gloomy place, among the mountains, and he loves iteven less than I do. Paris and London will be my courts, so you willsee me often. You shall know the great world, Paul, the world I mean toconquer, where I mean to rule. "

"Is he very rich?" I asked. 

"As poor, " she laughed, "as poor as a Spanish nobleman. The money Ishall have to provide, or, rather, poor dear Dad will. He gives metitle, position. Of course I do not love him, handsome though he is. Don't look so solemn, Paul. We shall get on together well enough. Queens, Paul, do not make love matches, they contract alliances. I havedone well, Paul; congratulate me. Do you hear, Paul? Say that I haveacted rightly. "

"Does he love you?" I asked. 

"He tells me so, " she answered, with a laugh. "How uncourtier-like youare, Paul! Do you suggest that any man could see me and not love me?"

She sprang to her feet. "I do not want his love, " she cried; "it wouldbore me. Women hate love they cannot return. I don't mean love likeyours, devout little Paul, " she added, with a laugh. "That is sweetincense wafted round us that we like to scent with our noses in the air. Give me that, Paul; I want it, I ask for it. But the love of a hand, thelove of a husband that one does not care for--it would be horrible!"

I felt myself growing older. For the moment my goddess became a childneeding help. 

"But have you thought--" I commenced. 

"Yes, yes, " she interrupted me quickly, "I have thought and thought tillI can think no more. There must be some sacrifice; it must be as littleas need be, that is all. He does not love me; he is marrying me for mymoney--I know that, and I am glad of it. You do not know me, Paul. Imust have rank, position. What am I? The daughter of rich old Hasluck, who began life as a butcher in the Mile End Road. As the PrincessHuescar, society will forget, as Mrs. "--it seemed to me she checkedherself abruptly--"Jones or Brown it would remember, however richI might be. I am vain, Paul, caring for power--ambition. I have myfather's blood in me. All his nights and days he has spent in gainingwealth; he can do no more. We upstarts have our pride of race. He hasdone his share, I must do mine. "

"But you need not be mere Mrs. Anybody commonplace, " I argued. "Why notwait? You will meet someone who can give you position and whom at thesame time you can love. Would that not be better?"

"He will never come, the man I could love, " she answered. "Because, my little Paul, he has come already. Hush, Paul, the queen can do nowrong. "

"Who is he?" I asked. "May I not know?"

"Yes, Paul, " she answered, "you shall know; I want you to know, then youshall tell me that I have acted rightly. Do you hear me, Paul?--quiterightly--that you still respect me and honour me. He could not help me. As his wife, I should be less even than I am, a mere rich nobody, givinglong dinner-parties to other rich nobodies, living amongst City men, retired trades-people; envied only by their fat, vulgarly dressed wives, courted by seedy Bohemians for the sake of my cook; with perhaps anopera singer or an impecunious nobleman or two out of Dad's City listfor my show-guests. Is that the court, Paul, where you would have yourqueen reign?"

"Is he so commonplace a man, " I answered, "the man you love? I cannotbelieve it. "

"He is not commonplace, " she answered. "It is I who am commonplace. Thethings I desire, they are beneath him; he will never trouble himself tosecure them. "

"Not even for love of you?"

"I would not have him do so even were he willing. He is great, with agreatness I cannot even understand. He is not the man for these times. In old days, I should have married him, knowing he would climb togreatness by sheer strength of manhood. But now men do not climb; theycrawl to greatness. He could not do that. I have done right, Paul. "

"What does he say?" I asked. 

"Shall I tell you?" She laughed a little bitterly. "I can give you hisexact words, 'You are half a woman and half a fool, so woman-like youwill follow your folly. But let your folly see to it that your womanmakes no fool of herself. '"

The words were what I could imagine his saying. I heard the strong ringof his voice through her mocking mimicry. 

"Hal!" I cried. "It is he. "

"So you never guessed even that, Paul. I thought at times it would besweet to cry it out aloud, that it could have made no difference, thateveryone who knew me must have read it in my eyes. "

"But he never seemed to take much notice of you, " I said. 

She laughed. "You needn't be so unkind, Paul. What did I ever do foryou much more than snub you? We boys and girls; there is not so muchdifference between us: we love our masters. Yet you must not think sopoorly of me. I was only a child to him then, but we were locked up inParis together during the entire siege. Have not you heard? He did takea little notice of me there, Paul, I assure you. "

Would it have been better, I wonder, had she followed the woman and notthe fool? It sounds an easy question to answer; but I am thinking ofyears later, one winter's night at Tiefenkasten in the Julier Pass. Iwas on my way from San Moritz to Chur. The sole passenger, I had justclimbed, half frozen, from the sledge, and was thawing myself before thestove in the common room of the hotel when the waiter put a pencillednote into my hand:

"Come up and see me. I am a prisoner in this damned hole till theweather breaks. Hal. "

I hardly recognised him at first. Only the poor ghost he seemed of theHal I had known as a boy. His long privations endured during the Parissiege, added to the superhuman work he had there put upon himself, hadcommenced the ruin of even his magnificent physique--a ruin the wild, loose life he was now leading was soon to complete. It was a gloomy, vaulted room that once had been a chapel, lighted dimly by a cheap, evil-smelling lamp, heated to suffocation by one of those greatgreen-tiled German ovens now only to be met with in rare out-of-the-wayworld corners. He was sitting propped up by pillows on the bed, placedclose to one of the high windows, his deep eyes flaring like twogleaming caverns out of his drawn, haggard face. 

"I saw you from the window, " he explained. "It is the only excitementI get, twice a day when the sledges come in. I broke down coming acrossthe Pass a fortnight ago, on my way from Davos. We were stuck in a driftfor eighteen hours; it nearly finished my last lung. And I haven't evena book to read. By God! lad, I was glad to see your frosted face tenminutes ago in the light of the lantern. "

He grasped me with his long bony hand. "Sit down, and let me hearmy voice using again its mother tongue--you were always a goodlistener--for the last eight years I have hardly spoken it. Can youstand the room? The windows ought to be open, but what does it matter? Imay as well get accustomed to the heat before I die. "

I drew my chair close to the bed, and for awhile, between his fitsof coughing, we talked of things that were outside our thoughts, or, rather, Hal talked, continuously, boisterously, meeting my remonstranceswith shouts of laughter, ending in wild struggles for breath, so that Ideemed it better to let him work his mad mood out. 

Then suddenly: "What is she doing?" he asked. "Do you ever see her?"

"She is playing in--" I mentioned the name of a comic opera then runningin Paris. "No; I have not seen her for some time. "

He laid his white, wasted hand on mine. "What a pity you and I could nothave rolled ourselves into one, Paul--you, the saint, and I, the satyr. Together we should have made her perfect lover. "

There came back to me the memory of those long nights when I had lainawake listening to the angry voices of my father and mother soakingthrough the flimsy wall. It seemed my fate to stand thus helplessbetween those I loved, watching them hurting one another against theirwill. 

"Tell me, " I asked--"I loved her, knowing her: I was not blind. Whosefault was it? Yours or hers?"

He laughed. "Whose fault, Paul? God made us. "

Thinking of her fair, sweet face, I hated him for his mocking laugh. Butthe next moment, looking into his deep eyes, seeing the pain that dweltthere, my pity was for him. A smile came to his ugly mouth. 

"You have been on the stage, Paul; you must have heard the saying often:'Ah, well, the curtain must come down, however badly things are going. 'It is only a play, Paul. We do not choose our parts. I did not evenknow I was the villain, till I heard the booing of the gallery. I eventhought I was the hero, full of noble sentiment, sacrificing myself forthe happiness of the heroine. She would have married me in the beginninghad I plagued her sufficiently. "

I made to speak, but he interrupted me, continuing: "Ah, yes, it mighthave been better. That is easy to say, not knowing. So, too, it mighthave been worse--in all probability much the same. All roads lead tothe end. You know I was always a fatalist, Paul. We tried both ways. Sheloved me well enough, but she loved the world also. I thought sheloved it better, so I kissed her on her brow, mumbled a prayer for herhappiness and made my exit to a choking sob. So ended the first act. Wasn't I the hero throughout that, Paul? I thought so; slapped myselfupon the back, told myself what a fine fellow I had been. Then--you knowwhat followed. She was finer clay than she had fancied. Love is woman'skingdom, not the world. Even then I thought more of her than of myself. I could have borne my share of the burden had I not seen her faintingunder hers, shamed, degraded. So we dared to think for ourselves, injuring nobody but ourselves, played the man and woman, lost the worldfor love. Wasn't it brave, Paul? Were we not hero and heroine? They hadprinted the playbill wrong, Paul, that was all. I was really the hero, but the printing devil had made a slip, so instead of applauding youbooed. How could you know, any of you? It was not your fault. "

"But that was not the end, " I reminded him. "If the curtain had fallenthen, I could have forgiven you. "

He grinned. "That fatal last act. Even yours don't always come right, sothe critics tell me. "

The grin faded from his face. "We may never see each other again, Paul, "he went on; "don't think too badly of me. I found I had made a secondmistake--or thought I had. She was no happier with me after a time thanshe had been with him. If all our longings were one, life would be easy;but they are not. What is to be done but toss for it? And if it comedown head we wish it had been tail, and if tail we think of what we havelost through its not coming down head. Love is no more the whole of awoman's life than it is of a man's. He did not apply for a divorce: thatwas smart of him. We were shunned, ignored. To some women it might nothave mattered; but she had been used to being sought, courted, feted. She made no complaint--did worse: made desperate effort to appearcheerful, to pretend that our humdrum life was not boring her to death. I watched her growing more listless, more depressed; grew angry withher, angrier with myself. There was no bond between us except ourpassion; that was real enough--'grand, ' I believe, is the approvedliterary adjective. It is good enough for what nature intended it, asummer season in a cave. It makes but a poor marriage settlement inthese more complicated days. We fell to mutual recriminations, vulgarscenes. Ah, most of us look better at a little distance from oneanother. The sordid, contemptible side of life became important to us. Iwas never rich; by contrast with all that she had known, miserably poor. The mere sight of the food our twelve-pound-a-year cook put upon thetable would take away her appetite. Love does not change the palate, give you a taste for cheap claret when you have been accustomed to drychampagne. We have bodies to think of as well as souls; we are apt toforget that in moments of excitement. 

"She fell ill, and it seemed to me that I had dragged her from the soilwhere she had grown only to watch her die. And then he came, preciselyat the right moment. I cannot help admiring him. Most men take theirrevenge clumsily, hurting themselves; he was so neat, had been sopatient. I am not even ashamed of having fallen into his trap; it wasadmirably baited. Maybe I had despised him for having seemed to submitmeekly to the blow. What cared he for me and my opinion? It was she wasall he cared for. He knew her better than I, knew that sooner or latershe would tire, not of love but of the cottage; look back with longingeyes towards all that she had lost. Fool! Cuckold! What was it to himthat the world would laugh at him, despise him? Love such as his madefools of men. Would I not give her back to him?

"By God! It was fine acting; half into the night we talked, I leavinghim every now and again to creep to the top of the stairs and listen toher breathing. He asked me my advice, I being the hard-headed partner ofcool judgment. What would be the best way of approaching her after I wasgone? Where should he take her? How should they live till the nine days'talk had died away? And I sat opposite to him--how he must have longedto laugh in my silly face--advising him! We could not quite agree asto details of a possible yachting cruise, and I remember hunting up anatlas, and we pored over it, our heads close together. By God! I envyhim that night!"

He sank back on his pillows and laughed and coughed, and laughed andcoughed again, till I feared that wild, long, broken laugh would be hislast. But it ceased at length, and for awhile, exhausted, he lay silentbefore continuing. 

"Then came the question: how was I to go? She loved me still. He wassure of it, and, for the matter of that, so was I. So long as shethought that I loved her, she would never leave me. Only from herdespair could fresh hope arise for her. Would I not make some sacrificefor her sake, persuade her that I had tired of her? Only by one meanscould she be convinced. My going off alone would not suffice; my reasonfor that she might suspect--she might follow. It would be for her sake. Again it was the hero that I played, the dear old chuckle-headed hero, Paul, that you ought to have cheered, not hooted. I loved her as much asI ever loved her in my life, that night I left her. I took my bootsoff in the passage and crept up in my stockinged feet. I told him Iwas merely going to change my coat and put a few things into a bag. Hegripped my hand, and tears were standing in his eyes. It is odd thatsuppressed laughter and expressed grief should both display the sametoken, is it not? I stole into her room. I dared not kiss her for fearof waking her; but a stray lock of her hair--you remember how long itwas--fell over the pillow, nearly reaching to the floor. I pressed mylips against it, where it trailed over the bedstead, till they bled. Ihave it still upon my lips, the mingling of the cold iron and the warm, soft silken hair. He told me, when I came down again, that I had beengone three-quarters of an hour. And we went out of the house together, he and I. That is the last time I ever saw her. "

I leant across and put my arms around him; I suppose it was un-English;there are times when one forgets these points. "I did not know! I didnot know, " I cried. 

He pressed me to him with his feeble arms. "What a cad you must havethought me, Paul, " he said. "But you might have given me credit forbetter taste. I was always rather a gourmet than a gourmand where womenwere concerned. "

"You have never seen him either again?" I asked. 

"No, " he answered; "I swore to kill him when I learnt the trick he hadplayed me. He commenced the divorce proceedings against her the verymorning after I had left her. Possibly, had I succeeded in findinghim within the next six months, I should have done so. A few newspaperproprietors would have been the only people really benefited. Time isthe cheapest Bravo; a little patience is all he charges. All roads leadto the end, Paul. "

But I tell my tale badly, marring effects of sunlight with the memoryof shadows. At the time all promised fair. He was a handsome, distinguished-looking man. Not every aristocrat, if without disrespectto one's betters a humble observer may say so, suggests his title; thisman would have suggested his title, had he not possessed it. I supposehe must have been about fifty at the time; but most men of thirty wouldhave been glad to exchange with him both figure and complexion. Hisbehaviour to his _fiancee_ was the essence of good taste, affectionatedevotion, carried to the exact point beyond which, having regard to thedisparity of their years, it would have appeared ridiculous. That hesincerely admired her, was fully content with her, there could be nodoubt. I am even inclined to think he was fonder of her than, diviningher feelings towards himself, he cared to show. Knowledge of the worldmust have told him that men of fifty find it easier to be the lovers ofwomen young enough to be their daughters, than girls find it to desirethe affection of men old enough to be their fathers; and he was not theman to allow impulse to lead him into absurdity. 

From my own peculiar point of view he appeared the ideal prince consort. It was difficult for me to imagine my queen in love with any mere man. This was one beside whom she could live, losing in my eyes nothing ofher dignity. My feelings for her he guessed at our first interview. Mostmen in his position would have been amused, and many would have shownit. For what reason I cannot say, but with a tact and courtesy that leftme only complimented, he drew from me, before I had met him half-a-dozentimes, more frank confession than a month previously I should havedreamt of my yielding to anything than my own pillow. He laid his handupon my shoulder. 

"I wonder if you know, my friend, how wise you are, " he said. "We all ofus at your age love an image of our own carving. Ah, if only we could becontent to worship the white, changeless statute! But we are fools. Wepray the gods to give her life, and under our hot kisses she becomes awoman. I also loved when I was your age, Paul. Your countrymen, theyare so practical, they know only one kind of love. It is business-like, rich--how puts it your poet? 'rich in saving common sense. ' But thereare many kinds, you understand that, my friend. You are wise, do notconfuse them. She was a child of the mountains. I used to walk threeleagues to Mass each day to worship her. Had I been wise--had I so leftit, the memory of her would have coloured all my life with glory. ButI was a fool, my friend; I turned her into a woman. Ah!"--he made agesture of disgust--"such a fat, ugly woman, Paul, I turned her into. Ihad much difficulty in getting rid of her. We should never touch thingsin life that are beautiful; we have such clumsy hands, we spoil whateverwe touch. "

Hal did not return to England till the end of the year, by which timethe Count and Countess Huescar--though I had her permission still tocall her Barbara, I never availed myself of it; the "Countess" fitted mymood better--had taken up residence in the grand Paris house old Hasluckhad bought for them. 

It was the high-water mark of old Hasluck's career, and, if anything, he was a little disappointed that with the dowry he had promised herBarbara had not done even better for herself. 

"Foreign Counts, " he grumbled to me laughingly, one day, "well, I hopethey're worth more in Society than they are in the City. A hundredguineas is their price there, and they're not worth that. Who was thatAmerican girl that married a Russian Prince only last week? A milliondollars was all she gave for him, and she a wholesale boot-maker'sdaughter into the bargain! Our girls are not half as smart. "

But that was before he had seen his future son-in-law. After, he wascontent enough, and up to the day of the wedding, childishly elated. Under the Count's tuition he studied with reverential awe the Huescarhistory. Princes, statesmen, warriors, glittered, golden apples, fromthe spreading branches of its genealogical tree. Why not again! itsattenuated blue sap strengthened with the rich, red blood, brewedby toil and effort in the grim laboratories of the under world. Inimagination, old Hasluck saw himself the grandfather of Chancellors, thegreat-grandfather of Kings. 

"I have laid the foundation, you shall raise the edifice, " so he toldher one evening I was spending with them, caressing her golden hair withhis blunt, fat fingers. "I am glad you were not a boy. A boy, in allprobability, would have squandered the money, let the name sink backagain into the gutter. And even had he been the other sort, he couldonly have been another business man, keeping where I had left him. You will call your first boy Hasluck, won't you? It must always bethe first-born's name. It shall be famous in the world yet, and forsomething else than mere money. "

I began to understand the influences that had gone towards themaking--or marring--of Barbara's character. I had never guessed he hadcared for anything beyond money and the making of money. 

It was, of course, a wedding as ostentatious as possible. Old Hasluckknew how to advertise, and spared neither expense nor labour, with theresult that it was the event of the season, at least according to theSociety papers. Mrs. Hasluck was the type of woman to have escapedobservation, even had the wedding been her own; that she was present ather daughter's, "becomingly dressed in grey veiling spotted white, withan encrustation of mousseline de soie, " I learnt the next day from the_Morning Post_. Old Hasluck himself had to be fetched every time hewas wanted. At the conclusion of the ceremony, seeking him, I found himsitting on the stairs leading to the crypt. 

"Is it over?" he asked. He was mopping his face on a huge handkerchief, and had a small looking-glass in his hand. 

"All over, " I answered, "they are waiting for you to start. "

"I always perspire so when I'm excited, " he explained. "Keep me out ofit as much as possible. "

But the next time I saw him, which was two or three days later, thereaction had set in. He was sitting in his great library, surroundedby books he would no more have thought of disturbing than he would ofstrumming on the gorgeous grand piano inlaid with silver that ornamentedhis drawing-room. A change had passed over him. His swelling rotundity, suggestive generally of a bladder inflated to its extremest limits byexcess of self-importance, appeared to be shrinking. I put the ideaaside as mere fancy at the time, but it was fact; he became a mere bagof bones before he died. He was wearing an old pair of carpet slippersand smoking a short clay pipe. 

"Well, " I said, "everything went off all right. "

"Everybody's gone off all right, so far, " he grunted. He was crouchingover the fire, though the weather was still warm, one hand spreadout towards the blaze. "Now I've got to go off, that's the only thingthey're waiting for. Then everything will be in order. "

"I don't think they are wanting you to go off, " I answered, with alaugh. 

"You mean, " he answered, "I'm the goose that lays the golden eggs. Ah, but you see, so many of the eggs break, and so many of them are bad. "

"Some of them hatch all right, " I replied. The simile was becomingsomewhat confused: in conversation similes are apt to. 

"If I were to die this week, " he said--he paused, completing mentalcalculations, "I should be worth, roughly speaking, a couple of million. This time next year I may be owing a million. "

I sat down opposite to him. "Why run risks?" I suggested. "Surely youhave enough. Why not give it up--retire?"

He laughed. "Do you think I haven't said that to myself, lad--swornI would a dozen times a year? I can't do it; I'm a gambler. It's theearliest thing I can recollect doing, gambling with brace buttons. Thereare men, Paul, now dying in the workhouse--men I once knew well; I thinkof them sometimes, and wish I didn't--who any time during half theirlife might have retired on twenty thousand a year. If I were to go toany one of them, and settle an annuity of a hundred a year upon him, themoment my back was turned he'd sell it out and totter up to ThreadneedleStreet with the proceeds. It's in our blood. I shall gamble on mydeath-bed, die with the tape in my hand. "

He kicked the fire into a blaze. A roaring flame made the room lightagain. 

"But that won't be just yet awhile, " he laughed, "and before it does, I'll be the richest man in Europe. I keep my head cool--that's thegreat secret. " Leaning over towards me, he sunk his voice to a whisper, "Drink, Paul--so many of them drink. They get worried; fifty thingsdancing round and round at the same time in their heads. Fifty questionsto be answered in five minutes. Tick, tick, tick, taps the little devilat their elbow. This going down, that going up. Rumor of this, reportof that. A fortune to be lost here, a fortune to be snatched there. Everything in a whirl! Tick, tick, tick, like nails into a coffin. God!for five minutes' peace to think. Shut the door, turn the key. Out comesthe bottle. That's the end. All right so long as you keep away fromthat. Cool, quick brain, clear judgment--that's the secret. "

"But is it worth it all?" I suggested. "Surely you have enough?"

"It means power, Paul. " He slapped his trousers pocket, making thehandful of gold and silver he always carried there jingle musically. "Itis this that rules the world. My children shall be big pots, hobnobwith kings and princes, slap them on the back and call them by theirChristian names, be kings themselves--why not? It's happened before. My children, the children of old Noel Hasluck, son of a Whitechapelbutcher! Here's my pedigree!" Again be slapped his tuneful pocket. "It's an older one than theirs! It's coming into its own at last! It'smoney--we men of money--that are the true kings now. It's our familythat rules the world--the great money family; I mean to be its head. "

The blaze died out, leaving the room almost in darkness, and for awhilewe sat in silence. 

"Quiet, isn't it?" said old Hasluck, raising his head. 

The settling of the falling embers was the only sound about us. 

"Guess we'll always be like this, now, " continued old Hasluck. "Oldwoman goes to bed, you see, immediately after dinner. It used to bedifferent when _she_ was about. Somehow, the house and the lackeys andall the rest of it seemed to be a more natural sort of thing when _she_was the centre of it. It frightens the old woman now she's gone. Shelikes to get away from it. Poor old Susan! A little country inn withherself as landlady and me fussing about behind the bar; that was alwaysher ambition, poor old girl!"

"You will be visiting them, " I suggested, "and they will be coming tostop with you. "

He shook his head. "They won't want me, and it isn't my game to hamperthem. I never mix out of my class. I've always had sense enough forthat. "

I laughed, wishing to cheer him, though I knew he was right. "Surelyyour daughter belongs to your own class, " I replied. 

"Do you think so?" he asked, with a grin. "That's not a prettycompliment to her. She was my child when she used to cling round myneck, while I made the sausages, calling me her dear old pig. It didn'ttrouble her then that I dropped my aitches and had a greasy skin. I wasa Whitechapel butcher, and she was a Whitechapel brat. I could have kepther if I'd liked, but I was set upon making a lady of her, and I did it. But I lost my child. Every time she came back from school I could seeshe despised me a little more. I'm not blaming her; how could she helpit? I was making a lady of her, teaching her to do it; though there weremoments when I almost hated her, felt tempted to snatch her back to me, drag her down again to my level, make her my child again, before it wastoo late. Oh, it wasn't all unselfishness; I could have done it. Shewould have remained my class then, would have married my class, and herchildren would have been my class. I didn't want that. Everything's gotto be paid for. I got what I asked for; I'm not grumbling at the price. But it ain't cheap. "

He rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe. "Ring the bell, Paul, willyou?" he said. "Let's have some light and something to drink. Don't takeany notice of me. I've got the hump to-night. "

It was a minute or two before the lamp came. He put his arm upon myshoulder, leaning upon me somewhat heavily. 

"I used to fancy sometimes, Paul, " he said, "that you and she might havemade a match of it. I should have been disappointed for some things. Butyou'd have been a bit nearer to me, you two. It never occurred to you, that, I suppose?"

CHAPTER VII. 

HOW PAUL SET FORTH UPON A QUEST. 

Of old Deleglise's Sunday suppers, which, costumed from head to footin spotless linen, he cooked himself in his great kitchen, moving withflushed, earnest face about the gleaming stove, while behind him hisguests waited, ranged round the massive oaken table glittering with cutglass and silver, among which fluttered the deft hands of Madeline, hisancient whitecapped Bonne, much has been already recorded, and by thosepossessed of greater knowledge. They who sat there talking in whispersuntil such time as old Deleglise turned towards them again, radiantwith consciousness of success, the savoury triumph steaming between hishands, when, like the sudden swell of the Moonlight Sonata, the talkwould rush once more into a roar, were men whose names werethen--and some are still--more or less household words throughout theEnglish-speaking world. Artists, musicians, actors, writers, scholars, droles, their wit and wisdom, their sayings and their doings must betolerably familiar to readers of memoir and biography; and if to suchtheir epigrams appear less brilliant, their jests less laughable than tous who heard them spoken, that is merely because fashion in humour andin understanding changes as in all else. 

You, gentle reader of my book, I shall not trouble with second-handrecord of that which you can read elsewhere. For me it will be butto write briefly of my own brief glimpse into that charmed circle. Concerning this story more are the afternoon At Homes held by Dan andmyself upon the second floor of the old Georgian house in pleasant, quiet Queen Square. For cook and house-maid on these days it would be abusy morning. Failing other supervision, Dan and I agreed that to securesuccess on these important occasions each of us should criticise thework of the other. I passed judgment on Dan's cooking, he upon myhouse-work. 

"Too much soda, " I would declare, sampling the cake. 

"You silly Juggins! It's meant to taste of soda--it's a soda cake. "

"I know that. It isn't meant to taste of nothing but soda. Therewants to be some cake about it also. This thing, so far as flavouris concerned, is nothing but a Seidlitz powder. You can't give peoplesolidified Seidlitz powders for tea!"

Dan would fume, but I would remain firm. The soda cake would be laidaside, and something else attempted. His cookery was the one thing Danwas obstinate about. He would never admit that anything could possiblybe wrong with it. His most ghastly failures he would devour himselflater on with pretended enjoyment. I have known him finish a spongecake, the centre of which had to be eaten with a teaspoon, declaring itwas delicious; that eating a dry sponge cake was like eating dust; thata sponge cake ought to be a trifle syrupy towards the centre. Afterwardshe would be strangely silent and drink brandy out of a wine-glass. 

"Call these knives clean?" It would be Dan's turn. 

"Yes, I do. "

Dan would draw his finger across one, producing chiaro-oscuro. 

"Not if you go fingering them. Why don't you leave them alone and go onwith your own work?"

"You've just wiped them, that's all. "

"Well, there isn't any knife-powder. "

"Yes, there is. "

"Besides, it ruins knives, over-cleaning them--takes all the edge off. We shall want them pretty sharp to cut those lemon buns of yours. "

"Over-cleaning them! You don't take any pride in the place. "

"Good Lord! Don't I work from morning to night?"

"You lazy young devil!"

"Makes one lazy, your cooking. How can a man work when he is sufferingall day long from indigestion?"

But Dan would not be content until I had found the board and cleaned theknives to his complete satisfaction. Perhaps it was as well that in thisway all things once a week were set in order. After lunch house-maid andcook would vanish, two carefully dressed gentlemen being left alone toreceive their guests. 

These would be gathered generally from among Dan's journalisticacquaintances and my companions of the theatre. Occasionally, Minikinand Jarman would be of the number, Mrs. Peedles even once or twicearriving breathless on our landing. Left to myself, I perhaps should nothave invited them, deeming them hardly fitting company to mingle withour other visitors; but Dan, having once been introduced to them, overrode such objection. 

"My dear Lord Chamberlain, " Dan would reply, "an ounce of originality isworth a ton of convention. Little tin ladies and gentlemen all madeto pattern! One can find them everywhere. Your friends would be anacquisition to any society. "

"But are they quite good form?" I hinted. 

"I'll tell you what we will do, " replied Dan. "We'll forget that Mrs. Peedles keeps a lodging-house in Blackfriars. We will speak of her asour friend, 'that dear, quaint old creature, Lady P. ' A title that isan oddity, whose costume always suggests the wardrobe of a provincialactress! My dear Paul, your society novelist would make a fortune outof such a character. The personages of her amusing anecdotes, instead ofbeing third-rate theatrical folk, shall be Earl Blank and the Baronessde Dash. The editors of society journals shall pay me a shilling aline for them. Jarman--yes, Jarman shall be the son of a South Americanmillionaire. Vulgar? Nonsense! you mean racy. Minikin--he looks muchmore like forty than twenty--he shall be an eminent scientist. Hishead will then appear the natural size; his glass eye, the result ofa chemical experiment, a touch of distinction; his uncompromisingrudeness, a lovable characteristic. We will make him buy a yard ofred ribbon and wear it across his shirt-front, and address him as HerrProfessor. It will explain slight errors of English grammar and allpeculiarities of accent. They shall be our lions. You leave it to me. Wewill invite commonplace, middle-class folk to meet them. "

And this, to my terror and alarm, Dan persisted in doing. Jarman enteredinto the spirit of the joke with gusto. So far as he was concerned, ourguests, from the beginning to the end, were one and all, I am confident, deceived. The more he swaggered, the more he boasted, the more he talkedabout himself--and it was a failing he was prone to--the greater washis success. At the persistent endeavours of Dan's journalisticacquaintances to excite his cupidity by visions of new journals, to bestarted with a mere couple of thousand pounds and by the inherentmerit of their ideas to command at once a circulation of hundreds ofthousands, I could afford to laugh. But watching the tremendous effortsof my actress friends to fascinate him--luring him into corners, gazingat him with languishing eyes, trotting out all their little tricksfor his exclusive benefit, quarrelling about him among themselves--myconscience would prick me, lest our jest should end in a contretemps. Fortunately, Jarman himself, was a gentleman of uncommon sense, or myfears might have been realised. I should have been sorry myself to havebeen asked to remain stone under the blandishments of girls young andold, of women handsome and once, no doubt, good looking, showered uponhim during that winter. But Jarman, as I think I have explained, was noslave to female charms. He enjoyed his good time while it lasted, andeventually married the eldest daughter of a small blacking factory. Shewas a plain girl, but pleasant, and later brought to Jarman possessionof the factory. When I meet him--he is now stout and rubicund--he givesme the idea of a man who has attained to his ideals. 

With Minikin we had more trouble. People turned up possessed ofscientific smattering. We had to explain that the Professor never talkedshop. Others were owners of unexpected knowledge of German, which theyinsisted upon airing. We had to explain that the Herr Professor wasin London to learn English, and had taken a vow during his residenceneither to speak nor listen to his native tongue. It was remarked thathis acquaintance with colloquial English slang, for a foreigner, wasquite unusual. Occasionally he was too rude, even for a scientist, informing ladies, clamouring to know how he liked English women, that hedidn't like them silly; telling one gentleman, a friend of Dan, a ratherimportant man who once asked him, referring to his yard of ribbon, whathe got it for, that he got it for fourpence. We had to explain him asa gentleman who had been soured by a love disappointment. The ladiesforgave him; the gentlemen said it was a damned lucky thing for thegirl. Altogether, Minikin took a good deal of explaining. 

Lady Peedles, our guests decided among themselves, must be the widow ofsome one in the City who had been knighted in a crowd. They made fun ofher behind her back, but to her face were most effusive. "My dear LadyPeedles" was the phrase most often heard in our rooms whenever she waspresent. At the theatre "my friend Lady Peedles" became a person muchspoken of--generally in loud tones. My own social position I founddecidedly improved by reason of her ladyship's evident liking formyself. It went abroad that I was her presumptive heir. I was courted asa gentleman of expectations. 

The fishy-eyed young man became one of our regular guests. Dan won hisheart by never laughing at him. 

"I like talking to you, " said the fishy-eyed young man one afternoon toDan. "You don't go into fits of laughter when I remark that it has beena fine day; most people do. Of course, on the stage I don't mind. Iknow I am a funny little devil. I get my living by being a funny littledevil. There is a photograph of me hanging in the theatre lobby. I sawa workman stop and look at it the other day as he passed; I was justbehind him. He burst into a roar of laughter. 'Little--! He makes melaugh to look at him!' he cluttered to himself. Well, that's all right;I want the man in the gallery to think me funny, but it annoys me whenpeople laugh at me off the stage. If I am out to dinner anywhere and asksomebody to pass the mustard, I never get it; instead, they burst outlaughing. I don't want people to laugh at me when I am having my dinner. I want my dinner. It makes me very angry sometimes. "

"I know, " agreed Dan, sympathetically. "The world never grasps the factthat man is a collection, not a single exhibit. I remember being at ahouse once where the chief guest happened to be a great Hebrew scholar. One tea time, a Miss Henman, passing the butter to some one in a hurry, let it slip out of her hand. 'Why is Miss Henman like a caterpillar?'asked our learned guest in a sepulchral voice. Nobody appeared to know. 'Because she makes the butter fly. ' It never occurred to any one of usthat the Doctor could possibly joke. There was dead silence for abouta minute. Then our hostess, looking grave, remarked: 'Oh, do you reallythink so?'"

"If I were to enter a room full of people, " said the fishy-eyed youngman, "and tell them that my mother had been run over by an omnibus, theywould think it the funniest story they had heard in years. "

He was playing a principal part now in the opera, and it was heundoubtedly who was drawing the house. But he was not happy. 

"I am not a comic actor, really, " he explained. "I could play Romeo, sofar as feeling is concerned, and play it damned well. There is a finevein of poetry in me. But of course it's no good to me with this face ofmine. "

"But are you not sinning your mercies, you fellows?" Dan replied. "Thereis young Kelver here. At school it was always his trouble that he couldgive us a good time and make us laugh, which nobody else in the wholeschool could do. His ambition was to kick a ball as well as a hundredother fellows could kick it. He could tell us a good story now if hewould only write what the Almighty intended him to write, instead ofgloomy rigmaroles about suffering Princesses in Welsh caves. I don'tsay it's bad, but a hundred others could write the same sort of thingbetter. "

"Can't you understand, " answered the little man; "the poorest tragedianthat ever lived never wished himself the best of low comedians. Thecourt fool had an excellent salary, no doubt; and, likely enough, hadgot two-thirds of all the brain there was in the palace. But not awooden-headed man-at-arms but looked down upon him. Every gallery boywho pays a shilling to laugh at me regards himself as my intellectualsuperior; while to a fourth-rate spouter of blank verse he looks up inadmiration. "

"Does it so very much matter, " suggested Dan, "how the wooden-headedman-at-arms or the shilling gallery boy happens to regard you?"

"Yes, it does, " retorted Goggles, "because we happen to agree with them. If I could earn five pounds a week as juvenile lead, I would never playa comic part again. "

"There I cannot follow you, " returned Dan. "I can understand the artistwho would rather be the man of action, the poet who would rather be thestatesman or the warrior; though personally my sympathies are preciselythe other way--with Wolfe who thought it a more glorious work, thewriting of a great poem, than the burning of so many cities and thekilling of so many men. We all serve the community. It is difficult, looking at the matter from the inside, to say who serves it best. Somefeed it, some clothe it. The churchman and the policeman between themlook after its morals, keep it in order. The doctor mends it when itinjures itself; the lawyer helps it to quarrel, the soldier teaches itto fight. We Bohemians amuse it, instruct it. We can argue that we arethe most important. The others cater for its body, we for its mind. Buttheir work is more showy than ours and attracts more attention; and toattract attention is the aim and object of most of us. But for Bohemiansto worry among themselves which is the greatest, is utterly withoutreason. The story-teller, the musician, the artist, the clown, we aremembers of a sharing troupe; one, with the ambition of the fat boy inPickwick, makes the people's flesh creep; another makes them hold theirsides with laughter. The tragedian, soliloquising on his crimes, showsus how wicked we are; you, looking at a pair of lovers from under ascratch wig, show us how ridiculous we are. Both lessons are necessary:who shall say which is the superior teacher?"

"Ah, I am not a philosopher, " replied the little man, with a sigh. 

"Ah, " returned Dan, with another, "and I am not a comic actor on myway to a salary of a hundred a week. We all of us want the other boy'scake. "

The O'Kelly was another frequent visitor of ours. The attic in BelsizeSquare had been closed. In vain had the O'Kelly wafted incense, burnedpastilles and sprinkled eau-de-Cologne. In vain had he talked of rats, hinted at drains. 

"A wonderful woman, " groaned the O'Kelly in tones of sorrowfuladmiration. "There's no deceiving her. "

"But why submit?" was our natural argument. "Why not say you are goingto smoke, and do it?"

"It's her theory, me boy, " explained the O'Kelly, "that the home shouldbe kept pure--a sort of a temple, ye know. She's convinced that in timeit is bound to exercise an influence upon me. It's a beautiful idea, when ye come to think of it. "

Meanwhile, in the rooms of half-a-dozen sinful men the O'Kelly kept hisown particular pipe, together with his own particular smoking mixture;and one such pipe and one such tobacco jar stood always on ourmantelpiece. 

In the spring the forces of temptation raged round that feeble but mostexcellently intentioned citadel, the O'Kelly's conscience. The Signorahad returned to England, was performing then at Ashley's Theatre. TheO'Kelly would remain under long spells of silence, puffing vigorouslyat his pipe. Or would fortify himself with paeans in praise of Mrs. O'Kelly. 

"If anything could ever make a model man of me"--he spoke in the tonesof one whose doubts are stronger than his hopes--"it would be theexample of that woman. "

It was one Saturday afternoon. I had just returned from the matinee. 

"I don't believe, " continued the O'Kelly, "I don't really believe shehas ever done one single thing she oughtn't to, or left undone onesingle thing she ought, in the whole course of her life. "

"Maybe she has, and you don't know of it, " I suggested, perceiving theidea might comfort him. 

"I wish I could think so, " returned the O'Kelly. "I don't mean anythingreally wrong, " he corrected himself quickly, "but something just alittle wrong. I feel--I really feel I should like her better if shehad. "

"Not that I mean I don't like her as it is, ye understand, " correctedhimself the O'Kelly a second time. "I respect that woman--I cannot tellye, me boy, how much I respect her. Ye don't know her. There was onemorning, about a month ago. That woman-she's down at six every morning, summer and winter; we have prayers at half-past. I was a trifle latemeself: it was never me strong point, as ye know, early rising. Seveno'clock struck; she didn't appear, and I thought she had oversleptherself. I won't say I didn't feel pleased for the moment; it was anunworthy sentiment, but I almost wished she had. I ran up to her room. The door was open, the bedclothes folded down as she always leaves them. She came in five minutes later. She had got up at four that morningto welcome a troupe of native missionaries from East Africa on theirarrival at Waterloo Station. She's a saint, that woman; I am not worthyof her. "

"I shouldn't dwell too much on that phase of the subject, " I suggested. 

"I can't help it, me boy, " replied the O'Kelly. "I feel I am not. "

"I don't for a moment say you are, " I returned; "but I shouldn't harpupon the idea. I don't think it good for you. "

"I never will be, " he persisted gloomily, "never!"

Evidently he was started on a dangerous train of reflection. With theidea of luring him away from it, I led the conversation to the subjectof champagne. 

"Most people like it dry, " admitted the O'Kelly. "Meself, I have alwayspreferred it with just a suggestion of fruitiness. "

"There was a champagne, " I said, "you used to be rather fond of whenwe--years ago. "

"I think I know the one ye mean, " said the O'Kelly. "It wasn't at allbad, considering the price. "

"You don't happen to remember where you got it?" I asked. 

"It was in Bridge Street, " remembered the O'Kelly, "not so very far fromthe Circus. "

"It is a pleasant evening, " I remarked; "let us take a walk. "

We found the place, half wine-shop, half office. 

"Just the same, " commented the O'Kelly as we pushed open the door andentered. "Not altered a bit. "

As in all probability barely twelve months had elapsed since his lastvisit, the fact in itself was not surprising. Clearly the O'Kelly hadbeen calculating time rather by sensation. I ordered a bottle; and wesat down. Myself, being prejudiced against the brand, I called for aglass of claret. The O'Kelly finished the bottle. I was glad to noticemy ruse had been successful. The virtue of that wine had not departedfrom it. With every glass the O'Kelly became morally more elevated. He left the place, determined that he would be worthy of Mrs. O'Kelly. Walking down the Embankment, he asserted his determination of buying analarm-clock that very evening. At the corner of Westminster Bridge hebecame suddenly absorbed in his own thoughts. Looking to discover thecause of his silence, I saw that his eyes were resting on a posterrepresenting a charming lady standing on one leg upon a wire; belowher--at some distance--appeared the peaks of mountains; the artisthad even caught the likeness. I cursed the luck that had directed ourfootsteps, but the next moment, lacking experience, was inclined to bereassured. 

"Me dear Paul, " said the O'Kelly--he laid a fatherly hand upon myshoulder--"there are fair-faced, laughing women--sweet creatures, that ye want to put yer arm around and dance with. " He shook his headdisapprovingly. "There are the sainted women, who lead us up, Paul--up, always up. "

A look, such as the young man with the banner might have borne with himto the fields of snow and ice, suffused the O'Kelly's handsome face. Without another word he crossed the road and entered an American store, where for six-and-elevenpence he purchased an alarm-clock the manassured us would awake an Egyptian mummy. With this in his hand he wavedme a good-bye, and jumped upon a Hampstead 'bus, and alone I strolled onto the theatre. 

Hal returned a little after Christmas and started himself in chambersin the City. It was the nearest he dared venture, so he said, tocivilisation. 

"I'd be no good in the West End, " he explained. "For a season I mightattract as an eccentricity, but your swells would never stand me forlonger--no more would any respectable folk, anywhere: we don't get ontogether. I commenced at Richmond. It was a fashionable suburb then, and I thought I was going to do wonders. I had everything in my favour, except myself. I do know my work, nobody can deny that of me. Myfather spent every penny he had, poor gentleman, in buying me anold-established practice: fine house, carriage and pair, white-hairedbutler--everything correct, except myself. It was of no use. I can holdmyself in for a month or two; then I break out, the old original savagethat I am under my frock coat. I feel I must run amuck, stabbing, hacking at the prim, smiling Lies mincing round about me. I can fool asilly woman for half-a-dozen visits; bow and rub my hands, purr roundher sympathetically. All the while I am longing to tell her the truth:

"'Go home. Wash your face; don't block up the pores of your skin withpaint. Let out your corsets. You are thirty-three round the abdomen ifyou are an inch: how can you expect your digestion to do its work whenyou're squeezing it into twenty-one? Give up gadding about half your dayand most of your night; you are old enough to have done with that sortof thing. Let the children come, and suckle them yourself. You'll be allthe better for them. Don't loll in bed all the morning. Get up like adecent animal and do something for your living. Use your brain, whatthere is of it, and your body. At that price you can have healthto-morrow, and at no other. I can do nothing for you. '

"And sooner or later I blurt it out. " He laughed his great roar. "Lord!you should see the real face coming out of the simpering mask. 

"Pompous old fools, strutting into me like turkey-cocks! By Jove, it wasworth it! They would dribble out, looking half their proper size after Ihad done telling them what was the matter with them. 

"'Do you want to know what you are really suffering from?' I would shoutat them, when I could contain myself no longer. 'Gluttony, my dear sir;gluttony and drunkenness, and over-indulgence in other vices that shallbe nameless. Live like a man; get a little self-respect from somewhere;give up being an ape. Treat your body properly and it will treat youproperly. That's the only prescription that will do you any good. '"

He laughed again. "'Tell the truth, you shame the Devil. ' But the Devilreplies by starving you. It's a fairly effective retort. I am not thestuff successful family physicians are made of. In the City I may manageto rub along. One doesn't see so much of one's patients; they come andgo. Clerks and warehousemen my practice will be among chiefly. The poorman does not so much mind being told the truth about himself; it is ablessing to which he is accustomed. "

We spoke but once of Barbara. A photograph of her in her bride'sdress stood upon my desk. Occasionally, first fitting the room forthe ceremony, sweeping away all impurity even from under the mats, anddressing myself with care, I would centre it amid flowers, and kneeling, kiss her hand where it rested on the back of the top-heavy looking chairwithout which no photographic studio is complete. 

One day he took it up, and looked at it long and hard. 

"The forehead denotes intellectuality; the eyes tenderness and courage. The lower part of the face, on the other hand, suggests a good dealof animalism: the finely cut nostrils show egotism--another word forselfishness; the nose itself, vanity; the lips, sensuousness and loveof luxury. I wonder what sort of woman she really is. " He laid thephotograph back upon the desk. 

"I did not know you were so firm a believer in Lavater, " I said. 

"Only when he agrees with what I know, " he answered. "Have I notdescribed her rightly?"

"I do not care to discuss her in that vein, " I replied, feeling theblood mounting to my cheeks. 

"Too sacred a subject?" he laughed. "It is the one ingredient of manhoodI lack, ideality--an unfortunate deficiency for me. I must probe, analyse, dissect, see the thing as it really is, know it for what itis. "

"Well, she is the Countess Huescar now, " I said. "For God's sake, leaveher alone. "

He turned to me with the snarl of a beast. "How do you know she is theCountess Huescar? Is it a special breed of woman made on purpose? How doyou know she isn't my wife--brain and heart, flesh and blood, mine? Ifshe was, do you think I should give her up because some fool has stuckhis label on her?"

I felt the anger burning in my eyes. "Yours, his! She is no man'sproperty. She is herself, " I cried. 

The wrinkles round his nose and mouth smoothed themselves out. "You neednot be afraid, " he sneered. "As you say, she is the Countess Huescar. Can you imagine her as Mrs. Doctor Washburn? I can't. " He took herphotograph in his hand again. "The lower part of the face is the trueindex to the character. It shows the animal, and it is the animal thatrules. The soul, the intellect, it comes and goes; the animal remainsalways. Sensuousness, love of luxury, vanity, those are the strings towhich she dances. To be a Countess is of more importance to her than tobe a woman. She is his, not mine. Let him keep her. "

"You do not know her, " I answered; "you never have. You listen to whatshe says. She does not know herself. "

He looked at me queerly. "What do you think her to be?" he asked me. "Atrue woman, not the shallow thing she seems?"

"A true woman, " I persisted stoutly, "that you have not eyes enough tosee. "

"You little fool!" he muttered, with the same queer look--"you littlefool. But let us hope you are wrong, Paul. Let us hope, for her sake, you are wrong. "

It was at one of Deleglise's Sunday suppers that I first met Urban Vane. The position, nor even the character, I fear it must be confessed, ofhis guests was never enquired into by old Deleglise. A simple-minded, kindly old fellow himself, it was his fate to be occasionally surprisedand grieved at the discovery that even the most entertaining of suppercompanions could fall short of the highest standard of conventionalmorality. 

"Dear, dear me!" he would complain, pacing up and down his studiowith puzzled visage. "The last man in the world of whom I should haveexpected to hear it. So original in all his ideas. Are you quite sure?"

"I am afraid there can be no doubt about it. "

"I can't believe it! I really can't believe it! One of the most amusingmen I ever met!"

I remember a well-known artist one evening telling us with much sense ofhumour how he had just completed the sale of an old Spanish cabinet totwo distinct and separate purchasers. 

"I sold it first, " recounted the little gentleman with glee, "to oldJong, the dealer. He has been worrying me about it for the last threemonths, and on Saturday afternoon, hearing that I was clearing outand going abroad, he came round again. 'Well, I am not sure I am in aposition to sell it, ' I told him. 'Who'll know?' he asked. 'They are notin, are they?' 'Not yet, ' I answered, 'but I expect they will be sometime on Monday. ' 'Tell your man to open the door to me at eight o'clockon Monday morning, ' he replied, 'we'll have it away without any fuss. There needn't be any receipt. I'm lending you a hundred pounds, incash. ' I worked him up to a hundred and twenty, and he paid me. Upon myword, I should never have thought of it, if he hadn't put the idea intomy head. But turning round at the door: 'You won't go and sell it tosome one else, ' he suggested, 'between now and Monday?' It serves himright for his damned impertinence. 'Send and take it away to-day if youare at all nervous, ' I told him. He looked at the thing, it is abouttwelve feet high altogether. 'I would if I could get a cart, ' hemuttered. Then an idea struck him. 'Does the top come off?' 'See foryourself, ' I answered; 'it's your cabinet, not mine. ' I was feelingrather annoyed with him. He examined it. 'That's all right, ' he said;'merely a couple of screws. I'll take the top with me now on my cab. 'He got a man in, and they took the upper cupboard away, leaving me thebottom. Two hours later old Sir George called to see me about his wife'sportrait. The first thing he set eyes on was the remains of the cabinet:he had always admired it. 'Hallo, ' he asked, 'are you breaking up thestudio literally? What have you done with the other half?' 'I've sentit round to Jong's--' He didn't give me time to finish. 'Save Jong'scommission and sell it to me direct, ' he said. 'We won't argue about theprice and I'll pay you in cash. '

"Well, if Providence comes forward and insists on taking charge ofa man, it is hardly good manners to flout her. Besides, his wife'sportrait is worth twice as much as he is paying for it. He handed meover the money in notes. 'Things not going quite smoothly with you justat the moment?' he asked me. 'Oh, about the same as usual, ' I told him. 'You won't be offended at my taking it away with me this evening?' heasked. 'Not in the least, ' I answered; 'you'll get it on the top of afour-wheeled cab. ' We called in a couple of men, and I helped them downwith it, and confoundedly heavy it was. 'I shall send round to Jong'sfor the other half on Monday morning, ' he said, speaking with his headthrough the cab window, 'and explain it to him. ' 'Do, ' I answered;'he'll understand. '

"I'm sorry I'm going away so early in the morning, " concluded the littlegentleman. "I'd give back Jong ten per cent. Of his money to see hisface when he enters the studio. "

Everybody laughed; but after the little gentleman was gone, the subjectcropped up again. 

"If I wake sufficiently early, " remarked one, "I shall find an excuseto look in myself at eight o'clock. Jong's face will certainly be worthseeing. "

"Rather rough both on him and Sir George, " observed another. 

"Oh, he hasn't really done anything of the kind, " chimed in oldDeleglise in his rich, sweet voice. "He made that all up. It's just hisfun; he's full of humour. "

"I am inclined to think that would be his idea of a joke, " asserted thefirst speaker. 

Old Deleglise would not hear of it; but a week or two later I noticed anaddition to old Deleglise's studio furniture in the shape of a handsomeold carved cabinet twelve feet high. 

"He really had done it, " explained old Deleglise, speaking in a whisper, though only he and I were present. "Of course, it was only his fun; butit might have been misunderstood. I thought it better to put the thingstraight. I shall get the money back from him when he returns. A mostamusing little man!"

Old Deleglise possessed a house in Gower Street which fell vacant. Oneof his guests, a writer of poetical drama, was a man who three monthsafter he had earned a thousand pounds never had a penny with whichto bless himself. They are dying out, these careless, good-natured, conscienceless Bohemians; but quarter of a century ago they stilllingered in Alsatian London. Turned out of his lodgings by a Philistinelandlord, his sole possession in the wide world, two acts of a drama, for which he had already been paid, the problem of his future, thoughit troubled him but little, became acute to his friends. Old Deleglise, treating the matter as a joke, pretending not to know who was thelandlord, suggested he should apply to the agents for position ascaretaker. Some furniture was found for him, and the empty house inGower Street became his shelter. The immediate present thus providedfor, kindly old Deleglise worried himself a good deal concerning whatwould become of his friend when the house was let. There appeared to beno need for worry. Weeks, months went by. Applications were receivedby the agents in fair number, view cards signed by the dozen; butprospective tenants were never seen again. One Sunday evening our poet, warmed by old Deleglise's Burgundy, forgetful whose recommendationhad secured him the lowly but timely appointment, himself revealed thesecret. 

"Most convenient place I've got, " so he told old Deleglise. "Whole houseto myself. I wander about; it just suits me. "

"I'm glad to hear that, " murmured old Deleglise. 

"Come and see me, and I'll cook you a chop, " continued the other. "I'vehad the kitchen range brought up into the back drawing-room; saves goingup and down stairs. "

"The devil you have!" growled old Deleglise. "What do you think theowner of the house will say?"

"Haven't the least idea who the poor old duffer is myself. They've putme in as caretaker--an excellent arrangement: avoids all argument aboutrent. "

"Afraid it will soon come to an end, that excellent arrangement;"remarked old Deleglise, drily. 

"Why? Why should it?"

"A house in Gower Street oughtn't to remain vacant long. "

"This one will. "

"You might tell me, " asked old Deleglise, with a grim smile; "how do youmanage it? What happens when people come to look over the house--don'tyou let them in?"

"I tried that at first, " explained the poet, "but they would go onknocking, and boys and policemen passing would stop and help them. Itgot to be a nuisance; so now I have them in, and get the thing over. I show them the room where the murder was committed. If it's anervous-looking party, I let them off with a brief summary. If thatdoesn't do, I go into details and show them the blood-spots on thefloor. It's an interesting story of the gruesome order. Come round onemorning and I'll tell it to you. I'm rather proud of it. With the blindsdown and a clock in the next room that ticks loudly, it goes well. "

Yet this was a man who, were the merest acquaintance to call upon himand ask for his assistance, would at once take him by the arm and leadhim upstairs. All notes and cheques that came into his hands he changedat once into gold. Into some attic half filled with lumber he wouldfling it by the handful; then, locking the door, leave it there. Ontheir hands and knees he and his friends, when they wanted any, wouldgrovel for it, poking into corners, hunting under boxes, groping amongbroken furniture, feeling between cracks and crevices. Nothing gave himgreater delight than an expedition of this nature to what he termed hisgold-field; it had for him, as he would explain, all the excitementsof mining without the inconvenience and the distance. He never knew howmuch was there. For a certain period a pocketful could be picked up infive minutes. Then he would entertain a dozen men at one of the bestrestaurants in London, tip cabmen and waiters with half-sovereigns, shower half-crowns as he walked through the streets, lend or give toanybody for the asking. Later, half-an-hour's dusty search would berewarded with a single coin. It made no difference to him; he would dinein Soho for eighteenpence, smoke shag, and run into debt. 

The red-haired man, to whom Deleglise had introduced me on the day ofmy first meeting with the Lady of the train, was another of his mostconstant visitors. It flattered my vanity that the red-haired man, whosename was famous throughout Europe and America, should condescend toconfide to me--as he did and at some length--the deepest secrets of hisbosom. Awed--at all events at first--I would sit and listen while bythe hour he would talk to me in corners, telling me of the women he hadloved. They formed a somewhat large collection. Julias, Marias, Janets, even Janes--he had madly worshipped, deliriously adored so many it grewbewildering. With a far-away look in his eyes, pain trembling througheach note of his musical, soft voice, he would with bitter jest, withpassionate outburst, recount how he had sobbed beneath the stars forlove of Isabel, bitten his own flesh in frenzied yearning for Lenore. Heappeared from his own account--if in connection with a theme so poeticalI may be allowed a commonplace expression--to have had no luck withany of them. Of the remainder, an appreciable percentage had been merepassing visions, seen at a distance in the dawn, at twilight--generallyspeaking, when the light must have been uncertain. Never again, thoughhe had wandered in the neighbourhood for months, had he succeeded inmeeting them. It would occur to me that enquiries among the neighbours, applications to the local police, might possibly have been efficacious;but to have broken in upon his exalted mood with such suggestions wouldhave demanded more nerve than at the time I possessed. In consequence, my thoughts I kept to myself. 

"My God, boy!" he would conclude, "may you never love as I loved thatwoman Miriam"--or Henrietta, or Irene, as the case might be. 

For my sympathetic attitude towards the red-haired man I received oneevening commendation from old Deleglise. 

"Good boy, " said old Deleglise, laying his hand on my shoulder. We werestanding in the passage. We had just shaken hands with the red-hairedman, who, as usual, had been the last to leave. "None of the others willlisten to him. He used to stop and confide it all to me after everybodyelse had gone. Sometimes I have dropped asleep, to wake an hour laterand find him still talking. He gets it over early now. Good boy!"

Soon I learnt it was characteristic of the artist to be willing--nay, anxious, to confide his private affairs to any one and every one whowould only listen. Another characteristic appeared to be determinationnot to listen to anybody else's. As attentive recipient of otherpeople's troubles and emotions I was subjected to practically nocompetition whatever. One gentleman, a leading actor of that day, Iremember, immediately took me aside on my being introduced to him, andconsulted me as to his best course of procedure under the extremelypainful conditions that had lately arisen between himself and his wife. We discussed the unfortunate position at some length, and I did my bestto counsel fairly and impartially. 

"I wish you would lunch with me at White's to-morrow, " he said. "We cantalk it over quietly. Say half-past one. By the bye, I didn't catch yourname. "

I spelt it to him: he wrote the appointment down on his shirt-cuff. Iwent to White's the next day and waited an hour, but he did not turnup. I met him three weeks later at a garden-party with his wife. But heappeared to have forgotten me. 

Observing old Deleglise's guests, comparing them with their names, itsurprised me the disconnection between the worker and the work. Writersof noble sentiment, of elevated ideality, I found contained in men ofcommonplace appearance, of gross appetites, of conventional ideas. It seemed doubtful whether they fully comprehended their own work;certainly it had no effect upon their own lives. On the other hand, aninnocent, boyish young man, who lived the most correct of lives witha girlish-looking wife in an ivy-covered cottage near Barnes Common, I discovered to be the writer of decadent stories at which the EmpressTheodora might have blushed. The men whose names were widest known werenot the men who shone the brightest in Deleglise's kitchen; moreoften they appeared the dull dogs, listening enviously, or failingpathetically when they tried to compete with others who to the publicwere comparatively unknown. After a time I ceased to confound the artistwith the man, thought no more of judging the one by the other than ofevolving a tenant from the house to which circumstances or carelessnessmight have directed him. Clearly they were two creations originallyindependent of each other, settling down into a working partnershipfor purposes merely of mutual accommodation; the spirit evidentlyindifferent as to the particular body into which he crept, anxious onlyfor a place to work in, easily contented. 

Varied were these guests that gathered round old Deleglise's oak. Cabinet Ministers reported to be in Homburg; Russian Nihilists escapedfrom Siberia; Italian revolutionaries; high church dignitaries disguisedin grey suitings; ex-errand boys, who had discovered that with sixstrokes of the pen they could set half London laughing at whom theywould; raw laddies with the burr yet clinging to their tongues, butwho we knew would one day have the people dancing to the music of theirwords. Neither wealth, nor birth, nor age, nor position counted. Was aman interesting, amusing; had he ideas and thoughts of his own? Then hewas welcome. Men who had come, men who were coming, met there on equalfooting. Among them, as years ago among my schoolmates, I found myplace--somewhat to my dissatisfaction. I amused. Much rather would Ihave shocked them by the originality of my views, impressed them withthe depth of my judgments. They declined to be startled, refused tobe impressed; instead, they laughed. Nor from these men could I obtainsympathy in my disappointment. 

"What do you mean, you villain!" roared Deleglise's caretaker at me oneevening on entering the kitchen. "How dare you waste your time writingthis sort of stuff?"

He had a copy of the paper containing my "Witch of Moel Sarbod" in hishand--then some months old. He screwed it up into a ball and flung it inmy face. "I've only just read it. What did you get for it?"

"Nothing, " I answered. 

"Nothing!" he screamed. "You got off for nothing? You ought to have beenwhipped at the cart's tail!"

"Oh, come, it's not as bad as that, " suggested old Deleglise. 

"Not bad! There isn't a laugh in it from beginning to end. "

"There wasn't intended to be, " I interrupted. 

"Why not, you swindler? What were you sent into the world to do? To makeit laugh. "

"I want to make it think, " I told him. 

"Make it think! Hasn't it got enough to think about? Aren't there tenthousand penny-a-liners, poets, tragedians, tub-thumpers, long-earedphilosophers, boring it to death? Who are you to turn up your nose atyour work and tell the Almighty His own business? You are here to makeus laugh. Get on with your work, you confounded young idiot!"

Urban Vane was the only one among them who understood me, who agreedwith me that I was fitted for higher things than merely to ministerto the world's need of laughter. He alone it was who would listenwith approval to my dreams of becoming a famous tragedian, a writer ofsoul-searching books, of passion-analysing plays. I never saw him laughhimself, certainly not at anything funny. "Humour!" he would explainin his languid drawl, "personally it doesn't amuse me. " One felt itsintroduction into the scheme of life had been an error. He was a large, fleshy man, with a dreamy, caressing voice and strangely impassive face. Where he came from, who he was, nobody knew. Without ever passing aremark himself that was worth listening to, he, nevertheless, by somemysterious trick of manner I am unable to explain, soon establishedhimself, even throughout that company, where as a rule men found theirproper level, as a silent authority in all contests of wit or argument. Stories at which he listened, bored, fell flat. The _bon mot_ at whichsome faint suggestion of a smile quivered round his clean-shaven lipswas felt to be the crown of the discussion. I can only conclude hissecret to have been his magnificent assumption of superiority, added toa sphinx-like impenetrability behind which he could always retire fromany danger of exposure. Subjects about which he knew nothing--and Ihave come to the conclusion they were more numerous than wassuspected--became in his presence topics outside the radius ofcultivated consideration: one felt ashamed of having introduced them. His own subjects--they were few but exclusive--he had the knack ofelevating into intellectual tests: one felt ashamed, reflecting howlittle one knew about them. Whether he really did possess a charm ofmanner, or whether the sense of his superiority with which he had imbuedme it was that made any condescension he paid me a thing to grasp at, Iam unable to say. Certain it is that when he suggested I should throwup chorus singing and accompany him into the provinces as manager of atheatrical company he was then engaging to run a wonderful drama thatwas going to revolutionise the English stage and educate the Englishpublic, I allowed myself not a moment for consideration, but acceptedhis proposal with grateful delight. 

"Who is he?" asked Dan. Somehow he had never impressed Dan; but then Danwas a fellow to impress whom was slow work. As he himself confessed, hehad no instinct for character. "I judge, " he would explain, "purely byobservation. "

"What does that matter?" was my reply. 

"What does he know about the business?"

"That's why he wants me. "

"What do you know about it?"

"There's not much to know. I can find out. "

"Take care you don't find out that there's more to know than you think. What is this wonderful play of his?"

"I haven't seen it yet; I don't think it's finished. It's something fromthe Spanish or the Russian, I'm not sure. I'm to put it into shapewhen he's done the translation. He wants me to put my name to it as theadaptor. "

"Wonder he hasn't asked you to wear his clothes. Has he got any money?"

"Of course he has money. How can you run a theatrical company withoutmoney?"

"Have you seen the money?"

"He doesn't carry it about with him in a bag. "

"I should have thought your ambition to be to act, not to manage. Managers are to be had cheap enough. Why should he want some one whoknows nothing about it?"

"I'm going to act. I'm going to play a leading part. "

"Great Scott!"

"He'll do the management really himself; I shall simply advise him. Buthe doesn't want his own name to appear. 

"Why not?"

"His people might object. "

"Who are his people?"

"How do I know? What a suspicious chap you are. "

Dan shrugged his shoulders. "You are not an actor, you never will be;you are not a business man. You've made a start at writing, that's yourproper work. Why not go on with it?"

"I can't get on with it. That one thing was accepted, and never paidfor; everything else comes back regularly, just as before. Besides, Ican go on writing wherever I am. "

"You've got friends here to help you. "

"They don't believe I can do anything but write nonsense. "

"Well, clever nonsense is worth writing. It's better than stodgy sense:literature is blocked up with that. Why not follow their advice?"

"Because I don't believe they are right. I'm not a clown; I don't meanto be. Because a man has a sense of humour it doesn't follow he hasnothing else. That is only one of my gifts, and by no means the highest. I have knowledge of human nature, poetry, dramatic instinct. I mean toprove it to you all. Vane's the only man that understands me. "

Dan lit his pipe. "Have you made up your mind to go?"

"Of course I have. It's an opportunity that doesn't occur twice. 'There's a tide in the affairs--"

"Thanks, " interrupted Dan; "I've heard it before. Well, if you've madeup your mind, there's an end of the matter. Good luck to you! You areyoung, and it's easier to learn things then than later. "

"You talk, " I answered, "as if you were old enough to be mygrandfather. "

He smiled and laid both hands upon my shoulders. "So I am, " he said, "quite old enough, little boy Paul. Don't be angry; you'll always belittle Paul to me. " He put his hands in his pockets and strolled to thewindow. 

"What'll you do?" I enquired. "Will you keep on these rooms?"

"No, " he replied. "I shall accept an offer that has been made to me totake the sub-editorship of a big Yorkshire paper. It is an importantposition and will give me experience. "

"You'll never be happy mewed up in a provincial town, " I told him. "Ishall want a London address, and I can easily afford it. Let's keep themon together. "

He shook his head. "It wouldn't be the same thing, " he said. 

So there came a morning when we said good-bye. Before Dan returned fromthe office I should be gone. They had been pleasant months that we hadspent together in these pretty rooms. Though my life was calling tome full of hope, I felt the pain of leaving them. Two years is a longperiod in a young man's life, when the sap is running swiftly. Myaffections had already taken root there. The green leaves in summer, inwinter the bare branches of the square, the sparrows that chirped aboutthe window-sills, the quiet peace of the great house, Dan, kindly oldDeleglise: around them my fibres clung, closer than I had known. TheLady of the train: she managed it now less clumsily. Her hands andfeet had grown smaller, her elbows rounder. I found myself smiling asI thought of her--one always did smile when one thought of Norah, everybody did;--of her tomboy ways, her ringing laugh--there were thosewho termed it noisy; her irrepressible frankness--there were times whenit was inconvenient. Would she ever become lady-like, sedate, proper?One doubted it. I tried to picture her a wife, the mistress of a house. I found the smile deepening round my mouth. What a jolly wife she wouldmake! I could see her bustling, full of importance; flying into tempers, lasting possibly for thirty seconds; then calling herself names, savingall argument by undertaking her own scolding, and doing it well. Ifollowed her to motherhood. What a joke it would be! What would she dowith them? She would just let them do what they liked with her. She andthey would be a parcel of children together, she the most excited ofthem all. No; on second thoughts I could detect in her a strong vein ofcommon sense. They would have to mind their p's and q's. I could see herromping with them, helping them to tear their clothes; but likewise Icould see her flying after them, bringing back an armful struggling, bathing it, physicking it. Perhaps she would grow stout, grow grey; butshe would still laugh more often than sigh, speak her mind, be quick, good-tempered Norah to the end. Her character precluded all hope ofsurprise. That, as I told myself, was its defect. About her were none ofthose glorious possibilities that make of some girls charming mysteries. A woman, said I to myself, should be a wondrous jewel, hiding unknownlights and shadows. You, my dear Norah--I spoke my thoughts aloud, ashad become a habit with me: those who live much alone fall into thisway--you are merely a crystal, not shallow--no, I should not call youshallow by any mans, but transparent. 

What would he be, her lover? Some plain, matter-of-fact, business-likeyoung fellow, a good player of cricket and football, fond of his dinner. What a very uninteresting affair the love-making would be! If she likedhim--well, she would probably tell him so; if she didn't, he would knowit in five minutes. 

As for inducing her to change her mind, wooing her, cajoling her--Iheard myself laughing at the idea. 

There came a quick rap at the door. "Come in, " I cried; and she entered. 

"I came to say good-bye to you, " she explained. "I'm just going out. What were you laughing at?"

"Oh, at an idea that occurred to me. "

"A funny one?"

"Yes. "

"Tell it me. "

"Well, it was something in connection with yourself. It might offendyou. "

"It wouldn't trouble you much if it did, would it?"

"No, I don't suppose it would. "

"Then why not tell me?"

"I was thinking of your lover. "

It did offend her; I thought it would. But she looked really interestingwhen she was cross. Her grey eyes would flash, and her whole bodyquiver. There was a charming spice of danger always about making hercross. 

"I suppose you think I shall never have one. "

"On the contrary, I think you will have a good many. " I had not thoughtso before then. I formed the idea for the first time in that moment, while looking straight into her angry face. It was still a childishface. 

The anger died out of it as it always did within the minute, and shelaughed. "It would be fun, wouldn't it. I wonder what I should do withhim? It makes you feel very serious being in love, doesn't it?"

"Very. "

"Have you ever been in love?"

I hesitated for a moment. Then the delight of talking about it overcamemy fear of being chaffed. Besides, when she felt it, nobody could bemore delightfully sympathetic. I determined to adventure it. 

"Yes, " I answered, "ever since I was a boy. If you are going to befoolish, " I added, for I saw the laugh before it came, "I shan't talk toyou about it. "

"I'm not--I won't, really, " she pleaded, making her face serious again. "What is she like?"

I took from my breast pocket Barbara's photograph, and handed it to herin silence. 

"Is she really as beautiful as that?" she asked, gazing at it evidentlyfascinated. 

"More so, " I assured her. "Her expression is the most beautiful part ofher. Those are only her features. "

She sighed. "I wish I was beautiful. "

"You are at an awkward age, " I told her. "It is impossible to say whatyou are going to be like. "

"Mamma was a lovely woman, everybody says so; and Tom I call awfullyhandsome. Perhaps I'll be better when I'm filled out a bit more. " Asmall Venetian mirror hung between the two windows; she glanced up intoit. "It's my nose that irritates me, " she said. She rubbed it viciously, as if she would rub it out. 

"Some people admire snub noses, " I explained to her. 

"No, really?"

"Tennyson speaks of them as 'tip-tilted like the petals of a rose. '"

"How nice of him! Do you think he meant my sort?" She rubbed it again, but in a kinder fashion; then looked again at Barbara's photograph. "Whois she?"

"She was Miss Hasluck, " I answered; "she is the Countess Huescar now. She was married last summer. "

"Oh, yes, I remember; you told us about her. You were children together. But what's the good of your being in love with her if she's married?"

"It makes my whole life beautiful. "

"Wanting somebody you can't have?"

"I don't want her. "

"You said you were in love with her. "

"So I am. "

She handed me back the photograph, and I replaced it in my pocket. 

"I don't understand that sort of love, " she said. "If I loved anybody Ishould want to have them with me always. 

"She is with me always, " I answered, "in my thoughts. " She looked at mewith her clear grey eyes. I found myself blinking. Something seemedto be slipping from me, something I did not want to lose. I remember asimilar sensation once at the moment of waking from a strange, deliciousdream to find the sunlight pouring in upon me through an open window. 

"That isn't being in love, " she said. "That's being in love with theidea of being in love. That's the way I used to go to balls"--shelaughed--"in front of the glass. You caught me once, do you remember?"

"And was it not sweeter, " I argued, "the imagination? You were the belleof the evening; you danced divinely every dance, were taken in to supperby the Lion. In reality you trod upon your partner's toes, bumped andwere bumped, were left a wallflower more than half the time, had aheadache the next day. Were not the dream balls the more delightful?"

"No, they weren't, " she answered without the slightest hesitation. "Onereal dance, when at last it came, was worth the whole of them. Oh, Iknow, I've heard you talking, all of you--of the faces that you see indreams and that are ever so much more beautiful than the faces that yousee when you're awake; of the wonderful songs that nobody ever sings, the wonderful pictures that nobody ever paints, and all the rest of it. I don't believe a word of it. It's tommyrot!"

"I wish you wouldn't use slang. "

"Well, you know what I mean. What is the proper word? Give it me. "

"I suppose you mean cant, " I suggested. 

"No, I don't. Cant is something that you don't believe in yourself. It'stommyrot: there isn't any other word. When I'm in love it will be withsomething that is real. "

I was feeling angry with her. "I know just what he will be like. He willbe a good-natured, commonplace--"

"Whatever he is, " she interrupted, "he'll be alive, and he'll want meand I shall want him. Dreams are silly. I prefer being up. " Sheclapped her hands. "That's it. " Then, silent, she looked at me with anexpression of new interest. "I've been wondering and wondering what itwas: you are not really awake yet. You've never got up. "

I laughed at her whimsical way of putting it; but at the back of mybrain was a troubled idea that perhaps she was revealing to me thetruth. And if so, what would "waking up, " as she termed it, be like? Aflash of memory recalled to me that summer evening upon Barking Bridge, when, as it had seemed to me, the little childish Paul had slipped awayfrom me, leaving me lonely and bewildered to find another Self. Was myboyhood in like manner now falling from me? I found myself clinging toit with vague terror. Its thoughts, its feelings--dreams: they had grownsweet to me; must I lose them? This cold, unknown, new Self, waiting toreceive me: I shrank away from it with fear. 

"Do you know, I think you will be rather nice when you wake up. "

Her words recalled me to myself. "Perhaps I never shall wake up, " Isaid. "I don't want to wake up. "

"Oh, but one can't go on dreaming all one's life, " she laughed. "You'llwake up, and fall in love with somebody real. " She came across to me, and taking the lapels of my coat in both her hands, gave me a vigorousshake. "I hope she'll be somebody nice. I am rather afraid. "

"You seem to think me a fool!" I was still angry with her, without quiteknowing why. 

She shook me again. "You know I don't. But it isn't the nice people thattake best care of themselves. Tom can't. I have to take care of him. "

I laughed. 

"I do, really. You should hear me scold him. I like taking care ofpeople. Good-bye. "

She held out her hand. It was white now and shapely, but one could nothave called it small. Strong it felt and firm as it gripped mine. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

AND HOW CAME BACK AGAIN. 

I left London, the drums beating in my heart, the flags waving in mybrain. Somewhat more than a year later, one foggy wet December evening, I sneaked back to it defeated--ah, that is a small thing, capable ofredress--disgraced. I returned to it as to a hiding-place where, lostin the crowd, I might waste my days unnoticed until such time as I couldsummon up sufficient resolution to put an end to my dead life. I hadbeen ambitious--dwelling again amid the bitterness of the months thatfollowed my return, I write in the past tense. I had been eager to makea name, a position for myself. But were I to claim no higher aim, Ishould be doing injustice to my blood--to the great-souled gentlemanwhose whole life had been an ode to honour, to her of simple faith whohad known no other prayer to teach me than the childish cry, "God helpme to be good!" I had wished to be a great man, but it was to havebeen a great good man. The world was to have admired me, but to haverespected me also. I was to have been the knight without fear, but, rarer yet, without reproach--Galahad, not Launcelot. I had learnt myselfto be a feeble, backboneless fighter, conquered by the first seriousassault of evil, a creature of mean fears, slave to every crack of thedevil's whip, a feeder with swine. 

Urban Vane I had discovered to be a common swindler. His play he hadstolen from the desk of a well-known dramatist whose acquaintance he hadmade in Deleglise's kitchen. The man had fallen ill, and Vane had beenconstant in his visits. Partly recovering, the man had gone abroad toItaly. Had he died there, as at the time was expected, the robbery mightnever have come to light. News reached us in a small northern town thathe had taken a fresh lease of life and was on his way back to England. Then it was that Vane with calm indifference, smoking his cigar overa bottle of wine to which he had invited me, told me the bald truth, adorning it with some touches of wit. Had the recital come upon mesooner, I might have acted differently; but six months' companionshipwith Urban Vane, if it had not, by grace of the Lord, destroyed theroots of whatever flower of manhood might have been implanted in me, hadmost certainly withered its leaves. 

The man was clever. That he was not clever enough to perceive from thebeginning what he has learnt since: that honesty is the best policy--atleast, for men with brains--remains somewhat of a mystery to me. Whereonce he made his hundreds among shady ways, he now, I suppose, makes histhousands in the broad daylight of legitimate enterprise. Chicanery inthe blood, one might imagine, has to be worked out. Urban Vanes are tobe found in all callings. They commence as scamps; years later, to one'sastonishment, one finds them ornaments to their profession. Wild oatsare of various quality, according to the soil from which they arepreserved. We sow them in our various ways. 

At first I stormed. Vane sat with an amused smile upon his lips andlistened. 

"Your language, my dear Kelver, " he replied, my vocabulary exhausted, "might wound me were I able to accept you as an authority upon thisvexed question of morals. With the rest of the world you preach onething and practise another. I have noticed it so often. It is perhapssad, but the preaching has ceased to interest me. You profess to bevery indignant with me for making use of another man's ideas. It is doneevery day. You yourself were quite ready to take credit not due to you. For months we have been travelling with this play: 'Drama, in five acts, by Mr. Horace Moncrieff. ' Not more than two hundred lines of it are yourown--excellent lines, I admit, but they do not constitute the play. "

This aspect of the affair had not occurred to me. "But you asked me toput my name to it, " I stammered. "You said you did not want your own toappear--for private reasons. You made a point of it. "

He waved away the smoke from his cigar. "The man you are posing as wouldnever have put his name to work not his own. You never hesitated; on thecontrary, you jumped at the chance of so easy an opening to your careeras playwright. My need, as you imagined it, was your opportunity. "

"But you said it was from the French, " I argued; "you had merelytranslated it, I adapted it. I don't defend the custom, but it is thecustom: the man who adapts a play calls himself the author. They all doit. "

"I know, " he answered. "It has always amused me. Our sick friendhimself, whom I am sure we are both delighted to welcome back tolife, has done it more than once, and made a very fair profit on thetransaction. Indeed, from internal evidence, I am strongly of opinionthat this present play is a case in point. Well, chickens come home toroost: I adapt from him. What is the difference?"

"Simply this, " he continued, pouring himself out another glass of wine, "that whereas, owing to the anomalous state of the copyright laws, stealing from the foreign author is legal and commendable, againststealing from the living English author there is a certain prejudice. "

"And the consequences, I am afraid, you will find somewhat unpleasant, "I suggested. 

He laughed: it was not a frivolity to which he was prone. "You mean, mydear Kelver that you will. "

"Don't look so dumbfounded, " he went on. "You cannot be so stupid as youare pretending to be. The original manuscript at the Lord Chamberlain'soffice is in your handwriting. You knew our friend as well as I did, and visited him. Why, the whole tour has been under your management. You have arranged everything--most excellently; I have been quitesurprised. "

My anger came later. For the moment, the sudden light blinded me toeverything but fear. 

"But you told me, " I cried, "it was only a matter of form, that youwanted to keep your name out of it because--"

He was looking at me with an expression of genuine astonishment. Mywords began to appear humorous even to myself. I found it difficult tobelieve I had been the fool I was now seeing myself to have been. 

"I am sorry, " he said, "I am really sorry. I took you for a man of theworld. I thought you merely did not wish to know anything. "

Still, to my shame, fear was the thing uppermost in my heart. "You arenot going to put it all on to me?" I pleaded. 

He had risen. He laid his hand upon my shoulder. Instead of flinging itoff, I was glad of its kindly pressure. He was the only man to whom Icould look for help. 

"Don't take it so seriously, " he said. "He will merely think themanuscript has been lost. As likely as not, he will be unable toremember whether he wrote it or merely thought of writing it. No one inthe company will say anything: it isn't their business. We must set towork. I had altered it a good deal before you saw it, and changed allthe names of the characters. We will retain the third act: it is theonly thing of real value in the play. The situation is not original; youhave as much right to dish it up as he had. In a fortnight we will havethe whole thing so different that if he saw it himself he would onlyimagine we had got hold of the idea and had forestalled him. "

There were moments during the next few weeks when I listened to thevoice of my good angel, when I saw clearly that even from the lowestpoint of view he was giving me sound advice. I would go to the man, tellhim frankly the whole truth. 

But Vane never left my elbow. Suspecting, I suppose, he gave me clearlyto understand that if I did so, I must expect no mercy from him. Mystory, denounced by him as an outrageous lie, would be regarded as thefunk-inspired subterfuge of a young rogue. At the best I should handicapmyself with suspicion that would last me throughout my career. On theother hand, what harm had we done? Presented in some twenty or so smalltowns, where it would soon be forgotten, a play something like. Mostplays were something like. Our friend would produce his version andreap a rich harvest; ours would disappear. If by any unlikely chancediscussion should arise, the advertisement would be to his advantage. Sosoon as possible we would replace it by a new piece altogether. A youngman of my genius could surely write something better than hotch-potchsuch as this; experience was all that I had lacked. As regardedone's own conscience, was not the world's honesty a mere question ofconvention? Had he been a young man, and had we diddled him out of hisplay for a ten-pound note, we should have been applauded as sharp men ofbusiness. The one commandment of the world was: Don't get found out. Thewhole trouble, left alone, would sink and fade. Later, we should tell itas a good joke--and be laughed with. 

So I fell from mine own esteem. Vane helping me--and he had brains--Iset feverishly to work. I am glad to remember that every line I wrotewas born in misery. I tried to persuade Vane to let me make a newplay altogether, which I offered to give him for nothing. He expressedhimself as grateful, but his frequently declared belief in my dramatictalent failed to induce his acceptance. 

"Later on, my dear Kelver, " was his reply. "For the present this isdoing very well. Going on as we are, we shall soon improve it out of allrecognition, while at the same time losing nothing that is essential. All your ideas are excellent. "

By the end of about three weeks we had got together a concoction that, so far as dialogue and characters were concerned, might be said tobe our own. There was good work in it, here and there. Under otherconditions I might have been proud of much that I had written. As itwas, I experienced only the terror of the thief dodging the constable:my cleverness might save me; it afforded me no further satisfaction. My humour, when I heard the people laughing at it, I remembered I hadforged listening in vague fear to every creak upon the stairs, wonderingin what form discovery might come upon me. There was one speech, addressed by the hero to the villain: "Yes, I admit it; I do love her. But there is that which I love better--my self-respect!" Stepping downto the footlights and slapping his chest (which according to stageconvention would appear to be a sort of moral jewel-box bursting withassorted virtues), our juvenile lead--a gentleman who led a somewhatrabbit-like existence, perpetually diving down openings to avoid serviceof writs, at the instance of his wife, for alimony--would invariablybring down the house upon this sentiment. Every night, listening to theapplause, I would shudder, recalling how I had written it with burningcheeks. 

There was a character in the piece, a vicious old man, that from thebeginning Vane had wanted me to play. I had disliked the part andhad refused, choosing instead to act a high-souled countryman, in theportrayal of whose irreproachable emotions I had taken pleasure. Vanenow renewed his arguments, and my power of resistance seeming to havedeparted from me, I accepted the exchange. Certainly the old gentleman'sscenes went with more snap, but at a cost of further degradation tomyself. Upon an older actor the effect might have been harmless, but thegrowing tree springs back less surely; I found myself taking pleasurein the coarse laughter that rewarded my suggestive leers, calling up allthe evil in my nature to help me in the development of fresh "business. "Vane was enthusiastic in his praises, generous with his assistance. Under his tuition I succeeded in making the part as unpleasant as wedared. I had genius, so Vane told me; I understood so much of humannature. One proof of the moral deterioration creeping over me was that Iwas beginning to like Vane. 

Looking back at the man as I see him plainly now, a very ordinary scamp, his pretension not even amusing, I find it difficult to present him ashe appeared to my boyish eyes. He was well educated and well read. Hegave himself the airs of a superior being by freak of fate compelled toabide in a world of inferior creatures. To live among them in comfort itwas necessary for him to outwardly conform to their conventions but torespect their reasoning would have been beneath him. To accepttheir laws as binding on one's own conscience was, using the commonexpression, to give oneself away, to confess oneself commonplace. Everydecent instinct a man might own to was proof in Vane's eyes of his being"suburban, " "bourgeois"--everything that was unintellectual. It was thefirst time I had heard this sort of talk. Vane was one of the pioneersof the movement, which has since become somewhat tiresome. To laugh atit is easy to a man of the world; boys are impressed by it. From himI first heard the now familiar advocacy of pure Hedonism. Pan, enticedfrom his dark groves, was to sit upon Olympus. 

My lower nature rose within me to proclaim the foolish chatterer asa prophet. So life was not as I had been taught--a painful strugglebetween good and evil. There was no such thing as evil; the senselessepithet was a libel upon Nature. Not through wearisome repression, butrather through joyous expression of the animal lay advancement. 

Villains--workers in wrong for aesthetic pleasure of the art--are usefulcharacters in fiction; in real life they do not exist. I am convincedthe man believed most of the rubbish he talked. Since the time of whichI write he has done some service to the world. I understand he is anexcellent husband and father, a considerate master, a delightfulhost. He intended, I have no doubt, to improve me, to enlarge myunderstanding, to free me from soul-stifling bondage of convention. Notto credit him with this well-meaning intention would be to assumehim something quite inhuman, to bestow upon him a dignity beyond hisdeserts. I find it easier to regard him merely as a fool. 

Our leading lady was a handsome but coarse woman, somewhatover-developed. Starting life as a music-hall singer, she had marrieda small tradesman in the south of London. Some three or four yearsprevious, her Juno-like charms had turned the head of a youthfulnovelist--a refined, sensitive man, of whom great things in literaturehad been expected, and, judging from his earlier work, not unreasonably. He had run away with her, and eventually married her; the scandal wasstill fresh. Already she had repented of her bargain. These women regardtheir infatuated lovers merely as steps in the social ladder, and hehad failed to appreciably advance her. Under her demoralising spell hisambition had died in him. He no longer wrote, no longer took interestin anything beyond his own debasement. He was with us in the company, playing small parts, and playing them badly; he would have remained withus as bill-poster rather than have been sent away. 

Vane planned to bring this woman and myself together. To her he picturedme a young gentleman of means, a coming author, who would soon beearning an income sufficient to keep her in every luxury. To me hehinted that she had fallen in love with me. I was never attracted toher by any feeling stronger than the admiration with which one views ahandsome animal. It was my vanity upon which he worked. He envied me;any man would envy me; experience of life was what I needed to completemy genius. The great intellects of this earth must learn all lessons, even at the cost of suffering to themselves and others. 

As years before I had laboured to acquire a liking for cigars andwhiskey, deeming it an accomplishment necessary to a literary career, sopainstakingly I now applied myself to the cultivation of a pretty tastein passion. According to the literature, fictional and historical, Vanewas kind enough to supply me with, men of note were invariably sad dogs. That my temperament was not that of the sad dog, that I lacked instinctand inclination for the part, appeared to this young idiot of whom I amwriting in the light of a defect. That her languishing glances irritatedrather than maddened me, that the occasional covert pressure of her hot, thick hand left me cold, I felt a reproach to my manhood. I would fallin love with her. Surely my blood was red like other men's. Besides, wasI not an artist, and was not profligacy the hall-mark of the artist?

But one grows tired of the confessional. Fate saved me from playingthe part Vane had assigned me in this vulgar comedy, dragged me from myentanglement, flung me on my feet again. She was a little brusque in theprocess; but I do not feel inclined to blame the kind lady for that. Themud was creeping upward fast, and a quick hand must needs be rough. 

Our dramatic friend produced his play sooner than we had expected. Itcrept out that something very like it had been seen in the Provinces. Argument followed, enquiries were set on foot. "It will blow over, " saidVane. But it seemed to be blowing our way. 

The salaries, as a rule, were paid by me on Friday night. Vane, in thecourse of the evening, would bring me the money for me to distributeafter the performance. We were playing in the north of Ireland. I hadnot seen Vane all that day. So soon as I had changed my clothes I leftmy dressing-room to seek him. The box-office keeper, meeting me, put anote into my hand. It was short and to the point. Vane had pocketed theevening's takings, and had left by the seven-fifty train! He regrettedcausing inconvenience, but life was replete with small comedies; thewise man attached no seriousness to them. We should probably meet againand enjoy a laugh over our experiences. 

Some rumour had got about. I looked up from the letter to find myselfsurrounded by suspicious faces. With dry lips I told them the truth. Only they happened not to regard it as the truth. Vane throughouthad contrived cleverly to them I was the manager, the soleperson responsible. My wearily spoken explanations were to themincomprehensible lies. The quarter of an hour might have been worse forme had I been sufficiently alive to understand or care what they weresaying. A dull, listless apathy had come over me. I felt the scene onlystupid, ridiculous, tiresome. There was some talk of giving me "a damnedgood hiding. " I doubt whether I should have known till the next morningwhether the suggestion had been carried out or not. I gathered that thetrue history of the play, the reason for the sudden alterations, hadbeen known to them all along. They appeared to have reserved theirvirtuous indignation till this evening. As explanation of my apparentsleepiness, somebody, whether in kindness to me or not I cannot say, suggested I was drunk. Fortunately, it carried conviction. No furthertrains left the town that night; I was allowed to depart. A deputationpromised to be round at my lodgings early in the morning. 

Our leading lady had left the theatre immediately on the fall of thecurtain; it was not necessary for her to wait, her husband acting as herbusiness man. On reaching my rooms, I found her sitting by the fire. It reminded me that our agent in advance having fallen ill, her husbandhad, at her suggestion, been appointed in his place, and had left us onthe Wednesday to make the necessary preparations in the next town on ourlist. I thought that perhaps she had come round for her money, and theidea amused me. 

"Well?" she said, with her one smile. I had been doing my best for somemonths to regard it as soul-consuming, but without any real success. 

"Well, " I answered. It bored me, her being there. I wanted to be alone. 

"You don't seem overjoyed to see me. What's the matter with you? What'shappened?"

I laughed. "Vane's bolted and taken the week's money with him. "

"The beast!" she said. "I knew he was that sort. What ever made you takeup with him? Will it make much difference to you?"

"It makes a difference all round, " I replied. "There's no money to payany of you. There's nothing to pay your fares back to London. "

She had risen. "Here, let me understand this, " she said. "Are you therich mug Vane's been representing you to be, or only his accomplice?"

"The mug and the accomplice both, " I answered, "without the rich. It's his tour. He put my name to it because he didn't want his own toappear--for family reasons. It's his play; he stole it--"

She interrupted me with a whistle. "I thought it looked a bit fishy, allthose alterations. But such funny things do happen in this profession!Stole it, did he?"

"The whole thing in manuscript. I put my name to it for the samereason--he didn't want his own to appear. "

She dropped into her chair and laughed--a good-tempered laugh, loud andlong. "Well, I'm damned!" she said. "The first man who has ever taken mein. I should never have signed if I had thought it was his show. I couldsee the sort he was with half an eye. " She jumped up from the chair. "Here, let me get out of this, " she said. "I just looked in to know whattime to-morrow; I'd forgotten. You needn't say I came. "

Her hand upon the door, laughter seized her again, so that for supportshe had to lean against the wall. 

"Do you know why I really did come?" she said. "You'll guess when youcome to think it over, so I may as well tell you. It's a bit of ajoke. I came to say 'yes' to what you asked me last night. Have youforgotten?"

I stared at her. Last night! It seemed a long while ago--so veryunimportant what I might have said. 

She laughed again. "So help me! if you haven't. Well, you asked me torun away with you--that's all, to let our two souls unite. Damned luckyI took a day to think it over! Good-night. "

"Good-night, " I answered, without moving. I was gripping a chair toprevent myself from rushing at her, pushing her out of the room, andlocking the door. I wanted to be alone. 

I heard her turn the handle. "Got a pound or two to carry you over?" Itwas a woman's voice. 

I put my hand into my pocket. "One pound seventeen, " I answered, counting it. "It will pay my fare to London--or buy me a dinner and asecond-hand revolver. I haven't quite decided yet. "

"Oh, you get back and pull yourself together, " she said. "You're only akid. Good-night. "

I put a few things into a small bag and walked thirty miles that nightinto Belfast. Arrived in London, I took a lodging in Deptford, whereI was least likely to come in contact with any face I had ever seenbefore. I maintained myself by giving singing lessons at sixpence thehalf-hour, evening lessons in French and German (the Lord forgive me!)to ambitious shop-boys at eighteen pence a week, making up tradesmen'sbooks. A few articles of jewellery I had retained enabled me to tideover bad periods. For some four months I existed there, never goingoutside the neighbourhood. Occasionally, wandering listlessly aboutthe streets, some object, some vista, would strike me by reason of itsfamiliarity. Then I would turn and hasten back into my grave of dim, weltering streets. 

Of thoughts, emotions, during these dead days I was unconscious. Somewhere in my brain they may have been stirring, contending; butmyself I lived as in a long, dull dream. I ate, and drank, and woke, and slept, and walked and walked, and lounged by corners; staring by thehour together, seeing nothing. 

It has surprised me since to find the scenes I must then have witnessedphotographed so clearly on my mind. Tragedies, dramas, farces, playedbefore me in that teeming underworld--the scenes present themselves tome distinct, complete; yet I have no recollection of ever having seenthem. 

I fell ill. It must have been some time in April, but I kept no count ofdays. Nobody came near me, nobody knew of me. I occupied a room atthe top of a huge block of workmen's dwellings. A woman who kept asecond-hand store had lent me for a shilling a week a few articles offurniture. Lying upon my chair-bedstead, I listened to the shrill soundsaround me, that through the light and darkness never ceased. A pint ofmilk, left each morning on the stone landing, kept me alive. I wouldwait for the man's descending footsteps, then crawl to the door. I hopedI was going to die, regretting my returning strength, the desire forfood that drove me out into the streets again. 

One night, a week or two after my partial recovery, I had wandered onand on for hour after hour. The breaking dawn recalled me to myself. Iwas outside the palings of a park. In the faint shadowy light it lookedstrange and unfamiliar. I was too tired to walk further. I scrambledover the low wooden fencing, and reaching a seat, dropped down and fellasleep. 

I was sitting in a sunny avenue; birds were singing joyously, brightflowers were all around me. Norah was beside me, her frank, sweet eyeswere looking into mine; they were full of tenderness, mingled withwonder. It was a delightful dream: I felt myself smiling. 

Suddenly I started to my feet. Norah's strong hand drew me down again. 

I was in the broad walk, Regent's Park, where, I remembered, Norah oftenwalked before breakfast. A park-keeper, the only other human creaturewithin sight, was eyeing me suspiciously. I saw myself--without alooking-glass--unkempt, ragged. My intention was to run, but Norah washolding me by the arm. Savagely I tried to shake her off. I was weakfrom my recent illness, and, I suppose, half starved; it angered meto learn she was the stronger of the two. In spite of my efforts, shedragged me back. 

Ashamed of my weakness, ashamed of everything about me, I burst intotears; and that of course made me still more ashamed. To add to mydiscomfort, I had no handkerchief. Holding me with one hand--it wasquite sufficient--Norah produced her own, and wiped my eyes. Thepark-keeper, satisfied, I suppose, that at all events I was notdangerous, with a grin passed on. 

"Where have you been, and what have you been doing?" asked Norah. She still retained her grip upon me, and in her grey eyes was quietdetermination. 

So, with my face turned away from her, I told her the whole miserablestory, taking strange satisfaction in exaggerating, if anything, my ownshare of the disgrace. My recital ended, I sat staring down the long, shadow-freckled way, and for awhile there was no sound but the chirpingof the sparrows. 

Then behind me I beard a smothered laugh. It was impossible to imagineit could come from Norah. I turned quickly to see who had stolen uponus. It was Norah who was laughing; though to do her justice she wastrying to suppress it, holding her handkerchief to her face. It was ofno use, it would out; she abandoned the struggle, and gave way to it. Itastonished the sparrows into silence; they stood in a row upon the lowiron border and looked at one another. 

"I am glad you think it funny, " I said. 

"But it is funny, " she persisted. "Don't say you have lost your senseof humour, Paul; it was the one real thing you possessed. You were sococky--you don't know how cocky you were! Everybody was a fool butVane; nobody else but he appreciated you at your true worth. You and hebetween you were going to reform the stage, to educate the public, to put everything and everybody to rights. I am awfully sorry for allyou've gone through; but now that it is over, can't you see yourselfthat it is funny?"

Faintly, dimly, this aspect of the case, for the very first time, beganto present itself to me; but I should have preferred Norah to have beenimpressed by its tragedy. 

"That is not all, " I said. "I nearly ran away with another man's wife. "

I was glad to notice that sobered her somewhat. "Nearly? Why not quite?"she asked more seriously. 

"She thought I was some young idiot with money, " I replied bitterly, pleased with the effect I had produced. "Vane had told her a pack oflies. When she found out I was only a poor devil, ruined, disgraced, without a sixpence---" I made a gesture expressive of eloquent contemptfor female nature generally. 

"I am sorry, " said Norah; "I told you you would fall in love withsomething real. "

Her words irritated me, unreasonably, I confess. "In love!" I replied;"good God, I was never in love with her!"

"Then why did you nearly run away with her?"

I was wishing now I had not mentioned the matter; it promised to bedifficult of explanation. "I don't know, " I replied irritably. "Ithought she was in love with me. She was very beautiful--at least, otherpeople seemed to think she was. Artists are not like ordinary men. Youmust live--understand life, before you can teach it to others. When abeautiful woman is in love with you--or pretends to be, you--you mustsay something. You can't stand like a fool and--"

Again her laughter interrupted me; this time she made no attempt tohide it. The sparrows chirped angrily, and flew off to continue theirconversation somewhere where there would be less noise. 

"You are the biggest baby, Paul, " she said, so soon as she could speak, "I ever heard of. " She seized me by the shoulders, and turned me round. "If you weren't looking so ill and miserable, I would shake you, Paul, till there wasn't a bit of breath left in your body. "

"How much money do you owe?" she asked--"to the people in the companyand anybody else, I mean--roughly?"

"About a hundred and fifty pounds, " I answered. 

"Then if you rest day or night, Paul, till you have paid that hundredand fifty--every penny of it--I'll think you the meanest cad in London!"

Her grey eyes were flashing quite alarmingly. I felt almost afraid ofher. She could be so vehement at times. 

"But how can I?" I asked. 

"Go straight home, " she commanded, "and write something funny: anarticle, story--anything you like; only mind that it is funny. Post itto me to-morrow, at the latest. Dan is in London, editing a new weekly. I'll have it copied out and sent to him. I shan't say who it is from. Ishall merely ask him to read it and reply, at once. If you've a grainof grit left in you, you'll write something that he will be glad to haveand to pay for. Pawn that ring on your finger and get yourself agood breakfast"--it was my mother's wedding-ring, the only piece ofdispensable property I had not parted with--"_she_ won't mind helpingyou. But nobody else is going to--except yourself. "

She looked at her watch. "I must be off. " She turned again. "Thereis something I was forgetting. B--"--she mentioned the name of thedramatist whose play Vane had stolen--"has been looking for you forthe last three months. If you hadn't been an idiot you might have savedyourself a good deal of trouble. He is quite certain it was Vane stolethe manuscript. He asked the nurse to bring it to him an hour afterVane had left the house, and it couldn't be found. Besides, the man'scharacter is well known. And so is yours. I won't tell it you, " shelaughed; "anyhow, it isn't that of a knave. "

She made a step towards me, then changed her mind. "No, " she said, "Ishan't shake hands with you till you have paid the last penny that youowe. Then I shall know that you are a man. "

She did not look back. I watched her, till the sunlight, streaming in myeyes, raised a golden mist between us. 

Then I went to my work. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS SENDS PAUL A RING. 

It took me three years to win that handshake. For the first six months Iremained in Deptford. There was excellent material to be found therefor humorous articles, essays, stories; likewise for stories tragicand pathetic. But I owed a hundred and fifty pounds--a little overtwo hundred it reached to, I found, when I came to add up the actualfigures. So I paid strict attention to business, left the tears to begarnered by others--better fitted maybe for the task; kept to my ownpatch, reaped and took to market only the laughter. 

At the beginning I sent each manuscript to Norah; she had it copied out, debited me with the cost received payment, and sent me the balance. Atfirst my earnings were small; but Norah was an excellent agent; rapidlythey increased. Dan grew quite cross with her, wrote in pained surpriseat her greed. The "matter" was fair, but in no way remarkable. Anyfriend of hers, of course, he was anxious to assist; but business wasbusiness. In justice to his proprietors, he could not and would not paymore than the market value. Miss Deleglise, replying curtly in the thirdperson, found herself in perfect accord with Mr. Brian as to businessbeing business. If Mr. Brian could not afford to pay her price formaterial so excellent, other editors with whom Miss Deleglise wasequally well acquainted could and would. Answer by return would greatlyoblige, pending which the manuscript then in her hands she retained. Mr. Brian, understanding he had found his match, grumbled but paid. Whetherhe had any suspicion who "Jack Homer" might be, he never confessed; buthe would have played the game, pulled his end of the rope, in eithercase. Nor was he allowed to decide the question for himself. Competitionwas introduced into the argument. Of purpose a certain proportion ofmy work my agent sent elsewhere. "Jack Homer" grew to be a commodityin demand. For, seated at my rickety table, I laughed as I wrote, thefourth wall of the dismal room fading before my eyes revealing vistasbeyond. 

Still, it was slow work. Humour is not an industrious maid; declines tobe bustled, will work only when she feels inclined--does not often feelinclined; gives herself a good many unnecessary airs; if worried, packsup and goes off, Heaven knows where! comes back when she thinks shewill: a somewhat unreliable young person. To my literary labours I foundit necessary to add journalism. I lacked Dan's magnificent assurance. Fate never befriends the nervous. Had I burst into the editorialsanctum, the editor most surely would have been out if in, would havebeen a man of short ways, would have seen to it that I went out quickly. But the idea was not to be thought of; Robert Macaire himself in my onecoat would have been diffident, apologetic. I joined the ranks of thepenny-a-liners--to be literally exact, three halfpence a liners. Incompany with half a dozen other shabby outsiders--some of them young menlike myself seeking to climb; others, older men who had sunk--I attendedinquests, police courts; flew after fire engines; rejoiced in streetaccidents; yearned for murders. Somewhat vulture-like we livedprecariously upon the misfortunes of others. We made occasional halfcrowns by providing the public with scandal, occasional crowns bykeeping our information to ourselves. 

"I think, gentlemen, " would explain our spokesman in a hoarse whisper, on returning to the table, "I think the corpse's brother-in-law isanxious that the affair, if possible, should be kept out of the papers. "

The closeness and attention with which we would follow that particularcase, the fulness and completeness of our notes, would be quiteremarkable. Our spokesman would rise, drift carelessly away, to returnfive minutes later, wiping his mouth. 

"Not a very interesting case, gentlemen, I don't think. Shall we sayfive shillings apiece?" Sometimes a sense of the dignity of our callingwould induce us to stand out for ten. 

And here also my sense of humour came to my aid; gave me perhaps anundue advantage over my competitors. Twelve good men and true had beenasked to say how a Lascar sailor had met his death. It was perfectlyclear how he had met his death. A plumber, working on the roof of asmall two-storeyed house, had slipped and fallen on him. The plumber hadescaped with a few bruises; the unfortunate sailor had been pickedup dead. Some blame attached to the plumber. His mate, an excellentwitness, told us the whole story. 

"I was fixing a gas-pipe on the first floor, " said the man. "Theprisoner was on the roof. "

"We won't call him 'the prisoner, '" interrupted the coroner, "at least, not yet. Refer to him, if you please, as the 'last witness. '"

"The last witness, " corrected himself the man. "He shouts down thechimney to know if I was ready for him. "

"'Ready and waiting, ' I says. 

"'Right, ' he says; 'I'm coming in through the window. '

"'Wait a bit, ' I says; 'I'll go down and move the ladder for you. 

"'It's all right, ' he says; 'I can reach it. '

"'No, you can't, ' I says. 'It's the other side of the chimney. '

"'I can get round, ' he says. 

"Well, before I knew what had happened, I hears him go, smack! I rushesto the window and looks out: I see him on the pavement, sitting up like. 

"'Hullo, Jim, ' I says. 'Have you hurt yourself?'

"'I think I'm all right, ' he says, 'as far as I can tell. But I wishyou'd come down. This bloke I've fallen on looks a bit sick. '"

The others headed their flimsy "Sad Accident, " a title truthful but notalluring. I altered mine to "Plumber in a Hurry--Fatal Result. " Sayingas little as possible about the unfortunate sailor, I called theattention of plumbers generally to the coroner's very just remarks uponthe folly of undue haste; pointed out to them, as a body, the troublethat would arise if somehow they could not cure themselves of thistendency to rush through their work without a moment's loss of time. 

It established for me a useful reputation. The sub-editor of one eveningpaper condescended so far as to come out in his shirt-sleeves and shakehands with me. 

"That's the sort of thing we want, " he told me; "a light touch, a bit ofhumour. "

I snatched fun from fires (I sincerely trust the insurance premiums werenot overdue); culled quaintness from street rows; extracted merrimentfrom catastrophes the most painful, and prospered. 

Though often within a stone's throw of the street, I unremittinglyavoided the old house at Poplar. I was suffering inconvenience at thisperiod by reason of finding myself two distinct individuals, contendingwith each other. My object was to encourage the new Paul--the sensible, practical, pushful Paul, whose career began to look promising; todrive away from interfering with me his strangely unlike twin--the oldchildish Paul of the sad, far-seeing eyes. Sometimes out of the crackedlooking-glass his wistful, yearning face would plead to me; but I wouldsternly shake my head. I knew well his cunning. Had I let him have hisway, he would have led me through the maze of streets he knew so well, past the broken railings (outside which he would have left my bodystanding), along the weedy pathway, through the cracked and dented door, up the creaking staircase to the dismal little chamber where we once--heand I together--had sat dreaming foolish dreams. 

"Come, " he would whisper; "it is so near. Let us push aside the chestof drawers very quietly, softly raise the broken sash, prop it open withthe Latin dictionary, lean our elbows on the sill, listen to the voicesof the weary city, voices calling to us from the darkness. "

But I was too wary to be caught. "Later on, " I would reply to him; "whenI have made my way, when I am stronger to withstand your wheedling. ThenI will go with you, if you are still in existence, my sentimental littlefriend. We will dream again the old impractical, foolish dreams--andlaugh at them. "

So he would fade away, and in his place would nod to me approvingly abusinesslike-looking, wide-awake young fellow. 

But to one sentimental temptation I succumbed. My position was bynow assured; there was no longer any reason for my hiding myself. Idetermined to move westward. I had not intended to soar so high, butpassing through Guildford Street one day, the creeper-covered cornerhouse that my father had once thought of taking recalled itself to me. A card was in the fanlight. I knocked and made enquiries. Abed-sitting-room upon the third floor was vacant. I remembered it wellthe moment the loquacious landlady opened its door. 

"This shall be your room, Paul, " said my father. So clearly his voicesounded behind me that I turned, forgetting for the moment it was buta memory. "You will be quiet here, and we can shut out the bed andwashstand with a screen. "

So my father had his way. It was a pleasant, sunny little room, overlooking the gardens of the hospital. I followed my father'ssuggestion, shut out the bed and washstand with a screen. And sometimesof an evening it would amuse me to hear my father turn the handle of thedoor. 

"How are you getting on--all right?"

"Famously. "

Often there came back to me the words he had once used. "You must be thepractical man, Paul, and get on. Myself, I have always been somewhat ofa dreamer. I meant to do such great things in the world, and somehow Isuppose I aimed too high. I wasn't--practical. "

"But ought not one to aim high?" I had asked. 

My father had fidgeted in his chair. "It is very difficult to say. Itis all so--so very ununderstandable. You aim high and you don't hitanything--at least, it seems as if you didn't. Perhaps, after all, itis better to aim at something low, and--and hit it. Yet it seems apity--one's ideals, all the best part of one--I don't know why it is. Perhaps we do not understand. "

For some months I had been writing over my own name. One day a letterwas forwarded to me by an editor to whose care it had been addressed. Itwas a short, formal note from the maternal Sellars, inviting me tothe wedding of her daughter with a Mr. Reginald Clapper. I hadalmost forgotten the incident of the Lady 'Ortensia, but it was notunsatisfactory to learn that it had terminated pleasantly. Also, Ijudged from an invitation having been sent me, that the lady wishedme to be witness of the fact that my desertion had not left herdisconsolate. So much gratification I felt I owed her, and accordingly, purchasing a present as expensive as my means would permit, I mademy way on the following Thursday, clad in frock coat and light greytrousers, to Kennington Church. 

The ceremony was already in progress. Creeping on tiptoe up the aisle, I was about to slip into an empty pew, when a hand was laid upon mysleeve. 

"We're all here, " whispered the O'Kelly; "just room for ye. "

Squeezing his hand as I passed, I sat down between the Signora and Mrs. Peedles. Both ladies were weeping; the Signora silently, one tear at atime clinging fondly to her pretty face as though loath to fall fromit; Mrs. Peedles copiously, with explosive gurgles, as of water from abottle. 

"It is such a beautiful service, " murmured the Signora, pressing my handas I settled myself down. "I should so--so love to be married. "

"Me darling, " whispered the O'Kelly, seizing her other hand and kissingit covertly behind his open Prayer Book, "perhaps ye will be--one day. "

The Signora through her tears smiled at him, but with a sigh shook herhead. 

Mrs. Peedles, clad, so far as the dim November light enabled me tojudge, in the costume of Queen Elizabeth--nothing regal; the sort ofthing one might assume to have been Her Majesty's second best, say thirdbest, frock--explained that weddings always reminded her how fleeting athing was love. 

"The poor dears!" she sobbed. "But there, there's no telling. Perhapsthey'll be happy. I'm sure I hope they may be. He looks harmless. "

Jarman, stretching out a hand to me from the other side of Mrs. Peedles, urged me to cheer up. "Don't wear your 'eart upon your sleeve, " headvised. "Try and smile. "

In the vestry I met old friends. The maternal Sellars, stouter thanever, had been accommodated with a chair--at least, I assumed so, shebeing in a sitting posture; the chair itself was not in evidence. Shegreeted me with more graciousness than I had expected, enquiring aftermy health with pointedness and an amount of tender solicitude that, until the explanation broke upon me, somewhat puzzled me. 

Mr. Reginald Clapper was a small but energetic gentleman, muchimpressed, I was glad to notice, with a conviction of his own goodfortune. He expressed the greatest delight at being introduced to me, shook me heartily by the hand, and hoped we should always be friends. 

"Won't be my fault if we're not, " he added. "Come and see us wheneveryou like. " He repeated this three times. I gathered the generalsentiment to be that he was acting, if anything, with excess ofgenerosity. 

Mrs. Reginald Clapper, as I was relieved to know she now was, receivedmy salute to a subdued murmur of applause. She looked to my eyeshandsomer than when I had last seen her, or maybe my taste was growingless exacting. She also trusted she might always regard me as a friend. I replied that it would be my hope to deserve the honour; whereupon shekissed me of her own accord, and embracing her mother, shed some tears, explaining the reason to be that everybody was so good to her. 

Brother George, less lank than formerly, hampered by a pair of enormouswhite kid gloves, superintended my signing of the register, whisperingto me sympathetically: "Better luck next time, old cock. "

The fat young lady--or, maybe, the lean young lady, grown stouter, I cannot say for certain--who feared I had forgotten her, a thing Iassured her utterly impossible, was good enough to say that, in heropinion, I was worth all the others put together. 

"And so I told her, " added the fat young lady--or the lean one grownstouter, "a dozen times if I told her once. But there!"

I murmured my obligations. 

Cousin Joseph, 'whom I found no difficulty in recognising by reason ofhis watery eyes, appeared not so chirpy as of yore. 

"You take my tip, " advised Cousin Joseph, drawing me aside, "and keepout of it. "

"You speak from experience?" I suggested. 

"I'm as fond of a joke, " said the watery-eyed Joseph, "as any man. Butwhen it comes to buckets of water--"

A reminder from the maternal Sellars that breakfast had been orderedfor eleven o'clock caused a general movement and arrested Joseph'srevelations. 

"See you again, perhaps, " he murmured, and pushed past me. 

What Mrs. Sellars, I suppose, would have alluded to as a coldcol-la-shon had been arranged for at a restaurant near by. I walkedthere in company with Uncle and Aunt Gutton; not because I particularlydesired their companionship, but because Uncle Gutton, seizing me by thearm, left me no alternative. 

"Now then, young man, " commenced Uncle Gutton kindly, but boisterouslyso soon as we were in the street, at some little distance behind theothers, "if you want to pitch into me, you pitch away. I shan't mind, and maybe it'll do you good. "

I informed him that nothing was further from my desire. 

"Oh, all right, " returned Uncle Gutton, seemingly disappointed. "Ifyou're willing to forgive and forget, so am I. I never liked you, asI daresay you saw, and so I told Rosie. 'He may be cleverer than helooks, ' I says, 'or he may be a bigger fool than I think him, thoughthat's hardly likely. You take my advice and get a full-grown article, then you'll know what you're doing. '"

I told him I thought his advice had been admirable. 

"I'm glad you think so, " he returned, somewhat puzzled; "though if youwanted to call me names I shouldn't have blamed you. Anyhow, you've tookit like a sensible chap. You've got over it, as I always told her youwould. Young men out of story-books don't die of broken hearts, evenif for a month or two they do feel like standing on their head in thewater-butt. "

"Why, I was in love myself three times, " explained Uncle Gutton, "beforeI married the old woman. "

Aunt Gutton sighed and said she was afraid gentlemen didn't feel thesethings as much as they ought to. 

"They've got their living to earn, " retorted Uncle Gutton. 

I agreed with Uncle Gutton that life could not be wasted in vain regret. 

"As for the rest, " admitted Uncle Gutton, handsomely, "I was wrong. You've turned out better than I expected you would. "

I thanked him for his improved opinion, and as we entered the restaurantwe shook hands. 

Minikin we found there waiting for us. He explained that having beenable to obtain only limited leave of absence from business, he hadconcluded the time would be better employed at the restaurant than atthe church. Others were there also with whom I was unacquainted, youngsparks, admirers, I presume, of the Lady 'Ortensia in her professionalcapacity, fellow-clerks of Mr. Clapper, who was something in the City. Altogether we must have numbered a score. 

Breakfast was laid in a large room on the first floor. The weddingpresents stood displayed upon a side-table. My own, with my cardattached, had not been seen by Mrs. Clapper till that moment. She andher mother lingered, examining it. 

"Real silver!" I heard the maternal Sellars whisper, "Must have paid aten pound note for it. "

"I hope you'll find it useful, " I said. 

The maternal Sellars, drifting away, joined the others gathered togetherat the opposite end of the room. 

"I suppose you think I set my cap at you merely because you were agentleman, " said the Lady 'Ortensia. 

"Don't let's talk about it, " I answered. "We were both foolish. "

"I don't want you to think it was merely that, " continued the Lady'Ortensia. "I did like you. And I wouldn't have disgraced you--at least, I'd have tried not to. We women are quick to learn. You never gave metime. "

"Believe me, things are much better as they are, " I said. 

"I suppose so, " she answered. "I was a fool. " She glanced round; westill had the corner to ourselves. "I told a rare pack of lies, " shesaid; "I didn't seem able to help it; I was feeling sore all over. ButI have always been ashamed of myself. I'll tell them the truth, if youlike. "

I thought I saw a way of making her mind easy. "My dear girl, " I said, "you have taken the blame upon yourself, and let me go scot-free. It wasgenerous of you. "

"You mean that?" she asked. 

"The truth, " I answered, "would shift all the shame on to me. It was Iwho broke my word, acted shabbily from beginning to end. "

"I hadn't looked at it in that light, " she replied. "Very well, I'llhold my tongue. "

My place at breakfast was to the left of the maternal Sellars, theSignora next to me, and the O'Kelly opposite. Uncle Gutton faced thebride and bridegroom. The disillusioned Joseph was hidden from me byflowers, so that his voice, raised from time to time, fell upon my ears, embellished with the mysterious significance of the unseen oracle. 

For the first quarter of an hour or so the meal proceeded almost insilence. The maternal Sellars when not engaged in whispered argumentwith the perspiring waiter, was furtively occupied in working sums uponthe table-cloth by aid of a blunt pencil. The Signora, strangely unlikeher usual self, was not in talkative mood. 

"It was so kind of them to invite me, " said the Signora, speaking low. "But I feel I ought not to have come. 

"Why not?" I asked

"I'm not fit to be here, " murmured the Signora in a broken voice. "Whatright have I at wedding breakfasts? Of course, for dear Willie it isdifferent. He has been married. "

The O'Kelly, who never when the Signora was present seemed to care muchfor conversation in which she was unable to participate, took advantageof his neighbour's being somewhat deaf to lapse into abstraction. Jarmanessayed a few witticisms of a general character, of which nobody tookany notice. The professional admirers of the Lady 'Ortensia, seatedtogether at a corner of the table, appeared to be enjoying a smalljoke among themselves. Occasionally, one or another of them would laughnervously. But for the most part the only sounds to be heard were theclatter of the knives and forks, the energetic shuffling of the waiter, and a curious hissing noise as of escaping gas, caused by Uncle Guttondrinking champagne. 

With the cutting, or, rather, the smashing into a hundred fragments, of the wedding cake--a work that taxed the united strength of brideand bridegroom to the utmost--the atmosphere lost something of itssombreness. The company, warmed by food, displaying indications of beingnearly done, commenced to simmer. The maternal Sellars, putting awaywith her blunt pencil considerations of material nature, embraced thetable with a smile. 

"But it is a sad thing, " sighed the maternal Sellars the next moment, with a shake of her huge head, "when your daughter marries, and goesaway and leaves you. "

"Damned sight sadder, " commented Uncle Gutton, "when she don't go off, but hangs on at home year after year and expects you to keep her. "

I credit Uncle Gutton with intending this as an aside for the exclusivebenefit of the maternal Sellars; but his voice was not of the timbrethat lends itself to secrecy. One of the bridesmaids, a plain, elderlygirl, bending over her plate, flushed scarlet. I concluded her to beMiss Gutton. 

"It doesn't seem to me, " said Aunt Gutton from the other end of thetable, "that gentlemen are as keen on marrying nowadays as they used tobe. "

"Got to know a bit about it, I expect, " sounded the small, shrill voiceof the unseen Joseph. 

"To my thinking, " exclaimed a hatchet-faced gentleman, "one of the evilscrying most loudly for redress at the present moment is the utterlyneedless and monstrous expense of legal proceedings. " He spoke rapidlyand with warmth. "Take divorce. At present, what is it? The rich man'sluxury. "

Conversation appeared to be drifting in a direction unsuitable to theoccasion; but Jarman was fortunately there to seize the helm. 

"The plain fact of the matter is, " said Jarman, "girls have gone up invalue. Time was, so I've heard, when they used to be given away witha useful bit of household linen, maybe a chair or two. Nowadays--well, it's only chaps wallowing in wealth like Clapper there as can afford areally first-class article. "

Mr. Clapper, not a gentleman in other respects of exceptionalbrilliancy, possessed one quality that popularity-seekers might haveenvied him: the ability to explode on the slightest provocation into alaugh instinct with all the characteristics of genuine delight. 

"Give and take, " observed the maternal Sellars, so soon as Mr. Clapper'sroar had died away; "that's what you've got to do when you're married. "

"Give a deal more than you bargained for and take what you don'twant--that sums it up, " came the bitter voice of the unseen. 

"Oh, do be quiet, Joe, " advised the stout young lady, from which Iconcluded she had once been the lean young lady. "You talk enough for aman. "

"Can't I open my mouth?" demanded the indignant oracle. 

"You look less foolish when you keep it shut, " returned the stout younglady. 

"We'll show them how to get on, " observed the Lady 'Ortensia to herbridegroom, with a smile. 

Mr. Clapper responded with a gurgle. 

"When me and the old girl there fixed things up, " said Uncle Gutton, "wedidn't talk no nonsense, and we didn't start with no misunderstandings. 'I'm not a duke, ' I says--"

"Had she been mistaking you for one?" enquired Minikin. 

Mr. Clapper commented, not tactfully, but with appreciative laugh. Ifeared for a moment lest Uncle Gutton's little eyes should leave hishead. 

"Not being a natural-born, one-eyed fool, " replied Uncle Gutton, glaringat the unabashed Minikin, "she did not. 'I'm not a duke, ' I says, and_she_ had sense enough to know as I was talking sarcastic like. 'I'm notoffering you a life of luxury and ease. I'm offering you myself, justwhat you see, and nothing more. '

"She took it?" asked Minikin, who was mopping up his gravy with hisbread. 

"She accepted me, sir, " returned Uncle Gutton, in a voice that wouldhave awed any one but Minikin. "Can you give me any good reason for hernot doing so?"

"No need to get mad with me, " explained Minikin. "I'm not blaming thepoor woman. We all have our moments of despair. "

The unfortunate Clapper again exploded. Uncle Gutton rose to his feet. The ready Jarman saved the situation. 

"'Ear! 'ear!" cried Jarman, banging the table with the handles of twoknives. "Silence for Uncle Gutton! 'E's going to propose a toast. 'Ear, 'ear!"

Mrs. Clapper, seconding his efforts, the whole table broke intoapplause. 

"What, as a matter of fact, I did get up to say--" began Uncle Gutton. 

"Good old Uncle Gutton!" persisted the determined Jarman. "Bride andbridegroom--long life to 'em!"

Uncle Sutton, evidently pleased, allowed his indignation against Minikinto evaporate. 

"Well, " said Uncle Gutton, "if you think I'm the one to do it--"

The response was unmistakable. In our enthusiasm we broke two glassesand upset a cruet; a small, thin lady was unfortunate enough to shed herchignon. Thus encouraged, Uncle Sutton launched himself upon his task. Personally, I should have been better pleased had Fate not interposed toassign to him the duty. 

Starting with a somewhat uninstructive history of his own career, hesuddenly, and for no reason at all obvious, branched off into fiercecensure of the Adulteration Act. Reminded of the time by the maternalSellars, he got in his first sensible remark by observing that withsuch questions, he took it, the present company was not particularlyinterested, and directed himself to the main argument. To his, UncleGutton's, foresight, wisdom and instinctive understanding of humanity, Mr. Clapper, it appeared, owed his present happiness. Uncle Gutton itwas who had divined from the outset the sort of husband the fairRosina would come eventually to desire--a plain, simple, hard-working, level-headed sort of chap, with no hity-tity nonsense about him: suchan one, in short, as Mr. Clapper himself--(at this Mr. Clapper expressedapproval by a lengthy laugh)--a gentleman who, so far as Uncle Gutton'sknowledge went, had but one fault: a silly habit of laughing when therewas nothing whatever to laugh at; of which, it was to be hoped, thecares and responsibilities of married life would cure him. (To therest of the discourse Mr. Clapper listened with a gravity painfullymaintained. ) There had been moments, Uncle Gutton was compelled toadmit, when the fair Rosina had shown inclination to make a fool ofherself--to desire in place of honest worth mere painted baubles. Heused the term in no offensive sense. Speaking for himself, what a manwanted beyond his weekly newspaper, he, Uncle Gutton, was unable tounderstand; but if there were fools in the world who wanted to readrubbish written by other fools, then the other fools would of coursewrite it; Uncle Gutton did not blame them. He mentioned no names, butwhat he would say was: a plain man for a sensible girl, and no paintedbaubles. 

The waiter here entering with a message from the cabman to the effectthat if he was to catch the twelve-forty-five from Charing Cross, itwas about full time he started, Uncle Gutton was compelled to bring hisspeech to a premature conclusion. The bride and bridegroom were hustledinto their clothes. There followed much female embracing and malehand-shaking. The rice having been forgotten, the waiter was almostthrown downstairs, with directions to at once procure some. Thereappearing danger of his not returning in time, the resourceful Jarmansuggested cold semolina pudding as a substitute. But the idea wasdiscouraged by the bride. A slipper of remarkable antiquity, discoveredon the floor and regarded as a gift from Providence, was flung from thewindow by brother George, with admirable aim, and alighted on the roofof the cab. The waiter, on his return, not being able to find it, seemedsurprised. 

I walked back as far as the Obelisk with the O'Kelly and the Signora, who were then living together in Lambeth. Till that morning I hadnot seen the O'Kelly since my departure from London, nearly two yearsbefore, so that we had much to tell each other. For the third time nowhad the O'Kelly proved his utter unworthiness to be the husband of thelady to whom he still referred as his "dear good wife. "

"But, under the circumstances, would it not be better, " I suggested, "for her to obtain a divorce? Then you and the Signora could marry andthere would be an end to the whole trouble. "

"From a strictly worldly point of view, " replied the O'Kelly, "itcertainly would be; but Mrs. O'Kelly"--his voice took to itselfunconsciously a tone of reverence--"is not an ordinary woman. You canhave no conception, my dear Kelver, of her goodness. I had a letter fromher only two months ago, a few weeks after the--the last occurrence. Notone word of reproach, only that if I trespassed against her even untoseven times seven she would still consider it her duty to forgive me;that the 'home' would always be there for me to return to and repent. "

A tear stood in the O'Kelly's eye. "A beautiful nature, " he commented. "There are not many women like her. "

"Not one in a million!" added the Signora, with enthusiasm. 

"Well, to me it seems like pure obstinacy, " I said. 

The O'Kelly spoke quite angrily. "Don't ye say a word against her! Iwon't listen to it. Ye don't understand her. She never will despair ofreforming me. "

"You see, Mr. Kelver, " explained the Signora, "the whole difficultyarises from my unfortunate profession. It is impossible for me to keepout of dear Willie's way. If I could earn my living by any other means, I would; but I can't. And when he sees my name upon the posters, it'sall over with him. "

"I do wish, Willie, dear, " added the Signora in tones of gentle reproof, "that you were not quite so weak. "

"Me dear, " replied the O'Kelly, "ye don't know how attractive ye are orye wouldn't blame me. "

I laughed. "Why don't you be firm, " I suggested to the Signora, "sendhim packing about his business?"

"I ought to, " admitted the Signora. "I always mean to, until I see him. Then I don't seem able to say anything--not anything I ought to. "

"Ye do say it, " contradicted the O'Kelly. "Ye're an angel, only I won'tlisten to ye. "

"I don't say it as if I meant it, " persisted the Signora. "It's evidentI don't. "

"I still think it a pity, " I said, "someone does not explain to Mrs. O'Kelly that a divorce would be the truer kindness. "

"It is difficult to decide, " argued the Signora. "If ever you shouldwant to leave me--"

"Me darling!" exclaimed the O'Kelly. 

"But you may, " insisted the Signora. "Something may happen to help you, to show you how wicked it all is. I shall be glad then to think that youwill go back to her. Because she is a good woman, Willie, you know sheis. "

"She's a saint, " agreed Willie. 

At the Obelisk I shook hands with them, and alone pursued my way towardsFleet Street. 

The next friend whose acquaintance I renewed was Dan. He occupiedchambers in the Temple, and one evening a week or two after the'Ortensia marriage, I called upon him. Nothing in his manner of greetingme suggested the necessity of explanation. Dan never demanded anythingof his friends beyond their need of him. Shaking hands with me, hepushed me down into the easy-chair, and standing with his back to thefire, filled and lighted his pipe. 

"I left you alone, " he said. "You had to go through it, your slough ofdespond. It lies across every path--that leads to anywhere. Clear ofit?"

"I think so, " I replied, smiling. 

"You are on the high road, " he continued. "You have only to walksteadily. Sure you have left nothing behind you--in the slough?"

"Nothing worth bringing out of it, " I said. "Why do you ask soseriously?"

He laid his hand upon my head, rumpling my hair, as in the old days. 

"Don't leave him behind you, " he said; "the little boy Paul--Paul thedreamer. "

I laughed. "Oh, he! He was only in my way. "

"Yes, here, " answered Dan. "This is not his world. He is of no use toyou here; won't help you to bread and cheese--no, nor kisses either. Butkeep him near you. Later, you will find, perhaps, that all along he hasbeen the real Paul--the living, growing Paul; the other--the active, worldly, pushful Paul, only the stuff that dreams are made of, hisfretful life a troubled night rounded by a sleep. "

"I have been driving him away, " I said. "He is so--so impracticable. "

Dan shook his head gravely. "It is not his world, " he repeated. "We musteat, drink--be husbands, fathers. He does not understand. Here he is thechild. Take care of him. "

We sat in silence for a little while--for longer, perhaps, than itseemed to us--Dan in the chair opposite to me, each of us occupied withhis own thoughts. 

"You have an excellent agent, " said Dan; "retain her services as long asyou can. She possesses the great advantage of having no conscience, asregards your affairs. Women never have where they--"

He broke off to stir the fire. 

"You like her?" I asked. The words sounded feeble. It is only the writerwho fits the language to the emotion; the living man more often selectsby contrast. 

"She is my ideal woman, " returned Dan; "true and strong and tender;clear as crystal, pure as dawn. Like her!"

He knocked the ashes from his pipe. "We do not marry our ideals, " hewent on. "We love with our hearts, not with our souls. The woman I shallmarry"--he sat gazing into the fire, a smile upon his face--"she will besome sweet, clinging, childish woman, David Copperfield's Dora. OnlyI am not Doady, who always seems to me to have been somewhat of a--Hereminds me of you, Paul, a little. Dickens was right; her helplessness, as time went on, would have bored him more and more instead of appealingto him. "

"And the women, " I suggested, "do they marry their ideals?"

He laughed. "Ask them. "

"The difference between men and women, " he continued, "is very slight;we exaggerate it for purposes of art. What sort of man do you suppose heis, Norah's ideal? Can't you imagine him?--But I can tell you the typeof man she will marry, ay, and love with all her heart. "

He looked at me from under his strong brows drawn down, a twinkle in hiseye. 

"A nice enough fellow--clever, perhaps, but someone--well, someone whowill want looking after, taking care of, managing; someone who willappeal to the mother side of her--not her ideal man, but the man forwhom nature intended her. "

"Perhaps with her help, " I said, "he may in time become her ideal. "

"There's a long road before him, " growled Dan. 

It was Norah herself who broke to me the news of Barbara's elopement withHal. I had seen neither of them since my return to London. Old Haslucka month or so before I had met in the City one day by chance, and he hadinsisted on my lunching with him. I had found him greatly changed. His buoyant self-assurance had deserted him; in its place a fretfuleagerness had become his motive force. At first he had talkedboastingly: Had I seen the _Post_ for last Monday, the _Court Circular_for the week before? Had I read that Barbara had danced with the CrownPrince, that the Count and Countess Huescar had been entertaining aGrand Duke? What [duplicated line of text] I think of that! and suchlike. Was not money master of the world? Ay, and the nobs should be madeto acknowledge it!

But as he had gulped down glass after glass the brag had died away. 

"No children, " he had whispered to me across the table; "that's what Ican't understand. Nearly four years and no children! What'll be thegood of it all? Where do I come in? What do I get? Damn these rottenpopinjays! What do they think we buy them for?"

It was in the studio on a Monday morning that Norah told me. It wasthe talk of the town for the next day--and the following eight. She hadheard it the evening before at supper, and had written to me to come andsee her. 

"I thought you would rather hear it quietly, " said Norah, "than learn itfrom a newspaper paragraph. Besides, I wanted to tell you this. She didwrong when she married, putting aside love for position. Now she hasdone right. She has put aside her shame with all the advantages shederived from it. She has proved herself a woman: I respect her. "

Norah would not have said that to please me had she not really thoughtit. I could see it from that light; but it brought me no comfort. Mygoddess had a heart, passions, was a mere human creature like myself. From her cold throne she had stepped down to mingle with the world. Sosome youthful page of Arthur's court may have felt, learning the GreatQueen was but a woman. 

I never spoke with her again but once. That was an evening three yearslater in Brussels. Strolling idly after dinner the bright lights of atheatre invited me to enter. It was somewhat late; the second act hadcommenced. I slipped quietly into my seat, the only one vacant at theextreme end of the front row of the first range; then, looking down uponthe stage, met her eyes. A little later an attendant whispered to methat Madame G---- would like to see me; so at the fall of the curtain Iwent round. Two men were in the dressing-room smoking, and on the tablewere some bottles of champagne. She was standing before her glass, aloose shawl about her shoulders. 

"Excuse my shaking hands, " she said. "This damned hole is like afurnace; I have to make up fresh after each act. "

She held them up for my inspection with a laugh; they were smeared withgrease. 

"D'you know my husband?" she continued. "Baron G--; Mr. Paul Kelver. "

The Baron rose. He was a red-faced, pot-bellied little man. "Delightedto meet Mr. Kelver, " he said, speaking in excellent English. "Any friendof my wife's is always a friend of mine. "

He held out his fat, perspiring hand. I was not in the mood to attachmuch importance to ceremony. I bowed and turned away, careless whetherhe was offended or not. 

"I am glad I saw you, " she continued. "Do you remember a girl calledBarbara? You and she were rather chums, years ago. 

"Yes, " I answered, "I remember her. "

"Well, she died, poor girl, three years ago. " She was rubbing paint intoher cheeks as she spoke. "She asked me if ever I saw you to give youthis. I have been carrying it about with me ever since. "

She took a ring from her finger. It was the one ring Barbara had wornas a girl, a chrysolite set plainly in a band of gold. I had noticedit upon her hand the first time I had seen her, sitting in my father'soffice framed by the dusty books and papers. She dropped it into myoutstretched palm. 

"Quite a pretty little romance, " laughed the Baron. 

"That's all, " added the woman at the glass. "She said you wouldunderstand. "

From under her painted lashes she flashed a glance at me. I hope neverto see again that look upon a woman's face. 

"Thank you, " I said. "Yes, I understand. It was very kind of you. Ishall always wear it. "

Placing the ring upon my finger, I left the room. 

CHAPTER X. 

PAUL FINDS HIS WAY. 

Slowly, surely, steadily I climbed, putting aside all dreams, payingstrict attention to business. Often my other self, little Paul ofthe sad eyes, would seek to lure me from my work. But for my vehementdetermination never to rest for a moment till I had purchased back myhonesty, my desire--growing day by day, till it became almost a physicalhunger--to feel again the pressure of Norah's strong white hand in mine, he might possibly have succeeded. Heaven only knows what then he mighthave made of me: politician, minor poet, more or less able editor, hampered by convictions--something most surely of but little service tomyself. Now and again, with a week to spare--my humour making holiday, nothing to be done but await patiently its return--I would write storiesfor my own pleasure. They made no mark; but success in purposeful workis of slower growth. Had I persisted--but there was money to be earned. And by the time my debts were paid, I had established a reputation. 

"Madness!" argued practical friends. "You would be throwing away acertain fortune for, at the best, a doubtful competence. The one youknow you can do, the other--it would be beginning your career all overagain. "

"You would find it almost impossible now, " explained those who spoke, Iknew, words of wisdom, of experience. "The world would never listen toyou. Once a humourist always a humourist. As well might a comic actorinsist upon playing Hamlet. It might be the best Hamlet ever seen uponthe stage; the audience would only laugh--or stop away. "

Drawn by our mutual need of sympathy, "Goggles" and I, seeking somequiet corner in the Club, would pour out our souls to each other. He would lay before me, at some length, his conception of Romeo--anexcellent conception, I have no doubt, though I confess it failed tointerest me. Somehow I could not picture him to myself as Romeo. But Ilistened with every sign of encouragement. It was the price I paidhim for, in turn, listening to me while I unfolded to him my ideas howmonumental literature, helpful to mankind, should be imagined and builtup. 

"Perhaps in a future existence, " laughed Goggles, one evening, rising asthe clock struck seven, "I shall be a great tragedian, and you a famouspoet. Meanwhile, I suppose, as your friend Brian puts it, we are bothsinning our mercies. After all, to live is the most important thing inlife. "

I had strolled with him so far as the cloak-room and was helping him toget into his coat. 

"Take my advice"--tapping me on the chest, he fixed his funny, fishyeyes upon me. Had I not known his intention to be serious, I should havelaughed, his expression was so comical. "Marry some dear little woman"(he was married himself to a placid lady of about twice his own weight);"one never understands life properly till the babies come to explain itto one. "

I returned to my easy-chair before the fire. Wife, children, home!After all, was not that the true work of man--of the live man, not thedreamer? I saw them round me, giving to my life dignity, responsibility. The fair, sweet woman, helper, comrade, comforter, the little facesfashioned in our image, their questioning voices teaching us the answersto life's riddles. All other hopes, ambitions, dreams, what were they?Phantoms of the morning mist fading in the sunlight. 

Hodgson came to me one evening. "I want you to write me a comic opera, "he said. He had an open letter in his hand which he was reading. "Thepublic seem to be getting tired of these eternal translations from theFrench. I want something English, something new and original. "

"The English is easy enough, " I replied; "but I shouldn't clamour foranything new and original if I were you. "

"Why not?" he asked, looking up from his letter. 

"You might get it, " I answered. "Then you would be disappointed. "

He laughed. "Well, you know what I mean--something we could refer to as'new and original' on the programme. What do you say? It will be a bigchance for you, and I'm willing to risk it. I'm sure you can do it. People are beginning to talk about you. "

I had written a few farces, comediettas, and they had been successful. But the chief piece of the evening is a serious responsibility. A youngman may be excused for hesitating. It can make, but also it can mar him. A comic opera above all other forms of art--if I may be forgivenfor using the sacred word in connection with such a subject--demandsexperience. 

I explained my fears. I did not explain that in my desk lay a four-actdrama throbbing with humanity, with life, with which it had been myhope--growing each day fainter--to take the theatrical public by storm, to establish myself as a serious playwright. 

"It's very simple, " urged Hodgson. "Provide Atherton plenty of comicbusiness; you ought to be able to do that all right. Give Gleesonsomething pretty in waltz time, and Duncan a part in which she canchange her frock every quarter of an hour or so, and the thing is done. "

"I'll tell you what, " continued Hodgson, "I'll take the whole crowddown to Richmond on Sunday. We'll have a coach, and leave the theatre athalf-past ten. It will be an opportunity for you to study them. You'llbe able to have a talk with them and get to know just what they can do. Atherton has ideas in his head; he'll explain them to you. Then, nextweek, we'll draw up a contract and set to work. "

It was too good an opportunity to let slip, though I knew that ifsuccessful I should find myself pinned down firmer than ever to my roleof jester. But it is remunerative, the writing of comic opera. 

A small crowd had gathered in the Strand to see us start. 

"Nothing wrong, is there?" enquired the leading lady, in a tone of someanxiety, alighting a quarter of an hour late from her cab. "It isn't afire, is it?"

"Merely assembled to see you, " explained Mr. Hodgson, without raisinghis eyes from his letters. 

"Oh, good gracious!" cried the leading lady, "do let us get awayquickly. "

"Box seat, my dear, " returned Mr. Hodgson. 

The leading lady, accepting the proffered assistance of myself and threeother gentlemen, mounted the ladder with charming hesitation. Some delayin getting off was caused by our low comedian, who twice, makingbelieve to miss his footing, slid down again into the arms of thestolid door-keeper. The crowd, composed for the most part of small boysapproving the endeavour to amuse them, laughed and applauded. Our lowcomedian thus encouraged, made a third attempt upon his hands and knees, and, gaining the roof, sat down upon the tenor, who smiled somewhatmechanically. 

The first dozen or so 'busses we passed our low comedian greeted byrising to his feet and bowing profoundly, afterwards falling backupon either the tenor or myself. Except by the tenor and myself hisperformance appeared to be much appreciated. Charing Cross passed, andnobody seeming to be interested in our progress, to the relief of thetenor and myself, he settled down. 

"People sometimes ask me, " said the low comedian, brushing the dust offhis knees, "why I do this sort of thing off the stage. It amuses me. "

"I was coming up to London the other day from Birmingham, " he continued. "At Willesden, when the ticket collector opened the door, I sprang outof the carriage and ran off down the platform. Of course, he ran afterme, shouting to all the others to stop me. I dodged them for abouta minute. You wouldn't believe the excitement there was. Quite fiftypeople left their seats to see what it was all about. I explainedto them when they caught me that I had been travelling second with afirst-class ticket, which was the fact. People think I do it to attractattention. I do it for my own pleasure. "

"It must be a troublesome way of amusing oneself, " I suggested. 

"Exactly what my wife says, " he replied; "she can never understand thedesire that comes over us all, I suppose, at times, to play the fool. Asa rule, when she is with me I don't do it. "

"She's not here today?" I asked, glancing round. 

"She suffers so from headaches, " he answered, "she hardly ever goesanywhere. "

"I'm sorry. " I spoke not out of mere politeness; I really did feelsorry. 

During the drive to Richmond this irrepressible desire to amuse himselfgot the better of him more than once or twice. Through Kensington heattracted a certain amount of attention by balancing the horn upon hisnose. At Kew he stopped the coach to request of a young ladies' boardingschool change for sixpence. At the foot of Richmond Hill he caused acrowd to assemble while trying to persuade a deaf old gentleman in aBath-chair to allow his man to race us up the hill for a shilling. 

At these antics and such like our party laughed uproariously, with theexception of Hodgson, who had his correspondence to attend to, and anelegant young lady of some social standing who had lately emerged fromthe Divorce Court with a reputation worth to her in cash a hundredpounds a week. 

Arriving at the hotel quarter of an hour or so before lunch time, we strolled into the garden. Our low comedian, observing an elderlygentleman of dignified appearance sipping a glass of Vermouth at a smalltable, stood for a moment rooted to the earth with astonishment, then, making a bee-line for the stranger, seized and shook him warmly by thehand. We exchanged admiring glances with one another. 

"Charlie is in good form to-day, " we told one another, and followed athis heels. 

The elderly gentleman had risen; he looked puzzled. "And how's AuntMartha?" asked him our low comedian. "Dear old Aunt Martha! Well, I amglad! You do look bonny! How is she?"

"I'm afraid--" commenced the elderly gentleman. Our low comedian startedback. Other visitors had gathered round. 

"Don't tell me anything has happened to her! Not dead? Don't tell methat!"

He seized the bewildered gentleman by the shoulders and presented to hima face distorted by terror. 

"I really have not the faintest notion what you are talking about, "returned the gentleman, who seemed annoyed. "I don't know you. "

"Not know me? Do you mean to tell me you've forgotten--? Isn't your nameSteggles?"

"No, it isn't, " returned the stranger, somewhat shortly. 

"My mistake, " replied our low comedian. He tossed off at one gulp whatremained of the stranger's Vermouth and walked away rapidly. 

The elderly gentleman, not seeing the humour of the joke, one ofour party to soothe him explained to him that it was Atherton, _the_Atherton--Charlie Atherton. 

"Oh, is it, " growled the elderly gentleman. "Then will you tell him fromme that when I want his damned tomfoolery I'll come to the theatre andpay for it. "

"What a disagreeable man, " we said, as, following our low comedian, wemade our way into the hotel. 

During lunch he continued in excellent spirits; kissed the bald back ofthe waiter's head, pretending to mistake it for a face, called forhot mustard and water, made believe to steal the silver, and when thefinger-bowls arrived, took off his coat and requested the ladies to lookthe other way. 

After lunch he became suddenly serious, and slipping his arm throughmine, led me by unfrequented paths. 

"Now, about this new opera, " he said; "we don't want any of the oldstale business. Give us something new. "

I suggested that to do so might be difficult. 

"Not at all, " he answered. "Now, my idea is this. I am a young fellow, and I'm in love with a girl. "

I promised to make a note of it. 

"Her father, apoplectic old idiot--make him comic: 'Damme, sir! By gad!'all that sort of thing. "

By persuading him that I understood what he meant, I rose in hisestimation. 

"He won't have anything to say to me--thinks I'm an ass. I'm a simplesort of fellow--on the outside. But I'm not such a fool as I look. "

"You don't think we are getting too much out of the groove?" I enquired. 

His opinion was that the more so the better. 

"Very well. Then, in the second act I disguise myself. I'll come on asan organ-grinder, sing a song in broken English, then as a policeman, or a young swell about town. Give me plenty of opportunity, that's thegreat thing--opportunity to be really funny, I mean. We don't want anyof the old stale tricks. "

I promised him my support. 

"Put a little pathos in it, " he added, "give me a scene where I can showthem I've something else in me besides merely humour. We don't want tomake them howl, but just to feel a little. Let's send them out of thetheatre saying: 'Well, Charlie's often made me laugh, but I'm damned ifI knew he could make me cry before!' See what I mean?"

I told him I thought I did. 

The leading lady, meeting us on our return, requested, with pretty toneof authority, everybody else to go away and leave us. There were criesof "Naughty!" The leading lady, laughing girlishly, took me by the handand ran away with me. 

"I want to talk to you, " said the leading lady, as soon as we hadreached a secluded seat overlooking the river, "about my part in the newopera. Now, can't you give me something original? Do. "

Her pleading was so pretty, there was nothing for it but to pledgecompliance. 

"I am so tired of being the simple village maiden, " said the leadinglady; "what I want is a part with some opportunity in it--a coquettishpart. I can flirt, " assured me the leading lady, archly. "Try me. "

I satisfied her of my perfect faith. 

"You might, " said the leading lady, "see your way to making the plotdepend upon me. It always seems to me that the woman's part is nevermade enough of in comic opera. I am sure a comic opera built round awoman would be a really great success. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Kelver, " pouted the leading lady, laying her pretty hand on mine. "Weare much more interesting than the men--now, aren't we?"

Personally, as I told her, I agreed with her. 

The tenor, sipping tea with me on the balcony, beckoned me aside. 

"About this new opera, " said the tenor; "doesn't it seem to you thetime has come to make more of the story--that the public might prefer alittle more human interest and a little less clowning?"

I admitted that a good plot was essential. 

"It seems to me, " said the tenor, "that if you could write an operaround an interesting love story, you would score a success. Of course, let there be plenty of humour, but reduce it to its proper place. As asupport, it is excellent; when it is made the entire structure, it isapt to be tiresome--at least, that is my view. "

I replied with sincerity that there seemed to me much truth in what hesaid. 

"Of course, so far as I am personally concerned, " went on the tenor, "it is immaterial. I draw the same salary whether I'm on the stage fiveminutes or an hour. But when you have a man of my position in the cast, and give him next to nothing to do--well, the public are disappointed. "

"Most naturally, " I commented. 

"The lover, " whispered the tenor, noticing the careless approach towardsus of the low comedian, "that's the character they are thinking aboutall the time--men and women both. It's human nature. Make your loverinteresting--that's the secret. "

Waiting for the horses to be put to, I became aware of the fact that Iwas standing some distance from the others in company with a tall, thin, somewhat oldish-looking man. He spoke in low, hurried tones, fearfulevidently of being overheard and interrupted. 

"You'll forgive me, Mr. Kelver, " he said--"Trevor, Marmaduke Trevor. Iplay the Duke of Bayswater in the second act. "

I was unable to recall him for the moment; there were quite a number ofsmall parts in the second act. But glancing into his sensitive face, Ishrank from wounding him. 

"A capital performance, " I lied. "It has always amused me. "

He flushed with pleasure. "I made a great success some years ago, " hesaid, "in America with a soda-water syphon, and it occurred to me thatif you could, Mr. Kelver, in a natural sort of way, drop in a small partleading up to a little business with a soda-water syphon, it might helpthe piece. "

I wrote him his soda-water scene, I am glad to remember, and insistedupon it, in spite of a good deal of opposition. Some of the criticsfound fault with the incident, as lacking in originality. But MarmadukeTrevor was quite right, it did help a little. 

Our return journey was an exaggerated repetition of our morning drive. Our low comedian produced hideous noises from the horn, and entered intocontests of running wit with 'bus drivers--a decided mistake from hispoint of view, the score generally remaining with the 'bus driver. At Hammersmith, seizing the opportunity of a block in the traffic, he assumed the role of Cheap Jack, and, standing up on the back seat, offered all our hats for sale at temptingly low prices. 

"Got any ideas out of them?" asked Hodgson, when the time came for us tosay good-night. 

"I'm thinking, if you don't mind, " I answered, "of going down into thecountry and writing the piece quietly, away from everybody. "

"Perhaps you are right, " agreed Hodgson. "Too many cooks--Be sure andhave it ready for the autumn. "

I wrote it with some pleasure to myself amid the Yorkshire Wolds, andwas able to read it to the whole company assembled before the close ofthe season. My turning of the last page was followed by a dead silence. The leading lady was the first to speak. She asked if the clock upon themantelpiece could be relied upon; because, if so, by leaving at once, she could just catch her train. Hodgson, consulting his watch, thought, if anything, it was a little fast. The leading lady said she hoped itwas, and went. The only comforting words were spoken by the tenor. Herecalled to our mind a successful comic opera produced some years beforeat the Philharmonic. He distinctly remembered that up to five minutesbefore the raising of the curtain everybody had regarded it as rubbish. He also had a train to catch. Marmaduke Trevor, with a covert shake ofthe hand, urged me not to despair. The low comedian, the last to go, told Hodgson he thought he might be able to do something with partsof it, if given a free hand. Hodgson and I left alone, looked at eachother. 

"It's no good, " said Hodgson, "from a box-office point of view. Veryclever. "

"How do you know it is no good from a box-office point of view?" Iventured to enquire. 

"I never made a mistake in my life, " replied Hodgson. 

"You have produced one or two failures, " I reminded him. 

"And shall again, " he laughed. "The right thing isn't easy to get. "

"Cheer up, " he added kindly, "this is only your first attempt. We musttry and knock it into shape at rehearsal. "

Their notion of "knocking it into shape" was knocking it to pieces. 

"I'll tell you what we'll do, " would say the low comedian; "we'll cutthat scene out altogether. " Joyously he would draw his pencil throughsome four or five pages of my manuscript. 

"But it is essential to the story, " I would argue. 

"Not at all. "

"But it is. It is the scene in which Roderick escapes from prison andfalls in love with the gipsy. "

"My dear boy, half-a-dozen words will do all that. I meet Roderick atthe ball. 'Hallo, what are you doing here?' 'Oh, I have escaped fromprison. ' 'Good business. And how's Miriam?' 'Well and happy--she isgoing to be my wife!' What more do you want?"

"I have been speaking to Mr. Hodgson, " would observe the leading lady, "and he agrees with me, that if instead of falling in love with Peter, Ifell in love with John--"

"But John is in love with Arabella. "

"Oh, we've cut out Arabella. I can sing all her songs. "

The tenor would lead me into a corner. "I want you to write in a littlescene for myself and Miss Duncan at the beginning of the first act. I'lltalk to her about it. I think it will be rather pretty. I want her--thesecond time I see her--to have come out of her room on to a balcony, andto be standing there bathed in moonlight. "

"But the first act takes place in the early morning. "

"I've thought of that. We must alter it to the evening. "

"But the opera opens with a hunting scene. People don't go hunting bymoonlight. "

"It will be a novelty. That's what's wanted for comic opera. Theordinary hunting scene! My dear boy, it has been done to death. "

I stood this sort of thing for a week. "They are people of experience, "I argued to myself; "they must know more about it than I do. " By theend of the week I had arrived at the conclusion that anyhow they didn't. Added to which I lost my temper. It is a thing I should advise any ladyor gentleman thinking of entering the ranks or dramatic authorship tolose as soon as possible. I took both manuscripts with me, and, enteringMr. Hodgson's private room, closed the door behind me. One parcelwas the opera as I had originally written it, a neat, intelligiblemanuscript, whatever its other merits. The second, scored, interlined, altered, cut, interleaved, rewritten, reversed, turned inside out andtopsy-turvy--one long, hopeless confusion from beginning to end--was theopera, as, everybody helping, we had "knocked it into shape. "

"That's your opera, " I said, pushing across to him the bulkier bundle. "If you can understand it, if you can make head or tail of it, if youcare to produce it, it is yours, and you are welcome to it. This ismine!" I laid it on the table beside the other. "It may be good, it maybe bad. If it is played at all it is played as it is written. Regard thecontract as cancelled, and make up your mind. "

He argued with force, and he argued with eloquence. He appealed to myself-interest, he appealed to my better nature. It occupied him fortyminutes by the clock. Then he called me an obstinate young fool, flungthe opera as "knocked into shape" into the waste-paper basket--whichwas the only proper place for it, and, striding into the middle of thecompany, gave curt directions that the damned opera was to be played asit was written, and be damned to it!

The company shrugged its shoulders, and for the next month kept themshrugged. For awhile Hodgson remained away from the rehearsals, thenreturning, developed by degrees a melancholy interest in the somewhatgloomy proceedings. 

So far I had won, but my difficulty was to maintain the position. Thelow comedian, reciting his lines with meaningless monotony, would pauseoccasionally to ask of me politely, whether this or that passage wasintended to be serious or funny. 

"You think, " the leading lady would enquire, more in sorrow than inanger, "that any girl would behave in this way--any real girl, I mean?"

"Perhaps the audience will understand it, " would console himselfhopefully the tenor. "Myself, I confess I don't. "

With a sinking heart concealed beneath an aggressively disagreeablemanner, I remained firm in my "pigheaded conceit, " as it was regarded, Hodgson generously supporting me against his own judgment. 

"It's bound to be a failure, " he told me. "I am spending some twelve tofifteen hundred pounds to teach you a lesson. When you have learnt itwe'll square accounts by your writing me an opera that will pay. "

"And if it does succeed?" I suggested. 

"My dear boy, " replied Hodgson, "I never make mistakes. "

From all which a dramatic author of more experience would have gatheredcheerfulness and hope, knowing that the time to be depressed is when themanager and company unanimously and unhesitatingly predict a six months'run. But new to the business, I regarded my literary career as alreadyat an end. Belief in oneself is merely the match with which one lightsoneself. The oil is supplied by the belief in one of others; if thatbe not forthcoming, one goes out. Later on I might try to light myselfagain, but for the present I felt myself dark and dismal. My desire wasto get away from my own smoke and smell. The final dress rehearsalover, I took my leave of all concerned. The next morning I would packa knapsack and start upon a walking tour through Holland. The Englishpapers would not reach me. No human being should know my address. In amonth or so I would return, the piece would have disappeared--would beforgotten. With courage, I might be able to forget it myself. 

"I shall run it for three weeks, " said Hodgson, "then we'll withdraw itquietly, 'owing to previous arrangements'; or Duncan can suddenly fallill--she's done it often enough to suit herself; she can do it thisonce to suit me. Don't be upset. There's nothing to be ashamed of in thepiece; indeed, there is a good deal that will be praised. The idea isdistinctly original. As a matter of fact, that's the fault with it, "added Hodgson, "it's too original. "

"You said you wanted it original, " I reminded him. 

He laughed. "Yes, but original for the stage, I meant--the old dolls innew frocks. "

I thanked him for all his kindness, and went home and packed myknapsack. 

For two months I wandered, avoiding beaten tracks, my only comrades afew books, belonging to no age, no country. My worries fell from me, thepersonal affairs of Paul Kelver ceasing to appear the be all and theend all of the universe. But for a chance meeting with Wellbourne, Deleglise's amateur caretaker of Gower Street fame, I should havedelayed yet longer my return. It was in one of the dead cities of theZuyder Zee. I was sitting under the lindens on the grass-grown quay, awaiting a slow, crawling boat that, four miles off, I watched a movingspeck across the level pastures. I heard his footsteps in the emptymarket-place behind me, and turned my head. I did not rise, felt even noastonishment; anything might come to pass in that still land of dreams. He seated himself beside me with a nod, and for awhile we smoked insilence. 

"All well with you?" I asked. 

"I am afraid not, " he answered; "the poor fellow is in great trouble. "

"I'm not Wellbourne himself, " he went on, in answer to my look; "I amonly his spirit. Have you ever tested that belief the Hindoos hold:that a man may leave his body, wander at will for a certain period, remembering only to return ere the thread connecting him with flesh andblood be stretched to breaking point? It is quite correct. I often lockthe door of my lodging, leave myself behind, wander a free Spirit. "

He pulled from his pocket a handful of loose coins and looked at them. "The thread that connects us, I am sorrow to say, is wearing somewhatthin, " he sighed; "I shall have to be getting back to him beforelong--concern myself again with his troubles, follies. It is somewhatvexing. Life is really beautiful, when one is dead. "

"What was the trouble?" I enquired. 

"Haven't you heard?" he replied. "Tom died five weeks ago, quitesuddenly, of syncope. We had none of us any idea. "

So Norah was alone in the world. I rose to my feet. The slowly movingspeck had grown into a thin, dark streak; minute by minute it took shapeand form. 

"By the way, I have to congratulate you, " said Wellbourne. "Your operalooked like being a big thing when I left London. You didn't selloutright, I hope?"

"No, " I answered. "Hodgson never expressed any desire to buy. "

"Lucky for you, " said Wellbourne. 

I reached London the next evening. Passing the theatre on my way toQueen's Square, it occurred to me to stop my cab for a few minutes andlook in. 

I met the low comedian on his way to his dressing-room. He shook mewarmly by the hand. 

"Well, " he said, "we're pulling them in. I was right, you see, Give meplenty of opportunity. ' That's what I told you, didn't I? Come and seethe piece. I think you will agree with me that I have done you justice. "

I thanked him. 

"Not at all, " he returned; "it's a pleasure to work, when you've gotsomething good to work on. "

I paid my respects to the leading lady. 

"I am so grateful to you, " said the leading lady. "It is so delightfulto play a real live woman, for a change. "

The tenor was quite fatherly. 

"It is what I have been telling Hodgson for years, " he said, "give thema simple human story. "

Crossing the stage, I ran against Marmaduke Trevor. 

"You will stay for my scene, " he urged. 

"Another night, " I answered. "I have only just returned. "

He sank his voice to a whisper. "I want to talk to you on business, whenyou have the time. I am thinking of taking a theatre myself--not justnow, but later on. Of course, I don't want it to get about. "

I assured him of my secrecy. 

"If it comes off, I want you to write for me. You understand the public. We will talk it over. "

He passed onward with stealthy tread. 

I found Hodgson in the front of the house. 

"Two stalls not sold and six seats in the upper circle, " he informed me;"not bad for a Thursday night. "

I expressed my gratification. 

"I knew you could do it, " said Hodgson, "I felt sure of it merely fromseeing that comedietta of yours at the Queen's. I never make a mistake. "

Correction under the circumstances would have been unkind. Promising tosee him again in the morning, I left him with his customary good conceitof himself unimpaired, and went on to the Square. I rang twice, butthere was no response. I was about to sound a third and final summons, when Norah joined me on the step. She had been out shopping and wasladen with parcels. 

"We must wait to shake hands, " she laughed, as she opened the door. "Ihope you have not been kept long. Poor Annette grows deafer every day. "

"Have you nobody in the house with you but Annette?" I asked. 

"No one. You know it was a whim of his. I used to get quite cross withhim at times. But I should not like to go against his wishes--now. "

"Was there any reason for it?" I asked. 

"No, " she answered; "if there had been I could have argued him out ofit. " She paused at the door of the studio. "I'll just get rid of these, "she said, "and then I will be with you. "

A wood fire was burning on the open hearth, flashing alternate beams oflight and shadow down the long bare room. The high oak stool stoodin its usual place beside the engraving desk, upon which lay oldDeleglise's last unfinished plate, emitting a dull red glow. I paced thecreaking boards with halting steps, as through some ghostly galleryhung with dim portraits of the dead and living. In a little while Norahentered and came to me with outstretched hand. 

"We will not light the lamp, " she said, "the firelight is so pleasant. "

"But I want to see you, " I replied. 

She had seated herself upon the broad stone kerb. With her hand shestirred the logs; they shot into a clear white flame. Thus, the lightupon her face, she raised it gravely towards mine. It spoke to me withfuller voice. The clear grey eyes were frank and steadfast as ever, butshadow had passed into them, deepening them, illuminating them. 

For a space we talked of our two selves, our trivial plans and doings. 

"Tom left something to you, " said Norah, rising, "not in his will, thatwas only a few lines. He told me to give it to you, with his love. "

She brought it to me. It was the picture he had always treasured, hisfirst success; a child looking on death; "The Riddle" he had named it. 

We spoke of him, of his work, which since had come to be appraised attruer value, for it was out of fashion while he lived. 

"Was he a disappointed man, do you think?" I asked. 

"No, " answered Norah. "I am sure not. He was too fond of his work. "

"But he dreamt of becoming a second Millet. He confessed it to me once. And he died an engraver. "

"But they were good engravings, " smiled Norah. 

"I remember a favourite saying of his, " continued Norah, after a pause;"I do not know whether it was original or not. 'The stars guide us. Theyare not our goal. '"

"Ah, yes, we aim at the moon and--hit the currant bush. "

"It is necessary always to allow for deflection, " laughed Norah. "Apparently it takes a would-be poet to write a successful comic opera. "

"Ah, you do not understand!" I cried. "It was not mere ambition; capand bells or laurel wreath! that is small matter. I wanted to help. Theworld's cry of pain, I used to hear it as a boy. I hear it yet. I meantto help. They that are heavy laden. I hear their cry. They cry from dawnto dawn and none heed them: we pass upon the other side. Man and woman, child and beast. I hear their dumb cry in the night. The child's sobin the silence, the man's fierce curse of wrong. The dog beneath thevivisector's knife, the overdriven brute, the creature tortured for anhour that a gourmet may enjoy an instant's pleasure; they cried to me. The wrong and the sorrow and the pain, the long, low, endless moan God'sears are weary of; I hear it day and night. I thought to help. "

I had risen. She took my face between her quiet, cool hands. 

"What do we know? We see but a corner of the scheme. This fortressof laughter that a few of you have been set apart to guard--thisrallying-point for all the forces of joy and gladness! how do you knowit may not be the key to the whole battle! It is far removed from thegrand charges and you think yourself forgotten. Trust your leader, betrue to your post. "

I looked into her sweet grey eyes. 

"You always help me, " I said. 

"Do I?" she answered. "I am so glad. "

She put her firm white hand in mine.