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Let diegrammat suivants illuttrent la mtthoda. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 MICROCOTY RESOLUTION TEST CHA>T (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 21 1.0 Ife I 2.5 ^ APPLIED IIVHGE Inc ^^ '653 East Mam Street S^ Pochester, He* York 1*609 USA ^S (716) *82 - 0300 - Phone ^5 (716) 288 - 5989 - Fox IS TOLD mmDERiCK NJVEN \ DEVELOPING THAT NIMBLE WIT Reading from left to right Outad)— Mra. Frederick Niven, Mr. Frederick NIven, author of "Juatlce of the Peace", "The Wolfer", Etc. For acme time they have been living at Nelaon, B.C., and we hope that they will remain In Canada permanently. Mr. Mven'e eketch "Anything That Weare Hair" la one of the ftneet pkcee of humor that Western Canada has inspired. — Photo bv B. O. Hoppft. ^ r f\ V i V / A TALE THAT IS T OLD FREDERICK NI V E N "ff^e spend our years as a tale that is told." I A TALE THAT IS TOLD Br FREDERICK NIVEN \UTHOR OF "THE LADY OF THF CROSSING, ""THE S.S.01.0RV1T. NEW >«r YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT. :»20. BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMiPANY ^ PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO LYNED WILLIAMS OF CYMRYD FROM PAULINE AND FREDERICK NIVEN 1 A TALE THAT IS TOLD PROLOGUE 1 OFTEN look on at myself as I look on at the other little puppet people who appear so small coming down Buchanan Street. Buchanan Street I mention because that is where I have my shop now; and when I am putting the books in the outside boxes — "the dips"— I sometimes glance up and down the street, wondering about them all. So small, and yet so interesting! I look a moment and then go back into the shop, to read a page or two of Tacitus or Herodotus and let the world wag. Puppets we are, puppets under the high stone house-fronts, and under Saint RoUox chimney that volleys out a cloud of smoke all day up there beyond the top of the hill which is as awfully covered with houses of the li^dng as the hill behind Saint Mungo's cathedral with tomb- stones for the dead. That cloud, despite the height of the stalk from which it fans into the ether, is yet very low to one who, having looked up at it, looks up from it again, into the big gray-blue dome ovei^ 10 A TALE THAT IS TOLD head How small, and yet how busy and eager we all are. I would not sit down to write this book at all if I did not feel that, besides being in a sense puppets at the end of wires manipulated by very dimly perceived powers, we are something more. A phrase of Myers' often chants in my head: "... within, stiU deeper depths; wit .out, a more unfathomable heaven." Be- cause I am interested I write; and if I begin some- what staccato that is because this is my first attempt. This IS my one book, that I have heard is in all of us. Realismg that it takes more than ink, paper and a pen to write even that one book, I have pondered how to do It; and I think the result is going to be a blend of what that young novelist, Mr. Hugh Wal- pole, calls "a case," and at the same time partakes slightly of the qualities of the "slice of life" school. I find, thinking over the work before beginning it, that the case" element must run through. I see, mdeed, that I shall have to represent myself as a case —I trust not a hard case! What I am I shaU not be able to hide even if I try. You will see me be- tween the lines; you will discover me as I discover others to you, for all criticism is self-criticism, no mat- ter how objective. Even anonymous criticism, al- though It does not reveal the nan.e of the critic, re- veals all else. I may as well say immediately that my book IS not written to any Aristotelian formula of how to be a big seller. I do not by accident epically marry or kill my mother; I am not an unusual man. It IS not my aim to twang on the one string of fear and make you shudder like a coward in your chair I approach you not as an idiot to be amused and to giggle over what I have to give, but as a sentient be- 1 A TALE THAT IS TOLD II ing with a dash of eternity in you as well as dust, and conceive of you as greatly interested in life as I am myself. I do not look down on you and fiddle with secret conttmpt. In a way I love you, as I love all passing by. I have a plain story to tell — my own ; not a story to a pattern. I think the world has in some ways progressed since the old Grecian days, and I believe that other themes may move beside un- premeditated matricide and the like. If not — no matter, for I write also to please myself. It is, perhaps, to be exact, a long case! And in this way: Always, all my life, I have been haunted by a feeling that it h only part of a greater life. The mcidents that have come out of the world to me most forcibly have made that view, if not an obses- sion, definitely formative. Do not mistake me for a melancholy. I am no imbecile impervious to the morning, to wakening to the light, to the miracle of my body's mechanism, to night and the stars at night, to the charm of friendship and the desire to love. But I have always believed that beyond life as sum- med up in the Old Testament history of things— and So-and-So begat So-and-So and he died; and So-and- So begat So-and-So and he died is a larger life. Ai- so I have f 3lt so much the effect of those around me that I have been chary when finding myse"" in a role where I might be influencing others. Tom, my eldest brother, whose creeu is Give iourself, says I am "hyper-sensitive." What he means by "giving" is not givinghis better part. When he "gives himself" I note ttiat generally the person to whom he gives is wrecked. So I cling to my difEdence in making contacts with life. "Am I to restrain myself," he once said to our IS A TALE THAT IS TOLD father during an argument on how to live, "for the sake of the weak-kneed?" "It depends," replied father, "< .. what you re- strain yourself from giving— whether it is manna or strychnine I" Father had elements in him of what i? called hum- bug; and deliberately I intend to tell tne worst of him; but he n'-ver gave poison to any. He gave them often sustenance; he gave them often twaddle which helped m their dimness, where perhaps an- other would have tried to enlighten them. I pre- ferred him to Tom — wh'rh brings me to this point: I have preferences. Of course we all have prefer- ences, but I shall try to tell what I have to tell with as little bias as possible. Yesterday, in my shop, I had the last bit of evi- dence offered toward how to write a book. I looked on and applied to myself what was enacted before me. What befell was almost in the nature of a fracas between two customers who stood looking at a queer old print. After long gaze, said one of them: "This is very interesting. You will notice it relates to sun-worship. Look at this symbol here " "No, sir," the other interrupted. "It relates to phallic worship. That symbol is " The first cried out: "But it is obviously sun- worship I This sign here is of the sun's rays." "Nonsense I" the other exclaimed. "Those are not sun-rays. They are shocks of life-force." Where one saw a sun-dial, the other saw some- thing else. Where one saw the symbol of the red flame of eternal light, tb - other saw the red flame of passion. Eventually I had to separate them. i A TALE THAT IS TOLD : IS What I have to do is to tell my story, and with these two cranks in mind I shall tell it as simply as possible. Arabesques and whorls, lightenings and convolutions are all very well to make a thin theme and paltry days seem a tour de force in the telling. I always suspect writers like Meredith and Carlyle of wishing to seem sages because of the violence they do to language. All life is so great and complex, and we such poor little figures struggling along in the jungle, that I must avoid hectoring, talk quietly; and I think the best beginning would be to tell how my father ate the sweetbreads shortly befce we went for our holiday to Irvine. CHAPTER I LET me introduce the family sitting at table on that afternoon. My father, the Reverend Thomas Grey, D.D., sat at the head of the spotless hnen-shrouded board, a massive man with twinkling eyes under a high forehead, across which swept one lock of hair from the cranium which was wanmg bald. He would at that time be about fifty years of a^e. His mouth gave an impression of be- mg made of elastic; his face was florid, and to write of the whites of his eyes would be error, for the eye- balls were reddish gray, and a trifle prominent. He had a habit of dropping his head as he spoke and peering under his brows. His lips pursed tight, shut abruptly after speech, while the stare of his eyes continued. On his right sat Mr. Smart from the Weekly who was writing a series of articles for that journal under the inclusive heading of "Our Eminent Scot- tish Divines." Opposite to Mr. Smart sat Tom, recently down from Oxford, aged twenty-eight, promising his father's corpulence but his mother's sori. His eyes always blinked when he was spoken to by any one of candid nature. Flick-flick-flick went the lids, so that we all sometimes wondered if he should go and consult an ocu'isti but mother always said : "Oh, no, I'm sure there is nothing wrong. It IS just a mannerism. My brother Peter used to do 14 I A TALE THAT IS TOLD 15 the same. He had come back from Oxford even less pleasant to my mind than before he left Glas- gow. He laughed when there was nothing to laugh at. He seemed always to be hiding something If mother or father asked him any question he would stnke an attitude of listening, instead of just listen- ing. On the smallest matters he seemed eager not to commit himself. The real man, whatever it was, was hidden behind extravagant gestures, and blinks, and almost incessant laughter. If mother asked him to fetch anything for her he would pose like a run- ner on a Grecian frie-.e and exclaim: "Hal At once I I go— mater." It was not that he came back to us histrionic; it was not that he was stage-struck and play-acting. Mother would smile after him as she murmured: "Darling Tom," but father's gaze would follow the retreating figure from the frieze with eyes veiled under the frowning forehead, mouth twisted as the mouth of one in doubt. Next to Mr. Smart sat Dick, who a!so frequently smiled, but his was a smile different from Tom's He was a radiant youth, jolly. Often, too, he would sit with head thrown back and lids puckered, looking contentedly as if at nothing. He was iust back (aged twenty-three) from Julien's atelier in Paris, and a year's painting in Italy. I don't know how he man- aged It, but his necktie was different from ours. Yet he wore just the ordinary kinds sometimes in a bow, sometimes in a sailor-knot; but always they looked what is called "jack-easy." I liked Dick as much as I failed to like Tom. To be touched by my e.'dest brother was abhorrent to me, and he had developed a habit of taking one's arm on all possible occa- sions. 16 A TALii THAT IS TOLD Opposite to Dick I sat— I, Harold, aged then twenty years; and by my side sat Florence, two years my junior. Florence and Dick were my favourites. They were rather like each other in appearance and easy to get along with. Opposite to Florence, on mother's left (mother balancing father at the other end of the table) sat John (twenty-five), who had taken to writing as Dick to painting. "Most unex- pected," mother always said. "Who would have believed that John was to be the scribe?" This be- cause Tom, at Oxford, had had two volumes pub- lished by a local publisher, one of them called Poems and the other Prose Studies. They were supposed to be mystical and seemed to be a blend of wishy- washy and gross. At that period John was the much less self-assured of these two. If one came into Iiis room when he was twisted up over the table, alter- nately lighting pipes and burning off the polish on the table by setting a lit cigarette on its edge, he never struck an attitude and cried: "Avauntl I am employed upon a prose-study." Instead, he would say: "Oh, heavens, what a start you gave me I Push off, kid. I'm in the throes of one of my B efforts. Push off; there's a good lad." Before mother he did not speak like that, not be- cause he humbugged her, but because she was what she was — slender, graceful, very charmingly dressed always, and with an effect of alabaster. She incul- cated in us a sense of her refinement and kinship with blue china. Despite all this brood she had kept her figure. The trail of her gown, the fall of her drap- eries I shall always be able to visualise with the great- est ease. To see her with head on one side, and hear her saying: "Oh, darling, I am so worried about A TALE THAT IS TOLD 17 you," was enough to make us never let her hear us say B anything. There they all are, then (all except Mary, Tom's senior by a year, married to a man who was then a lecturer at Glasgow) , at table, and father is speaking after a brief rhetorical grace. !•• ■'•Krr'-ri^ww'n "N* CHAPTER II "OW, Mr. Smart," said my father, "I have here a selection to offer you. We are mak- ing you one of ourselves, you see. I have some cold mutton, mint sauce and a salad to ac- company. -There is also — well, I declare how beau- tifully it is arranged — a dish of macaroni." "Perhaps Mr. Smart will begin with the mac- aroni," mother suggested. "Ther.» are hot plates for it." "Ah, so there are. How remiss ! Some macaroni au gratin, Mr. Smart?" "Thank you," said Mr. Sr nox, our dainty parlour-mait ful hand of hers (that Dick's pounce upon as it came forward down a dish), took up the plate, and gliding round to Mr. Smart, put it before him. "Darling?" inquired my father, after serving his guest. Mother nodded and was also supplied with macaroni-cheese. In turn our names were announced, and in turn we responded: "Please, father." "Dear me," he said suddenly. "Dear me I Now I have not " Anxiously mother craned forward, looking beau- tifully worried. "Have you none left for yourself?" she asked. Tom blinked and blinked, then grinned broadly, 18 c\ and Mary Len- .serted that beauti- 'ze used always to remove or to set A TALE THAT IS TOLD 10 and tried to catch Mary Lennox's eye, as always, to make her smile. Scarcely a change of expression was on her face, and what change there was, I thought, did not seem pro-Tom. She knew what he was domg, but if she was enough interested in us to have preferences she preferred my father to my eldest brother. "Have mine, father," Florence and John offered together. "No, thank you," said he. "And, you see, by tak- ing no macaroni I do away with the handicapping that comes of serving you all. By the time the server comes to an end at this crowded table it is almost time to begin the round again. I renounce the mac- aroni and begin with"— he helped himself on a cold plate — "mutton." "You don't care very much for macaroni at any rate, do you, pater?" asked Tom, sitting very erect, munching away and griming. "Mm?" said father, and showed the under part of his chin to Tom. There ?as no reply. "No, no," he said, as one realising what has been said after a moment of uncertainty "No, not very much, Tom. It IS wonderful," he continued, turning to his guest and mterviewer, "how the mouths are filled. The miracle of the loaves and fishes is in a sense re-en- acted daily. Our daily life is a miracle," and he meant it. Mr. Smart, who, I believe, was a very clever young journalist from the beginning of his career, bowed and smiled. If my father was being wise his face could suggest appreciation of wisdom; if my father was being jocular without profanity— appreciation of the grave jocularity. 30 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 'I at ; ate in a position now," said father, "to speak of the cold mutton. I can recommend it. Will you have some?" "There is ham and tongue," said mother. "And also some sweetbread pat " At the same moment father was saying: "Why, yes, of course. Ham and tongue. That's it, ham and tongue or cold mutton. I can speak for the mutton. Mutton, Mr. Smart? Good. It is de- licious." Then round the table again went the in- quiries: "Ham and tongue or mutton?" We all chose mutton. "Let me see," said father, "I feel hungry. The labourer, I think, is worthy of his hire, Mr. Smart. I must have some more to eat," and taking a fresh plate he helped himself to :: sweetbread patty. It was mother who first noticed that the young journalist had finished his cold meat. She nodded to father and murmured: "Mr. Smart, dear." "Good gracious — how remiss I ami" father ex- claimed. "Now please, do have some more. It is just a simple midday collation. Look here, I insist that you have a little ham and tongue. You must not ignore it." "Perhaps Mr. Smart would like to try the sweet- breads," said mother with what I can best describe as a worried twist of her body as she drew erect and raised her head to look at the semicircle of ashets and platters at the table's service-end. "Darling," replied my father, "Mr. Smart has a guid Scot's tongue in his heid. I am giving him his choice. If he wants a patty he will say so. Now, this ham and tongue is being neglected." "Thank you," said Mr. Smart. A TALE THAT IS TOLD SI r.ZTu-^ not wait to he asked; the moment father's raised ch.n. as he tilted his head to sur-.-ey the state of our plates through his pince-nez, pointed at ToS he^sa-d, w.th a note of challenge":' "SweetbrlaS.' "Na!" cried father. "For the fun of the thing Mother laughed nervously, and Mr Smart nl*«. antly, and we all smiled like a silent ch^ruT '^ "*" have?""' ''"" '" ""'^^' ^ *«• What will you "I think by his face, paler," said Dick, "that he would like a sweetbread patty " expression. Now, John, some more mutton? Mm, thinV-f ^"TV"""' y"" '"ow. Stick ?o throne thmg , you don't want indigestion to interfere—-" A little more mutton." said John. , Awl Tom snorted, as one disgruntled. AH agam replenished?" asked father clandna sTeet1.;e''ads'"^-:r/''r "'^'^'^'^ ''™-'^ '^^orl ref^-HloId"^^^^^^^^ "«'"^ ^"^ ' -« fi- les! MTtL'^^\"'°i!^" '^^ '■" *°"«' trepidation Dattii;Lr K ■ '''.?"''* "°'''«' •'"'^ '»•«= sweetbread patt.es were bemg devoured. He did not look as if .^H 1 i,'""'r'l"'.* 8°°*^ J""™*"" would both see jot St m judgment; they take the world as they ggyj, OH 22 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Perhaps Harold would like a patty," iaid mother. "Place aux dames," said my father. "Florence may care for the last one." Florence not only ate slowly but moved slowly, raised her fork slowly, cut with a pensive delibera- tion. "No, thank you," she said, looking up. "But you are not ready," father pointed out. "You may want it later. Have something else, Harold, my boy, in case Florence . . . look, now that's vi. y tasty, ham and tongue. Oh, dear me, Mr. Smart, you have no wine. A little light wine?" My plate went and returned as he spoke. "I think the French are very sensible in their ..." He fell into a causerie that lasted till Florence set down knife and fork close together, and Tom and I, who had been waiting for that, said in duet: "Flor- ence, father I" "Now a little more mutton," said father. "It is more sustaining than anything else on the table. I don't think ham and tongue is at all the diet for a young lady just ceased growing, do you, Mr. Smart?" "How about the patty?" said Dick. "Well, as a matter of fact " Florence began, then paused. "I would rather have a little more mutton," she said. "There!" cried father. "Now, mother? No more? Sure? Ah, well, then, I think it is a shame to leave that sweetbread patty. Seeing nobody else wants it . . ." and he lifted it from the dish on to his own plate. Having eaten with great relish, and sucK a A TALE THAT IS TOLD 2S thoughtful manner as one may see on the face of wine or tea-taster, he tapped the empty dish with his he slid" ^'^ "*"''' *° sweetbreads, Mr. Smart," ;;Oh indeed?" replied Smart. "So am I." No I Why did you not tell me? Dear, dear. }:-fu^i ^J"^ *'""'' '•'"^ '* »"°*er patty in the "f;™" ^ ^'8''* n°t Mary ask cook . . " Please, no," said Mr. Smart. "Not to-dav I merely meant I understand the taste. I preferred the other. No, no." F'^c'crrca mI'S"''"!-""*'"^ ^^' ''^'y weU-don't trouble. Mary. I m sorry you did not have one, though They were wonderful I I confess-what, darling? les, yes, a little more wine, Mr. Smart? Yes I'm sorry no one cared even to help finish the sweetbread patties. CHAPTER III I DO not think Mr. Smart was any more snob- bish than the average, but he had a view of what the public must know. Little asides that my mot.ier had dropped in conversation, and that my father had announced in smiling and tolerant fashion, filled the opening paragraphs of the in- terview. "Eminent Scottish Divines, No. 4: The Rev. Thomas Grey, M.A., D.D.", t. . 1 of how the Kev. Thomas Grey, D.D., was grandson of Sir John Grey of Lanark-Mains, that he was educated at the Universities of Glasgow and Oxford, that in the year So-and-So he was commanded to preach before Her Majesty Queen Victoria at Balmoral, and that he married Sybil Clouston, whose great-aunt was Euphemia Clouston (the '"Phemy" of Robert Burns' Lines to 'Phemy), a lady who kept open house to litterati of her day in the Scottish capital. That article assisted toward that sense of prestige that gave to my father a genial, and to my mother a stately, complacency. Mr. Smart commented on the Rev. Thomas Grey's largeness of heart, stating that he had been honoured to sit at meat with him and see his large humanity, to come in touch with his genial and warm nature. My father never talked much about having preached to Queen Victoria at Balmoral, b'j<- it did have an effect upon his bearing — I think as much because of the way people looked on him, due to the distinction, as because of the wav 24 ' ' TALE THAT IS TOLD 25 he looked upon it. If a man is constantly being kow- towed to, it is only human nature that he will come to adopt easily one of two attitudes — either that of administering a '-.ick, or one like a figure of Buddha. Now I come to think of it, my father did look some- what like a Buddha, but his eyes were often abrim with geniality. Any one could hazard the guess, seeing him, walk down a station platform, that he had preached to somebody in his day. That he had "married money" (the father who was not men- tioned in the interview had spent the fortune of the grandfather who was) we need not throw in his face, for the grand-niece of Euphemia had married less Tom Grey without canonicals than the divine who had preahed at Balmoral by special command. I think they were very well matched. He had an oddly deferential air to everybody, as well as that air to which I refer, of sanctified and comfortable importance. Halt him in his stride down the sta- tion platform and the hint of bombast fell from him, gave place to a large courtesy. He treated every man he met as though he, too, had preached to Queen Victoria and was not unduly puffed up about it. Only those will think I am merely jeering who have utterly escaped from a society of mock-sentiment and false gods. I think it is better to be a false god in a big easy fashion than to be of those who kow-tow to the false gods. My father had chosen (as I see it, looking back on him) the better part; and he was genial. Of course there was doubtless a third choice — there often is when we think there are only two — he might have chosen not to be a parson. I know that this air of geniality is discoverable in many selfish men. S6 A TALE THAT IS TOLD Of >•'■' humbug I would say it was not of the devastating order. In Torn, who inherited it (pr, perhaps, I should say, imitated it, for Tom was a good deal of a Clouston) it was otherwise. My father's humbug merely kept himself on his own perch. People used to smile at it and say: "Oh, he's not a bad old sort !" I think the main fault was that he was a parson. Had he been a farmer, till- ing the acres oi Lanark-Mains, and akending the local agricultural fairs in tweeds, with a cigar a-tilt under a reddening nose, no one would have chuckled profanely over him at all. CHAPTER rV MR. SMART wanted a photograph from which to have a day block made to ac- company the interview, but none of the portraits father had pleased him. "He says they are not me," said my father. "I suppose the article will have to appear without a cut, for tomorrow we go to Irvine." After all, a portrait did accompany the article I often wish my father could have been photographed by Hill, or lived long enough to be photographed by Coburn. Still, the portrait by MacPherson, some time of Irvine, is wonderful enough. I can't think how, when I wanted a picture of him years later, I forgot MacPherson's. Father had chartered an entire flat of the Gallo- way Inn in the High Street of that gray and gold seaport on the firth. I recall how we arrived after night had fallen and drove thither in the hotel-bus from the station, so that my first impression was of a rattling of wheels on cobbles, the racket of loose windows, rows of gas-lamps in a fresh blue night, a twist of river, a graceful steeple against the stars through the door at rear of the little conveyance, framed and lost again, framed there as we waggled along. There was a cobbled entry down which we walked, with an upright parallelogram of dark blue sky at its end, and a star or two behind a tree that 27 S8 A TALE THAT IS TOLD was more a rustling than a vision. But we did not . go to the entry's end; half-way along it we descended three steps into the inn. (Yeirs later, when I re- turned there, I was aware of a change; guests walked straight into the hall instead of going down these steps.) What the illuminant was I forget. Perhaps gas was installed indoors, as weU as on the streets, but the picture I have suggests a hanging lamp in the settled entrance. There was a lit table in a room where a repast awaited us. There was an over- mantel with mirrors in it, and crude vases in the brackets, and the wallpaper was wildly flowered. Ihat was a modernised room; most of the others were dusky-panelled. I am not of those who must live with plain walls and one etching and one blue bowl, or else go into paroxysms. I like white paint and a Toby jug; but also I like conventionalised designs that turn into faces as one looks, and a mul- titude of aimless dishes with a coat of arms on them. The mam thing is that the sun-rays can come in and move across the wall. In bed at night I heard feet going past under the windows, and wondered what the town was like. Feet going past, the sound of footsteps — all life is m these words. Well did I get to love that little town. I suppose as I write now, this evening, the rooks are flying home to their trees in the Eglinton policies, after feeding down by the shore— cawing home over the roofs. But as to the photograph (and a truce to talk of these things which interest and inveigle me away from the interests of the majority of men and maidens— that is if my brother John is right in his view of what the public wants) I must teJ how, on the morning of the day after our arrival, A TALE THAT IS TOLD 20 a local photographer left a note for my father, in- forming him that he had read of his advent in the local paper, and that he would be immensely hon- oured if he might have a sun-record on one of his sensitive plates of so eminent a divine. With his jolly laugh, father handed the note to mother, who read it aloud. "That is very pleasing," she said. "The poor man! You will, of course, give him a sitting. He says he will call here if you care or if you would honour him by visiting his studio-— how very nice I If he does you justice it will be in time for Mr. Smart's article." "Perhaps I shall drop in at his studio in passing," my father replied negligently. I'lt would be nice of you," said mother. Some time, when passing," he repeated. "There is no hurry." Breakfast being over, he put on his hat and went out into the hotel garden in his slippers, strolling round there grandly among the gooseberry bushes. 1 followed him, along the last half of cobbled-entry or close, prying about in the garden and the ramb- ling place, which was a couple of centuries old. From an alley at the back I looked into the dusk of the kitchen, where swirled the odour of porridge, of bacon and eggs- of kidneys a-cooking. At the door I halted, and stood watching a slatternly yet wildly handsome girl, who assisted the cask-Iike and fussy old cook, as she broke an egg with a tap against the side of a frymg-pan. I saw it spread white, the yel- low yoke sputtering in the centre. It is a trifling detail, but I see it all so clearly that I must put it down, not to pad my book, but because I like that 90 A TALE THAT IS TOLD fi!*?'!f i **?* '''"""8 *=8g. Across the years I see fatfo^JT""',!."' '>' '^^ '" the'spuLrinl Th^l'''^^ f ?'l™'^' *°°' *° «=«■ of the hotel! That sound led the way for me, after my father. The rooster was beyond him, at the far end of the garden, and after .t had crowed many times it strut- ted to a bush tilting Its head to look up at it, then- r/i"S /"" awry-bounced up, legs stiffened, and plucked at a gooseberry. My father stood lo;king Lrid -1 ^ ^^ *° ''™*'"- ^* ^ drew nea? "Now you see the auld Scots phrase : 'Like a cock at a grozetl' being enacted before you. Yes, 'like a cockatagrozet; Simile. Folk-imagination Folk observation. H'm. Now, on holiday-a moraimj smoke, an after breakfast smoke on holiday "^ poSh ^'^ ^°^*'*' ""'^ produced an empty t„hZ?! r'"' -T'" .'A™" °"* '"'^ e" "O'ne fresh Sd town." " ■ ^"" °^^ *°^' ""°''»' ^'" I.^VTl'' ^J *""■ ''°°"'' ^"d found that Dick and John had already set off for a day's tramp. Tom was writing letters in the commerdd room dow™ from a rack. We saw his back as we mounted the SI^. t^ V""' flight-where we found motJer dooZJ/i^ P':°P""°'-'' ^ife, who stood in the doorway of the sitting-room ; and Florence, with her eyebrows up among her hair, her eyes ;ery wSe open, sat listemng on the curved seat of theTroTert! ing window. The expression on her face was of S A TALE THAT IS TOLD SI understanding, and of wondering— wondering what was wrong with her that she could not understand. That was Florence all over in those days; when she failed to understand, she wondered what was wrong with herself ! We were in many ways a diversified family. With Tom it was all otherwise: when he did not agree with anything he heard he was sure he was right, and said: "Rubbish I" Astern of father, our boots on, I descended the stairs again, and so we came into the broad High street with the sun on the pavements, and on the cob- bles, and on the tufts of grass that, on either side, thrust up raggedly between the stones. I looked to and fro in the street, and how shall I express it? I tnink I may say I loved that street. Houses, bricks, knockers of brass and iron— knockers like laurel wreathes, knockers of lion's heads— door handles shining on the one side and just bright on the other, windows flush with the walls, windows a little pro- jectmg, 'vindows a little withdrawn, the brass plates of a doctor, of a dentist, perhaps of a veter- inary surgeon, farther along, on a gate of a house with stables at its side, roofs high and roofs low, all higgledly-piggledy, slate roofs and tiled roofs, and here and there a cottage wedged in between tall, newer houses: how can one feel a love at first sight, and a sense of having loved before, for such inanimate objects? The sight of the little old cottages between houses only elderly, and houses compartively new, reminded me of a game we used to play at the school I had recently left. It was called Shove Up. A row of us would sit down on a form till all the space was occupied; then a boy would charge at one end and clamp himself down there. Si A TALE THAT IS TOLD The row would squirm and heave. Sometimes three or four boys would be thrust up in air together like a Siamese triplet or quartette. "Shove up I" we would shout. I wonder where they all are now. tvery now and then some town committee shouts: t>hove up! • and out goes one of the old houses, without any stir along the spring. But that does not often happen, for when the old houses can be made sanitary, they remain. That street in Irvine, even to^ay, is very much not only as I saw it all those years ago, when I was twenty, going out with father to locate the photographer's while buying tobacco, but very much as it was in the days of our grand- fathers and grandmothers, with their stocks and crinolines, as any one can verify by looking at the old print in the Town Hall. The tobacconist's shop had a bulging window like a p-eat glass tun, or barrel, with the staves left on- and there was a wooden effigy of a Highlander tak- ing snuff to one side of th- doorwav. Studiously, n^editatively, my father disaissed tobacco with the shopman, as though here were his first attempt; and m the end bought a tin of the brand he usually smoked. This solemn ritual over, we came out again, and he beamed on the street once more, much as I have seen him beam upon mothers and babies at a christening service, but with more sincerity. "Dear old town," he said again. "V/hat's that shop over there, Harold? Why, yes, it's the pho- tographer's I" It also had a protruding window, though not curved like the tobacconist's. The photographer's window projected about a foot from the wall, and the panes of glass in it were none of them, perhaps A TALE THAT IS TOLD $» needless to say, of bottle-glass with the mark of the blowing in them. "Let's go and look at it," said my father. As we strolled across the broad street, a dark little man, about John's age, with long hair, came fussing out of the place and stood looking at his own window, plunged in again and moved all the specimens of his art an inch to one side, then plunged out again, very tense, his hair fluttering up a moment in the speed of his motion like a lapwing's crest. "Obviously an artist," my father growled in his deep voice, and, glancing at him, I saw little puckers of mirth on his cheek. As we drew near behind the photographer, that spasmodic young man clutched his right elbow with his left hand in a sudden jerky movement that jerked his right hand to his chin, which he Iield fiercely. He gathered himself together, humped his narrow alert shoulders, all intent either upon h.s display or on the reflection of our progress across the street. Next moment he Iiad wisked indoors and drawn the green curtain a''\'ig the rail behind the exhibition of photo- graphs. Arrived at the pavement, we stood and gazed at his display. In the centre of the window was the portrait of a lady (the provost's wife, we heard later) smiling in a phaeton. To left was a photo- graph of a gentleman in a frock coat, with chains of ofiice hanging round his neck — the provost; to right was a pirture of the Burns' statue at Ayr. These were the dominant and large pieces, and in a semi- circle before them were presentments of his clients, singly, in full length, in profile, or looking over the shoulder — a study of cheek, nose-tip, ai. ■ drooping 84 A TALE THAT IS TOLD eye-corner. Set as it were in a little slot, looking up the street, in the projecting part of the window, was a picture of Burns' cottage at Maybole. My father having looited at this, stepped to the window's other end, beside the door, curious to see what balanced Burns there. It was a photograph, apparently taken without command, of Queen Victoria smiling from a carriage. "A speaking likeness," said my father. "A speak- ing likeness. I must have a copy of this. V ir mother would be delighted with it. A speaking like- ness," and he entered the shop. Suddenly before us, bowing like a dancing master, was Mr. MacPherson. "Good-morning, sir," he said. "Good-morning," replied my father. "I wish to have a copy of this photograph of Her Majesty that you have in the side of the window." "Of Queen Victoria, sir?" said Mr. MacPherson. "Or Dr. Grey, I should say, I think?" "Why, yes," said my father smiling. "Well, to be frank, I have it there more as a specimen of my art than for sale. I was able to set it at the procession in Glasgow. If you like it, per- haps you will allow me to present you with a copy." "Oh, no, no. The fact is, I thought it a speak- ing likeness." The photographer bowed. "You have seen Her Majesty," he said, but with- out interrogative inflection. It might have been a statement. "Yes, yes," said father in an off-hand fashion that to one who knew him had an edge of irrita- tion. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 35 "I, of course, only saw her as a layman, and feel greatly honoured you should say what you do of it," MacPherson responded, bowing again. "I have nevf ■ sold any copies of it. Allow me to send you .1 e." "Well — vi\;ll, thank you. My wife would like it. J rave ofttn told her of Queen Victoria's smile. Tnat" — he. raised his hand, pointed at the window- comer, and kept the hand in air — "recalls so vividly to me the day that I talked with her at Balmoral, looking out over the purple heather, and she asked me my opinion on various ecclesiastical movements of the time. A charming smile !" "I hope, sir," said Mr. MacPherson, "that you will not consider it lese majeste if I say it, but it is my sincere feeling that I would be more honoured to photograph intellect than pedigree. You received my letter?" "Wonderfully put," my father rumbled at him. "I think we can all retain our admiration for royalty and yet realise that there are other seats besides thrones." He seemed to feel that he was not talk- ing very well, the matter inferior to the manner. He puckered his lips and frowned. "Yes, I had your letter," he said, "I won't forget. Some day, when I am passing, I shall look in." "Why not now, sir? Some day you may only be passing — this morning you are here. Une belle OC' casion, sir." My father laughed. "Really, you deserve to have your request grant- ed," he said. "You have a mighty inveigling way with you, young man. But, you know, I am afraid of the camera. I think there must be a humble streak i J I 86 A TALE THAT IS TOLD in me somewhere. Perhaps, though, if I go away now. It will be hard to get me back. Let us get it over." MacPherson whisked round and drew the curtain that hung over a door at the end of the shop. "Please step this way, sir," said he. I waited until they returned. My father looked large and majestic as he came into view again, the camera-artist at his side, heels together, bendi; g from the waist as he held back the curtain. "Oh, no, please, no fee!" he was saying. "Allow me to send you proofs. If you care for any I shall be very happy. I am an artist. I do not look on this commercially. It is different with ordinary clients. All I would ask is that you let me know which ones you prefer. I have frequently requests for portraits of well-known people — the provost our divines. I am enough of an artist to wish to have vorthy presentments of any eminent person who may visit this town — to record them." "'To record them' is good," said my father. "There is something in that, though of course I am afraid that I — in the vernacular — am no 'great catch' for you." He smiled down in Mr. MacPherson's eyes, and Mr. MacPhersoa twinkled back at him. "You are too humble," MacPherson declared. "I always find that humility accompanies merit." He stepped to the outer door, opened it, and I had a feeling that he was done with my eminent father, dismissing him. "I wish you success," said father. "I am sure that you are cut out for success. You have commercial acumen — commercial acumen — you are an egregious A TALS THAT IS TOL D 37 flatterer, sir, and flattery is the way to success in life." Mr. MacPherson, bowing us out, looked very ser- ious and said nothing. Laughing gaily, my father stepped out into the street, and I followed, the pho- tographer giving me a bow exactly one-third the depth of the bow he gave to father. "Don't tell your mother about this," said the Old Man as we strolled home. "Let them come as a surprise to her." But over lunch he had to tell of the visit himself after all. He was thinking of it all forenoon. "A most astounding little fellow," he said. "He's the first photographer I've ever heard of who takes one naturally. He did not put my head in a vice, did not even suggest that I should brush my hair. I just stood and talked to him !" (The photographs are known to all those who possess the two volumes of my father's letters, in which — by the mere accident that Dick came upon them when the collection was preparing for press — they appear.) A few days later the proofs arrived, and there is no doubt that they were excellent. To my mind they are as good as any of the photographs taken by Carl Ferzon in Bond Street to-day of people ( I must pocket family pride and confess it) more eminent by far. I never see that exquisite rubric, "Camera- portrait by Carl Ferzon," but I recall the shop in the High Street of Irvine, and that projecting win- dow, and letters like writing instead of print over the door: "Charles MacPherson. Sun Portraits." Even then he was on the first rung of the ladder, at the top of which he now sits. But he cannot draw 38 A TALE THAT IS TOLD the ladder up after him. He has his imitators. Let him mvent something new for a sitter to hold in hand or to gaze at, and next week in half a dozen other studios of London are replicas of the thing to be gazed at or held. The air of importance, of being somebody, is m all his photographs. My father ordered half a dozen of each, and then one day he came in from a solitary walk and held a long discussion with my mother. "I say," said he, "that man MacPherson has put my photographs in his window. He has one on either side one looking up and one looking down the street. What do you think I should do about it?" In what way?" she asked. "How does it strike you?" he inquired. 'You think he should have obtained your permis- sion? "I just wondered about it. I must say they look very well." ' "Which ones are they?" njother asked Father posed before her. "That one," he said. He posed again. "And that one. '_'Oh, but they are very good," said she. You don't think it looks as if I was seeking pub- licity in the town ?" ^ *^ I ,"^— He put the mashie back in its niche and made a motion as of one herding chickens. I opened the door and Marjory passed out, sti' laughing. Outside, hat m hand, the beadle was w .ing in the passage. Not locked up yet, Johr r asked father. "Are we keeping you ?" "Yes, sir, the front. No, sir, not at all. I'll just put out the gas." "Oh, aU right." Father walked bad: a step, reached up and turned out the one light in the over- hanging cluster that had been saved from destruc- tion by Marjory's cry of warning. We went down the passage to the side-door together. John stand- ing under the gas-jet outside the vestry door, hand raised, head lowered, peering after us. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 59 "Right I" said father, thrusting us out before him. "As I said, John, a beautiful evening. Good-night again." "Good-night, sir," replied John. His accents told his admiration for the Rev. Thomas Grey, D.D. When father said: "Here's the real man!" I think we have the secret of all that was wrong with him as a parson. It was not his vocation. i\nd yet, if one is to judge by his congre- gations, to talce their siz? as the measure of success ... I give it up. There is his protrait. You can decide. CHAPTER VII THERE is a kind of man who is everlastingly telling us that he is what his wife has made him; and tk obvious ripest (though withheld for the sake of the amenities), in most cases, is that if he yrhhcs us to admire her creative skill he should really not mention the fact. These are mostly men infatuated. They have a hectic desire to be pala- dins of women; they tell us with a wild shadow on their brows that to most men women are either oc- casion for sentiment or passion in life, and find there- in a stigma on their own sex. I have no doubt there are women in the world who might be more than that to me, but I have not found them. My experience is that the average woman resents being approached without either a touch at least of sentiment or of passion. I have not settled whether she is right or wrong; it is not a sub- ject on which I grow excited. There are times when I think men and women are of different races as well as of different sex. I do not dislike them ; only those infatuated and lost men who begin to snarl as soon as the word woman is mentioned, and rumple their hair as a dog erects its coat, and wish to start out looking for Andromeda in trouble, will take it for granted from these remarks that I am decrying their idols. I have never met any member of the other sex as blatantly unpleasant, as filthy in texture (from my A TALE THAT IS TOLD 61 point of view of filth) as my brother Tom; but I always feel in talking to the average woman that I have to handicap myself for affairs to go courteously — as I do in talking with a Japanese. They are al- ways tangetting away, not from w'"'*- I have said but from what they imagine I have a j Inter-racial misunderstandings crop up all the while. As for the highly-educated ones I have met with hope, Mistress- es of Art and Old Maids of Science, lecturers on fos- sils or forestry, or what-not, they make me simply bow and agree with all they say as one agrees with a lunatic. Yet I do not find a way here out of my com- parative consideration to exalt the one race and abase the other; for men of that ilk are usually equally "impossible." The most self-complacent and self-lauded human ass I know is my eldest sister's husband. She mar- ried him on the day he was appointed lecturer in Glasgow, and had twins on the day he was appoint- ed a professor. His sense of his own importance is so constant — it continues sub-consciously, I believe, even in his sleep — that if one is in a certain order of absent-minded mood on meeting him there is a nat- ural tendency to go down on one knee before what he thinks of his brain, and his body, too. Meeting him in another mood of absent-mindedness, the natural instinct is to put one's foot on him and draw it backward with a rubbing motion on the pavement. On any subject upon which treatises have been writ- ten he can write another treatise, but on subjects upon which no treatises have been written he is like a horse with the blind staggers. He has written a book on the Critical Faculty (not daringly; he has no daring — but with perfect ease) ; he has lectured 6S A TALE THAT IS TOLD on Dante, Homer, the English novel. Eugenics, Edu- cation. But let him forget for a moment what was crammed into him at school and college, let him forget for half an hour that he is a professor, and he will sit bolting his food, lost in ecstasy over a novel by Stratton Porter. The other day I saw him read- ing Freckles to his grandchildren, and he was enjoy- ing it as though he had passed into his second child- hood. He does articles on Shakespeare for the press, in which he says that the greatness of Shakespeare is that though his scenes are laid in Troy, or the Forest of Arden, the stupendous genius of the man makes his Troy not essentially Troy, and his Forest of Arden not essentially the Forest of Arden; and then he writes a column on three books, or so, by modem authors regarding whom he has had no in- dications from text-books, in which are such phrases as: "The next book in my batch has its scene laid ostensibly in Paris, but there is nothing essentially of Paris in it. It might happen anywhere." I fear there is doubt that Mary married him because she realised he had the stuff in him to rise high in schol- astic circles. Married to Hammerhead (as John nicknamed him), Mary was obsessed by the desire to get Flor- ence married. She connived with mother's sister, Mrs. Parker (wife of the celebrated saltpetre mer- chant of Glasgow) , to that end. Between them they made Florence ill. Always they were lassoing young men and pulling them along into our drawing-room, trying to get them to observe Florence. In careful mating of pigeons, a bird-fancier puts a cock and hen bird in cages close together; if they are not irritated by the sight of each other he then puts them together A TALE THAT IS TOLD 63 in a cage; but if at the end of a day or two it is evident they abhor one another, or that one abhors the other, the attempt to mate them is discarded. Mary was a determined woman and did not icnow when to desist. The way those two women — my sister and Aunt Janet — behaved, was enough to side- en Florence ; and it did. She was not at all well when we went down to Irvine. I think she poured out some of her plaint to Marjory, for they were great friends, and I think Marjory eased her. If only Florence had been left alone I'm sure she would have been happy, but all these arrangements, these schemes, depressed her. They began when she was eighteen and went on until I, for one, hated both Mary and Aunt Janet. I hated Mary's home. I disliked Hammerhead be- cause he was Mary's selection. I wonder if you will understand what I mean when I say that he always seemed to me like one of those dogs that live with a cat, so that when it goes out, and the other dogs smell, they rush at it and only at close quarters realise their mistake. Their text-book way of breeding cast an influence over the house. I used to tap it in the hall ; I always felt myself there to be in the presence of diapers. As I said, when beginning this book, it is easier to describe other people than to describe my- self. As time went on, and it became Mary's hobby to look for a mate for Florence, my mother adopted the air of not interfering — with Florence. I think she would have been better advised had she sent Mary packing, told her married daughter to "get off with her"! Instead, her attitude was: "This is Florence's affair, not mine. I won't interfere," and If if M A TALE THAT IS TOLD thus she was actually party to the conspiracy, very stately and sweet to all comers. Very exquisite she looked, too, m gray foulard, her favourite material, talking and slightly moving her head to and fro, her great lustrous eyes now gentle on the face of her guests, anon gazing sidelong into a high and distant comer of the ceiling. It was at Irvine that I began to look on at my mother. I heard many conversations between her and the proprietor's wife at the hotel, I with my back to the room, looking out of the window, Flor- ence sitting on the window-seat, mother in a chair to one side of the hearth (filled with silver paper and wood-shavmgs), father stumping down to the com- mercial room, ostensibly to look at the papers. Dick would be off to some forenoon effect in a meadow, or on the seashore, and John re-brushing his hair in the bedroom,and gazing at his reflection in anxiety ^discover if there was a spark of genius in his eye. Ihese conversations! From staring at the street I often flicked a glance to my sister, and I know by her (may I wear my heart on my sleeve and say by her dear face? for I was fond of her) that she was at the employ of trying to make two and two seem five as, so far as she could see, two and two made to the women round her. Some of Mrs. MacQuilp's bans mots were delight- r \, w''** '"Other could smile. But the ethics of Mrs. MacQuilp had no evident effect upon her. Many were the themes that held our landlady in the doon^ay when she came in to see if a meal had been satisfactory, or if the next one would be partaken of indoors or carried away in a luncheon-basket. I re- call one talk, or monologue, on the new-fanned ideas A TALE THAT IS TOLD «5 of doctors. Her grandmother had lived to be ninety, she said, and never had her tonsils cut — "and look at these two girls that serve on you. Bessie had her tonsils cut — havers, I call it! — she had her tonsils cut, and then Nance had tonsilitis !" I have a natural bent for bons mots like that. I cherish them. They upset all the logic of life for a moment and fling us into a fourth dimensional world. I pointed out to Brother John that he should study Mrs. MacQuilp. I said to him: "She is what is called the Great Heart of the People." So he went down and leant against the wall of her little sitting- room, and came back to tell me that her two fav- ourite authors were Charles Dickens and Annie S. Swan. He asked me what I made of that. "I don't know," I said. "That's for you to find out." It was Mrs. MacQuilp's views on marriage, and my mother's tacit agreement with them, that made Florence stare her widest one morning. Their two and two made five to her almost all the time. "There's Maggie MacCrae on the other side of the street," said Mrs. MacQuilp. "Now, she has her wits aboot her, Mrs. Grey. After the marriage the certificate was given tae her husband, and she stoppit dead and said: 'Now that's mine, by richts. Let us begin fair and square and all will be weel.' He gave it tae her at once — he's that kind o' a body. He said he didna care whae had it. 'All richt, then," says she, 'I'll ha'e it.' You see, Mrs. Grey, that's a woman's only hold on a man. If he was to rin off what hold wad she ha'e on him? That's what I say: begin as ye intend tae go on.' " "How awful!" said Florence in a whisper after her departure. 06 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "They are very ignorant people she spoke of," said mother. "The girl need not have behaved like that. She could always procure a copy of the certificate at the registrars for a nominal fee." Then my sister sat and stared at mother. An- other of Mrs. MacQuilp's utterances that sent Flor- ence's eyebrows up amongst her hair was : — "Some women are fond — that's what I call them, fond. There's my brither's auldest gone and married a blind man. If a man went blind after a lassie mar- rie.l him — weel, she'd just ha' to put up wi' it and accept the seetuation cheerfully; but tae marry a blind man 1" Florence's eyebrows came down. There was a tender look on her face. I think she was relieved to hear of the existence of that lover. "And she had every chance tae get oot of it. After the explosion" — (we had to guess at parts of Mrs. MacQuilp's stories, for to ask for details would have taken too long)— "the first thing he did when he found he was blinded was tae ask the nurse at the infirmary tae write and tell her she was nae longer hauden tae him. She could have got oot of it wi'oot any suggestion whatever of heartlessness from her worst enemy. But no. She would ha'e him. Fond I call it. Fond!" Of the marriage of her own daughter we heard much. "Effie could have had half a dozen lads in the town," she told us, "but she was weel balanced. There was one she likit fine, but he was aye choppin' and changin', now in one job, and then in anither. She's a spur tae a man. She told Sandy Shaw, when A TALE THAT IS TOLD 67 he cam' courtin', she would ha'e him when he had bought the hoose. And there they are now, wi a hoose o' their ain, paying nae rent." "What became of the other young man?" asked father, he being present on this occasion. He had risen to depart, but paused now, waited, interested. "Which?" "The one that chopped and changed." "Ah, weel, it's amazin' I Of course, nobody could ha' foreseen it. He's got on wonderful weel, after all. He went to London and has a business of his ain, but I never blame Effie. It was quite unfor- seen. Huh! And look at him. He goes up tae London and marries an English lass. I think it's disgusting. As soon as a lad gets on he goes to London now. Glasgow even doesna satisfy him — and nae sentiment in him for the auld hame. The first English lass that blinks her e'e at him he loses his heart tae. They're designing lassies, yon. They see a chance and they tak' it. Rope them in — that's what I say." Always at mention of London, John's eyes jumped. He should have been studying Mrs. MacQuilp, I suppose, to write another Auld Licht Idyll Not far south of us, about that time, George D iglas was soaking in his House IVith the Green Shutters, which was to put a quietus on the "Kail-yard School" for ever; but no — John was thinking of London, and Mrs. MacQuilp he did not see. Father listened with the twinkle in his eyes and the corners of his mouth puckered. Mother just listened calmly. Florence was clawing about in all quarters for solutions to the marriage question. I thought Mrs. MacQuilp was merely Mrs. MacQuilp, but, as I discovered, going 68 A TALE THAT IS TOLD out with my sister after that talk, she had a different view. "Isn't it terrible?" she said at the door, blowinir out a deep breath. ''It's very amusing," I replied. "She's a caution." It s not amusing to me," said Florence, "because I am commg to the conclusion that Mrs. MacQuilp and Queen MacQuilp are all one. Queen MacQuilp may not state her views so crudely, but they have an understanding— all of them. "What a queer view of marriage!" "I suppose," I pointed out, "if it was not for mar- riage heaps of men would bolt after — er — bolt, I mean, not be faithful to one woman and — and then, the children? Who would look after them?" "Considering all the gush we hear about mother- love," said Florence, even she going off at a tangent, "I can't quite understand all the fuss about girls hav- ing babies." (We had been treated to another story, the bur- den of which made mother look worriedly in our direction, regarding a girl who had had a baby out of wedlock and killed it.) "I do think," said I, following my sister on to her new ^heme, "that the bounder who was the father of that child should have stood in the dock beside her." Florence absolutely blazed at me — no, not at me but at my thick-headedness. We were excellent friends, swinging along. "She — wasn't — being — tried," said she slowly and forcibly, "for having had a baby. She was being tried for murdering it. If he had carried it off and murdered it he would have been in the dock." Then she added vehemently, with a toss of her head : "And A TALE THAT IS TOLD 60 I expect the girl would have sobbed about her mother-love so as to make doubly sure that she was not charged with being party to the thing." She bit her lip, and tears were in her eyes. "It is all very horrible," she went on. "I wonder why so much fuss is made about it?" I am afraid I did not help her in those puzzled days, for I became enamoured in a gentle, diffident fashion of Marjory — and Florence saw. I could never «ntirely understand that sense of pleasant dis- turbance, of happiness, of almost content, content with a dash of inexplicable trouble in it, that I ex- perienced with Marjory in those days. It seemed at times to be more her clothes than the girl herself I liked I Perhaps they expressed her. Perhaps it was the deep and inner Marjory I turned to. Certainly, in a plain blue bathing-suit (for Irvine was not a pleasure resort, a show place, and these suits were for bathing in) , wearing a cap with elastic in it over her hair, and her calves wobbling, very, very white, she gave me a shock. One very wet day in goloshes (I have told her so since then) she seemed terrible to mel But under a pretty hat, with stockings hiding the flesh of her legs, and giving only their contours, in an afternoon gown of filmy fabric, and drooping her head, to look at me with a smile right into my eyes: that Marjory enraptured. I forgot at such moments that she had views on various subjects that seemed to indicate her as a traveller on another road. But there came a moment I must note, as it is apropos of Florence, of whom this part tells. From various scattered amusements we were coming indi- vidually, or in couples, to Waterside for dinner, and f^jZJ, 70 A TALE THAT IS TOLD I had seen to it that I arrived first. Fraud that I was, I said: "Am I too early? Have the others not come ?" I recall that evening well — and that mo- ment in the long garden with the flagged paths to rear of the house, with the purple fuschias like little hanging lamps, midget purple lamps in the green of their bush, and roses, red and white, the sky over- head all pale silken blue, and little clouds in it like stray flames, the sun on them still above the little town. The house-walls and the garden were bright only with reflected sunset and a young moon. What a witching dual light I And I was twenty, and Mar- jory was eighteen. And sunset, and the new white moon together, sprayed the world with glamour. At that moment Marjory and I seemed ecstatically at one. I did not think of our diversities, or if I did I knew — knew — they were trivial. The magic of the hour, that made the fuschias doubly miracu- lous, and the rose petals eternal, was on her face, too. All the gold and silver drizzle of light on flagged path and bush had got into my heart. I put out my hand and — I was about to say, held her arm, but I will express my timidity and temerity better, I think, by saying that I felt the quality of the doth of her sleeve. As she only gave me a very engaging smile ?.t that sartorial caress, I arranged her lace-fall that the slightest of evening breezes had rufiled. Then I heard steps and, looking round, saw Florence come abruptly from the ^^ ise. In Irvine, away from Aunt Janet's and Siste. Mary's inquisi- torial insolence, their everlasting inquiries if she had not a sweetheart, there had been, so far, only Mrs. MacQuilp's dissertation on sex and marriage to keep jhese themes to the fore. She was looking better in A TALE THAT IS TOLD Tl the life of long walks, of boating and of bathing. Her expression, on seeing us and our foolish attitude, was one of regret, but not for us. It was an intro- spective regret. "Oh, dear!" I imagined her saying to herself. ' "They'reat it, tool" CHAPTER VIII > BACK in Glasgow, the memory of Irvine lin- gered on a long while; and the memory of Marjory was constantly with me, with me even when some urgent affair of the moment claimed all my thoughts — with me then like a treasured book in my pocket. I saw the little old town with the rooks flying home over it through the golden haze before sunset, saw the last burnished twist of the river past the wharf where the smacks lay, the streets and the cobbled closes, the people moving to and fro like puppets, as in a camera obscura, all alive, all real, but dwarfed by distance and soundless. Often I thought of Marjory. Many and many a time, in the evenings at home, I was not reading the book that lay on my knee but was seeing the contours of her face again, hearing her voice again. My futuJt had to be considered, and I found my- self indentured to a firm of chartered accountants. I liked the people there greatly. The head of the firm was a man of wide reading and many sympa- thies. One of his sons was interested in cremation — president, if I recall rightly, of The Scottish Crema- tion Society. I recall that after I went to hear him deliver his lecture on Sir Thomas Browne's Hydrio- taphia I was entirely pleased to be a chartered ac- countant 1 72 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 79 During the next years, Marjory and I met ever and again, and that she and I were both together in the world sufEced me. Nebulous dreams of the fu- hire I had, but I did nothing to hasten their fruition. Mie came one year with us on holiday to a house at Connel Ferry (near Oban), and we shot the FaUs of Lora m boats, climbed the hills, picnicked in the rums of an old monastery where the grouse chirred over mossy graves and one still upright stone with the ancient sign I.H.S., tramped to Glencoe and re- discovered the wood of silver birches above Duror in Appin. Another summer we spent in the Isle of Arran, and the red sunsets, the slow, luminous twi- lights the leisure of life on the sheep-farm, all preached to me the same assurance that all was well, and would go the way it was meant to go. In the winter Marjory would come to Glasgow for two or three days, and we would hear Paderewski play, or visit the Institute of Fine Arts' winter show. I was reading much during these years, of history: Gibi bona Decline and Fall .... Burton's History of Scotland, the tangled life of Mary, Queen of Scots' m the deciphering of which there was so much du- biety and guess-work. Soon after the passing of my twenty-Rev.:nth birth- day, we were into another winter, with a special course of sermons for father and courses of literary lectures. John had a finger in the arranging of the latter, suggesting that many authors whom he ad- mired should be invited to lecture, and in one or two cases having his desire, seeing them in the flesh not only at the reading desk in the church, or on the platform of the specially chartered hall, but even sometimes sitting at our own uble. For Glasgow 74 A TALE THAT IS TOLD had capacity to enjoy authors who did more than merely cater for the great heart of the people (for those hard of heart who can enjoy only mock senti- ment, for those simple who can laugh only over a false nose or the account of how Tommy Tosspot fell into the river) such authors as John, at that period, relished and admired, before he married and it became necessary for him to make much money. Even those "popular" ones who came to lecture to us (on the Decay of the Novel, on the Renascence of the Novel, on Woman the Guide of the World, on Woman, Shall she be Free?) were not only pop- ular. We got them to come down at the penod be- fore they had given in; and they were often not at all, in conversation, what might have been imagined from the major part of their books. Many of them were really both simple and interesting; and I soon saw that, like my father, they knew what fiUed the house but, for themselves, had tastes greatly differ- ent from those for whom they catered. Their atti- tude to the public was that of grown-ups in the nur- sery. With not all of them was the result flamboy- ance, even in private. With some, indeed, the result seemed to be a touch of melancholy. John eventually went that way. He did not adopt the false-nose and falling in the river vein, but the infallibility of the feminine one, the wonder of im- pulse, the dynamic power of female emotion. To come to detail, if a hill was mentioned, he descnbed it as shaped like a "woman's breast"; if there were flowers on a table he had to speak of the "amorous scent of the roses." I rather like roses; on the bushes, or in hedges, especially, I like them, or even one or two in a bowl to match them pleases me. And A TALE THAT IS TOLl) 7S I understand what Samain meant when he said: "Quand je me sens devenir pessimiste, je regarde une rose." But I am only i" Glasgow yet — in the winter of 1894, or perhaps 189^. I am uncertain at the moment. Yet what matters time? My father delivered the inaugural secular lecture, on Robert Buni:; It was common knowledge that mother's great-aunt, Euphemia Clouston, was the 'Phemy of but you will remember, unless you have skippeJ my book! An air of intimacy was given to this lecture because of that personal link, of which most of rhe auc'lcnce -..crr- aware. He spoke as with authority. His v ice thrilled as he touched upon the poet's lapses from rectitude. "Who among us," he asked, "can cast the first stone?" Many a question he propounded, and pausei' .if'ir each, casting up his leonine held and listeniiig ; i for an answer. These siiJnces werj deeply t:ii'v:rtg. "Had he been other than hi; was, w.uld vt- h;;..- had those imperishable songs?" his V(.ic^ rang o:n. "Some of us are tempted. Do we al:\ lys s^y nay to the tempter? And which one of us en 'o-. 'Egre- gious enough to rise and say that he has o/ir bv.r\- dredth part of the great fires of this man? W'h't a hundred times more natural vigor, where would you be, that is what I ask? There was nothing com- mon or unclean to this meteor across the mirk of that drab century. His great heart had compassion for even the field-mouse cast out of its home by his plough-share; his great heart had compassion even upon a louse." I went home that evening feeling tremendously at one with all humanity, and thinking how big-hearted 76 A TALE THAT IS TOLD and humane my father was. As he felt the need for laughter in his flock his ne'. lecture was on Mark Twain, with many quotations. I remember Dick rather damped his pleasure in the joyance his lecture created by saying, — "I say, dad, don't you think it a bit queer that Christians should whoop with such merriment over that vastly humorous incident m Innocents Abroad where they see a light that has been burning in an Eastern church for thousands of years, or whatever it is, and one of them blows it out and says : "Wal, I guess it's out now!" Don't you think it queer?" Father gloomed heavily. Dick was frank heretic. When he went into country places it was the old "pubs," not the old churches, he was enthusiastic over. The Old Man was very patient with him. I think he liked him greatly, but hid the measure of his liking so as not to seem, as the Scots say, "to make step-bairns." "I see your point," ht ^'A, "but don't you think you inquire a trifle narrowly? They were immense- ly tickled, and laughed, and were happy. And, after all, Mark Twain is one of fhe Great Writers." "Quite, He is one of the Great Writers on the strength of such mental pabulum. My question is simple — let me put it this way: how would all these Christians, who bayed with delight over, 'Wal, I guess it's out now!' like to have somebody wander in here from the East, and blow out their candle that has been burning only under two thousand years, so to speak?" "The length of time the candle has been burning does not matter," said father, hedging — like Tom. "No, of course not," Dids agreed. "It's the blow- A TALE THAT IS TOLD 77 ing of it out Why do they, with a candle of their own, laugh at the blowing out of that candle?" Father cleared his throat, stroked the back of his head, and pondered. Dick was not like Tom. He waited, and gave dad full time to consider. He was desiring an answer one way or the other, and was not merely anxious to smash father. Tom would have chipped in with a roar of laughter, as of victory, and half a dozen other questions during that pause ; but Dick sat silent and at last the pater spoke. "There is another side to it," he said. "Mark Twain stands for those who would abolish flummery. To flummery he brings the laughter that is more de- vastating than serious criticism." Dick nodded his head several times. "That, if it was the mood in which he wrote that incident, does exonerate him considerably," he said. "But as for those who laughed — I'd rather they had no flummery of their own. Yes, I sec your point, dad." CHAPTER IX YET it was not a point my father saw for him- self a few evenings later. To tell of that night, I must explain that, in his quest after Breadth of Vision, Bonhomie, and the like, the Old Man had taken up further winter labours. He (a Presbyterian), the Reverend John Stewart (a Baptist), a Mr. Corner (a rtreet- preacher), and Father Ambrose (of the Roman Catholic Church), were leagued together for the sup- ply of warm winter underclothing to the poor in certain districts of the east-end. I fear their en- deavors brought them many a disappointment, and often made occasion for them to cling tenaciously to the belief in the Great Heart of Humanity, refusing to be embittered. As with old age pensions to-day, so with these disembursements. People who were merely poor, but had fought hard, were often less catered for than people who had their clothes in the pawn on Monday morning, out on Saturady night, and in again on Monday. The parasites clothed, I fear, outnumbered the stoics discovered and then clothed. I am aware that I may seem hard to some in speaking so, but I am only stating facts; and I have noticed it is generally those with no hearts at all who cry out: "Oh, how heartless I" to the ever-hope- ful, ever-trustful, who, dashed by evidence of injus- 78 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 79 tice in the world, protest against it Mock-senti- ment seems to be more popular than the real thing. Mrs. MacQuilp flourishes like the green bay tree, big and smiling and callous; my sister Florence grows pensive, with a tender heart for all. But here is an aside; let us return to the Woolen Comforts En- deavour. My father and the Baptist, both being preachers with large congregations and many wealthy communi- cants, were the collectors of the fund. Father Am- brose, being a Roman Catholic, was in an impover- ished district, and supplied names of the needy. Mr. Corner was in his element in a room in a back street beyond the Glasgow Green, handing out the under- wear, and saying: "May God go with this shirt! Halleluiah! Here is a pair of drawers. Remember, my friend, God seeth thee!" or: "Here's a semmit, man's size. Not a sparrow falleth to the ground . . . my friend. Try to keep off the drink. God bless the wearer I" Father Ambrose ottra came to supper with us. Mr. Corner cnme once, and while father was saying grace brol almost a parallel case to that of the A TALE THAT IS TOLD 83 man who lets passion blur his mind to the fact that he brings little of any other link to bind him to his pas- sionate mate. Such are the matches that many call "love-matches"; and when they go wrong we hear great diatribes on Liberty, little lyrics on how "love" bums out and dies. I am afraid that is what the word Love means in all John's later books. For the sake of a toping companion, the pater let all such remarks of Father Ambrose's go unheeded; and the priest, while adhering to his attitude of be- longing to the infallible sect that was not a sect but the only Church, always would add some such com- ment as: "This is excellent wine." Here Marjory again enters; for the incident of that night she shared, as she had shared the incident in the vestry at Irvine, she having come up to Glasgow to stay with us over Christmas and the New Year's beginning. On the evening in question there had been a meet- ing at the church, and at the door 1 met father, to walk home with him. Hardly had we gained the first corner than we made up on Father .Ambrose bound to our home for supper. Salutations were made and we all set off together. Suddenly father stopped abruptly with a "Chut!" "Forgotten something?" I said. "Yes." He stood stock still. "It can't be helped. I must go." Then his manner changed. "There has been a bereavement in the house of one of my flock," he explained. "Haven't you seen them already?" asked Father Ambrose. "I promised. I saw the daughter to-day, and promised to call on the mother this evening. Yes, I must go. A bereavement." His voice became M A TALE THAT IS TOLD i '. deep and mellow. "Just a word of comfort in their hour of sorrow. I won't stay long. I think at such times, Father, it is better not to stay long." "Quite agree," said Father Ambrose. "Well — shan't be long. You two go home and have my slippers warmed I Tell mother I shall soon follow, Harold." He arrived shortly after us and was very subdued on his entrance. "h there something wrong, darling?" said mother. "No. It is only that I have called at a house of sorrow — poor Mrs. Arbuthnot." "Poor soul," said mother. "Very sad," he went on. "Even though we have Faith — it is the leaving of friends ..." "I believe he has left her well-provided for," re- marked mother. "Yes, I'm glad— I'm glad." He begged leave to "nm and wash," and by the time he returned had mastered his emotion. Present in the drawing-room with the big easy- chairs, chintz-covered, and the pink-shaded lights, were mother, Florence, a young man named Arthur Neil, Marjory, myself and Dick, fhe latter seated cross-legged on a hassock, plucking a mandoline and singing Italian peasant songs. He and 1 stayed only a short while in the dining-room after dinner with the two divines, because of Marjory Stroyan being with us, and young Neil obviously w-nted to follow Flor- ence. To us, about half an hour after we had fol- lowed the ladies, came Father Ambrose and the paler, big and cheerful and urbane. "Do you remember that time I came over to see you when you were in Italy, Dick?" said my father. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 85 has- see. Dick ceased to strum and rose from the sock. "I remember," father turned to the priest mg a procession of your Church " ' "Of the Church? Oh, yes." "I remember feeling at the time how much more you were really fathers than we. We are not digni- fied enough, or else we don't inculcate sufficiently into our charges a sense of dignity. It was really very wonderful. Dick and I stood at a window looking down at it all." He had seated himself, but as he spoke he rose, stood large before his chair with one arm upraised. "There were young acolytes, I pre- sume, in advance, and priests carrying various ec- clesiastical insignia, and at a very slow pace the pro- cession advanced. Quite a spectacle. But what struck me most was the people-their behaviour on either side As the procession advanced, those lining the route knelt"— he made a motion as of thrusting something down before him. "And then came one Church^"" ' ""'^ "" ^''^"'y dignitary of the He bowed again toward lather Ambrose and then turned to us as he described-what we had often heard him describe. He caught Marjory's cvc and addressed himself especially to her, perhaps r. fir- ing how well we of the family circle knew the inti- dent he narrated. Marjory and the priest beca.r > his two chief auditors. Very slowly, he erect, he be- gan to pace the room in what was more a marking time with slight advance, than a walk. Thus he moved as he went on with the story. "The people knelt on both sides, you understand. so- and so. And this great dignitary, as he walked 86 A TALE THAT IS TOLD — thus and thus — extended his hand, just touched a kneeling citizen like this." He progressed majestically, a hand extended now to left, now to right. When he came to where mother sat he touched her shoulder. "Oh!" she cried out with a shudder, drawing up her shoulders. "I don't like that at all. I think it is rude !" Father raised his head and roared joyously, and then tried to touch Marjory, saying: "Bless you, my child," but, laughing, she drew back also. Father Ambrose, blinking drunkenly before him, was very grave indeed. "I'm afraid, I'm afraid," said father, "that these kith and kin of mine have not a sense of " "Yes," interrupted Father Ambrose, "we do incul- cate the dignity of the Church. You are a loss to the fold. Dr. Grey. You compromise — we are un- compromising. The Roman Catholic Dogma is the truth come from the mouth of our Lord Jesus Christ. All else is si-si-schism and so-sophistry. It is mosh ashonishin " He paused, and then we knew the man's measure. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would have tried again and very deliberately have enunciated: "Most aston- ishing." He did not. He looked at us quickly, and as we all gazed politely on him he decided that maybe we had no acute auricular organs. We had, perhaps, noticed neither the stammer nor the compromising slur. His thoughts were clear on his face. After- wards Dick imitated it and said : "You could see what the old buffer was thinking. 'Did they notice? No! Yes? Well, anyhow, I'd better go straight on!' And he went straight on. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 87 "... that you should be where you are, Dr. Grey. I almost said — let me say — Brother Grey I We have beea as brothers of late in our work of mercy." I glanced at father and found him standing with chin on chest staring at P'ather Ambrose. He looked as one ageing. His trousers had an old hang com- ing to them; they reminded me of an elephant's hind legs. Creases behind at the knees were not as creases in the trousers of the young. Head lowered, chin on chest, he studied Father Ambrose. His eyes were wonderfully clear, though his face was florid. If he had rumbled: "Why, man, you're drunk!" I don't think he would have astonished us or shocked any one except mother, and I know Dick would have been delighted. "Darling," he said, turning to mother, "could we have a little coffee brought in?" "VVhy, yes," she responded, with a quick look of affection upon him. As the coffee was being sipped or gulped, accord- ing to our individual ways, there came up somehow (1 have forgotten the links) the name of one of father's flock. "Ah, there's an interesting man," said he. "Is he?" asked mother. "Yes, indeed. I met him one day recently and just casually" — he now addressed Father Ambrose, cour- teously — "in the manner I have — for, after all, if people don't come to church it may be my fault — I asked why we had not seen him at service for some time. And he said: 'No, I have not been to church recently.' So I said: 'Well, I hope you won't go by the door always, but be moved to come. "Forsake MICROCOPY KESOiUTION TEST CHART (\NSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) ^ APPLIED IIVMGE Inc =r. 165." East Main Street FJS Rocne-ler, New York U609 U5A '.ag (716) 482 - OJOO - Phone ^S (716) 268 - ^929 - Fa> 88 A TALE THAT IS TOLD not the assembling of yourselves together as the man- ner of some IS . . ." you know.' Brodie thought over that for a moment, and then replied : 'Text for text, sir. You will remember ' and he quoted a text to me, I must say with fine delivery, too : ' "And . when thou prayest thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are; for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and m the corners of streets that they may be seen of *"*"■ ,.y^"''' ^ '^y ""'° y°" ^''^y ^^^^ *•>«''■ reward .■«D ■ u^"'^ '''^" ^^ lowered his voice as he added: But thou when thou prayest enter into thy closet and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Fa- ther which is in secret. ..." the last bit, frankly, sir, I dont like,' he said, 'but I'll quote it: ". . . and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly." ' " "Preposterous !" cried Father Ambrose. And at the same moment mother was murmuring: "How very rude of him!" "And you," boomed the priest, glaring at father and pointing a denouncing finger, "only a few min- utes ago were extolling the dignity of the Church. Yet you admire that man I" "Admire !" said mother. Father glanced at her, and though he was evi- dently on the point of saying more, he raised his head and gave that laugh of his that comes at such times when, if I may use an aphorism of the card- table, he genially says : "Pass I" "Preposterous !" cried Father Ambrose again. "In the Church it would be impossible. This quoting of Scripture to Oh, it is not to be tolerated I These are sad days, Dr. Grey, with their free-thought and bi-bi-blical kly-dsm." A TALE THAT IS TOLD 8» I think It perfect humbug of Mr. Brodie to talk to you hke that, as well as insolent I" declared mother, I think speaking again in an attempt to seem unaware that her ecclesiastical guest was in a condi- fou" ''»"v,''°wever much "the thing" in the days of l-hetny Clouston, was, among the best people, lap- smg mto desuetude. But probably the pater did not realise her reason for starting afresh; this time he did not hold silent. ^ "Humbug?" he said, and shook his head gently. Ah, now_I don't know, my dear. I would be chary of imputing humbug to anybody— for we are all humbugs greatly, I fear, unless to some very lenient observer who may, perhaps, know everything. les, all are inchned to humbug, more or less." i.he gazed at him with her doting expression as who should say: "What a humble man I have mar! riedl I was often at a loss regarding her. At iTlrf^t^'"^ **" ''""'^'y "•"it'^d; at others I would thmk she sav-, and pretended blindness. I always found her interesting and lovable. There were points that she refused to see, because the ad- mission of the seeing of them might raise the infer- a?, w5r xlT-" "°'i " '* ^"«' "^ "se-leaves and alabaster. This tendency to a lack of frankness (and m using such a phrase let me hasten to say that I am far from having decided that even frank- h^r^'V ^'il moment*-but that is by the mark here) helped toward leaving me uncertain regarding her often, I think she was also a hint naive, some- what simple. The blend of deep and shallot, and tlie fact that her face was not nearly as expressive as tathers, made me frequently leave my view of her pending, like the Montaignes of the world. I think, 90 A TALE THAT IS TOLD at this last juncture of the talk, she only saw her husband as humble, failed to notice a certain frown on his forehead, a slight lowering of the brows. Ex- pressions we almost intuitively feel. Begin to de- scribe them, and it seems as though the people of whom we tell go about through life grimacing! Father's face had not the immobility of mother's, despite the set jowl; changing thoughts made what seemed more like lights and shadows to drift under the skin of his face. All this commentary at the moment does not hold up the narration, for there is no more to narrate of that evening. While mother was still doting on father, and he gazing before him unaware of her. Father Ambrose suddenly shot up from his chair. He had been sitting with legs close, knees together, and the motion was a sharp upward bob. And "I must go," said he. From that day, or evening, there was much less of extreme unction in the pater's manner, at least in private. His second lecture on Robert Bums (for the first was so successful that he was asked to re- peat it) saw a return of it, but that was excusable. He never put himself deliberately into any position that would be bad for business, so to speak Few people do. Few can jeer at him on that score, or, as he would say, throw the first stone. I liked him greatly in these last days. I say "last days" because it was at the end of that winter, the winter when the second call came to him from the church in Philadelphia (U. S. A.), that he received another call; and he who had hardly known a day's illness in his life got a stitch between his shoulder blades one Sunday night, after a visit to a house of A TALE THAT IS TOLD 91 mourning to speak a few words of consolation. Let tne say here that I honestly believe he comforted in his own fashion. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, despite an all-night working over him with cylinders of oxygen by a local doctor and a specialist, he went out into the Unknown. CHAPTER X. FOR some time before the passing of my father, there had been coming much to our home a young man — Arthur Neil — whom I have cas- ually mentioned as being present on the evening when the Old Man gave us that rendering of a proces- sion he had seen in Italy. Arthur Neil was, for me, provocative of many musings; and the reason for my mu-ings was that it was evident to us all that the main attraction for him in our household was Florence. John had brought him home, and when calling, Neil used to ask for him at the door: "Good-evening, Mary. Is Mr. John in?" but it is not only because I was humbugging in something the same fashion some- times when calling at Waterside that I looked lightly upon this ruse of his. It is no inhuman little sub- terfuge. However, I could never get in touch with him to my satisfaction. He clearly admired Flor- ence; he seemed a pleasant enough fellow; and yet he was not (to use an expression Mary Lennox had brought into family speech when touching on people we had nothing against, but for whom we did not care warmly) "my handwriting" I I can't think he would ever do anything quixotic. There was a shrewdness in him somewhere always on deck, always having a glance at the compass, always casting an eye on the man at the wheel. I am not finding fault with him 92 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 9S for being like that; but, seeing he was like that, he was naturally more John's friend than mine. In tem- perament, Florence was more of a lack-lustre blend of Dick and John — and I think I got on with her bet- ter than did all the others. I had a great affection for my younger sister, and wondered what manner of youth Neil might be, won- dered if there had been any girls in his youth before, if he were good enough to pay court to her. Mother obviously thought he was — indeed, it seemed to me, too obviously; and I think Dick thought so, too, by the way he used to frown sometimes when she was gushing at the young man. Tom's views it was hope- less to discover; he was merely a weather-cock mak- ing creaking sounds, with his idiotic laugh. He used to laugh even over the words: "How do you do?" as soon he entered a room. I really don't think, if I may be allowed to use the phrase, that he gave one Continental damn for any of us. Neil was on the staff of the Evening at that time, had an Aberdeen degree and what mother called the "cultured ni/n-accent; a trig, alert figure, with a conversational gamut extending over politics, poetry, salmon fishing, golf, music, and Dan Leno. I am sure he did not like my eldest brother, and if he was as pleasant to him as to the rest of the family, that was only because he soon saw that Tom was :nother's favourite and he did not wish to chill her. I thought I saw a look of pleasure in his eye once when father (to cast back a little way, taking up this part of my memories which pertain chiefly to Florence) "sat on" Tom, and when mother was not in the room he made it evident that he was bored by Tom's idiotic "Why not?" about everything, that he would fire into the P4 A TALE THAT IS TOLD middle of discussions. We all liked Neil, if not ex- cessively. Yes, we liked him — that is the way to put it. "A very nice fellow !" we used to say. I have written so far about my sister not as though talking of her with the knowledge gained since the days of which I tell. My attempt has been to write of the past as it seemed when it was the present. I should really have kept a diary then, instead of now writing my memoirs; but as I did not, I go upon this prin- ciple: when narrating incidents that later lights il- lumined, I have tried to tell only what I saw at the time. ^ I was of the opinion that Florence cared for Neil. To mc it seemed that any man of any parts at all would naturally have a great admiration for her. I admit she was somewhat lazy. I admit that her de- sire to go in for medicine, her dream of becoming a lady-doctor, was short-lived. I admit that to the kind of people who wish to direct another's life (people such as Sister Mary and Aunt Janet) she might well have been a cause for screaming hysterics. The de- sire to be left alone was strong in her. But only one without discernment would think that her meek- ness meant subservience, only a blind bully would say: "There is my prey 1" Mary and Aunt Janet were blind as bats. Actually there existed in Flor- ence, among all her charms, a streak of contrariety where bullies were concerned. A trifle listless, not caring very very much at a cross-roads whether sht- went to left or to right, if the one she walked with was one she liked, and took the path to right — she would go on walking and talking and take that path, too, as though she did not see the o'lier; but even though, alone, she did not care which path she took, A TALE THAT IS TOLD 05 if one she did not care for tremendously was with her and turned to right she would immediately say, sweetly: "We'll go this way!" and take the path to left. She was only influenced by ? flection or, if influenced otherwise, influenced negatively. Fair- haired, with long fingers, with a pretty curve to her neck, I see her still as she was in those days. Her shapely upper lip was out-thrust ever so slightly be- yond the lower; but her little chin curved out in- stead of receding after that inward line of the lower lip. This shaping of the profile lines about her mouth was not in the faintest degree a blemish, though unusual. AH that some might call blemish was the slight overlapping of the two middle upper teeth. All her teeth were milky white, and small. After father's death, when she was run down by his loss a-top of the nagging by Mary and Aunt Janet, she grew very quiet. But his death hurt us all. It was terrible never to see him looming big ^nd rosy and delightful, and sometimes almost ridicu- lous, in any of the rooms. It was almost a relief to leave the manse and remove to a house in Huntley Gardens, because of his having left it. In those days, before he went away, father was very friendly to young Neil, used to take much notice of his presence in the house, twinkling a little on him, hear thrown backward, as though reconstructing his own courtship. That was his way with people he liked; he never showed banter with people he disliked. Also I saw him look troubled once or twice when mother seemed more than naturally solicitous of Neil's comfort: "Do sit there, Mr. Neil. That's a nice seat next to Florence. There. Now we're all comfy." Also, not once, but on several occasions, S6 A TALE THAT IS TOLD li she designed so as to leave the two young people alone. I believe in giving folks a chance to know each other before committing themselves to mar- riage ; but to rise and drift from the room murmur- ing: "Oh, I've just remembered ..." and then to come back nd call away whoever was left behind besides Florence and Neil — how shall I express it? She certainly did not do these things tactful!". There were too much cushion-tapping and solicitat, ons over Neil not being in a draught, or not being too warm. She seemed more to leave them alone so as to give him a chance to propose marriage, than to leave them alone so that they might get to know each other and say: "I'm sorry —I have made a iiistake. Good-afternoon ;"' if necessary. She was inclined to pester on pleasantly in this fashion with most peo- ple — asking if they were too cold, or too warm, I mean — but with Neil it was overdone. I once heard Dick say: "Oh, damnl" to himself when she was coddling round Arthur Neil so. There is no doubt that Arthur was glad to have moments alone with Florence even though feeling that mother was party to ^hem; but I would that she could have mr.iiaged things better. Dick and I had a less obvious plan of campaign. We would take Neil away to shew him something, then one of us would depart and not came back, and then I'he remaining one would ungraciously leave Neil alone, and he would drift round the house to look for Florence. At dinner (or if it was on a Sunday, at tea-table) we would all gather together again as if we behaved that way with guests entirely naturally I It was generally Dick and I who made these strategic movements, for John, Neil's alleged friend, was A TALE THAT IS TOLD 97 out a great deal when he called, at his club, or talking literature in some coterie of young men excited over words, or at the Border Ballad Society, his taste for J»^'"g ">any acquaintances already almost a passion. Where Tom was we neither knew nor cared. Mother was sure that he worked late at the shop: we sus- pected that he used to go night after night to see the same play, or nusic-hall turn, wherever he could find a spangled leg or a bare back. Aunt Janet came once when /Vrthur was visitiiig, and he was introduced. She examined him through a lorgnon and then flipped it shut and spoke to him with the naked eye, satisfied. How I hated her for prying into Florence's affairs. Her manner toward my sist r was that of a travelling inspector for a business with many branches. Florence was her spec.al subject. The ledger she was chiefly interested ii', to continue the simile, was the one labelled Am- ours. In a way. Aunt Janet was like a cultured Mrs ^IacQuilp, superficially cultured. She was always mixiPT herself up with societies, and was generally elect. , honorary president to be got rid of — off the committees. It couH not be said she called on us— she stormed us. We males stroked our faces as she talked, and changed our attitudes repeatedlv, for she gave us physical pain. Then we slipped away and left her. We had been rid of her for a while, as she had been elected by some society to go to Paris to dis- cover how another society did certain things. I really forget what it was all about, but she returned re- juvenated : a • oman who should have been given draughts of bromide instead of draughts of ozone and change of air. 98 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Who is this Arthur Neil?" she aslced after he had gone. "Tell me about him." Florence, to whom the question was addressed, replied: "Well, there is nothing to tell. He's a friend of John's." "A friend of yours?" said Aunt Janet, whirling on John. "Where did you meet him ? Who is he?" What John said escapes my memory now, I ex- pect because at the time it escaped our intelligence, he not being eager to respond to such questions. Father asked how she had enjoyed her visit to Paris, and her answer lives. It had a quality of humour that specially appeals to me. "There was such a beautiful girl on the boat com- ing over," she said. "Oh, she was pretty. And she spoke French beautifully. Every one envied her accent. I wish you could have heard her, Florence." I was touchy regarding my sister, and took this for one of Aunt Janet's oblique thrusts, intended to make Florence ashamed of having let her French lapse. '|Was she a Scots girl?" I asked. "Oh, no," said Aunt Janet. "A French girl. We all envied the beautiful way she spoke French." Richard came out of his comatose state at that, and did not drift away at once, as he had clearly - been thinking of doing. He waited, smiling and hopeful. Nothing more amusing, however, was forthcoming, only an account of how Aunt Janet had been entertained and shown round, and treated with the courtesy she deserved — all except once; and we had to listen to the story of how by her manner she had brought the offender to order. For several days thereafter when Dick smiled, I knew the cause. I A TALE THAT IS TOLD 09 would smile back at him, and he would say: "Oh nol A French girll" I often wish thai women would exclaim: "Go to helll" and that Florence coulu say it to Aunt Janet. SisterMarymetNeil,exan- led him, pouted and treated h.m somewhat disdainfully. She a !o was k'nol .J-''^ A''i"«.'"'"' ''"^ '^' 'I'd "°^ wish him to she Td not h u" Z"' '""°y''^' ^ ^'^'"^'^ ''"'"'se She h=)d not brought hm, into our ken. He wrote a very well balanced obituary notice of father for the f^j — T- '"^"tioned that the Old Man had Smart 1-." S^'^-""!.!" that essay, but, unlike Mr bmart, did not make it the crescendo of the move- ment. It was noted in a list of the fashionable and "wu^ ^!,«°"" of the late Dr. Grey-terse as matters of more interest • himself and doubtless u,?fi? ?'■'.,'' ••* '''' '°"' ' '^'' '"^h items should ust fit casually mto a paragraph to appease the pub- ic Though, after all, the Evenina- was nw .ke the fVeekly . The latter Ls Jbl "he abouring classes had socialistic tendend and used to have such headings as: "Peer Visits Worbnan's Cottage !-Prince Shakes Hands With Navv^P L readers were the kind of people Mr. Dooley had in mmd when he countered Hennessey's objection o noth nl / ^T'"^ T "'",' '^^'''"g '■' there would be nothing for the working classes to read about in the Sunday papers. Personally, I think Neil's articl was perfect. It gave a picture of father as conceived he Jrt "il*"' fl°^k,/«herly, beneficent, visiting the sick and the troubled; and it did point out tha? he was not one of that type of cleric that horrify even the irreligious by blasphemy in the pulpit, and smutty 100 A TALE THAT IS TOLD little jokes at weddings. Perhaps there is a point of view from which such a reportoire of droll stories, are not atrodous, though even to the average low comedian they would be barred. Certainly father had no such stories in his collection. Jests regarding men drunken, and jests around the subject of death, he could crack (such as that one of the squabble he had to settle at a graveside when a man said : "I will not stand there. This is my richt place. I'm the second son, so I'll ha'e the richt leg and Jock has the left leg. Ecky has the heid. I'll ha'e the richt leg or gang hame!"), but he shared with the irre- ligious, anJ with such clerics as see Christ as a Great Good Figure in this world, and conceive of a Deity with reverence, a distaste for jests ot the blasphemous order. He was none of your pawky parsons. Pardon me that I take occasion to cast back and talk of him now. It is, however, in a way apropos, as I was telling of N'^l's obituary notice. After father was dead I prized him more than when he was alive. Reading Neil's eulogy, I saw that he had managed (though I think, as I have said before, he would have succeeded as a farmer ciually well, and with less personal — shall I say, humbug?) to give his flock a sense of the Love of God and the good- ness of life without lashing them with the dread of hell-fire. Here again, writing to-day, I write of my feelings as they were at the time of which I tell. When he had gone from us, taken that one step away into the haze that hangs round the coloured world so closely that at any moment any of us may stretch out and pass through, I saw him as lovable as ever, and the air of amusement over him passed from me. We were all changed by his death. The change A TALE THAT IS TOLD 101 in Florence I attributed at first solely to that loss. " . ,. . and thou shalt be missed, because thy seat will be empty." That empty chair at the table-end where he had eaten I I thought for some time that this was the only cause of my sister's quiet; and then suddenly one day it occurred to me that Neil had not called on us for a long time. After father's death he had come as usual for a few weeks ; then the days passed, and no Arthur Neil rang the bell of our new quarters in Huntley Gardens. I wondered, but said nothing. It dawned on me that it might be more than lingering grief that made her cheeks pale, and brought that woe-begone look beneath her eyes. She was as one crushed, as one crushed and without any animosity to fillip her. That broken air of acceptance I did not like to see. Then, one day, coming up Renfield Street home- ward, I met Neil and was impressed, as we drew nearer, by his nervousness. As we stopped dead he seemed at a loss for something to say. He hoped we were all well. I was on the point of saying: "You are quite a stranger at our table now!" but some- thing restrained me, and I think it was pride — pride on behalf of Florence. I had a dread lest, saying those words, I might appear to be pleading for her that he come to see us. There was, as I was thus in the condition of a see-saw, another thought came to me, or impulse. I had the inclination to break out with : "Look here, what the devil is the matter? There is something amiss and you're ashamed. Florence is ill over it, and I'm not speaking through any prompting from her." Of course, I did not say that either. A futility or two being spoken, we fidgeted and looked at each other's hands — and then 103 A TALE THAT IS TOLD each pounced on the hand of the other and we said: Good-bye. It's jolly to have seen you again.'' Good-bye. So glad to have seen you again." I went up Renfield Street in a queer state of emo- tion. And whatever the reason for the cessation of Arthur Neil's visits, I felt Florence was too good for him. CHAPTER XI MY mind was much occupied with thought of Florence during those days. Ever and again she was wont to faint. "It is terrible," she said to me, "when all eoes dark." *^ 1 had a great pity for her. I used to say to my- self: "Damn Arthur Neil!" as I hurried for smell- ing-salts. It is odd how a phrase here and there has had an effect on my life. "It Is terrible when all goes dark" affected me ; I found that I went easier with people who irritated me, because of it. I saw all humanity moving toward a place where they would make a little moaning sound, and murmur: "Oh, how dark I" and sigh with content at the feel of a hand supporting the head falling inert. Florence's gentleness passed into languor. Some- times over a book she would take an unconscionable time to turn a page, even allowing that the volume was of the profound or esoteric order, even allowing that it might be one of those ill-written books in which the illiterate, more easily than the educated, realise what the author means. That the books she conned were always those that sent the reader's mind ac- tively off upon thoughts of its own, apropos, I could not believe when I found that they bored her. Any book served to hold in her hand on quiet evenings; any book served as a barrier behind which she miaht 103 * 104 A TALE THAT IS TOLD retreat, even in the family circle, and brood. Tom, to my regret, seemed the only one who could take her out of herself. When he came in with his heavy, clumping tread, and cried: "Hallo! Hallo, what are you reading, Flo? Wow! Ho-ho! Out-mod- ed!" or "Hallo, what are you reading? Intellec- tual I Intelligentsia !" she would loolt up and laueh bade at him. It hurt me that I could not make her seem so gay, and then suddenly it came to me that she dreaded lest he should pierce into her secret more than she treaded that any of us should. That he did not ask : Where's that Johnnie, what-do-you-call-him ?" was not merely b-icause he had forgotten. I must say, though I did not like Tom, that he was not just the Devil. Even to him the thought must have come that Neil had visited us pretty often, and called no more. Tom had undoubted streaks of decency in him. Even he, who noted so little, and while priding himself on seeing much, generally saw it wrong and got a coggled impression, must have seen that Neil had a special friend in our home — and that the friend was Florence. I verily believe he tried to cheer her in his own way. It may seem an extreme thing to say, and I may be accused of partiality towards her, but I only once knew Florence even on the verge of "catty." I'hat display came when Mary, who was for ever inter- polating her vigorous hate into our midst, grimac- ing and fleering, was talking about seme lecturer at the University who had had a breakdown. She spoke as though she bore him a personal grudge. "Nothing wrong with him I" she declared. "Nerv- ous breakdown, indeed ! Look at all the extra work A TALE THAT IS TOLD 105 he does to make money! Of course he has a break- down I His wife is worried out of her life over him. She's worse than he is. The doctor said so. He said he wasn't sorry for Brown, but for Mrs. Brown I" She tossed her head. "Did the doctor tell you that?" asked Florence. Mary blazed— why, I know not. 1 merely report what happened. "No I" she cried out with an air of triumph. "M« Brown told me herself I" "Oh, I see," said Florence. "I wondered if it was a breach of medical etiquette." Her face did not change as she spoke, but Mary's did. Her teeth came together with a click, and she gloomed and pouted. But from episodes of that kind, trivial little chatter, as with a smell of singeing ***L* . "^'^ '^ ^ ""^y ^^ allowed to express mvself so, which Mary had a flair for (half the time, indeed, 1 did not know what the fuss was about) I generally fled to my books, or for a tramp afield. ,!' CHAPTER XII A KNOWLEDGE of something untoward in the course of Florence's friendship— to state as mildly as possible— set me wondering how the future would deal with Marjory and myself, Lookmg back on that period from just before my father's death to the time of Grey's Select Circulat- ing Library at the height of its celebrity, and criticis- ing myself in relation to Marjory during those years, I am willing to admit that, from one point of view, I was (as Tom often said when I was foolish enough to enter into debates with him) hyper-sensitive. Per- haps all the family was so. Perhaps it was hyper- sensitiveness that made Richard a painter and John a writer, and kept Florence from accepting, off-hand, any of the men brought to her by Mary or Aunt Janet— for some of these obviously lost their hearts. Perhaps even Tom was hyper-sensitive toward other sides and a.spects of life than those to which the rest of us were drawn. I confess, certainly that the feelings that came to me on father's death were not in the nature of a mood. They remained. And during my sister's Illness, or less illness than long period of lack-lustre I came to have a strong understanding of the spirit that IS m those words of Whitman's: "Go easily with women ..." Thinking of Marjory, I was glad that she had gone back to Irvine that winter of the 106 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 107 visit upon which I touched, before father's brief, final illness. I would have spared her that pain. I had a growing sense of human beings wandering about, making plans and whelmed with uncertainty. Had I known all — had I, that is, been Florence or Arthur Neil— their affair (if I can call it so) might not have increased that uncertainty, but been cumu- lative evidence toward some definite theory. But I did not know all, and I could not ask. I am inter- ested, but I am not curious and prying. Revelations delight me, whereas inquiries regarding the lives of others seem synonymous with insolence. A dread that life had elements of the freakish did, at any rate, come to me; and it made me doubt if, after all, I was wise to let the days and years drift past, be con- tented f'-at my dreams regarding Marjory and my- self would some day be fulfilled. Since that evening at Irvine, when I had caught her arm and arranged her lace fall, she had always been somewhere in my mind, at times her image blurring the actual before me, at times as a figure seen through a telescope the wrong way. The pink- ness of her cheeks, the cant of her head, a moveme ■ of hers in turning, essentially hers (though perha^ 3 a family movement; maybe young men in frilled shirts had mused on that gesture which was also her other grandmother's, for all I knew), these fragmentary notes of her were strewed through my consciousness. On her visit to Glasgow about Christ- mas time I had danced with her, played chess with her (and lost a knight once through considering her hand as it rested on the table's edge, instead of con- sidering the board of action), listening to lectures at the Athensum and concert music at the Albert Hall, 108 A TALE THAT IS TOLD I generally sitting next to her, though sometimes, not to seem as if pursuing her wildly, letting Didc have the place I really desired. Once when we were alone, looking out on a creep- mg blue night enveloping the city and the wintry gardens, lights springing up in windows on the op- posite hill that was all houses, tier after tier, I re- member how just having her standing there beside me glorified the hour. Changing her pose as she p«d out at the mist with its haphazard blurs of light and two rows of street lamps in definite design, she came closer to me. The fire crackled. The room was still. A hansom passed with a tinkle of bells; they tinkled away with the drumming of the horse's hoofs downhill. I put my arm round her and she turned toward me, smiling gently. A serenity, I thought, suffused her face. The dick of the door-handle brought my arm from her waist as Mary Lennox entered with a taper and lit the gas. Then John came in from a sitting of the Border Ballad Society, and Dick from the Arts' Club, and they fell into debate on a theme of enduring interest to the artist— whatever his medium. The point was how far tradition should be departed from. They were not disputing, one against the other; they argued as though each were Plato re- divivus. I, an admirer of paintings, caring much' for the canvases of men living and men dead, with tastes including Michaelangelo, Corot, Van Eyck, Van Dyck, and Velasquez, and finding not without merit (although they were of my own time and country) Guthrie, Walton, and Harrington Mann; relishing books as diversely great as The Heart of Midlothian and The Master of Ballantrae, listened A TALE THAT IS TOLD 109 with interest. The end of their argument wis a de- cision that those who would listen to nothing and look at nothing that was not at least a hundred years old, were fogeys; but that young practitioners, shout- ing that they were beyond traditions and rules, were often merely seeking to hide the fact that they could not draw, could not write. I remember I broke in at one point, dashing to the book-shelves to show Rey- nolds Discourses: — "Every opportunity, therefore, sliould be taken to discountenance that false and vulgar opinion, that rules are the fetters of genius: they are fetters only to men of no genius; as that armour, which upon the strong is an ornament and a defence, upon the weak and misshapen becomes a load, and cripples the body which it was made to protect." As we three were then all wildly "at it," the two practitioners and the layman, Tom came dashing in and stood tvith his neck back in his collar, shoulders squared, a silly confident smile on his face, awaiting the chance to deride. But as Dick and Jack were arguing to-^ards a goal, and not for points, he could not find a place to attack. Finding none, he just listened and laughed. Glancing at her hands, and then at the clock, Marjory beautifully rose and de- parted. My eyes followed her as she went; and after she had left us I found Tom watching me, bantering. His is the only banter I fr.II ...mffy over. I know— I know quite well— that my face expresses my feelings too clearly; but God knows that what it expressed looking after her was not inhuman feeling. His leer annoyed me. He enraged me, but I made no A TALE THAT IS 70LD pretence not to see his twinkle. Blink, blink, blink went those eyes as Dick and John lulled in their dis- cussion because of him standing there. As soon as they were quiet he plunged into one of his talks that we always found disgusting. Even his choice of words was gross. "I'm tired to-night. I don't seem able to think," he said. "I've found it difficult to dictate letters. My mind is costive." He grinned at John, as though expecting him to question the aptness of "costive," and ready to call him a puritan if he did. The attitude of his mind made him to suspect that people objected to gross- ness when they were really rather objecting to his inept "style" I The silly fellow must have been close on thirty-five at that time, and still he liked to do what he called "shocking." His unhealthy flabby cheeks revolted me that night. What I call evil he ca! s good— and there is the crux of my dislike for him. He gave us a limerick beginning: "There was a young painter of Glasgow, who ..." and roared with laughter over it. Dick and John put their heads on one side and considered. They looked at one another. Dick elevated his brows in inquiry, and John shook his head sadly. Then Dick turned to Tom. "No. Sorry," he said. "No prize for that one." Tom was not squashed. He sat down, and with his eyes blazing bright began to tell us about— no matter. When I explain that on his shelves he had a life of Verlaine, but had reahe patted him as if he were a good little boy in his first pants again. ' j^r' . '^^^'^'"-'>ah gong I" «aid he. "This long and delightful brotherly talk has made us unconscious of the flight of time. I have to write the word so: "Din-nahl" There are those of my countrymen who roll the letter R stress It in a way that amuses such Englishmen as love to tag an R on where there is none, and talk of the.Crimear, and the Idears. It is all very petti- fogg-ng, but I disliked Tom so greatly that here was another cause for annoyance I He gave us pro- pnged "ahs." I loathed even his "din-nah" and sup-pah and "bed-ah" (bed-room). I am pre- pared to believe that to some he may be a fine fel-lah a toppin chap, but— in Mary Lennox's phrase— he IS not my handwriting! As Americans say, I have no use for Tom. At dinner that night I could not shake off a . • of depression. I do not think I was jealous of 1 o do not think I envied him his chief place in mother heart; but I was horribly weighted by injustice. IJick, to my mind, was so much a decent sort, and ion so much a travesty of that. This ewe-lamb, this attitudinising Tom, was difficult to understand. He was alway.s so obviously to me, covering up something with his roar of a laugh and his rapid-fire talk His twisted and immoral dialectics gave me a doubt in the fairness of the world. I used often to think, listening to him somersaulting, of a phrase ia i-olendges Btographia Literaria: I never object to a certain degree of disp .tatiousness in a young man from the age of seventeen to that of four or five A TALE THAT IS TOLD 119 and twenty provided I find him always arguing on one s.de of the question." That n>ght I was hurt for D-ck's sake. I thought how easy it would be f o7 any one to say that Tom got on with his mother- though with h.s father he was not very friendly, but you know what the father was, you could see by h.scompIex,on." My father was a man. I wfshed he had been all ve then, so that he could have stared tlr.^"^ *'''' ^.'"^"'"''y '°°''' ''"d '"-de the tri- umphant grm pass from my brother's face. All my bee^ft'. /^"'"^ ^"^ '*'°"shts I would have I u^j u ° '^^^^' *° -* *° ^^ happy. Marjory Toms arrival and his talk made me feel unclean. I was disgusted with my sex. I know that Zl-'Vu^^''^ °^T^' ^ ''"°- I should simpl^have dismissed his more than erotic chatter-his diseased rnuid He was like the Old Man of the Sea on mj shoulders then; he had smirched the peace that hTd thn,^?,^ u*" '"""'"S ^^^^^ *"= ^'Th of obliging and thoughtless bent, it would have been different He was not even one of those who, falling, renounce heir .deals and say: -J shall ha've an etie stand! ard of morality m future." He had got hold of the K A ^-^'^ ''""*'*'" ^^' ^ ^"8" of being advanced but he d,d nor question like a human creature^th a g earn of God in him. It did not seem as tCgh vi tal enLL°^ .' "PP" hand of him, and that his vital energy had a tendency to run over at places where, with some, perhaps, it must run over even to was'thT'-. ^'^ "''"''• ^' ^ "^y- "^' diseased; he was the kind of a man to come running in one day Hi A TALE THAT IS TOLD waving a red flag, and shouting: "Hurrah I Satan has ascended from the depths. Hell has come upon earth I Great day I Satan is a splendid fellah 1" I wished he had been dining at his club, and then going ott to see for the hundredth time whatever light com- edy he was seriously engaged upon. I glanced across the table at Marjory, and could only glance. I had heard too much grossness during the last hour to be able to go near her. Dick was better balanced than I. He had dashed off to wash at the sound of the gong and, sitting by Marjory s side now, was talking happily as if all the world was always lit with the golden glow that is adritt on that canvas of his called "Beech Woods " "PI " ^"J|-?^ ^''";'^y '"'^ ^^"^ =•"" ^i"ds as his Flowing Tide on Irvine Sands." Tom was right 1 am hyper-sensitive. I should have realised that the world was not his world— a sty; I should have realised that he was a monomaniac and that the time had come when he could not cover it up, that his mama— the "something" behind his attitudinising— was getting a grip on him and blatantly showing through. That is the moral of Stevenson's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde—not that a man can lead two lives, but that he can't. Jekyll will win, or Hyde. CHAPTER XIII AND now as for Greys' Select Circulating Library. It had been, at one time, father's hope that Tom would become a doctor of medicine, but Tom had done little at school and college, as you already know, beyond learning limericks and self- assurance— or the air of self-assurance. Upon com- mg down from Oxford he had burst upon mother, with many wild gestures, as of one reciting Excelsior and planting the banner with the strange device upon the summit; and eventually she had financed him to carry out the scheme that he laid before her. At times she had been much worried over the precarious future of John, but father always pointed out that he was young, and that if he failed to support him- self by writing, he could be introduced, through old Irvine connections, to one of the London publishers and get a post as a publisher's adviser. All Glaswegians may recall the bookseller's shop m Renfield Street, upon the east side, where now stands a great auctioneering premises, may recall the golden sign above the door: "Street and Rhodes, Booksellers." That was where Tom learnt the es- sentials of the business. There was really no Mr. Rhodes left in the shop, and Mr. Street was advanced in years. lis 116 A TALE THAT IS TOLD Some little while after father's death, mother told John and me that she wanted to have a long talk with us regarding our future. She looked so queenly frail that we would have done practically anything for her although we realised that before this private conference wi'-h us there had been a long one with Tom. "My dear boys," she said, "now that your father is not here to discuss things with, I want you always to help me. It is all very difficult. I'm afraid life is hard." I had n. lump in my throat in pity for her, and was aware that John sat very stiff. "I have a suggestion to make to you both. Where shall I be- gin ? I think with you, John. You will have to find a profession." John frowned, because he was of opinion that he had found a profession, and mother extended a hand almost pleadingly. "I know, my dear boy, that you are trying, and sending out manu- scripts. I know that you had that charming little article in Quiz. But I think you would be helped by my idea. Tom is now going to take over the busi- ness of Mr. Street — the firm of Street and Rhodes, and I believe there is scope for the three of you. You, John, I suggest, would look after the library; Tom tells me it has lapsed a little of late, and that other libraries are taking away the — er — clients. Bookselling, properly conducted, can be quite like a profession. If you took over the library, made it your special interest, I am sure you would come to love it. Why " she paused, and then clutched happily at a thought, "it would be something like applied art. Think of the opportunity you would have to discover what it is that readers wan t " "And to read I" said John, gaily. A TALE THAT IS TOLD IIT It was dear that the proposition had found favour with him. "Oh, but I hope you would devote yourself to making it a fine library," she replied. "You would not spend the time reading when you could be as- sisting Tom to make a dignified and honoured place of it." ^ "Oh, no, of course not, mater. I was only joking. Well, I mean I wanted you to know how jolly inter- ested i am." "That is such a relief to me, dear." She smiled sweetly. "And you, Harold, you know your mother has often thought you wasted time poring over the second-hand catalogues that came tc your dear father " "Is there a second-hand business, then?" I asked. "No, but it could be built up. You see what a splendid dream it is. I believe in such dreams. And, after all, your boyish hobby of playing with cat- alogues would — er — well, would mean something." "Is the idea that I would " "That you would take charge of a department Tom wishes to start for obtaining rare books for — er — clients. He tells me that constantly the head of the bookshop .ys people ask for such books, and that there is clearly scope for catering for them defi- nitely." The conference was not nearly so distressing to the mater as I deduced from her manner she had ex- pected it to be. Without any pretence, but in all sin- cerity, John and I were eager for the next step. I was happy enough in the chartered accountants' of- fice, but my heart was not in the work. If I had stayed there I expect I would have had no enthusi- 118 A TALE THAT IS TOLD asms during business-hours, only in my leisure. Be- sides, I was there put into a position that chagrined a part of me slightly. Perhaps the part of me affect- ed was the part called Snob. I do not know, and it is a detail in my story. The elderly accountant was an old family friend of mother's, and when we used to visit him occasionally at home I felt unpleasantly his vassal. He was not party to that feeling of mine. I was entirely responsible; for a more kindly, if in- comprehensible man, I cannot imagine. He was a collector of all manner of things. I remember seeing at his house an original Mulready envelope. Two of the boys were in the father's business and one was a painter. Dick and he met by accident, unaware of the family connection till later, at a little mountain place in Italy. Everywhere in their house were books and beautiful things, not as decorations, but in daily use. I looked forward to being not a serv- ant on our next visit. This was not admirable of me, but I note it in passing, as I would try to see myself all round as well as the other members of my family ! When Tom came home we discussed the proposi- tion together, all present, Florence included; and so enthusiastic did we become that she broke out at length with : "I wonder if I could do something?" "Oh, my dariing Florence! It is very sweet of you to be interested, but a woman of your station would only enter a profession " "But, mother, you say it is as good as a profes- sion " "For your brothers, dariing. Really, I don't see you as a partner in a bookselling business, however select. I don't like Uiat word 'Select,' but it is dif- A TALE TilAT IS TOLD U9 ferent using it about a library, I think. You know, dearest, 'Select Library.' " Florence's head drooped. "I see," she said, but evidently she did not, for her head came up again abruptly and she announced: "In America, I believe, women run businesses." "It is possible. But in America they also wear high ./hite boots. I feel that a daughter's place is at her mother's side." "Father said once he wished I would go in for medicine. He said that he was glad none of the boys wanted to cure souls, but if any of them wanted to cure bodies he would be delighted." "He told me that, too," said Tom. At mention of father, mother's head went sadly on one side. "Your dear father was always eager that one of his children should go in for medicine," she said. "I know. But I don't think, Florence, that you can bring that forward as proof that he would like you to go into — er — business. And you know, when he sent you to Queen Margaret's College you broke down under the strain of even the preliminary work. I'm afraid it would be too much for you." Florence looked at her with a desperate and woe- begone expression. "My dear child," said mother — she always called Florence "child" when she was disputing any plan of hers, "let us leave that question in abeyance. We can discuss it with Mary. She is very much in the midst of advanced movements for her sex. She could tell us if she thought, perhaps, you might go into the place and do a little secretarial work sometimes, just for a change, without any loss to our standing. It ISO A TALE THAT IS TOLD n just possible," she -uJed, "that people would not think it odd. We have the connection with literature already. Your great-aunt was, after all, a patroness of letters and " she turned to Tom. "Is there anything you can think of that Florence could do, darling?" "I never thought of it," he answered. "But I shall," and he blinked vigorously. "It would be jolly — awfully jolly. And we'd have a sign, instead of Grey Brothers — ^the Grey Family. Jolly 1" He laughed happily and mother smiled as though pleased. Florence sat quiet, listening for the rest of the talk. CHAPTER XIV I CAN still see Grey's Select Library. Putting my head in my hand, sitting at this table where I write now in the rear portion of my own shop in Buchanan Street, the imminent objects are blurred and I look as through a peephole into the past. We had the legend of Street and Rhodes taken down; the door was of blue, with a thin black stripe round it, according to the design by Dick made con amore; and instead of a sign along the top, over the door and window, we had a bulge of brass, a polished shield beside the door, and in perfectly plain letters on it the words :— GREYS BOOKSELLERS LIBRARIANS The bottom of the window was covered by a strip of blue velvet, and in the midst of that was a little statuette of Robert Bums, ploughing. That also was executed from a design by Dick. Tom suggested (not before mother) Bums cuddling 'Phemy, and set us all laughing; but he did not really mean it, though he said: " Why not?" when we laughed. "All right I Why not? I can see it I" Dick cried out, gazing rapturously and diabolically before him as he visualised that statuette in the air. 121 I S3 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Well, perhaps better not," said Tcr.i. "Have him ploughing instead. That would be better. More select!" We laughed again. Most people had to be told it was Robert Bums, and so the purpose in Tom's gay mind was defeated, which was that it should be a prelude to recalling the great-aunt to clients. Now and then some one came in and said: "That statuette in the window? Amusterpiecel Who did it?" And the wonderful thing became a "bally advertisement" for Dick, as Tom said. But we all, when thus questioned, an- swered: "My brother Richard," eagerly enough, for various reasons. Three cards lay in the front of the window. Before the statuette was one bearing the inscription Greyi' Bookshop; to left was one which read: Greys' Select Circulating Library, and right: Greys' Second-Hand Department. In the shelves behind we kept a fine selection of modem books (biography, travel, fiction, belles-lettres), con- stantly changing, and between the cards, announcing our triple activities, lay a beautifully-tooled specimen of modern binding, or a rare old First Edition. At the door we had a commissionaire, who did more for us than anything else, I think, to announce to the world that the premises had blossomed under new auspices. He was an ex-soldier, and a democrat — with a difference, as are most democrats. When a brougham stopped at the kerb he was quick-stepping out to It before it had settled there, had clicked his heels and opened the door. When people walking came in, his speed in placing them was wonderful. I don't think it was so much by their clothes he judged them as by some dog-like sense. To possible sub- A TALE THAT IS TOLD ISS scribers, as well as to subscribers already on the books, he had his heels clicked and the door wide at a moment's notice. Those who looked as though wondering if we sold cheap editions, such as the Canterbury Series, or the Fcott Library, glanced at him through the glass panels, and opened for them- selves. If ever he made a mistake he put the matter right with a bounty. By and large that manikin was the making of us. And Tom was wonderful. Mother need never have worried lest the prestige of the family suffered. If ever any "important personage" refused to be attended upon by one of the assistants and asked for the manager, only to find him lacking, and then asked for "Mr. Grey," Tom was in his element. He would talk suavely to the important personage, engage him in conversation, seek his commiseration on the sub- ject of incompetence among the shop-assistants, and pass on to how much better all was in the days of our grandfathers. The link was thus achieved, and on he would go : — "I remember my dear fathah saying to me once you will know my fathah's name, but I do not know if you ever met him?— I remember him telling me that— let me see, it would be about the time he was called to preach to Queen Victoriah, I suppose, before I was born. ..." I never knew an important personage who did not feel better after that medicine. Tom generally made good customers of all these people, and the only difference between them and the others, afterwards, was that when next they called a-shopping at Greys', Renfield Street, after purchasing from the junior as- sistant, they would step to the .manager and inquire : 1S« A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Is Mr. Grey well? Please remember me to him." Wu.it with the commissionaire, and Dick's decora- tive design, his bronze in the window, the occasional reminders that the pater had preached at Balmoral, and a rare copy of Burns' poems lying open on velvet in a glass case at the wonderful lines "To 'Phemy," the horrible words elite, select, exclusive, were soon showered upon us. People were proud to buy from us, to subscribe with us, to have us hunt down for them the old books, or old bookplates that they re- quired for their collections. CHAPTER XV I SAW more of the library than of the shop, bc- rause my quarters were at the far end of the hbrary, partitioned off from it bjj a three-feet high wall of mahogany with a. broad rounded top that delightfully reflected the yellow-globed rows and dusters of gaslights on those autumn and winter days when darkness came early. Autumn and winter days were the happiest, the most congenial there. In spring, the quality of the light and the feeling of the air inspired an unrest, a doubt in that life walled round by books, conjured up visions of the first tiny birch-leaves against a cold blue sky. In summer, though books did not seem unnatural, the place seemed a little so. Pictures of corn-fields ripening in the sun, memories of hawthorn scent or of the screaming of gulls over breaking waves occasionally disturbed me. I lived in a world within the world. Sometimes I felt that I lived in a world comprising the world. Cold and dark without, and shaded lights within, made all very pleasing. The place itself delighted. What was made of it sometimes irked; but that is only to say that Greys' Select Circulating Library was like Life. Near one end of the broad mahogany boundary, between my domain and the circulating library, was a portion that opened quietly and fell back with a mere faint puff of air. I had a table there with a US 126 A TALE THAT IS TOLD great blue carpet round it, and on the wall beyond were my pigeonholes for indexing. In each book was a slip of paper; sometimes there were two or three slips. There would be one beginning with the auth- or's name, another wi'h the title first, a third with a subject-name at the beginning. When the time came to make up a catalogue we went round the shelves abstracting these slips from the books, and put them into the pigeon-holes, there being one di- vision for each alphabetical letter. That done, we took sheets of paper, flicked them over with a paste- brush, and made ready our "copy" for the printers. At first I had for assistant a young man named George Haig, who had so far prepared the cat- -ilogues of "Books withdrawn from Library Circula- tion"; but before long there were three besides my- self in that sanctuary beyond the mahogany, for our second-hand business rapidly extended beyond the sale of merely out-moded library bo > s. Within three months, indeed, we had two catalogues to issue : one of Books Withdrawn, another of Rare Volumes. I fear f have been much of an onlooker in life, often sitting with head on hand gazing out of a win- dow. I fear that often I sat so at my table in the Renfield Street premises, pen in hand, advance sale- catalogues from the auction rooms, or The Clique, or The Publisher's Circular before me, but consider- ing not my own affairs, considering instead the affairs of others. I never grew weary of gazing beyond the barrier of my department, and watching the subscrib- ers to the library come tip-tapping in like puppets, under the dome roof by day, under the yellow lights of dusky afternoons and dark evenings, when they brought in wet umbrellas or shook snowflakes from A TALE THAT IS TOLD . 187 thrnh""\ J"''" '"•* ' P"^«« ™°ni to right of P°a« It wT: h T"'\''" '^'^ arch-priest of the o Grev • InH ?'\f ° "'hemed the general attitude Inf- X: T? °"^' ^ °f'«" f'"^st aside my natural antipathy to h>m and went to his room to pass on some mcdent. as I saw it (John often did no? for away Lction lisirf^rtutu^r^feTerrhf it^e^f t"hf select hbrary became my distraction, myTobb'; muS^ as when I was on the way toward being a cha ter^H accountant the collecting of book-catalo^e^ tdS I ts were .ssued, the books noted in them were all n.ent could get JunLterru; d. to the" attLi^ f ' out correspondence orders. 'l sat tfure S.nd'tS mahogany from unheralded visitors. Questions re gardmg second-hand books were brought in ^l^^ assistants from the front shop, b; tS^sat ^„\le"e' .f he could not reply without advice. Nobody crossed Z/ rf °''^ ""conducted. When the inqufriesTur- ported the possibility of a really interesting dent"n the shop, I would stroll out and look at him after ending a reply; and if on examination he seemed a^ interesting as h.s mquiry, I would interject myse" w.th a brief bow. And if, at close quarters hTf her pleased me, I would carry him through the shop .nto my domam, and give him a chair wkh Ws baA 1S8 A TALE THAT IS TOLD to the library lest it should stare at him and make him nervous. Seldom did any enter there who proved unworthy. I don't mean that they were always finan- cial successes to me; but they were always, at any rate, men who could — I had almost said, help the time to pass, but that is not what I mean, for I have never wanted the time to pass — men who could turn time into Eternity for me. CHAPTER XVI TO be a member of Greys' Circulating Library was before long one evidence of belonging to . what IS called the e7«7^ of the city. There were indeed, walks of life in which, if some one had not a subscription with us, he or she would be evil-eved by his or her associates as presumptuous. Many of tZ ?.""m 'J """r "?""•'"" °"'y '" * f ^hionable way and troubled us itt e so ong as we sent them, each years date on the t.tle-page, so that their associates might know not only that they belonged to "Grevs' " What .'h 'u\^'^ '^' ^^" ^°'"'"" Subscription. What the books were, mattered little to such folks. Those who paid for five new books got, each week a book of travel, a biography, and three novels We had to be a little careful in the selec! tion of the novels, unless any special taste were evinced. It was safer to send a historical novel than one regarding divorces or eroticism. If Stanley Wev- man bored them they could, easily come in and give us an indication to that effect, or mark a catalogue here and there to give us some notion of their par- ticular furrow— or seam. Books that treated love or passion, in a thin, light-comedy fashion, were safe to venture with. An erotic book, nicely veiled, would bring us no irate father or mother rebellious at our choice. The occasional books in which the word lust 129 130 A TALE THAT IS TOLD was mentioned when the author meant lust, and not love — these could not be sent out haphazard. "I'm very sorry you sent me this. Please don't send any more novels of this kind. I have daughters. I don't like such books to lie about on the drawing- room table," would be the result of any such faux pas. To which the ripost would be : "Would you kind- ly give us a list of novels that you want, or take this new catalogue and just a cross at the titles of books you care to see." On sunny afternoons before tea-time the Circulat- ing Library was a fashionable meeting-place. If the vogue of the moment was to talk in a whisper, then the glass dome overhead hardly echoed the soft fem- inine voices. If shouting was the order of the day, then the place vis like a farm-yard after a hen has laid and disturbed the feathered community. The voices would go on and on, louder and louder, women meeting other women and saying, — "Oh, you here ! Do you subscribe to Greys' ?" "Why, yes, of course. You see me, don't you?" "How amusing 1 How are you?" Nose within two inches of nose they would shout at each other. All over the floor-space would be couples and groups yelling so. Up would go the din to a crescendo, and then suddenly all would cease, save one — the victor; and every head would turn slowly towards her, examining her superciliously from heels to hat. If her victory was to be complete she had then not to stop talking at once; it was incum- bent on her to shout a few more sentences without showing embarrassment, and then, with a whoop of: "Good-afternoon I" to sail out. At such moments A TALE THAT IS TOLD the ticklish finale was accomplished— well or ill 2^1i:i:t rVr ""^'^^ ^ y-"« --. IkT^ '°^^'>^'^- The lines about h s nostrils were he entered during what we called a "^ack hour " He was the only client under the dome, n he came him sa"id,- • '°°''"^ ^^ '"'" " '^ ''^ -- -elling' .^it^o7^s;:s^.^^--r K'adletdyrn^"^" '^""-^ *'"""'°- '--«- he whined' '''' "" ^''""' ^°'""'''"« '''"^^ them?" ;'That is the last translated," replied *he assistant ranTtS""" " °^ ^"'''"^ ''"^ P'"« -' S"^- "Well, give me Huysman's last " It was brought to him. volM?;i'''' '""'^ /•'«"" he snapped, and flung the vo ume down on the counter. "Let me see-Tion! abou ? I'm nn^'^ ' ''°°^?^ ^^'^^'^ ^^at I Ve hlard "I'm cL K '"*■"•. ^'^' ">« ^'"'^ '/'^ Obscure" I m sorry, but we have not a copy in at present" sajd^the assistant. "It is just publish'ed andTgSt ■'You don't stock enough copies," he was told, tion" rNerBo'oSlIl.i^''^ °"^ ^ ^^--^ -"scrip- 133 A TALE THAT IS TOLD ^'I object to that. It's blackmai; !" "I beg your pardon, sir?" said the assistant. It was at this moment that a fat young woman came bobbing and bouncing in. She tossed a book on to the counter with an air of disgust. The young man of the fixed sneer glanced at her, and then, — "Give me a volume of Huxley's Essays," he said hastily. "Any volume will do. They all stand re- reading." Hearing his voice, the young woman wheeled. "Oh, how do you do ?" she shouted. He responded to the greeting with a deep bow. "How studious you are!" she ejaculated. "Hux- ley I" "What have you returned?" he asked. "Ivde the Obscure," said she. "I read it in an American magazine, and heard from a friend that the editor had cut out some parts as being too strong. I wanted to run through and see what the difference was. Fuss about nothing! It is most disappoint- ing!" She turned away from him to the assistant who awaited her commands. "Have you a copy of a French book that I want? I pay for new books but this is an old one — Madame Bovary. I don't know the author's name. I don't want it in French, but it must be an unabridged edition. I can read French, but it bores me." "I'm sorry, but we onl" have it in French," said the assistant. "How tiresome! Have you Moll Flanders? That's nut new either. I expect it's silly, but I'd like to see it." Huxley under arm, the sneering young man now turned and bowed to her again. m ^ A TALE THAT IS TOLD ISS "Good-afternoon," he said. "Good afternoon," she threw over her shoulder The assistants, alert to fine shades, nuances, were glad she answered in that off-hand manner. They disliked the young man; the young woman they found '?"ely unattractive. No sooner had she gone (not mth Moll Flanders, which was out, but with LT.t"" u°^A ''!'" '*' °^ '■''^ '■^'^ s"^^'- "-eturned and threw his Huxley on to the counter ^ow, give me Jude the Obscure," he said The tnumpha.it manner ill-became his general wizened nlilTlS ""■'^' ''" ^'""^ "°* ' ^''Py »* disposal," re- plied the assistant. "Nonsense. I have just been across the street, friend"""' ^^"^ '" **"' ^°^^ '"^ ''^' ''>' ""y "I'm sorry. We have a waiting list for Jude the SS Ne J V^Se^-f °' ''"^ """"^ ""'^- ''^ ^^^'- The young man succumbed. What he got even- tua ly to please him I know not. I may have noticed at the time— I expect I was interested enough to r« *« '"':dent to an end-but if so I have far- gotten. My interest was at any rate deflected from him to two girls who entered just as he was being appeased. I noted that they were having a rapid run of bad luck. They asked in turn, and in du«; m quick fire, for half a dozen novels, all of which were announced as unprocurable with the stereo- m>ea : 1 m sorry, there is not a copy in at present." At last the youth who attended to them came tri- umphan ly back with a volume they had asked for. Oh, said one. "We won't have it, seeing it is 134 A TALE THAT IS TOLD I ! in. It can't be any good, one is reading." We want boolis that every The other agreed : "If it's in, we don't want it." 1 hat IS the kind of remark I cherish. It made me go about gaily all the rest of the day. It made me forget my contempt for the young man with the sneer, and blurred the sense of unpleasantness left bv his bouncing acquaintance. I chuckled over my cat- alogues and reports all afternoon, and smil-d many times on the homeward way. It is a bo„ mot I cherish, one of these (like Mrs. MacQuilp's: "Bes- flnc^IV n" 1°T'u ^"f • ■ and then Nance had tonsilitis,) which have the charm of JIke in Won- derland -n them, upsetting all the logic of life A jovial fellow with a red nose and rolling gait (for whom I used to feel sorry. He was genial, and would soon, I thought, get crabbod, unpleasant die of a tortured liver) used to bring a thin merri- ment into the library by always misnaming the titles of the books he wanted. He came shambling in one evening on his way home. He looked as if he had dropped in at a Bodega after leaving the office, and He wore the air of one amused at the world. I want? V° ;T"'"^''?' '^'^- "N°^' ^f'=>t do I want? Ics, I know. I want, for myself, a copy Jul,i n," ^'""ii' """^ ^°^ '"y ^if« ^ copy of Judehe Obscene. She also wants a book about hell. 1 can t recall the name." "Letters from Hell?" "No." "Sorrows of Satan?" "That's it! I knew it was something like that" ,^L\Tr -I ""'■..''"'stants were inclined to be gently cynical regarding humanity as exemplified in I I How they looked at the h' ' 1^°°'' "'^ ''"^k!" book published In th?s,in" °" f'' V'^'^P^^es ! A worker for months ilT/ J^*"^ ^' ' ^ood hard book published in Octobc J unless t'''' ^"^= ''" ' only a brief life before it rt a '^? ""'"'' ''^^ new year wou d cast .t in ' V u ''"/ ''°°''^ "^ 'be think that ha f Ha I Can. ™ ^ "^^'^ °^^^" ^° books appeared in r^idsui"' T'".' ^^'^^ '^at his published He wa^ h^rt^r* '^\" i'"" ""^^'^ ^"« and, leaning up ait th?'''^''°'^^ 7''° ^^""^ '" "good new buckl'^ Fo. 1 ™""'"' '^^"'^•nded a and Marie Corel, were sen^?' "''T' "^" C^'"« asked for their 10^0^"/° ThU' "'"'^'" "^'='' writers, par excelleJ^ 1(^1' -^ "^^"^ ^^^ *wo were d«patched to 'uh,/-K ' ^T"^ ''^°'' ''°°ks fillers. Odd though ;t 1; "''• "^"^ °"'- box- Haggard's M.:S disTussedr ^o- to-day, Rider its lesson-and the Ie«nn t ^'^"wmg.rooms for womanoverman Tn/r./ ' "'" "'""="' 'P^» °f In another dewde'it It S"^ '° "'"'"^" ^''^^ ^''th- 186 A TALE THAT IS TOLD Some of the volumes handed to the damoseU on these haphazard visits they had read. "Oh, I've seen this — years ago I I'm almost sure I have. Anyhow, it doesn't look interestin'. Yes, I think I've :ead it. What else have you to recom- mend?" On one of these wearisome occasions I saw a fel- low of the harassed assistant beckon him to a corner and hand him a book that looked absolutely virginal. The young man clanged dubiously at it, shrugged his shoulders, then accepted it, and carrying it to his belle dame sans merci opened it, showed her the spotless title-page. She read the title aloud. "fVhat Maisie Knew. No, I don't think I've read that. Is it pretty?" "I believe so." "You have not read it yourself then?" But before he could answer she had continued: "Is it in great demand? I've never heard of the author. Henry James? No, I never heard of him before. Has he written anything else? fyhat Maisie Knew. It sounds rather interestin'. Do you know anything about it?" He stole a glance round to see if John was in the neighourhood. Before he could look in my direction I made myself busy with my pen. He dropped his voice, but I heard him say : "I have not read it, but one of our subscribers as- sured me on returning it that what Maisie did not know wasn't worth knowing." The fair one laughed with delight. "I'll have it," she said. "But remember, if it's not good I'll never ask you to attend me again." A TALE THAT IS TOLD 137 I smiled over that assistant's reply to the rrn„ "fnT°";^".' at the same timeTfd" ggS -for though there is much of Henry Jamef I 3 Mv • f ' '/ r'^ '^'' '"'"' 8-"' in his work aUo My sense of humour was not the only sense stirred recall ho^ a threeXm^^nlrjid ^alorus'sYrvic! th^ A r arranged the coming and coino of wh.„ „. d„.d,d ',h. sro'di'™ T'S" smi ed uKtt eTL°o/th"'"'''''" l"^"'''' ^"^ "r;„ , .^" °' t"^ assistant before her Give me something," she sighed. 1 saw the lad's chest heavo u. . j 138 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Love o' Women. That's an interesting title." The assistant bowed. "H'm. I think I will take it. Do you think I shall like it?" she asked, and again put (.hin on the back of her locked hands. "I think so," he said. "You think so. Have you read it yourself?" "No, but the title seems — as you say — to suggest that it might be interesting." "You don't even know what aspect of love of women it deals with?" He fidgeted and blushed. Laughing gaily at him she said: ".Ml right, I'll take it, but if it's not really interesting I'll get some one else to attend to me next time I come." It w?-- a threat to be h-ard fairly frequently. "Shall [ send it for you?" "I'll carry it in my hand," she said, and breathed scent upon him. "Just tie a string round it with a little loop for my finger." She held up her hand before him with the little finger crooked, as though she were drinking tea with grace, and he slipped the loop on to it; then, over her shoulder, as she swept away, she cast a departing ray upon him. His gaze followed her to the door; he blew out a deep breath as a swimmer coming to the surfac;, and turned away to enter the book in the ledger. There was an excessively prevty woman who used to come in and try to excite the assistants. She was a country subscriber, and always when in town gave us a visit to select a load of books for her next box. She paid a "Club Subscription." I believe she was a great entertainer, giving frequent house-parties in A TALE THAT IS TOLD I Castle Something or Other, Renfrewshire. Her prettiness was assisted by art, but it was skilfully t"%l \''',r'°°'" "JJ"'' ^''"ks, the colour of her hps the bnlhance of her eyes, the way in which her played tncks with silk and pink and pearl skin, were remarkable. There was a feline gentleness about the woman. Sometimes her husband came with her- a tat, gross, horribly paunched little man with walrus moustaches, marks of food on his waistcoat, and gouty eyes. Me used to sit to one side waiting for her, lookmg on hke a theatrical manager appraising a new-comer des.rous of a place in his chorus. H^ would watch her little ways and chuckle, and chuckle "^?rbuc?^-rirr:2^i^s.:- and a h7lf''"sr "^ u' ^''"^ '" '^' P'^« =>" '"'^ and a half She would never come to the counter to be attended to, but always chose to have the £oks tor her exammation brought to one of the tables in the centre of the domed hall. At the end of he hour malv i IT T''^ ^' ' Py"'"'^ of books there En ?. f- ^^f 'f'"''^ '^"^ ^•'""^ 'ike lace or ribbon samples, and always managed to touch the assistant's hand in taking a volumt from him If he came to her with a selection, and stood opposite she would say: "Oh, I'll come round," and £ husband would chuckle, his interest renewed. There the ftr,t wh.ft of her scent, used to make a plunge to the nearest shelves, grab out a book at random aid 140 A TALE THAT IS TOLD niarcli off smartly with it, as if very busy. He h^d attended to her several times and refused to do so agani. He would go down into the basement, where we stored second-hand books and where the message- boys waited for orders, and give one of them a six- pence to come and peep, at ten minute intervals, to see if she was still there. If she did not see him she would ask for him. "Where is that handsome young man with the curly hair? Still here? Busy? Oh, well, perhaps you 11 be able to look after me. Do you think you will?" "I shall try, madam." "You can only try. Now give me a nice new buck —several bucks. Bring me a lot of bucks." I have seen her depart, despite the moral read into many books of the period, with a slight look of de- feat, bowed to by an assistant with a slight air of triumph. It rever seemed to me that she quite "played the game," as it is called; for in this country of ours, where people go into a shop to buy things, there is a general notion that the shop-assistants are at least temporarily their servants. I have known, of course, insolent shop-assistants; I have spoken sharply to one myself, but maybe the customer be- fore me had been Mrs. of , anfl he was still distraught. For myself, I like to see courtesy all round, courtesy that is neither touched with con- descension nor servility. I used to wisli that our young librarians could go to Castle as Mrs. 's equals, and let her there breathe upon them^ lean her pretty little bosom against their biceps, her nose an inch from theirs. As it was, the poor fellows were handicapped! A TALE THAT IS TOLD 141) There are always more than two views on a sub- ject, even a subject on which it seems impossible that al! the world would not hold up its hands together at the call for a show of hands for Yea or Nay. So a truce to my philosophising over the lady whom our head librarian called the Queen of Sheba, except when he mentioned her to the young man who fled at her approach. To him he always referred to her as Potiphar's Wife. Let me get on with my story. It is a queer thing — sex. And, apropos of sex, I have to tell how I watched its action there, in Greys' Library, on brother John, and marvelled. I was too wise to interfere. If I had done so, I am of opinion that what happened would have happened considerably sooner than it did. CHAPTER XVII IT was a young lady called Victory Plant who was the undoing and the making of John. Her father was, I believe, a soldier; she spoke of him as "major," but we always thought she should really have said "sergeant-major," and if only she had not believed the world snobbish she might have done so. She was born on the day of some victory, in which he had a part, in Afghanistan. She was our sole female clerk, and she was sup- posed to take down letters from dictation, and to type them, for Tom, John, and myself. Actually, I never troubled her. I wrote all my letters, and Miss Plant realised bef.re she was long upon our staff that I was of no great moment, unlikely to be so at any time, and only slightly dangerous. It was obvious that she was not a favourite among her colleagues. She might have been, the only wo- man there, the pet of the place, but she aimed rather at being the queen. One reason for the dislike of her required no diagnosing to discover. We had all manner of men on the staff, men from all (I have come to dislike the phrase, but it is inevitable that it must be used) social grades. We had a shop-assist- ant and a library-assistant who had originally been van-boys in the service of Street and Rhodes. There was a Congregational divine's son. There were young men who had been board school boys, and 142 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 143 young men who had been High School boys. Two had been to a university, and one had a university degree. The point I wish to make is, that they talked to each other as equals — and punched each other's heads, too, the younger ones, as equals, as I discovered sometimes when Tom was in our private lavatory and I, wanting to wash in a hurry before going out to some sale, had to go down to their ablution room. Once or twice I walked into a fist- fight there. Miss Victory Plant had various methods of speak- ing, a great subtle diversity of manners — too subtle for me. She reminded me of that French count who ran the gamut at his table, beginning: "Will your Serene Highness do me the honour to try beef?"; continuing: "Will your lordship try beef?"; then: "You will have beef, I suppose. Sir John?"; and passing on to: "Beef?" — or something to that effect. I had a cutting of the full account of that historic incident in my commonplace book but omitted to paste it in, and can't find it now that I want it. At any rate, Victory Plant was like the insolent and obsequious courtier of that story. She knew more about the social station of her colleagues in a week than I cared to know all the time I spent there. A frail, tip-tapping, slightly smiling piece of bones and ivory skin, and capturing whorls and wisps of hair, she was. It was the glances of the staff as she passed them, and came and went to my brother John's door, that opened my eyes to what was afoot. And then I noted that those who had been sufficiently important or well-born for her to talk to without condescen- sion, had apparently fallen some degrees. They I 144 A TALE THAT IS TOLD were condescended to even as the assistants who were originally van-boys. Do not imagine that John was thinking of doing what is called "fouling his own nest," and had any red-eyed design toward a course that would have entailed at least a risk of alimony. He was otherwise lost. Yet I do not regret that Tom and I did nothing, said nothing. I had seen so much pestering of Florence by Mary and Aunt Janet with potential spouses that I did not wish to meddle with John even in the other way, and try to consti- tute myself a buffer between him and a potential spouse. One of his occupations was searching for verses about books to quote on the front of the Library Catalogues so as to make them different from all other catalogues in town. Victory Plant flung her- self eagerly into the quest for these decorations. Every month she had made the discovery of some appropriate lyric, quatrain or paragraph. By acci- dent I learnt how she did so. One day, wishing to discover where a quotation that haunted my mind came from, I called to Corner, the shop-manager, who was then passing, to send me whatever dictionary of quotations he might have in stock, and he replied that he hid just sold the last. "Oh, all right," I said. And then Victory came tapping over from her little alcove with the blue curtains, and thrusting open my elegant barrier ( I can see her yet. "What gestures, or rather what mover'"nts, the girl hadl) brought me a copy of the desired reference volume to look at. "That's very kind of you," I said. "I'll send it back presently." A TALE THAT IS TOLD 149 "I'll come for it," she said Having found the quotation I desired to verify and trace to its source, I set the book down. It fell open at the page headed "Books," and I saw little hty,"' 'V'lV^'^ ^"^ *'^"dy been used by my S""f i"l''"^ '°^^ ""' ""^"^ *''** Miss Plant^as wonderful; she was so widely read and had such a marvellous memon^. It appeared that she was con- stantly leavmg a book on his desk, with a slip of paper ,n it to mark just the quotation he wanted. ?„?,! ''A' '^"^.""^ '"*'"°'^"« J°'"' to the dic- IZV'u"a ^^^l '^°1' ^''^ '*• I «1'° wondered h^Lu- '>^'',"°' bought of resorting to a quotation fhoihr • ^' r^/^'^ ""-■ '^'' '^' had been so thoughtless as to lend it to me. There seemed a lack of efficiency in both. Glancing up, I saw her by a sudden memory, her mouth slightly open, a danty hand raised Our eyes met. She swepi a^ay again Perhaps she had only paused so forgetS .nAh AT ""^^'"'y remembered her pencil ticks and hoped I would not see them. She need not have r/amt 'n "'■• ''^'^' r T^^^' I ^°"Jd never K "C^Z-A "'■'•y:"8. the book to John and saying: Consider the significance of this page, my boy I" Miss Plant, leaving the book open at that page to KSn[sh:rit!rit" ^'•— ^l---kif littcS'dSk"' ''"•" ' "''^' '''^ ''"'^'' ""-g '•>« "Here it is," said she. 146 A TALE THAT IS TOLD I glanced up at her as she abstracted it from the papers that half hid it, and it seemed to me that as her eye fell on the page her expression was one of alarm. But she caught up the tome, tip-tapped away, carrying it as it were a child in the crook of her right arm. Then I told myself I had probably ima. ined the look of alarm. It was a few evenings later that I thought mother was ill. She seemed ten years older when she came in to dinner, ' i John was also very much strained. "Are you feeling out of sorts, mother?" I asked. She looked wanly at me and said: "Out of sorts, dear? No. Yes. No, I don't feel very bright." After dinner when I was smoking in the study, John came in, hands in pockets, and strolled up and down, looking mightily worried. "I'm engaged to be married !" he blurted out. "Never!" I exclaimed. I looked up at him, and as he tramped to and fro staring at the carpet it struck me he had the air of a man engaged rather to be executed. "Do I know the happy girl?" "Miss Plant," he rapped out, and then stared at me. I said : "Well, well, you do surprise me" ; and I heard my own voice as a voice in a vault. "Had you any guess?" he inquired, still staring at me. "Well " I began; and again: "Well " and stuck. A third time I tried. "Well," I said, "you do surprise me." "I'm glad," said he. "I wish you would tell mother so. I wish you would tell her I surprise you, Harold." (I suppose on the stage such a speech would bring laughter, but the ludicrous was in abey- A TALE THAT IS TOLD 147 ance for us both in that study). "She says she is sure Victory made a dead set for me, as she calls it. It's horrible. It's not true. You can assure her you never saw an' hint, never saw anything that could be, even by the most cynical, called that !" "I could see mother was troubled," I murmured. "It's horrible," he repeated. "Victory is a v '- derf ul girl. She supports an infirm mother by i . r salary from us." "We three, of course," I pointed out, "support two women between us." "Well, why not?" he demanded, much more rea- sonably than on the occasions when Tom was wont to use the words. "Oh, I quite agree," I said. "A girl isn't supposed to have to work like that She's wonderful 1 Never a complaint. Her father ruined himself by speculation after he came out of the army." (I imagined a little "pub," and the major sampling his stock with too great zest.) "Look how beautifully she bears herself. Mother says she is not of our sphere. I hate the phrase. I hope you don't think there is the slightest justifica- tion for mother's remark about a dead self" "How could I?" Tasked. "I'm glad you feel like that," he told me, woefully serious. "If she speaks to you about Victory, do say what a fine girl she is," and then he paced to and fro again like a tiger in a cage. I drew at my pipe and considered the polish on the bowl. "You don't think I'm an ass?" he asked abruptly. "My dear fellow 1" He looked at me as one not entirely satisfied, and, 148 A TALE THAT IS TOLD wheeling in his walk, trod again the length of the room, gnawing his underlip. But instead of return- ing he marched out of the door. T "^°PF/^^P^" I said to my pipe, and wondered if 1 should have shown him the dictionary of quotations mstead o{ leaving Victory Plant In doubt as to whether I had seen the marked page. I doubt, how- ever, if the sight of it would have made much dif- ference. I refused myself such backward glances of self-censure. All my life I have been prone at times to look back and wish I had acted otherwise. I opened the book I had brought down to read, and conned the lines: "Tears for my lady dead, Hehodore . .. •" but they belonged to another world. 1 closed It on a finger, and sat looking absently at the fixed reflection of the gaslight on the brass shovel and tongs, on the brass rail of the hearth, the big, comfortable vacancy of the saddle-bag across the rug from me. The clock ticked on— tick-tock, tick-tock. Poor devil!" I said. "He's-been— and— gone ---and--done It." And then: "Oh, I expect she'll be all right. She's just got to keep on managing and arranging and not let him know. Poor devil I" Odd CHAPTER XVIII THEY were strained days that followed to think that it is all over years ago T I, J ^* 7'* '1 **. Renfield Str=:et premises that T ufr? fonnal re-introduction to Victory Plant. Jh5? i * '", ^^ ^"?.? *^.*y f°"°wiag the evening of that obviously not hilarious announcement) that it was coming; or perhaps "felt" is not the word. We often say we "feel" this or that when really we have made deductions, hardly consciously by an assort- ment of frail spots of cumulative evidence. Perhaps there were such fragments of evidence during the day, glances in my direction from Victory, manner of expectancy, glances half-friendly, half-triumphant. Perhaps a sudden halt John made near my territory. (V^ ^ 'l''"^ "^^ ''*^'"« => J"" P"'od, and a turn pt his head toward me and then to Miss Plant cross- ing stage left to rear (in conjunction with other as sligh. but numerous hesitations or actions) prepared me for what befell. ^ ^F-rcu Six o;clock came. The assistant librarians had all gone. To Cochrane, the senior, who generally waited until my brother departed, I heard John say: "All right— you need not stop. It's after six. I'm just going. My chief assistant, George Haig, was draw- ing on his coat beside me, mentioning something that had to be done in the morning. John retreated to his room but left the door open. I heard Tom's 149 150 A TALE THAT IS TOLD tramp passing away in the outer shop, and his boomed Good-night, Smith. Good-night, Cornah." I heard Smith and Corner reply. In his usual formula, Haig said : "Well, you don't want me any more." "No, no," I said. "Good-night, Haig." The commissionaire came in from the front shop, the two medals on his chest clinking, and nearly coUidr 1 with Haig at the entrance to the library, they grunted apology in unison, and the commis- sionaire, seeing me still there, went back again into the shop. Then the bell tinkled in Miss Plant's al- cove, and she came pit-patting into the library. Simultaneously John appeared, swinging from his room. I knew something momentous was going to happen. I had known it, been increasingly certain as the day progressed, and that was why I waited. I had already put a cross beside a note in a pamph- let on second-hand books regarding the fact that the so-called first edition of Goldsmith's Deserted Ftllage is not actual!/ the first edition printed, that it had dready been set up, and that the "pre-first edi- tion copies are scarce and valuable. John swung open my low door and Victory entered. I lifted a pen and went over my pencilled cross slowly again, m ink. I had no more to do. I was self-conscious and Wished to appear as if taken by surprise "I say, Harold," said John. I glanced up. ||Hallol"Isaid. "Not gone yet?" "I wanted, Harold, to get your congratulations," he said. I mean, I want to tell you that Miss Plant IS going to marry me— to— well, to re-introduce her He paused, and she looked at me very sweetly as A TALE THAT IS TOLD m he began to mumble the last words of the speech he had commenced with a tremendous definiteness. I think the culmination was "my wife to be," but as I say, he mumbled. I doubt if he knew himself what fh„'"'l t, '^°"^u '^, ^^"^ ^'"°^ ^^' certain, al though she was the least perturbed of the trio 1 leapt to my feet. Now and then in my life I have suspected that my heart is not very strong. There was a feehng of constriction about it then, and I con- tess (although it was one of the tenets of the creed oLT!^hl7^ that well-bred people are never nerv- ous) that I was ridiculously nervous. That horrible suggestion of being in a false position somehow or other caught me. I raised my head and looked from Victory to John. I thought it was absurd to shake hands with him, he having already told me of his in- tended mesalhance, of the quandary he had got him- S M"'°'Df ""^"^ ^' ^'"^ """^^'1 '« befall because of Miss Plant s infirm mother, her entangling hair and wonderful nature. I turned to her with my hand held tool.sh y before me. I wished John had not spoken as if here was his first notice to me of the engagement. "Absurd !" I thought. "She must know-or have a fair guess— that he has already told me " bhe looked at my hand, then glanced at John, and I, too, turned to him; but his eyes seemed blurred as though seeing us indistinctly. Then at last Miss fiier-tTpr ^"^"^ ""^ ^^"'^ ^"'^ S^^' ""= ^" "Oh, yes, yes," I said. "Congratulations Con gratulations, I'm sure." "'anons. Con- Immediately the thought occurred to me that here was a faux pas with a vengeance. Why, I rebeUed, 192 A TALE THAT IS TOLD had my brother used that ridiculous word? Con- gratulations! Now I had only congratulated her — not him I Victory giggled, put her head this way and that. As she had nothing to say for herself I said again : "Congratulations." At that point I saw that I had dropped my pen, stooped, picked it up, and had a rush of blood to the head. They went away then, looking over their shoulders and smiling, John back to his room, Victory to her alcove. She drew on her coat, and stuck the pins in her hat. I thought that her wrists and hands were like swans' necks and heads. I tidied up my desk, put things carefully away, one a-top the other, that should have gone a-top something else, the papers in drawers that should have gone on files, and then, as I stuck on a file a letter that I should have left under a weight, I realised that I was "off my head," and, leaving everything as it was, snatched up my hat and coat and fled. All this distracted behaviour was due to the fact that I felt as though I had < ;en compro- mised as well as John. "I hope to God he'll be happy," > murmured to myself. As I reached the counter, Miss Plant came from her niche. "Good-night — er " she said. "Good-night- -good-night," I replied, and turned back as though I had forgotten something. She isappeared slowly into the shop as John made exit from his room. The commissionaire again quick-stepped into the library. "See you later, Harold," John called to me. "Good-night, Smith." The commissionaire had stepped into Victory's A TALE THAT IS TOLD Its recess to put out the light there, and I heard his feet tdiff together, the heels dick. "You can put out all these lights. Smith," I said. He put them out carefully, marching along the counter while I stood at my desk, trying to keep calm. I had an impulse to wring my hand* I I had a desire to go and get drunk — to forget temporarily a sense of being exploited, coerced, put upon. 'Tis better to have loved and lost, I think, than to have not loved and been won I I had not forgotten my broth- er's manner of the previous evening, and I, vicarious- ly, suffered with him. Jet after jet went dark; the incandescent mantles retained their incandescence a few moments, glowing without the gas. All the library was dark then before me, and I was aware of Smith standing side-wise — waiting. "You need not wait," I said. "You have your own key, have you, sir?" he asked. "The wicket door don't slam very well. It's better to close it with a key in the lock." I searched all my pockets. "I expect, sir," he said, coming nearer, "that it is in the first one you tried. If you try again " "Why, yes I" I exclaimed, beginning again as he suggested. "Here it is." "Ah I" said he. "It is all simple enough if you are not absent-minded. A gentleman thinking about other things never knows where his latr'.i-key is. Thinking about all those ancient booka naturally makes a gentleman absent-minded." "Well, really," I said, "I think there is nothing to keep me. I may as well go after all," and I stretched up, tiptoeing to turn out my own light. Smith came doubling to my side. IS4 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Allow me — allow me 1" he cried out, and, snatch- ing up one of the little ladders, set it under the brack- et, tripped up two steps, and turned off the tap. It may all sound very ridiculous, but I dare say we are ridiculous sometimes. I was grateful to Smith. His deferential friendliness, and smiling familiarity, seemed to mollify for a sense of rtiiserv that had fallen over me. I felt as if T could face the dusk- blurred streets with all then crowds of dim faces then. I marched down the empty shop with the dust covers over the r.,ses and the tables where books lay, the commissionaire in step behind me, went out through the wicket, he following, waited till he had locked the door and pushed thrice against it with the flat of his hand. An insane impulse came to me to invite him to have a drink, but I caught hold of my- self then — tightly. I said good-night, with as near to a parade rasp as I could get. "Good-night, sir," said he. I had never been so distraught and uncomfortable before, never so self-conscious. As I hastened away I knew that Smith was staring after me. I believe he thought I was drunk. I crossed the street at a run, leapt on a Kelvinside tram coming uphill and, climbing to the roof, sat down, very much aware of the stickiness of the streets and the stickiness in the night air. ■,i CHAPTER XIX I WAS worried as much over the question of marriage as over John's marriage. That was , the conclusion I came to eventually. I had seen i Victory Plant in Renfield Street; I had seen much il more than the annotated dictionary of quotations, had seen the smile on her lips when she went into my brother's room in response to his ring, had seen the little toss of her head as she came out. "Things are going very satisfactorily," was what she reeked of. I do not like these one-sided love-affairs— do not like to see a man pursuing a girl who does not want him; but I like less to see a one-sided commer- cial raid, a girl pursuing a man until he does not know whether he wants her or not, and thinks that perhaps he does! But even in affairs that are love- affairs and not, more accurately, designs (one way or the other), the choice that men I know make for their wives, and women I know make for their hus- bands, often puzzles me, and when the element of puzzle is done away with, dejects me. It is, of course, a good thing that all our tastes are not similar in such matters, or we men would all be running after one woman. As it is, the scheme of things is ob- viously better. I try, in writing these memoirs, to recover the thoughts and feeling of the times to which I refer; I have said so already, but repeat it again lest I seem a vacillating instead of progressing 155 I 159 A TALE THAT IS TOLD person; and at the time Jack sprang upon us his Miss flant, we were all woefully depressed. "But I can't think what he sees in her," said mother, after Victory had responded to an invita- tion to spend an evening with us. (It was Mary who advised mother to bring her much to the house. Mary had not seen her, but she damned the girl at a venture. "Invite her here, and keep on inviting her, she urged. "Don't go against it. That's fatal. Let him see her among his own people.") "No, I can't think what he sees in her," said mother, when John had gone off homeward with Vic- tory on that historic night. "She sings and plays, but all girls sing and play— and he can't have heard her do either in the library ! It is different with men. Unly either very proficient or very conceited men a'y^',. ^* " nothing. She sings and plays pass- Conversation had certainly been difficult, but we all tned to make it easy for Victory. When she lost her way we changed the subject. When she lost it again we took refuge in music. We tried to simplify for her, all shuddering inwardly, and Rorence said she hked her frock ("if you will allow me to say so ) and so awakened the light of enthusiasm over a calk of Sauchiehall Street. And then we had an- other song. lorn roared with delight at mother's views upon the voice of her future daughter-in-law. "But ono never does see what the fellah who is ^\'}e^°J"'"y the girl finds in her," he told her. Darlmg Tom, don't jest about this. It is ter- rible." "There were moments when I pitied iier," said I. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 137 "Pitied!" exclaimed mother. "John pitied her— and now you see the result. Her smile! Oh. that dreadful smile!" Her lips twisted. "And yet I have to admit that her dress was very tasteful," she added, and locked her fingers round one knee, gaz- ing before her. "No. no— the dress won't atone." But aflfairs, as always, took their own course. A week or two later, John came into ray department late one evening. "Busy?" he asked. "Not frightfully," I replied. He sat down and began to draw squares and tri- angles on a slip of paper. "I've finished my novel," he said. "And I've made a very good arrangement with Hardwood the publisher." "Hardwood!" I ejaculated, for Hardwood was just beginning, and making a very brave show of names. I was delighted. Not a writer was on his list but that one who really cared for literature could respect. Hardwood, in these early days, was his own representative to the trade, came for orders and showed us his dummy copies to that end, his visits definitely business-visits. "I saw you talking with him the other day when he called," said I. "Yes, I took him out to lunch," said John He made some more designs and then: "What do you think of my going in for Hterature and chucking this?' he asked. ^ I considered that if his novel sold to no greater purpose than the other novels on Hardwood's list the emoluments would be small. At the same time I knew that this publisher's imprint stood for merit 158 A TALE THAT IS TOLD among those who could find books as well as learn what new buck everybody is reading." This, how- ever, was my brother's affair, and he only could de- '''r\ L * "°' answer, he continued. Other men have embarked on literature with less ''f'j a '^"^- ^ ''^ ^^^ "°'"'" •■" " and he rattled off a few magazine titles. "Victory thinks I should stay here till my book is published and we see now It sells. "I was looking into his eyes as he said this, and at that comment dropped my gaze from his so that he could not read my thoughts. Then he did astonish me. "I don't think I want to marry her," he said in a very low voice. T u T" "f°"'s''ed at the confession, not at the fact. 1 had to look up again at that announcement. John then evaded my eyes. r,!7i^ 'ifA*'?'"'* t "^ "''""t it." he told my blue caipet. I believe that If I were to chuck this now, ""n at once before the book is out, I believe that "li iT^ '""''^ '" *'>« •»» f«" '^W twitching — It would be a way out." "Can't you tell her you don't want to marry her?" I suggested Impossible to believe that so recently I had stood up here and made formal, if nervous, congratulations I I had been right in my surmise, m; tapping of it all. But for a moment I was ready for him to leap up and exclaim : "What do you mean ?" ..m""' t '^'^ "°^- "•= """^'y «h°ok his head. .u- ,1 , ""^' ^"'^ ''^Pt «!"'« a long time. "I think she knows," he brought out at last .he' j;:?eS2 Jru'"" '"^ '"'• ■' "^'^ ''^^ ^^' -'i A TALE THAT IS TOLD lag There was another dreary pause. "You seem rather pleased to hear about it I" he said suddenly, in a changed voice. I'Well, candidly, I have never " I began. Oh, she s not a bad sort," he interrupted— which was as near as he came to leaping up combatively and askmg me what I meant. "But " again his face twitched. He was distraught. "God knows," ne said. 'I don't." He rose, stood a moment twisting his lips. It was the very movement of mother's mouth when she discussed Victory on the evening after that painful visit. 1 wish I was not so sensitive to troubles of other people. I feel at times sorry for the whole bunch of humanity, good and bad, half-and-half I 1 here he stood, tr^isting his lips. Then he marched away into the shop, and after about a quarter of an hour had elapsed Tom shoved his head at the en- trance to the library. "Harold!" he hailed. I rose and followed him into his private room, noting m his lithe tramping movement ahead of me announcement of triumph, and on his face, as he swung open the door and held it for me to follow a look of suppressed hilarity. Inside the room John paced to and iro, not wildly, as I had seen him pace at home, but with a slow step, heavy for him. lake pews, take pews," said Tom joyously. "I say, Harold, John wants to chuck it. He says he's got to chuck it sooner or later and that he'd be hap- pier if he chucked it now. He tells me he is going to publish a novel. He's half thought of T" John interrupted, turning to me like a man ashamed; and I "jaloused," in the old Scots word, 1«0 A TALE THAT IS TOLD that he had not told Tom all he told me T r«..M "I've just been trying to make Tom see that TM Sat s^'rt of thii;." 'P" *« °*" -n «U ,nS taifit^lf ''t""* '"•""'"• J°''" took out a foun- rro?^h"i?£.rs? ^-^« -^^ -^^^^^ I want to go to London," he said "T »,„» ♦ devote myself to literature." I V."„fto ciuTSw: A TALE THAT IS TOLD 161 before— before— before my novel comes out. If it IS a success I should go at any rate." "Quite I Quitel" Tom whooped." "Well, aU that remams, seemg you irrevocably decide, and that Har- old has no objections, is for the thing to be done in order. I suppose you wiU want to take your share out of the concern?" "I expect it will be handy for a little while," said John, lookmg at his eldest brother with disdain. Kight— as you wish. I hope Hardwood may be able to sell more copies of your book than he seems to^be able to sell of most that he has published so Just for a moment John looked as though he had a reply to that sally, opened his mouth to speak, then laughed and rose. I thought he had a private thought regardmg the subject, but what it was I could not conjecture. CHAPTER XX SOME time ago I went to a music-hall for re- laxation, to get away from thoughts regarding Marjory and myself, they having taken a de- pressing trend and I being unable to turn off their flow. I was feeling elderly and, for the moment, not content with being so. I looked back ^n my life, regretted that I had left undone things that I might have done, and done things perhaps I should not have done. I was depressed. Even my false teeth depressed mel I had had to get two more teeth added to a plate on which were already four, and what Dick (who had by that time been to America, where he painted some fine portraits and whence he brought back some risible slang) calls "store-teeth" gave me the hump with their innuendo. In that con- dition (I thank God I am not often thus pettily mel- ancholy) a r-.asic-hall seemed the right corrective. I went to it half-hopeful, half-adread; for I have known such places plunge me into the deeper depths. They are like certain drugs of tricky action — some- times effective, sometimes worse than the disease for which they are alleged cures. I expect I had a touch of liver trouble at the time, too I At that music-hall was George Graves (a name probably familiar to many) with a most ridiculous cough, and complaints regarding age. He told us 162 (i A TALE THAT IS TOLD 168 how he creaked in his bath, and I laughed gaily. If I remember rightly, he appeared in some sort of short play, such as is performed on the music-hall stage, and one of the characters asked him about an old "affair." He coughed again like a hoarse seal, seemed perturbed, and we all, on the hither side of the footlights smiled and waited. At last he said: I'Oh, dear, oh, dear . . . that comes under the head- ing of A Dirty Business ... it was a long and streaky story. ..." I put up my head and bayed with the rest. What we laugh at in music-halls is often our own troubles. I had a little rest from my own tangled personal theme; but that remark which I quote (to the best of my memory) recalled to me the affair of the Select Library of John and Victory Plant. On the way home I murmured : " . . . under the heading of a Dirty Business ... a long and streaky story," and my mind went back to those old years in Renfield Street. I gathered, or was given data from which to infer, during the days that followed the brief conference in Tom's sanctum, that John had told Miss Plant he was going to leave the library and embark on the frail craft of journalism in London — I believe that is the way to phrase his intentions. There was cer- tainly a coldness between them. There is a way in which a woman can wave the back of her dress, and send a swerving motion from her hips to her neck, the head completing the tremor with a flaunt, like a flower on a wind-tossed stalk. She did these things during the succeeding days. The staff observed them and wondered. Greys' Circulating Library was less primarily a library than a place where Miss Plant flaunted. John had stopped ringing his bell for her. 164 A TALE THAT IS TOLD I noted the cessation of its buzz, but was uncertain what to maice of that "For myself," I mused, "I certainly could not push a bell to summon my wife to be." Yet I wondered if there were deeper reasons for John not requiring Victory's presence as much as for- merly. When she went to my brother's room, she went with a face like a mask, lips tight shut. When she came out she seemed now indignant, anon con- temptuous. "Do the staff know that they are engaged?" I wondered. "Or do they think she is going to be 'sacked' for her insolent manner?" To me the position either of Miss Plant or of brother John would have been intolerable. I would have pawned my watch and emigrated. At home mother continued to look aged, but took the infor- mation regarding John's determination to storm Lon- don with a thoughtful placidity. She even said that though she had considered it would be wiser for him to make his assault after the publication of the book, perhaps from another point of view it would be bet- ter for him to go at once. "It would be much nicer, after success comes, to feel he had not waited for it — but dared," she told Florence. She looked before her, her gray eyes cloudy. "I hope," she added, "that Miss Plant — I mean Victory — is in agrcfiment regarding his going. I hope " She paused. She was John's mother bx*^ she was also a woman. I often wish I could havv it right inside and seen her — the hidden She. 1. re is a saying that blood is thicker than water. As I looked at her I thought: "Is mother-love stronger than A TALE THAT IS TOLD 165 the feminine pact?" What was in her mind I can- not tell you. I can only put down what she said. To us — Florence, and mother, and I — entered then John, and I believe he guessed that his affairs had been the subject of conversation — or, I should say, of mother's monologue. "Hallo, people," said he. "I've just had a letter from Hardwood, mother, and he says he will be glad to see me in London before the book is out. He'll have me met and introduced, as he says — show me off." Mother nodded her head slowly. "I see," she said. "You will not forget that ex- quisite little poem by Robert Bums to Euphemia Clouston. I think that might be in the nature of a cachet. Does he know of that?" John gave a cynical grimace. "He must have seen the volume of the Irvine Edition in the case of rare books," said he. "It's open at that page. And he's heard about father having preached at Balmoral." "Oh, you told him that?" "Well, no— I didn't, but I heard Tom— I mean I heard Tom speaking to him about it." "I expect he knew, at any rate," said mother. "After all, it is my book that matters," John re- marked. "And these things, too," said she, with a little definite nod. "Also your personality matters. I really can't advise. I wish your dear father was here. He was so worldly-wise at the same time as being so simple," and she sighed. She missed my father still. We all did, indeed, except, perhaps, Tom. Our home had lacked cohe- il IM A TALE THAT IS TOLD sion since his death. He was all that I have told you, but he was much that some had not the capacity to see, and that, as the years go by, and I get to know life better, I look upon as not contemptible. When, a month later, the Saturday came on which Jack was to leave Greys' for good and all, there was a change on Miss Plant. She did not flaunt all that morning. Passing the assistants to go to John's room, with her pad in hand for taking down letters to dictation, her manner did not suggest that she had contempt for him. She had an engagement ring on her finger, but though I am capable of seeing a ring on a woman's finger, and not realising whether it is on the right or left hand, or of forgetting on which hand and which finger the engagement ring is worn, 1 do not know if the staff were such dullards. They may not have thought that she was engaged to my brother, of course. They may even have thought (as her manner during the last days might have sug- gested) that he had done what is called "attemptina the familiar" with her. On that Saturday she was charming. She smiled to everybody on arrival. Her graduated salutations abruptly ceased. To Corner she was nothing short of engaging, as I noticed on going out to see about getting some shelves cleared in the shop for a new display of books I had catalogued. For the daily work goes on, despite all the passions and pains, the tangles and disentanglements. The routine contin- uts, with the charwomen let in at eight to scrub a portion of the floor daily, and every evening the dust-sheets spread like shrouds. CHAPTER XXI THERE was a look of determination on John's sensitive face as he moved to and fro, engaged upon his final clearances and tidyings. Miss Plant was not the only one with a smile that day. All the staff gave the impression of having some masonic understanding and being gay over it. Yet I was sure they were not glad to know John was leaving them. It was Tom (despite the fact that he was, at about this period, dallying in socialism, and going down to Motherwell and Hamilton to test his orator- ical powers in lectures and debates with colliers and steel-workers) who was the creator of suspense in the place, and made all feel at times an insecurity in their tenure of ofHce ; although I must say, realising, too, that my dislike of brother Tom is almost comic — we human beings are romic, tragic, pathetic, and all the rest — he was not consistently terrorising with them. Were any one ill, he would observe, and send the ailing one home, telling him not to hi>rry back till he was well, talking in a queer blend of equality and condescension. I do not pretend to see aU through Tom any more than I pretend to see all through anybody, myself included. I merel try to draw his portrait here for all who may be interested. I left early, but when John came home he showed with great delight, a monster fountain pen which 167 188 A TALE THAT IS TOLD the staff had presented to him, an anti-cramp pen like a little black sausage. That was their secret. "It will hold enough for a novel as long as one of Thackeray's," said Florence. John was very gay. He held the weapon before him exhibiting it to us. "You seem buoyant at the prospect of going away," said mother. "Arc vou glad to be leaving us?" "Oh, it's not leaving us," said Tom. "It's leaving the Select Library that delights him. Eh— what?" For, that conversational tag was then very much in use, its origin being, I was told, in the deafness of some royal personage. Courtiers imitated it. and it leaked downwards for the west ends of all dties, and then became comic on the stage before it died. In the same way came a fashion of shaking hands with arms held high in air — the origin of that being a boil in the arm-pit of another (or perhaps the same) royal personage. I often wish I had gone to hear my eldest brother lecture to working-men. It must have been a great spectacle. "I'm not delighted," Jack declared. "I found it very difficult to say good-bye to them. I've got to like those chaps." "Ha-ha I" laughed Tom. "Is the coming author inoculated with the equality microbe?" "I felt horribly maudlin," said John to mother. "Why horribly?" asked Tom. John was suddenly deep in private thoughts. "There is something in that," he said. "I believe my book is too restrained." His mind had switched off to consideration of his craft. "Oh, let it rip I" cried out Tom. "Restraint is rot A TALE THAT IS TOLD 169 Let yourself go. I hate sterility. Give yourself." "Your good self or your bad self?" inquired John. "Yourself. If the weak-kneec' ar . to take hurt, no matter. They're not worth considering." He grabbed John's shoulders, spun him about, and kicked him gently behinJ. "Don't do that!" said John. "Oh, dignity! Dignity, my lad, is impudence." "And so is familiarity, " replied John; but with mother present there ended the pleasant 'ragging,' as Tom would have called it. "Miss Plant — Victory- -did you say good-bye to her?" she asked. "She's coming over to upoer to-night," John answered, "or after supper— to cofteo. She says she can't stay too long away from her mother." "I think the times must be changing," mother murmured. "When I was a girl your father can-, after me." "I wanted to be at home with you for the i;, 1 night," he explained. "There's filial piety!" Tom broke out. "Oh, chuck it!" I said, forgetting our usage in such silly moments, which was not to interfere. I was glad he did not say we were two to one, but succumbed for once and merely blinked rapidly sev- eral times. CHAPTER XXII VICTORY arrived just as we were rising from dinner, and I knew by my mother's glance that Tohn'. v'^^'uP"'^? ^'^^ "•« P'««"«l effect of Johns wife-to-be. There were times when Victory was .„chn.d to be what is called "loud" in attire, but that was only when she dawned upon us. As time Thaf niS '"h" ''''' '''^.'^ '° ^'^'^ ''«" Clarified inat night she was exquisite and right. Neither of the epithets .ulgar or loud could possibly have bee„ applied to her Mother's eyes swiftly^crutinUed the girl : she called her "my dear." '•'^njtinisea "Ah, here you are, my dear, for the farewell supper. But why didn't J • come earlier ?" _I ye dined," said Victu.y. Well, you're in time for coffee. Florence, do heb Victory to take off her hat and coat. Off you go mv dears, and we'll have a comfy evening ove'r thf fiV"' .J T^' , drawmg-room, as we gathered there arrived Dick, very jolly, his cheeks puckered in a "Been to the Arts' Club?" Tom asked, when we jTked '"..Th""'"'^ """'' '^' ^'' '" '^' ^-v mother iiked. There we are now; all together, just our selves, and no strangers!" she was saying ' " Yes, ' replied Dick. "Why?" ''I just thought so. A kind of intuition." We knew what he meant, except, I am jure, A TALE THAT IS TOLD 171 mother. There was a frisky glamour in Dick's eye, a dancing gaiety. He was arranging for his first one- man show in some art gallery in Saint Vincent Street, and had been entertaining the owner at his club. "There's still some coffee left, Dick," said Flor- ence. "Thanks," said he. "Thank you, old dear." "Oh, Dick!" cried mother. Florence, having passed the coffee, bent to Victory and asked if it had been a busy day at the library. "Not awfully," said Victory. "We were all too excited about John's departure." She never used his Christian name in a way that suggested to me that she was born to do so, that she was destined to con- tinue to do so. There was always either a hint of diffidence or of determination in the accents. "I sup- pose he told you about the presentation ?" "The pen ? Oh, yes. I think it was so sweet of them," said Florence. "It was sweet of you all," said mother, who had turned to listen to the conversation of the girls. "I feel rather worried about my son embarking upon such a doubtful career. I think he should wait until he saw how his first venture went." Victory spread her hands before her, looked at their backs, then stroked her dress. "But, after all," mother continued, "he has a long time ahead of him, I hope ..." I thought Dick was getting worse instead of better. I had a fear lest he might say something extravagant, and make public his condition, not "keep his thumb" on it. So I lured him into talk over the first subject that came to my mind. Therj was to be a raffle to- ward aiding the inauguration of some free scholar- 178 A TALE THAT IS TOLD ships in a girls college in town, and the object raffled for was an album of paintings and drawings by cel- ebrated artists. Dick had nothing in it; indeed, few Glasgow painters or etchers had, except those who had left the city. A prophet is not without honour save in his own country. He had, however, been one of the young artists who volunteered to turn over the pages of the album where it was on view, laid on a monstrous velvet cushion on a table in one of the art-dealers shops. albi'""" ^*'™' '" ""' ^"^'" "**^ ^' "'"^ *" *** "It's great fun," said Dick gaily. "You've boudit a ticket, have you?" """js"" "No." "Oh allow me to sell you one," and he fumbled in his pocket. "Haven't a book of tickets here. Left it in my coat, I expect. Never mind, anon, anon." is It a good collection?" "Not so dusty. One or two of 'em have given their muck, but most of them have played the game and been artists as well as commercial. What I say IS— if they give anything they should give their best, whether they are paid or not. If they object to giv- ing to chanty, then let them give nothing." "A great many titled people have shown they have artistic leanings, and have given something, haven't they ? asked mother, who had overheard part of our talk, 'IP'"' y"'" "'d Dick. "It is primarily a book of snobs. The people who are represented are primary prom— pnmar-ily pro-min-ent," he enunciated care- tully Florence looked at him with worried eyes, and Victory smiled. "Primarily prominent," he tried A TALE THAT IS TOLD 173 again. "A painting princess had as great prestige to be approached for such a project as a painter. Oh, dear, what a procession of p'sl" We aU laughed. "Didn't the princess give something?" I persisted, trying to extricate him. "What was it like?" "That!" he ejaculated to all, although I had tried to get him to turn to me, and malce the talk, instead of general, just between ourselves. "Oh, as long as herself and as long as a jackass." "Oh, Dick!" said mother. "Where do you learn such expressions?" John rose and went over to a seat beside Victory, and Tom — so as to prevent mother realising what was the cause of Dick's manner, blend of distrait and dehghtful— inveigled him into talk. I heard Dick answer a question: "... yes, oh, yes, of course you know him. Fine fellow. Yes, they were married yesterday, before the sheriff." But I think mother disliked tete-a-tete talks when Cfaere were several present, preferred a general (^aoasioa. She turned from her own tite-a-tite wok Florence at these words. "What Is rhis you say, Dlck^" she asked. "Mar- ned befort ttie sheriff ! Do I know of whom you are speaking?" "A chap called Moir— Martin Moir. He's very clever, and his girl— his wife— is a dear." "Moir? I know the name. Is he any relation to Ebenezer Moir, the manufacturer?" "Yes, his son — that's right." "Oh, dear. I knew Mrs. Moir in the old days. She was a Sinclair of Colintrae— Rachel Sinclair. You must have heard Mrs. Stroyan speak of the Sin- 174 A TALE THAT IS TOLD Dear, dear, how it will upset dairs of Colintrae. her." Victory's eyes were downcast, and the corners of her lips held the pucker of a smile. "Married before the sheriff!" said mother sadly. I longed for Tom to ask: "Why not?" but he did not. "I think it is such a flippant way," she added. ^ "Oh, no, mother, surely not!" exclaimed Dick. _ It is really quite impressive when the sheriff comes in wearing his wig and gown and begins to read, and the people stand and respond, and the witnesses hold up their hands, taking the oath." It struck me that he had probably been one of the witnesses at that ceremony. I cannot think that the inference did not occur to mother also, but she did not interrupt to inquire how he knew the procedure. "It's fine ! And he doesn't come down and make jokes afterwards I'm sorry, mother." These last words were because she had shaken her head as one grievously hurt. "But you know father used to say," broke in Flor- ence, "that he disliked a certain kind of joke ome der^en think it necessary to make at weddings." 'Florence I" said mother, as she might have said: "Et-ttt ..." "Why shouldn't one joke?" asked Tom. "Quite, quite," said Dick genially, and "Quite, quite, ' agam, so very genially that everybody smiled except Tom, who looked furious. Did.'s tone was as Wiough calming a child, or kow-tovving to a lunatic. The httle edge of something else, hardlv tipsmess but sornethmg not in the manner of a perfectly unalco- hohsed Dick, was secondary ; and I think none noticed A TALE THAT IS TOLD 175 it save John and myself. After our joint smile was over, John gave a shrewd glance at Dick, and chuckled deep in his chest. "When I gtt married," said Dick, "I shall get it done by -vay of the sheriff." (Victory's head turned stiffly and slie stared at him.) "Why have it in a church ?" "It is usual," said Victory, before mother could reply. "Oh, yes," he agreed. "It is usual. But why?" "Well, why not?" demanded Tom. "Shut up !" Dick snapped. "It's usual," said Tom, repeating Victory's phrase. Dick spread his hands before him with a gesture of woe. "That means nothing — it's usual 1" he said. "Don't you know that only among the lowest savages is the reason 'it is usual' given in response to inquiries regarding their rights and ceremonies? People in a higher condition can always at any rate tell why they do this or that. That is no answer. You might just as well say 'Bow-wow' to me." Florence b't her lip. John chuckled in his chest again, then looked at Victory, as if suddenly fearful lest she was offended. "Richard, you forget that Miss Phnt used the words," said motlier. Dick executed a beautiful bow. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I did forget. I forget that it was not only Tom who suid — I beg your pardon." His second bow had no mockery in it. But Victory was firm and seJ'iou* She seemed indeed afire, ready for whlte-ho* coml>at. 174 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "You object to convention, then?" she inquired, and raised her head, showing Dick the under part of her chin. A little quivering crease was on either side of her nostrils, and her lips curled up at the comen. "Not necessarily," he replied. "No." "You object to what is usual I" she told him, hold- ing her pose. "Do I?" said he. "I did not mean to say so." He looked troubled. Mother's training had al- ways been very definite on one point : we were not to argue with ladies. I think, indeed, it was greatly because of that clause in her credo for us that Vic- tory had an engagement ring on at that moment. Dick considered the design of the carpet, thrusting his head back in a way that reminded me of father. "No," he continued. "I don't object to all con- vention. I don't object to convention in the abstract. Many conventions, I can well believe, are the result of cumulative proof, down the ages, of their wisdom. Regarding a church marriage — I think I may say that I do not see the necessity for that convention That's all I meant." "It's not a convention," said Victory. The anti-climax came from John. "Convention or not," said he, who had been sit- ting with arms crossed, one leg flung over the other, leaning back in his chair, a grim expression on his faa, "convention or not, usage or not, I agree with Dkk that the other ceremony is fine. Look here!" he femg out a hand and we all listened ; for, after all, he was nearer the brink than any of us; "there is no need for -narriage at all where there is love. All this talk about honour is too much overdone. If peopk fcvc, tkcy Bcver think about honour." A TALE THAT IS TOLD 177 "That's quite true," munnured Victory gently. For a moment John looked amazed. "Er— yes, marriage," he said. "There is no need for it when people really love." He blushed furi- ously. "But if there were no marriage laws the sel- fish men would forsake women. The children? Who are to look after the children?" Mother seemed pained, and moved the fiie-screen between her and the flames. "The state will look after the kids!" whooped Tom, defiantly. "Yes — yours, perhaps. Not mine. Not the kids of people who love I" John replied, also defiantly. "To those who love, the binding, the service in chmxdi, and all that, is trivial. They are already be- trothed to each other — because they love." His voice choked. He cleared his throat rapidly, and went on : "Such people are bound already. They don't need any tying up." It was safe to steal a glance at Victory, for she was all intent on his face. Hers was pale and her eyes very bright. "The beauty to me of the other marriage," he finished, "is that one goes before the sherif merely to announce to the world — 'We're married.' " "Why get married at all even like that?" said Tom in a siv tone. "Bet:ause if the marriage-laws were discarded the rotters would take advantage of their absence and leave the state to look after the kids," said Jack. "People are not married" — he stressed the word "in a church. They were married when they first acknowledged caring for each other. There is too much fuss about it. 1 like the oodon — as Dkk does 178 A TALE THAT IS TOLD — of just stepping into the registrar's and saying: 'Put it down in your books that we were officially united before Sheriff So-an-So this morning.' " "There is too much fuss about marriage," said Florence quietly. I wondered if she knew she had spoken aloud. "I must say," said mother, "that I think these very strange views for the sons of Dortor Grey." "They are father's own views," Dick told her. "I've 'i.^ard him say very much the same thing him- self." She heaved a sigh. 'I'm afraid these marriages before the sheriff are the thin end of the wedge to thinking nothing of the marriage service at all," she announced. "Don't you see what Dick means, mother?" asked Florence. "It's not the thin end of any evil wedge as he and — er — ^John look at it." "Ah, I like the church service," answered mother, and smiled beautifully. Victory said nothing. A silence fell. Then she rose and said she must go, as she had told them at home she would not stay away long. "Do remember me to Mrs. Plant," said mother sweetly. "It seems so discourteous of me not to have called on her yet . . . my sciatica . . .'' "And mother's rheumatism has kept her from be- ing able to see you," replied Victory. "Quite," said mother, and kissed her in the middle of the forehead. "But now that John is going, I shall feel that I must get so far." I noticed Tom blink-blinking. I think he was trying to puzzle out the mater's process of reasoning. John departed with Victory, and we separated to A TALE THAT IS TOLD m oar individual relaxations or small duties for what remained of the evening. I saw my brother on his return. He was pallid and as if he had been running. Beads of moisture were on his forehead, but his chin, wontedly somewhat weak, betokened a fierce resolution. Something more than a tender farewell had been between them, I thought. It did not occur to me that maybe he had tried to break off the engagement — and failed. Some incident with tensity of emotion and spiritual (if one may call it so) upheaval had taken place. I knew no niore than that. I CHAPTER XXIII !S: DICK'S first public success came while we await- ed John's. About three weeks after the lat- ter had gone off to London, Dick held his first "one-man" show. With a great spirit of ela- tion and anticipation I slipped away from my duties in Renfield Street about tea-time, and so down to Saint Vincent Street to see the exhibition. It was very quiet in the dealer's gi.lleries, which had on me the effect of a world within the world. The walls were of gray canvas up to a strip of oak that was round the top, about a foot from the ceiling; and on the floor was a soft gray carpet that greatly inter- ested me because it seemed perfectly clean although many people from the gluey streets must have walked on it. At the door was a silent commissionaire, to whom I surrendered my private view card, which he laid in a tray stacked high with many others. In a farther small room to rear, the door half-open, and the room half-hid by a curtain, sat a man in black at a desk heaped with letters, and atop the desk were one or two figurines in bronze, crouching panthers and the like. But it was the central gallery and a small side- chamber where Dick's paintings hung, that arrested me. I was unaware of that little rear office at first glance. There they hung, Dick's pictures, smoulder- 180 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 181 ing with the colours of old summer afternoons, dim with the coming of twilights out of the past. There were one or two that were souvenirs of his Italian days, olive trees and bright-lit walls, light that drifted through vine leaves. There was one of a steamer- deck called "Going to the Canaries"-— deck-planks, a perspective of state-rooms, a cabin door with a cir- cle of opaque glass, the sun twinkling on a brass catch, people sitting in chairs in the foreground, and in the distance a group engaged in some deck-game. There was enough of my mother in me, some tiny proto- plasm of her, for me to think that these paintings would be as serviceable to Dick, from one point of view, as mentioning that father had preached to Queen Victoria might be useful to John in London. For myself, I am not thus influenced (and if a reader cannot understand what I mean — then God bless him, let him go on his way giving thanks, and not try to. It is neither here nor there), but I know many are thus influenced. The Scottish pictures greatly enthralled me. That one of "Flowing Tide on the Irvine Shore" (now in the Metropolitan in New York) caused me, after walking close to see how it was done, to move back- ward and sit down on the circular velvet couch in the chamber's centre. There was some yellow bent in the foreground, and a flick or two of the spots of sea-pinks. The muiBed sound, in that place, of the roar of the city's traffic outside, I did not realise as what it was. It was to me the roar of that homing tide. I cannot understand why galleries of New York and Philadelphia, Vienna, and Leeds should have had examples of his work so long and Glasgow have nothing, except in private collections. If I say J MICROCOfY BESOIUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TCST CHART No, 2) ■^ 112.2 I ^ III 2.0 m i U i I _^ APPLIED IIVHGE Inc ^S^ t653 East Main SIreel =*.£: RocHesfer. New Torn i'60'5 USA "-^ 1^15) 482 - OJOO - Phone =^ (716) 288 - 5999 - Fa. 183 A TALE THAT IS TOLD ! S "lit; S "if f M^ it must be because he is a Glaswegian, there are some who will call me cynic, misusing the word. The other people who came in to look were not people who disturbed me. I was very happy for Dick's sake, yet my tendency to look on and listen then was in abeyance. The pictures held me. Some, of course, I had seen in process of completion, but most were new to me as I saw them there. Dick had been back to Irvine several times since our holiday, eight or nine years before, and on one of these visits he must have painted "Roofs of Irvine." That church spire near Waterside, tapering up into a sky of blue like the inside of mussel-shells, with just a flick of gold on the base of a little pink cloud ; these houses with a suggestion of huddling together for warmth ; these convivial and canty roofs — how that picture took me back to a certain evening in the Waterside garden. I am no church-goer now. I marvel that any man wants to go to church, or to have any one between him and his God. That spire does not suggest the church to me at all. I thought then, as when I see it in actuality, how many people must have seen it, coming and going on the bridge, how many people all over the world must remember it ; for we Scots are a roaming race as well as lovers of some corner of heather and hill, a falling bum, rooks and sea-gulls behind the plough. I like to watch the pigeons careen round that spire. It is the outside of the edifice that sets me dreaming. I like the slender soaring. Only at the end of all other thoughts that it arouses, comes a memory of those in the church, kneeling and praying — for there are some who still go to church to pray as well as to show a gown, or to see other gowns. I feel sorry for them. iiiif' A TALE THAT IS TOLD 188 And the primitive clangour of the bells— when will we renounce that ? There are times that I think their din might almost create the devils they were sup- posed to frighten away, or that the medicine-men told the people they would frighten away. I think it was as I sat there that I first consciously became a case. I use the word now in a different sense from that in which its originator (applying it to book construction) used it. The story of Jack's affair is, m a way, a case. Allow me what is, per- haps, my pawky Scottish humour! Allow ma what IS, perhaps, as a smile covering a faint regrei! I was a case. I wished father could have lived to see this show. He had no favourites among us ; he would have been delighted— humanely, largely, and simply happy— to see this exhibition. He was pleased when iJick won the concours prize, the travelling scholar- ship, but his pleasure had nothing of the spoiling order m it— though, to be sure, I don't think praise and success could spoil Dick. He was never satis- hed for long with his own work. He destroyed much But in vam to wish father was alive. He was not. 1 here was no more to be said. The sunlight and the twilights, the long early morning shadows on these canvases kept me medi- tating a long while. I do not know many of the chches of the studios; I have heard my brother speak of a sea-pamting he did, before destroying it, as "not waves but broken dishes." A few such phrases I recall, and, of course, I have seen him at work. But as I sat there, though I realised the craftsmanship, and was enraptured by the technique, I felt very much of a layman, too. His determination never to go on painting any scene when the change of light I : 181 A TALE THAT IS TOLD perceptibly altered his view, gave to them all a feel- ing of capturing a moment. A little of the emotion of Eheu fugaces . . . crept into my heart. What a wonderfully coloured, exquisite and robust world It was, but how life slips away, I thought. The pictures blurred round me, and I remembered in my early days seeing an old lady asleep in a chair, and tiptoeing out, awed. That is all I can recall of my paternal grandmother. I wondered what father was like as a boy. Then I came back to consideration of the paintings, and looked at one of a long winding road, winding up and down a bent-tufted foreshore, with the sea running on the beaches. I consulted my watch and found I had been away from Renfield Street for over an hour. Next morning it hurt me horribly to read in the : "Mr. Grey's pigment IS a little muddy. There is a tendency to thickness in his sunlight, which, perhaps, if he heeds our ad- monishment, he may yet rectify." "Muddy be damned 1" I said. "I expect that art- critic has just heard the word applied to paint in some studio where he has been lurking, and used it on the first occasion, heedless of applicability." I wanted everybody to praise Dick's paintings. I had forgotten that on no subject under the sun is there unanimity; on no subject even merely two views, but views innumerable. Also one man may have one view to-day and another to-morrow. There is no doubt that I was then already on the way toward being the apparent quietest I am to-day. I say apparent quietest, for beneath the surface I grow more and more ecstatic with the wonder of life. CHAPTER XXIV MUCH as I had thought Florence was sub- dued, two years earlier, by the passing of father, did she jump to a conclusion re- garding me. "You've still got the hump about John going away, she announced to me as we sat alone one evening, about a week after Dick's show had closed, bhe was sewing, and I pretended to read a book, but gazed over its top into the core of the sputtering fire. I don't think so," I said. "For his own sake it was certainly very wise of him to go. Hardwood's representative came in to-day with his new list." ''Has he got a repre'^entative now?" himJff "" ^' ^** ""''^ '* '' ''^sinning he came round "Was John's book in it?" "Yes." I 'Had he an advance copy?" she asked eagerly. ■ °7"{"'* ^ dummy copy," said I, "showing the size and the first few pages printed." »n7^^: how interesting!" And then, after a pause: Was it dedicated to anybody?" she inquired. "I should like to see it. I've never even heard of dummy copies before. Who was it dedicated to?" i>he^ pressed the point instead of guessing from my 185 ]S6 A TALE THAT IS TOLD ;..t'i "Just 'To Victory,' " I said. Florence took two or three more stitches. "That depressed you?" she asked. "No, why should it?" "I wondered. He told me before he went that he thought he would dedicate the book to mother or to me. He said he had dedicated it to Victory, but thought that it should really be to one of us. I won- dered if he had changed it. Are the dummy copies left with you by the traveller?" "No. He has only one of each book on the forth- coming list to show what they will be like." "Oh, I see, ' said she. I knew that neither Corner, the shop-manager, nor Cochrane, the chief library assistant, had' seen the dedication. I did not think Tom had. 1/ he did, in flipping the pages, see it, he hid the fact well. When I noticed it I shut the book and put it back into the traveller's case. It was not taken out again. Comer and Cochrane went bad: to their duties after the rep- resentative had booked his orders. Tom shook hands with him, and I walked with him to the door — but I did not tell Florence all this. I was, as a matter of fact, if not depressed, dis- turbed during these days. Let me be frank: I was too much aware of the other sex to please me. I re- member how one afternoon early in that week per- haps on the Tuesday — I had dashed up Bath Street for half an hour at about four o'clock, to have nom- inal "tea"— which was, as it happened, coffee and ginger snaps — with Dick in his new studio, and how he glanced through the evening paper (five o'clock edition), reading aloud, as he sipped and snapped, sentences about some girl who had got into what is 1:- : 1 11 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 187 called "trouble." Her case was calling forth many letters of sympathy. I don't suppose either of us would have glanced at the column if it had not been that the correspondence brought the painful affair into the lime-light. It was a case much like the one that set Florence into violent speech to me once when Mrs. MacQuilp of the Galloway Inn in Irvine had been haranguing us. "Oh, God, what z business is this sexl" said Dick. "Have some more coffee." The subject was dismissed. Our coffee over, he came down the street with me as he had an appoint- ment to fulfil, and I went back to Renfield Street wishing I could always be in the ethereal mood that I had known looking at his pictures. I was plaguily conscious of the feminine. I bought a copy of the evening paper for myself to read, just to see to what trouble that side of us may lead. The letters ranted and gushed about the stirrings of mother-love, and seemed to me all sentimental side-slipping. They were all about what I call lust, and what John in his later novels calls love. Queer how men change! And yet I don't think his views changed, but he had decided that he had to cater for a certain market to get his flesh-pots of Egypt. Of that you will hear later, however. The correspondence struck me as mawkish and missing the point. When Dick came home later In the evening I found that he, too, had evidently been reading the letters. He bumped into the bathroom after me. I had my face over the basin and was splashing. "Hallo, old boy," he hailed. "Why don't you lock the door, you bounder?" From the midst of the towel I looked out at him, 188 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Dick, say 'primarily prominent,'" I began- then suddenly recallmg a more distant evening wifh Fathir "Finished with the basin?" he inquired. Yes, sir," said I. "Thank you," said he, and repeating a certain speech accredited to a Lord Provost (not of Gla" •Latin, he turned on the tap. ' "Say 'biblical criticism,' " I said. He paused and eyed me as the basin was filline at the circle of dancing water. J'^ ?'"'*'," "i'^ '''• "^ ^°"'t tn'. It's a curious thing I can't That is all there is wrong with me I cant say b,4,.-bib " he went off into peals of laughter and plunged his head into the water. "You observe, he said, looking up with his hair all drip- ping, that I can relish the humour of the situation mere is nothing whatever wrong with me, but I cant say bi-bi " and then very carefully he en- undated: "bibJi-cal kisism." h' whooped ove; the final breakdown. "Have another wash," he said^to himself, and plunged his head again into the ^.A^ .'*! .'^°" .'''* ^"'^ cropped short he could do this with impunity and towel it dry in a few minutes, in the midst of that employment, rubbing his head and makmg a hissing sound like a p-oom currying a horse, he suddenly paused. "I say, I don't think port is good for full-blooded W I Nil — 1 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 189 aau II was all 1 could do not to acknowlerloo tJ,-. ^'"l-TV;^! ''"•ile of an exquisitely gowned ifdvl^ Sauch^hall Street on the way home to-night." ^ '" You be careful," I said. a foof^'Haf/^''''"^- "^^id to myself: iiT,: his beautiful "Ci"^dle Doon." But I forget myself. I have to tell a story, not to write the musings of a bibliophile. When I returned to Glasgow I found that car- penters, or joiners, as we more commonly call them in Scotland, had been at work in my three day's absence, and had already erected a partition through my segment of the big domed chamber. Formerly the library had occupied three-quarters of the space, and the second-hand department the remaining quar- ter; but when I walked in on Thursday morning, just arrived from Edinburgh, to tell Haig of my purchases that would follow, I saw that I had but an eighth part of the place, my quarter having been cut in two by that partition. Half of the mahogany barrier was gone, and where the lost half had been was a counter, behind which an assistant named Waterson was installed. On the shelves at either side of him were neatly printed cards with the words thereon s— - BOOKS WITHDRAWN FROM LIBRARY CIRCULATION." I entered my shrunken territory. Haig, and my other assistant, MacLean, looked up and bowed good-morning. 850 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "They've got it all done, then while I was away." I said. Haig beamed as one relieved. I think he had a suspicion that Tom had been stealing a march on me in my absence, and was set at ease by my re- mark, which told of preparedness for the change Actually I had an unpleasant feeling that Tom had been stealing a march on me, yet it was surely fool- ish to think so. The new arrangement had been discussed in an entirely friendly spirit. All was in order. That the department for the sale of books withdrawn from the library was set apart there, rather as an annex of library than of the second- hand department, seemed entirely sound. If I had not, when by aid of our legal man we drew out and signed our new agreement, visualised the change to the eye that it would create, that was my fault and bespoke only my lack of imagination. I did not think, though, that I, in Tom's place, had he been m mine, would have given orders for all that recon- struction without a word to him. At any rate he might have delayed it until I came back from Edin- burgh, but then it struck me that perhaps he gave the order before being aware that I was going away. 1 only mentioned my intention to go to Edinburgh on the Saturday evening at home, over the auction- sale catalogues. This mental fidgeting over the pros and cons bored me, and T dismissed it with the con- sideration that it takes all sorts to make the world, and that my brother was by nature a dashing, ener- getic fellow, not hypersensitive regarding other peo- ple s feelings. An inexplicable dislike of any one, I mused, is apt to lead toward smirching oneself. I must really get over this tendency to see sub- t A TALE THAT IS TOLD 351 ferfuge in brother Tom," I said, and drew forth my memorandum book to discuss with Haig the new treasures about to arrive. CHAPTER XXXIV J IT was during that period (I look bade on our lives in octaves, as it were, a span — a span, the first span dim in fading memory, as the last span is "in the air," just beginning now) that my mother, Rorence and Dick paid a visit to Mr. Sim- son's home in Perthshire. I don't say paid a visit to Mr. Simson, because back in Glasgow he reiter- ated invitations were always in such phrases as: "And when are you coming to see my little place?" or "Now, you must come soon and see my bach- elor's home. Come in time for the chrysanthemums, seeing that the roses did not tempt you." Mother frequently tried to get Florence to con- sider the visit. Florence was now very beautiful indeed. She was no longer quite a girl (two years my junior, you remember) but she had no lines of bitterness, of acrimony, on her face. She was a little more plump than she had been for long. Al- though we had constantly visits from many friends, and many acquaintances, I think it was good for her to have Marjory with us. They were almost like sisters, friendly sisters. I was happy to note that there was less of the expression of one badg- ered on her face. Aunt Janet had given her up as a hopeless case; Mary had, by then, removed to St. Andrews' University with her husband, and so could not treat Florence as a hobby with a view 2S2 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 253 to marrying her. Florence's cheeks were now full and well-coloured, her eyes bright. A blend of gen- tleness and determination was on her. She had a cheerful worldly-wise and yet innocent front for the world. Well do I recall the giving and the acceptance of Mr. Simson's final invitation to go to Perth- shire. Unaware that he had called, I being upstairs when he arrived, I wandered into the drawing-room and found there that old family friend, Florence, Marjory, mother and Dick. "Ah, Harold 1" said Mr. Simson, and rose, grasp- ing my hand in a side-wise fashion that I disliked. I wished he had the natural courtesy to observe a man when shaking hands, but it was not important ^though the gushy salutation, and the oblique hand- shake annoyed me. I have a side, I must confess, that ruffles over little breaches of natural courtesy. He had been interrupted by my arrival, but speed- ily continued at the point at which my coming had made a break, "Then you will come down on Saturday?" he begged. "I shall tell Mrs. Porrit to have all ready for you." My mother's elderly cheeks were girlishly rosy, and her eyes had a melting, luminous quality. "The train? Let us fix the train," he said gaily. "There is one leaves Buchanan Street at 2.15. I know that one. Saturdays only. It arrives at 3.40, and " "That would suit you, Florence," said mother A little upright pucker showed between Florence's brows. I did not know her lips could suddenly go so straight. 894 A TALE THAT IS TOLD ';) I) I "That would suit me," she agreed. "You will not have a sermon on Sunday such Si your dear father used to preach," Mr. Simson told her, leaning forward, lowering his head to peer into her eyes, "but it is a dear old church. There lie Lady Adela Stuart and Grant of Garioch in effigy, with hands on heart There is some fine old stained glass, too." "You are rather keen on those old places," said Florence to Dick. Dick was sitting as a navvy sits at a cottage door in the evening, all huipped up, elbows on knees wide apart, his workmanlike and agile hands locked, considering ^he patent tips of his house-slippers. "Tremendously keen !" he announced. "Most artists are," said Mr. Simson. I saw a flicker of light in Dick's eye. "Any old thatched houses?" he asked. "Oh, yes. We have some." "Dick," put in Marjory, explanatory, is looking for a row of thatched cottages for a picture he has been brooding over for a long time on — er " "Rob Roy's Return," said Dick promptly. Florence glanced toward Marjory. "Marjory is going to see friends of hers for the week-end, dear," said mother, pleasantly. "You re- member she told us, so you need not worry about leaving her alone." I kept a decorous silence, arranged my necktie, laid my hands before me restful, one on either fore- arm, and looked empty. No one can say that there IS a lack of understanding in our family — ^at any rate regarding Florence, Dick and myself. And Marjory understands us all very well, too. Wheth- A TALE THAT IS TOLD 259 er mother scented some combine of play or not I know not. I could never entirely fathom her, be- cause, I suspect, there were parts that were abysmal. Bur certainly as definitely as she had entrapped Florence to acceptance of the invitation did Flor- ence force Mr. Simson to invite Dick. I was, at this time, in the dentist's hands, two front teeth hav- ing been taken out. I was to have a little plate with two front teeth on it and two backward molars. As I saw Mr. Simson's smile of invitation to my brother, I decided to ask the dentist to be sure to give me teeth a little less virginal white than snow. I once saw an out-and-out rogue in the dock being heckled by his adversary's legal man, and once he smiled — and made me sorry for him, and shudder lest I ever stood in a little square box such as he stood in and looked like that. I had to quash mock- sentiment, watching that case, and remind myself of what the fellow was. In Mr. Simson's porcelain smile there was something reminiscent of that man who, though standing quite still, humming and haw- ing, gave the effect of going slowly back against an invisible wall. Just a hint in Mr. Simson's expres- sion recalled him. Mr. Simson v/as no heavy vil- lain of melodrama; he was only, I think, rather a foolish old chap. "Could you possibly, Richard, could you possibly spare the time to come down?" he asked, showing his teeth in an unhappy smile. "If you can't come on Saturday, if the notice is too short, do come — do come some other time — and see if the scene is what you want. Delighted I" "Let me see. Saturday. It is very kind of you," Dick responded. S36 A TALE THAT IS TOLD I "Don't let me put you out I Any time, my dear boy, any time." I expected Florence to suggest that mother and she might defer their visit till the three could go to- gether, but she did not. She had realised that the acceptance was coming, but that the incorrigible Dick must have his private amusement with Mr. Simson. Mother's eyes turned to her old ad- mirer. "Oh, but Dick, are not you going to begin your portrait of Marjory on Saturday?" she asked, per- haps in some sympathetic spell. "N-o," he said, and shook his head. "Besides, she is going away for the week-end, you remember," said Florence, and looked at mother with a glance in which was at least a little horror, much astonishment, and some pain. Emotion had entered into the mater with its douding effect. "Yes!" Dick cried out. "Yes, I can come, Mr. Simson. De-lighted !" I noticed that Mr. Simson had been holding his breath. He now gave a deep bow that hid his eyes a moment. "That is settled then, all thnee," he said; and by the time he raised his head he was able to show us a countenan'-e of great pleasure— that is, as far as we could see upon his face, which was bearded. I was not clearly the only one who thought that mother had come by the romantic desire to sec her daughter an old man's darling. I was not the only one of our family who had discovered, with a slight shudder as of a spider on the spine, that we were in contact with that specimen of the human-kind called A TAtlTTHAT IS TOLD 857 "the lover of two generations." I wished again, as I did often, that father was alive. He would have seen and understood, without pointedly showing he understood, save for a backward fling of his head (a gesture that was growing more and more common with Dick) , and a twinkle that would have seemed as much in the glass of his pince-nez as in his eyes; and he would, in some apparently innocent and accidental fashion, have arranged affairs so that Florence might be free to be herself. I don't mean that I had any dread that, in going to Perthshire, she was taking the first step towards being Mrs. Simson, with that old house and all its cucumber frames, rose lawns and potting sheds for hers. I made sure she knew the old fellow's designs; I made sure she sus- pected mother's emotional connivance. I knew he was going to have his way in so far as a visit was concerned. But I did not see why Florence should go to Perthshire to say no. Had father been alive he would have looked at her to discover her private views. Had she wanted to go he would not have interfered. Seeing that she did not wish to go he would, with genial diplomacy, have so negotiated the affair that she would have remained at home. There are men who are roguish humbugs — autocrats, self- seekers, miserly, posing as philanthropists. My father was a bit of a humbug because he was not in his true sphere, not because he was by nature a hum- bug. Though a touch selfish in small matters (have you forgotten the sweetbread patties?), in the larger matters he was quite the reverse. There may have been an element of laziness in his geniality, but coercion he abhorred and the robbing of any one's personal liberty. This is no special plea for him. iSB A TALE THAT IS TOLD As I grew older I realised what we had lost in los- ing him. That serene sense of largeness had gone from the household since he went. So Florence went to Perthshire against her will. CHAPTER XXXV '-i THERE is a saying, "Troubles never come singly," and another of the same genus, "It never rains but it pours." These adages come to our minds at times, and we even repeat them, although they are really ridiculous; we quote them, usually, because of a storm in the brain, some mo- mentary bias towards pessimism. These comments are not relative to Florence's troubles. She went to Perthshire with mother and Dick, and came back with them on the Monday, looking better for the change, and with her head more inclined to toss back, while a gay smile of "Touch me wha dar' " showed round her eyes. It was not regarding mv sister that I said, "It never rains but it pours." The days passed by as they pass for average mor- tals. Dick had painter's colic, and Florence had what at first was thought to be small-pox, but turned out to be a kind of chicken-pox brought to us in brigs and tramp-steamers from Spain. Mr. Simson sent her flowers from his garden, or sent them to mother for her ("Cannon off the red," said Dick), and Tom had bronchitis. I had periodic stiff shoulder, that sometimes I blamed on a draught from a window in Renfield Street, at other times blamed upon sleeping on a pillow, or at other times again for sleeping without a pillow, just with a bolster, and that one doctor told me was a strained ligament, and that an- 259 MO A TALE THAT IS TOLD Other declared to be rheumatism. Thirty-one — and rheumatism I I hoped that at fifty-one I would not, like Mr. Simson, have a rheumatic nodule' in my wrist. I did not want to be, in any particular, like Mr. Simson. When Florence was ill, Marjory nursed her, held her hands to keep her from scratching her face in delirium. When she was better we all chaffed her for having chicken-pox at her age. The days wore on, and the months. John's wife gave birth to a son while they were in America. After John cabled the news to us, we took to calling mother "Grandma" for a little while and she seemed proud of the title. We lost friends that we thought were friends for ever; we made new friends charily. We grew older. We went to the Renfield Street shop, Tom and I, daily. We rented a house at Loch Lomond, to have it for mother to go to when she cared, as the doctor said he thought she would be benefited by frequent change of air. Her heart had been causing us some anxiety recently. Tom and I squabbled less, partly because, with Marjory living with us, I did not want to seem a disagreeable person before her, partly be- cause Greys' of Renfield Street was now two estab- lishments in one. To my great astonishment, one day, Marjory broke out, when we were alone, after one of Tom's inane attempts at an inane exhibition of intellect, full of his usual incongruous twists. "If one did not know you all, one would think Tom was the darling and you the boor!" she ex- claimed. "It is horrible. It is unjust. Why don't you answer him, Harold?" I did not say: "Partly because I want to make a good impression on you I" Had I done so, perhaps A TALE THAT IS TOLD IJ e«r —but it is useless to regret. I said: "Because he is not worth answering." But I was delighted by her interest, although dashed by her censure. "Oh, that's it I Then why don't you laugh at him, the way Dick does; twinkle at him and tell him he's amusing?" "Because I don't wear eye-glasses, like Dick. He does it with his pince-nez." She laughed. I think she pictured Dick as I spoke. That twinkle made him so much like father, without father's portliness, with what I can only call a dapper bohemianism in place of a rubicund sacerdotalism. But as for "It never rains but it pours!" and "Troubles never come singly!" The occasions for the two quotations came like crashes of June thunder. Tom poked his head into my section one day and called: "Harold !" I looked up and he beckoned me, so I rose and went after him to his room. "I say," he said, "I've sold the business." "Eh?" "I've sold the business. I'm going to London." I stood staring at him. Oh, don't look worried ! o I had a vision of Irvine suddenly before me, and did not know why. Look- mg back on the scene I think it was probably because his words recalled Mrs. MacQuilp: ". . . as soon as a lad gets on he goes to London now . . . ", and also old Mrs. Stroyan: "... ah, well, nothing will deter them from going to London. ..." I saw Irvine, and myself there, twenty years of ag. again. "Going to get married?" I asked. "Not likely! I'm going to London. I've been negotiating for a business there. I've learnt all of this and it bores me now. I'm an active person. ttS A TALE THAT IS TOLD Must move. Of course you are all right. I did a good thing for you that day I suggested you taking the secoiid-hand solely and solus. The people I've sold to won't touch that. It is just bookshop and library they are after." It was one of these moments when one wishes to rush off to the men of honour whom one knows, and see them, hear them speak, so as to be able to re- member that it is not such a bad world after all. "Do you mean they won't have a second-hand — er " I stammered. "Do you mean that I am to be an adjunct of another firm?" "I will be delighted to give you an introduction to them," said Tom, grinning at me. The primitive man rose. I could have hit him full in the face. I stood and stared, recalling Marjory's words. "No," I said, "I will not trouble you for an intro- duction. When do they take over from you?" "In two months." "Good I" I replied. "I suppose you see the po- sition you have put me into?" "What position? What do you mean ? Did you not say yourself that you thought it very decent of me to take you and John in as I did?" "You took me in, all right," I said. "Tou blasted fraudi" He threw up his head and roared gleefully. "My dear fellow! Do you expect me to handi- cap myself because you like to pore over duodecimos — rare prints — ancient book-plates?" he asked. I turned and walked out of his room, back to my own quarters. I sat down and pivoted to and fro on my swivel chair. Then I opened the letter I had A TALE THAT IS TOLD Sfla Suddenly I tossed down when Tom called me. looked up at Haig. dJ2.'JSl' "'f' "'' ^ ''"V" '"''^ »•"« and open dMwhere-pure y a second-hand sho^rarc old SiAme?" "'• ' " on-would you come "Like a shot, sir I" he answered. May I wear my heart on my sleeve? May I say iZlu !^^ "'°'''^ ^"^ }i' '"""' I murmured to myself: They are not al! B swine in this world." It was good to be genuinely liked. Then I looked at my watch. I think I have some lack in me. I am IT^u n f't''*"" "'"" T*""- O"- Jo'"'- There is a book called Tact. Push, and Pri',r{r>e. I have noc read it, but the title sug-rer. t is one of those vol- umes on how to make tl,e best of both worlds. I tninkjohn was Tact, Tom nr .-.s Push, and I was if not Principle, a little alcof from thst world' In which no sense of eternity enters. I am not brow- beaten and cowed, but others pass me in the race. 1 he race to what ? That question I ask writing now I am content. At the time of which J tell, m- thought was not of the vanity of the race, only th U others passed me— some by methods I could n. r adopt but did not decry, others by injustice. I fcU mto the generalising state of one who has just re- ceiyed a blow. I looked at my watch again, for I had forgotten what time it announced, and put it back again without noticing. I set a paper-weight on my letters. s • "Well, Haig, I'm off early to-day," I said "I am going round to my brother's studio. He wants me to see a portrait he is doing." I wanted to be with a member of the family who 96* A TALE THAT IS TOLD was not like Tom. Calmly, now, I realise that he was within his rights in what he had done, but there are some "rights" that have a nasty smell about them. There are those who may ask: "Why not?" over his action. No matter now. I went up Ren- field Street and turned into Bath Street, its breadth accentuated by the steady afternoon light. I climbed to Dick's studio— a new studio, farther up the street than his old one. His steps came lightly in answer to my ring. "Hello, old boy I" he said. That was better! "Give me a cup of coffee," I said, "six ginger snaps, and some of your Algerian cigarettes." "They are yours," said he. I was confident that I did not look "pipped," or he would have wanted to know why I was so pale and wan, or something to that effect. He swung into the studio, and I stood looking at the portrait of Marjory, which at long last he had finished, while he was busy over his coffe< •. iking. "You like it?" he asked. "I do. It's great " I was on the point of saying: "But there is someth-ng amiss." "Congratulate me," he said. "I do," I replied. "But there's " "No, no. You don'f understand, old man," he cried. "She's — we're going to be married." My lips moved. What I said was: "It never rains but it pours," but the words were inaudible. "You don't look delighted/" he remarked, and suddenly he stood tense in the midst of a movement. On his face there came sign why he surmised I did not look delighted. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 865 Quiddylsaid: "I ami lam! But— er— Tom has just played me a dirty trick." On the instant that look passed, the surmise be- hind it dissipated. "Oh, you selfish bounder!" he whooped. "I must tell Marjory that." So the situation was saved. •A' CHAPTER XXXVI. ND now tell me," said Dick, "what is this dirty trick of Tom's?" "Oh, I don't know if it's dirty after all," I replied. "It depends on one's views. He has sold the business, that's all. But you don't want to hear all about that just now — if ever. I really did not mean to let it out as I did. I had to explain my lack-lustre manner about this jolly news of yours." "Did he sell it without consulting you?" Dick asked in response to my speech. "Yes. Of course it was his business. I don't see that he really had to consult me. If I was sure that he was meditating the sale when he suggested that arrangement some time ago by which I took my por- tion out of the general account, and put it entirely into the second-hand business, I would think he was a trifle designing." "Give him the benefit of the doubt," said Dick. "Say that he was considering the sale then." I laughed. "The benefit of the doubt according to his own credo of Look After Yourself," Dick explained. "Pooh! What a rotter he is. Do you know what I think?" he inquired wildly. "No." "I've just been reading an article by Hammerhead on eugenics, and I believe the mater must have been 2«i A TALE THAT IS TOLD 267 frightened by a greasy pole at a fair when she was m aninterestmg condition over Tom. The mark of —fight r" ^ ^°'"^" '^ '"* '^" '^° *"y*'*'"8 "I don't want to. I am going to look for premises as p^ossibTe"' *" '"' '''^ ""^ '"««''«^' ^'^ ^°°" "Don't play into his hands," warned Dick "He would be delighted if. you did that at once. I can hear h.m saying: 'One brother left me to go in for literature; the other brother went off to a start alone in the second-hand line, so this was forced on me 1 could not carry on such a large business alone,' and he would laugh like an optimistic gentleman in the face of a callous world. You wait till he goes before you strike out. I know one thing I'm after now. l-inished your coffee?" "Yes. What's the idea?" "I'm going to go and collect my Man at the nough. He ha» made many a ciiange in the win- dow, but that has been ks chief feature— and it's going now!" "But he'll say: 'And la^ ather brother came along n'V^'A°f' ^'''^ '"* ^'^ "y advice!" shouted uick Advict is to be given, not taken. I act on impulse, which is wrong, but I do it. I advise vou to act othenvise." It was as if he stuck a knife into me 1 m a wild, spontaneous, emotional painter- body— a bally artist, I am. I am not expected to be canny. Anyhow, if he does say that, people will think that there was considerable unanimity in the brothers. No, I'm going to have that thing of mine now. Come along!" 268 A TALE THAT IS TOLD Having assured himself that he had pipe, tobacco- pouch and keys in pocket, he marched to his door. Down we came to Renfield Street, and with a quick "I shan't be a moment 1" he plunged into the shop. I stood outside, desperately unhappy, watching the traffic come and go, up and down the longf incline of the hill, glanced at the window, saw Comer draw the blue cu-tain and his hind stretch out. It culled the statuette of the ploughman and the ploughing horses on their segment of bronze hill, with its deep, heavily turned bronze furrow. With the beautiful thing in his hand, Dick was at my side. "That's it!" he said. "I just asked ther" to give me my bronze out of the window, and when I had it there was no mor« to say than: 'Tell my brother I came in and carried It off.' " "Tom may rate Comer for handing it over," I pointed out. "Not likely. It's mine. And now, old man, it is yours — for your new shop. At the 'Sign of the Ploughman.' How's that? Or how about the 'Si^^n of the Lone Furrow'?" At these words a feeling of all but utter desolation fell on me, and then I thought how once again I was not looking delighted where I should have been. "It is awfully, awfully good of yo;. to give it me," I said. "You know I have always admired it tremendously." "That's all right. And I admire you tremen- dously for the way you take things," replied Dick. "Some people would have called him a blasted fraud." "I did, as a matter of fact," said I. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 269 "Good!" h- exclaimed. We went home together, and I carried the Plou^- man up to tiy own ioom where I set it on the man- telpiece, tailing everything else off. When I came down to wash I found Dick in the bathroom. "Hello," said I. I had a sense of history repeat- ing itself, of going back in my life. "Why don't you shut the door, you bounder?" I asked. "When is an egg not an egg?" "I don't know," said Dick, laughing out of the towel with which he was drying himself. "Give it up." "I don't know either," I replied. He thought 1 was in a gay and nonsensical mood. I was in a desperate mood. He went away whistling cheerily. I locked the door, filled the bath, and plunged and slungcd as If I were Tying to wash the effect of Tom off me. Then I b;ushed my hair with care. I went back upstairs, took a fresh pair of trousers out of the press, for the sake of the brand new crease, anil removed all the match-boxes, pen- cils and pipes from my jacket pockets, which bulged ungainly. Seldom did I wear a ring, but now and then, when depressed and wishing to crc;uc an at- mosphere to banish depression, 1 put on a signet ring with a very charming monogram — a slight aid. The monogram, H.G., served for me, although it was really a ring belonging to the Gra.'ia-ns of Gart- more, of \Vliich family was that Robert Graham who wrote: 'if doughty deeds my Lady please. ..." lom coveted if. but the initials ma?&' A TALE THAT IS TOLD !k"^*""!. kI""?' ''""•" ^ "•'•• ""ght Florence's elbow and Marjory's and said again: ''Come along! I took them jumping downstairs, as if we were aU youngsters again. Mother, hearing us, came out of W '^T' "I" *5^''"' ^°°'' ^'* » K"'l'"8 motion. ^m1 "f^""^^^ « ""Others extend thefr arms to cWdren She caught Marjory to her, pinned her arms gently to her side, and kissed her. To rear bel^ H ;. ^' that moment the gong sounded beW. and mother put a hand on the banisters, went ghdmg down the last Bight smiling. Despite her age she wa, still graceful. Dick and Marjory fol- STluSr "• " ' "-•= '''" '''' '-"^^ -" ask2°'^ '^'^ ^" ^° '°''^*'' '" ^'"'■'"''^ ^^"«^" *''* "Oh, pretty fair." Her mouth opened slightly, her brows were raised doubtful, she looked up at me as we look at a per- son who announces publicly that he is pretty fair but whom vve suspect of havmg a different private opinion on his condition— as we look when wonder- ing It really he h.is not some trouble over the com- niun.cat,on of which he hesitates. I was aware that she was again considering mv unusual spruceness Something made me dose my hand to hide the ring, b« I behe%e she saw that movement as well as all "Tom has just informed me tcvday." I $aid very ^^fju 'u "*" ""''' **"= ^""^^ »>="• "that he has sold the business. The new people are taking over shop and library. I shall br looking for new quar- 872 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 1 i Her brows puckered afresh; Those litde up- right lines showed between them. "That's what's wrong 1" she ejaculated. "I should think it is enough, too." "Oh, it's nothing," I declared. "I think I am really glad to be starting afresh." "W<: won't spoil dinner for them by discussing it over in ^ table," she said. "Ni', no," I responded. With the lapse of an hour or two that transaction was becoming almost a matter of moonshine to me. It did not affect me much then; it was Tom's affair, not mine. "Whether he had, or had not "played the game," tvas neither here nor there. I would be thankful to be free of him. I looked down on Mar- jory's head and shoulders. How well I knew their contours! How well I knew them. I wished for a moment I had let Florence run off on the second landing, and leave mc to congratulate Marjory alone. Mad wish! What could I have done save show her that I too loved her? I did not think of her as one who would have been pleased to make thi:; dis- covery. It did not occur to me that she might have a thrill of pleasure over the thought that she could have had me, too, that there was a hopeless lover a-dangling. I was not, actually, a hopeless lover, either. There was nothing mawkish in my case. But, perhaps, I was too greatly given fo dreaming, letting the years drift by. Variou"; experiences in my life had influenced me more deepl> than I could explain, and that was all. How much Florence surmised, I have never be'n certain. If she wondered, then she was content to wonder. There was never any attempt to "pump" A TALE THAT IS TOLD 278 I^;.„^M ''""'' ""i""' °^ ^''^* '««J transpired be- inspired— than I knew what was the story she could have told of Arthur Neil. It was certainly not by prymg, but by accident, that I was giveTlater on more hght upon that old matter. And by the tjme that light came I was going, as they say, more into my shell"; was still more of a passivi than an active member of society, watching the Xr lit E*i I CHAPTER XXXVII. JOHN'S second novel was published the next day. Mother, who saw the copy I brought home from the shop, asked if I knew how it was go- ing in the library, and I told her that all day long there was a murmur of voices there under the glass dome, with the rustle of silk petticoats, murmur of that word "Delight— Delight— Delight." She was glad to hear this. I had only dipped into Delight, but I failed to see it as the mater did. She con- sidered the book — poring over it — a "tragic warn- ing" to girls, and was proud of its success. I have known Dick's "father-hunger," but I have known more of love, and books such as Delight hurt me. They seem to centralise on what is not dynamic, but on what is side-issue, and treat of love as an enter- tainment, or a method of diversion. I still love. I love Florence; I love Dick; I love Marjory; I love the sound in the big tree outside my window. I do not consider that I am Old Sterility, as I hear that Tom called me the other day, for with all this in my heart I must truly have given something of value on the way to those I have met. In the evening, as we were on the point of rising from dinner, a letter arrived from John, who was then in Cairo. Mother read it first, and then it was passed round the table. "My Dear Mater,— I am writing in the hope that this letter will reach you on the same day as my 274 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 275 new book, a copy of which I have asked Hardwood to send you Ethel and I are having a lovely time Everybody knows who I am, and they all seem to have read my books. This is really a better JToS tnan ;?. which is now fallen into second place Jots '^-^u' !,'"■•"«'• *'"^y* Ix^'^g """tioned by novehst with a des.re to seem in the Smart Set. It fhU hi "-T" """*J '"'^"'^ ^''"°'* "ffish, but As house IS better, and somewhat exclusive. The Duke Tnpohta has a suite of rooms here, and is a charmmg fellow. Ethel and his wife adore each other. Last mght we joined them at bridge. Their two little children are delightful. They persist in commg to me to tell them stories. They a'^e a boj should ^h"^'".'' ^T^' ""^ ^°'"- Efhel says I should have a dictaphone under the table when I am yarning, and I could thus entertain my little fnends and write a children's book at the same rim ! Why doesn t F orence come out here? The chanire would be splendid for her. And if only you darling £k and H U ""^ 'r *° Fl°^«"^e and Marjory' Dick and Harold— and to Tom. I was sreatlv in terested in all you told me in your lasro f ow sp'len.' didly he has devoted himself to taking father^ place Mentioning father you will be pleasfd tlknow that ?ad The'" ''"t! Y'' ^^'''^'■~*^» °f "^ee fng letters from dad-not here, of course, but in his autograph collection in England. With very much "Your affectionate son, "John Grey." MICROCOfY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART Mo, 2| |i-25 11 1.4 l^li^l^ ^ APPLIED INA^GE Inc ^^ 1653 Eost Main street 5*.S Rochester, New York 1*609 USA ^g ('16) *82 - 0300 Phone gg^ (716) 28fl - 5989 - ^a. 276 A TALE THAT IS TOLD I II When Dick finished reading the letter he handed it to Marjory. "The Egyptian Twins, by John Grey," he mur- mured. "To my dear friend the Duke of Tripolita, this story of two cherubs and a celebrated litterateur, is affectionately inscribed for him to read to his darling children when they are old enough to relish the little twiddly-bits." Mother had her blank expression as of not un- derstanding, or not hearing. Marjory was reading by then. _ "He's— a— great— lad !" said Dick merrily. "He IS simply wonderful. Good old Jack. I believe he could run that hotel. Where's the book?" "It will come by the morning's post," replied mother with a triumphant little smile. "Anyhow, we have it already— thanks to Harold. I do wish you would paint his portrait, Dick." "Do you think I am competent?' "My dear boy!" "Well, I might try to capture him some day." "Why do you never try the Royal Academy, Dick? poor mother went on. "I think it seems almost—well, it doesn't seem patriotic that you should have pictures in galleries in Vienna and Paris, and New York too, and never try the Royal Acad- emy." "I might send John there," Dick suggested as one inspired. "I wish you would," she said. "There would be an added incentive for them to hang it. You see- both the subject and the painter of it." "Oh, I quite agree, mater," replied Dick; and then suddenly in some emotion that came over him A TALE THAT IS TOLD 277 —of shame, of love, of pity— up he rose, trod round the table, caught her shoulders and squeezed them, then marched back to his chair and sat down again Tom's late," remarked Florence. "Tom? Oh, he's dining with a friend. It's a secret, ' said mother. "Well, not exactly a secret now, for It was all settled some days ago I expect you knoW; Harold." "WeU, yes," I said. "He told me yesterday "He's " said mother. l^'GoIng " said I. "To " said she. "London," said I. She sat suddenly erect. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I hadn't heard of that. He merely told me he had received a splendid offer for the busmess, and had sold it. I did not think of him beginning t fresh so far away as— oh, dear, London! Of course I know he is full of energy. He must always be giving himself. Still— I have friends m London, though it would mean leaving many friends here." She was all a-flutter, and I was very sorry for her. You could stay with Florence and me," I pointed out. 'But of course I don't know all. I only heard the uones of it." Mother turned to Marjory. "V.here are you young people going to settle?" she asked. "Is it to be a long engagement?" Marjory looked at Dick. "Oh, no," he said. "But I am uncertain where we shall live. If I could make enough to have a home on Loch Lomond-side, and perhaps a studio here. ii; IH 278 A TALE THAT IS TOLD as well as a flat in " he paused. I think he was going to say "in London." He flung up his head and laughed. "I'm uncertain," he continued. "I've had a very pressing request to go to New York and paint Mrs. Hammertrip." "Mrs. Hammertrip!" the mater wailed. "But not, surely, the notorious divorcee?" "Um!" "Oh, Dick! You can't! I should feel so un- pleasant to think of one of my family even painting a divorcee." "I know. It is rather painful," he answered, look- ing depressed. "Of course I could make my portrait, as it were, a criticism." "I had not thought of that," said mother. He looked as if he was about to get up and squeeze her shoulders again. CHAPTER XXXVIII I DID not let the grass grow under my feet" in the matter of looking for a new home for my Aldines, my Elzevirs, and all my treasures from elephant folios to duodecimos. That pleasant sense of being not lost, of not being one of those who mope over there is a tide in the affairs of man," etc., of having Destiny with me, I could have nurtured had I cared. Next day I. saw a shop to let in Buchanan ^treet, exactly such as I wanted. I procured the key trom the factor and examined the premises As I came out I almost collided with a lady, and stood back to allow her t . ass. To my astonishment I then saw it was Ma.jor/, and Dick was a pace in the rear with his head cast back, his eyes puckered to mere slits, oblivious to all save some effect of vista of street, perspective of kerbs, atmosphere, and the pavements, bone dry that chill blue day. Hallo I" he said, seeing me; and immediately realising my business there, from the key in my hand, stepped back to the gutter and puckered his eyes at the vacant shop-front. "I have it!" he declared. 1 he same colour-scheme as at Renfield Street, with a difference. Instead of blue and black, blue and a strip of yellow. Na, nal No thicker than that." He held up his hands, measuring off on his left fore- nnger the width of the yellow stripe. 279 S80 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Yellow for forsaken Maiden from thee taken " I thought. It is in "The Book of Superstitions and Childish Fancies of Old Maids and Bachelors," printed by — but no matter. I must not slip away from my story to a bibliophile's interests. "The curtains," he said. "I don't know but what they might be pale yellow, too." "That is a lovely blue in the Renfield Street place," remarked Marjory. "I know," he said, "but there are associations. We must think of that for him. I don't want to go too far from the Renfield btreet design. I want to go near enough for the new people there to have to change it when they take over. It must be made obvious to all Glaswegians that here are the new premises of Harold Grey. Blue I We'll have blue, I think, and a brass shield — here." "And in the window " I began. "The Lone Furrow," said he. "I need not tell you that I am awfully pleased you are so keen," I said. "Of course not!" exclaimed Dick. "Of course not!" exclaimed Marjory. She spoke as she were already part of hiro; and he of her. Or was it that she wanted me to know how much she too cared for my affairs? "But I must not begin to think in such fashion at all," I reminded my- self. "The rent's fair enough," I told them. They accompanied me to the door of the house- factor, and there left me. On my return to the li- brary I told Haig of my find. We discussed sal- A TALE THAT JS TOLD 281 ary ; and I took him out with me, and went back again for the keys He strolled round the shop, greatly mterested. As we came out, there were Marjory sho in '" "^"""^^y ag^'"' returning from their "Hal-lo!" said Dick, twinkling. Ha!-lo!j' said Marjory, smiling. Hal-lo !" said I, with a grin. They came in to appraise the place, with an in- tenor as well as an exterior view; and Dick brooded, peered as one who saw what was not, walking smart- ly about, pomtmg to a wall and saying: "H'm yes yes ; pausing before another wall, frowning at it! Sted *' ^^^ °'^" ^'^'" ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ g"''- ^Wml-hesaid. "Perfect. That's it." l"me colour scheme," said I. "Splendid!" he ejaculated. Marjory exploded in mirth. We all came out, after thes5 mvestigations and plans, Dick and Marl jory contmumg their way to Bath Street, Haig and I retummg to Renfield Street. CHAPTER XXXIX A WEEK later I came home one night to find Mr. Simson s preposterous silk hat on a peg of the hat-stand, a silk scarf pendant from tZ.l ''i' ''°°"'" °""- ^ gl^^'l «' it. and went to the study to write certain letters regarding the pnntmg of new catalogues that I had been un- able to wnte m Renfield Street. That place un- settled me. I would not be at ease until I was out ct It, knowing I was so soon to be so. I can amble along quietly enough through life, but when I see \Z IZ "^ ^ ^^".^ ^ S'""^ impatient to cover the last little intervening space. T lil^'" ^^T ^^^ '^.°r°'' °P^"^'^- No one entered. cat that had flung the door wide, and as I looked SSi;;":- "'^''^ "'' '"' ^''^'^"^'y' - . "It is really impossible. I do not at all care It is not in me to be a Household fiords heroine." Landidly, I fhought to cough and make known my presence; but believing it better that Mr. Simson (tor, of course, I took it for granted that it was he whom she addressed) had better hear such talk, and have done with it, without interruption, I remained ended"""'"' "''^'" ^ transferred affection!" Florence That was direct to the point, I thought. Florence 282 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 28S might let her female relatives chivvy her, but she evidently knew how to look after herself with the subjects flung at her. Mother's voice responded: "Florence!" "Can't you see, mother? Of course you do seel How difficult you make it. All this talk of potting sheds and stables! I am not to be purchased by an estate, and potting sheds, and t^venty acres of akss. and a family pew. These things have nothing vvhatl ever to do with aftection. And, besides, he is in- deed old enough to be my father! I am glad he's gone. 1 Will not see him again." So he was gone ! "You heard me invite him- " mother began. Suddenly Florence's voice went up in a shrill strange note. ^ "How you have messed things!" she cried. Leave— me— alone ! All I want is to be left alone. 1 wish father was alive. He preached the gospel of leaving people alone. Why did Arthur Neil go? Arthur ! Arthur !" she sobbed. And then by the grace of God,, instead of coming into the study to be alone, as she had probably at first intended, she fled away. I heard her feet pad softly even on the thick hall carpet. I heard her heels go dick on the tiles at the edge. There were one or two metallic taps as, flying upstairs, she touched the brass stair-carpet rods. What was I to do then? would mother go away, or, before closing the door that Florence had flung open, would she look into the room? I leant back in the chair where I sat and dropped my chin on my chest, closed my eyes, but itept my ears alert. Mother had not moved outside. 884 A TALE THAT IS TOLD ii I'i I pictured her standing there, frail and old; I pic- tured her looking up the stairs after the retreating Florence. Then there came the faint frou-frou of her dress. Oh!" I heard her exclaim. I made no movement. She advanced right into the study, speaking to herself. "Harold is home," she said, and came toward me. I still sat motionless, breathing; deep. Then .ud- denly I opened my eyes. "Hallo, mater!" I said. "You've bc;;n asleep!" ssid sh^ "When did you come I. jme ?" "A little while ago." I took out my watch. "I haven't been asleep long." It may have been guilty conscience — I do not know; I :.m not certain about much where she was concerned — but I thought she looked doubtfully at me. "I came home early to do some correspondence," lexplained. "Don't go away. I've finished it. I wanted to speak to you. Sit down, mater." She s7t down. "It's about Florence," said I. "Yes?" "I must say," said I, "that I am worried about her. She looks to me as if she had something on her mind." "Oh— I— I can't say I've noticed." "Ah, but she does, very definitely. Why don't you suggest that she accepts John's invitation to go to Cairo?" ^ "To Cairo?" she echoed. And then, in a low voice: "I have no influence with her." !!;■ A TALE THAT IS TOLD I 283 "Yes," I said, and tried to think of reasons that would mfluence mother. "I am sure she has some- thmg on her mmd." "Who would go with her ? I'm afraid the journey would be tc m jch for me at my age " "My dear mother 1" I cried. "All we men have gone alone everywhere. She has been to the con- tinent with Marjory, once iie went to the Rhine R,'7"U^"'^ "T/ ^'"rK ^'*'' Ptomaine poisoning I Kaw cabbage. How ridiculous !" Cairo I told her. "And just think of the people just think of the people that. At last she see.-ned m shfc would meet." Mother considered slightly interested. "John is certainly in a position to introduce her to people of importance," she agreed. "But ihe does not care for bridge, or dances. Girls are such proposition Still, I'll think of it. I had not ■oticed that she looked as though she had anything on her mind .^ut you may be right. To go away for a little while, and see new scenes, and come back, might make her— might make her letter. I will suggest It— at least I will think it over " But it was the doctor who settled the matter, for Florence had rushed up to her room to weep, to laugh, to weep again, co lie there sobbing until Dr Moriey arrived. Thereafter she remained in bed tor a week, the room darkened. , "She r J3t," said the doctor, some days later. her m;n^'°7"' T"^'' '^''"^ '^ something on er mind. If you, her mother, can find out what it IS, Without asking any questions that may set her S80 A TALE THAT IS TOLD back again-or if you happen to know what it i^ and can put matters straight " "I believe," replied mother slowly, "that she has been broodmg over some old unrequited love affair " 1 he doctor frowned, pursed his lips. Personally," said I, "I do not think she should be worried about it. We should get her packed off somewhere, where the sun shines." He looked at me shrewdK "That would be excellent. If she could ao to » he paused. '" !3^ ''.". *" invitation from Cairo," I said lo visit her brother," mother put in. "You know— the author " f ut m. lou It S' ^"L '"•'• J?''" ^'^y- °^ ^°""e- Splendid! It IS the right time of year. But no Cairo in the sea son of sunstroke, for any sake!" Thus Florence went to Cairo. Ml i ii » jtfii- CHAPTER XL ed off I HAVE to -laki confession here (though I ar aware that the confession, in this matter, caus ■; " "'^ 'o =??«="■ somewhat a prey of false-sent.- ? ment) tha, durmg the next months, after Tom's de- I partureto ndon, I had a great pitv for my mother. "You ? Her appearance changed rapidly. She who had been . so state y and queenly, shrunlc, fell in upon herself physically. A light almost of distress was in the tadmg gray of her eye- ''I must not stanc' „ Tom's way," she said. Mothers grow old. .le has his life to make. He has been a wonderful son to me." News from him greatly cheered ',er. It was ob- vious that he had made all arrant ..ents long be- fore leavmg Glasgow. He went ,^uth, and im- mediately electrified Into life the business to which he had added his name. But all this time, she often sighed over thoughts of Dick; for one day he and Marjory had shaken her sense of the proprieties bv coming home, unostentatiously, but with a veneer, a glamour, "the gleam, the light that never was on sea or land, ' upon their faces, and announcing that they were married. I think poor mother doubted if they were, had a sudden dcead lest they had alto- gether sinned, creatures of a loose modernity. Anon 1 shall be old, and perhaps vex myself over mani- lestations of modernity again among the young. 287 S88 A TALE THAT IS TOLD There is a certain pathos in it all. She came to me for solace. "I am not astonished at Dick," she told me after- guards; "I know among artists it is usual to be mar- ried so, but surely Marjory might have exerted her influence over him. There is something wrong with a girl who is not determined to see herself properly attired for a marriage ceremony, with friends in- vited, and a reception to follow. Look how beauti- fully everything was done for Ethel and John I How can I give Dick a wedding-breakfast now? I shall have to have a makeshift one in a day or two. This is all so new to me 1" Tears filled her eyes. I told Dick what sue said, and perhaps my tone seemed to suggest that I agreed with her. "My dear chap," he said, "I have humoured her and gone kindly with her " 'I know you have," I interrupted. "You have agreed often on many subjects where I might have foolishly shown differences of opinion, and " "Marriage," he said, "is ' sacred matter to me, a wonderful matter. We could, of course, have been married according to any ceremony. Had mother been a gipsy, and 1 a heretic from gipsy codes, I might have considered that it didn't matter after all, and have suggested to Marjory that we get married across a brook, and break a sixpence in half. Per- haps that would be big and kindly. And yet — con- sider. Why should we always conform? I have never hurt her, that I can recall, on any other sub- ject, poor old thing, except when I said that Mrs. Hammertrip was keen to have me paint her portrait, and now and again she seems pipped over my not A TALE THAT IS TOLD 389 doing John. Poor old ma/er. I'm sorry. But really the.c are limits. After all, it is our marriage I" I took no side. I merely looked on. I pitied the mater, and yet was in sympathy with Dick's views. Very soon after that he and Marjory departed to New York, as other requests had come to him to do portraits in the United States. My premises dec- orated inside and out, to his liking, there was much buying of new cabin-trunks, and fuss of prepara- tion; and then one day our household was reduced to two, mother and I — Florence being still away. On the departure of Dick and Marjory, mother's air became more and more of one too old in a changed world; but a New York paper or two, with pencil marks at paragraphs in "Society Gossip," eased her. She had not again mentioned the sub- ject, but I gathered she was certain that Dick's first portrait would be of the notorious Mrs. Hammer- trip. "We have now, in our little old city behind the Statue of Liberty, several interesting visitors, to wit ... and last, but not least, there is that brilliant Scots painter, Richard Grey, here with his charming wife to fulfil many commissions, and fling upon can- vas a beauty or two, a steel magnate or two . . . " Or again: "Richard Grey, the eminent Scots painter, is not a stranger to us. His Flowing Tide on the Irvine Shore' has hung in the Metropolitan for many a year now. This does not mean that he is old. He was bom with a brush in his hand and a palette on S90 A TALE THAT IS TOLD II his thumb. We note a tendenqr in coiffing among the Upper Ten that suggests they have told their maids to study his wife's tonsorial arrangements." Such notes pleased mother, although of the last she said: "There is a certain amount of persiflage in this, but I expect that is the way of breezy Amer- ica. It is probably due to the climate. I think it is the climate that makes the women wear white boots. 1 wonder if Dick has decided, as a conces- sion to my views, not to paint Mrs. Hammertrip? She is so well known that, after all, to refuse to do her would make a greater stir than to do her. Her name is not mentioned as one of his sitters in any of the papers he has sent." Knowing Dick, I was inclined to suspect that his concession merely went the length of carefully se- lecting the printed notes regarding his visit to New York. Letters came from Florence in Cairo, and they were full of good cheer; but between the lines I "jaloused" something wrong. I know that in writ- ing to mother when we were away, we always con- sidered less what we had to say, than what would interest her; our letters were less a criticism of our views, exposition of our tastes, than of her tastes — or of her tastes as we conceived them. This should be remembered even when reading John's letters, I think. In writing to mother, Florence mentioned what people of title she met; to me she said nothing of them unless they had other claims of interest. But reading many of her letters, as I say, I had the impression that there was more than she wrote of to occupy her mind. I am not trying to write these memoirs as a novel of suspense, greatly though I can A. TALE THAT IS TOLD 891 enjoy novels of suspense and admire the gifts of the authors who know how to handle them. To turn to the end of such books is to spoil the fun. One must read them fairly. Yet at that time I was conscious of an air of suspense. I wondered once even, if away from Glasgow, Florence had come by some mad change of mood and was on the brink of writ- mg to mother that she would allow affairs to drift on toward the queening of Mr. Simson's house in Perthshire, with all its cucumber frames and so forth. I wondered once if she had met "the" man in Lairo. When she wrote to say that they were all return- mg from Egypt as the climate did not suit Ethel but that she would stay a little while with John in London before coming north, I confess that once again I wondered if there was some love-affair to cause her to make this decision. Florence was so greatly a subject for marital schemes that I too fell imagining round her on the lines of sister Mary and Aunt Janet. I recall how I even hoped that she was not cheapening herself. I had a vision of her as spellbound by some man in Cairo who was also com- ing back to England. It was perhaps odd for me to think in this way, seeing that to me love does not signify infatuation. I got it, as the phrase is, "into my head that a love-episode if not a love-affair was at the back of her prolonged absence. Perhaps in view of what was really occurring at the time there may be some who will say that telepathic trans- ferences were going on between us, but that I had not the right receptivity to catch super-normal Uhough not, as we know, super-natural) transmis- sions. i' if I 393 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "I wish," said mother once, during these weeks, "that John would write. "I suppose," I responded, "that he Is leaving cor- respondence to Florence, seeing that she is staying with them." It struck me from her manner that she found my sister's letters, despite their length and small talk, unsatisfactory. They certainly seemed to me as not coming from the real Florence as I knew her; but — as I have already mentioned — it had to be remem- bered that in writing to mother we all thought rather of the recipient of our letters than of ourselves. "All this chatter about the London streets, the shop windows, and the beauty of John's house," said mother, "is so unlike Florence. As a rule she does not care for that sort of thing." Hearing that commentary, I fell to conjecturing how near mother came to realising that we had a tendency to humour her. I felt inclined to send Florence a note, suggesting that when she wrote again she should tell more of what she was doing, of what she was enjoying, than of what she thought would interest mother. I am inclined to think that the mater was hoping to hear either of some de- lightful man met in John's town house, or to read some message — if it were but "kind regards from me when you write" — to Mr. Simson. Then Florence came home, very radiant in health, chubby in her cheeks, with many new frocks, and an Egyptian gew-gaw or two from the bazaars. She seemed to be more thoughtful than before; there were, indeed, times when I thought her look of re- newed health was superficial, and that just below the surface she was on the verge of another breakdown. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 393 ' She told us over and over again all that she had written, and for two or three evenings we were in the atmosphere of the Cairo hotel, with the pyra- mids seen afar from its windows. We heard much of John and Ethel, and of their little boy; but fre- quently, when speaking of Ethel, Florence's eyes would have a brief far-off gaze, and something hap- pened to her forehead that I can only liken to what happens to a hillside on a day of sun when the faint shadow of a mere wisp of cloud flies across it. ^ "What's the matter with the author's menage?" i asked her deliberately one evening when we were left alone by mother, after more questions and more responses, and pictures of the Mediterranean, of the P. and O. liner, of Malta coming up out of the sea, and thf like. My sister's little teeth bit down on her lower lip, which she sucked inwards. She looked down at the floor, then up at me. "Why?" she asked, then answered: "Nothing." I knew she was not telling the truth, so left it at that. It was due to John, by the way, that I had two cares in life. That letter in which he had referred to father's letters had often recurred in my mind; and while Florence was away I had suggested to mother that there should be some sort of biography, or col- lection of letters of so eminent a divine. I think 1 suggested ii merely as an aid to bring back some of the girlishiiess to her eyes. She seemed lovely and lost in the house with me alone. I was not unsuc- cessful. She jumped at the idea. I inserted in The Spectator and The Anthenaeum and Life and fVork, a notice to the effect that a volume of letters of the late Thomas Grey, D.D., being desired, I would be i! I S94 A TALE THAT IS TOLD glad to see any in the possession of his wide circle ot friends, thai they would be carefully copied and immediately returned. J f ^ »»« My second-hand book establishment by day, and this employ (of reading and copying the letters that came in response to my advertisement) in the even- mgs, filled my life. Florence having clearly decictd, on her return, not to speak of whatever it might be that sent her gaze into distance when talking of ilthel and Cairo, I made no attempt to undo her resolve. Indeed, I did not wish to seem even to await in silence the changing of her mind. Our talk had flagged, so I went back to my work over the last letters received; and when she followed me to the study, It was not to enlighten me, but to ask if she could help with the copying. CHAPTER XLI I GAVE her some letters to attend to, and we sat there together while the clock ticked on, with no sound but that, the rustle of our papers, and the thm scratching of our pens. Suddenly she dropped one of the letters and spoke. "I say, old man," said she, "I don't know where to begin." I sat back in my chair and waited. "It Till all be out soon," she continued. "Ethel did not leave Cairo because of the climate. She left because there was a scandal." She paused again, I bed for mother's sake. But I think one should not. She ran away a month before we left, Jack and I. I came home with him." I had heard so much gossip of one or two authors that I merely wagged my head. I imagined ' it brother John had become one of these "awakei .rz of love," or perhaps even had felt his genius so great that he had come to consider he was one of those who live by other codes than the codes of ordi- nary men. I remembered his sensitive face and shrugged my shoulders. "She got terribly excited," said Florence. "She rushed away. John was distracted and tried to get her to come back. He even worried about whether she was all right with the man; he found out where she was and sent her cheques." She shook her head. 295 396 IN A TALE THAT IS TOLD 11 That IS why I sUyed in London, too, for a while, before coming north. Queer chap, John, queer chap I Me came home one day as white as a sheet. He had overheard some men at the club speaking about her What they said was: "It seems to me rather rank taste for John Grey's runaway wife and her paramour to entertain their guests with mimicry of ^i^^\ a *?1'^ •"* *" *•*'*' '^'•''^ 3"d miserable. 1 hen he flung his arms up in the air and said : "The dirty little squirt! I expect he is living on the cheques I send her, too. I want her to be happy— If she prefers him to me and the boy— but, erter- taming their visitors by mimicking mel" I tied to calm him by pointing out that he could see what those men thought, but he wouldn't listen. I was afraid something would happen. He said he woulrl kill the man ! He had not a word against Ethel all the time He would not believe that she mimicked him. He kept saying: "Oh, God! Oh, God! What can she see in him?" What he had over- heard rankled badly. He " she paused again and her eyes filled, "he has filed a petition for di- vorce, you know." I said nothing. Florence put her elbows on the table, hands joined under her chin, and gazed far before her, but less worried-looking now that she talked. "What a fuss about it all!" s.ie said. "Life -'s so good and— Oh, well, I stuyed with him a while. Do you know, I can't help admiring him, somehow. He forced himself to perfect self-control, even went on with his work again in a fashion, and told me to come home so that I could be with the mater when the thing became public property." ^ii A TALE THAT IS TOLD 297 "And when does it become public prooerty'" I asked. She opened >,er eyes wide. She saw I accepted It all and had no opinion to offer. But quickly she realised, after all, that I was giving her my real self. "It may become public property any day now, I suppose," she said. I did not speak at once, thinking over the affair, lost in consideration of it. |,'What is your opinion of it all?" Florence asked. Oh, I have no opinion at all." I said. "We'll have to temper it to the mater when it all comes out. They'll make a splash about it, for he is cele- brated." I had been wont only to glance at the Herald in the mornmg and to take, each Thursday, the Even- ing iVfwj, because that was the evening when it pub- lished a literary supplement in which were often Items of interest to me — essays on books or anti- quarian subjects by some Scotsman with a pen. I took the evening papers thereafter, all of them, and we made a point of seeing the Herald in the morn- ing befo-e mother could get it. But the evening papers h;id the first news of it, six weeks after Flor- ence told me as much as she knew. There was just a heading and a paragraph or two, non-committal, tellmg more who John was and who Ethel was, than anything else. These papers I did not even take home, but communicated their contents regarding the imminent case to my sister when I returned. In the morning we were down early and found the Herald's report much the same as that of the even- ing papers, with a few added details. We tore S98 A TALE THAT IS TOLD ^TctZ^y' "'''''''" "P " ^ draught-creator "Oh, it's on fire I" she cried. "Good life I" I exclaimed, and snatched the sheet awaj'. Thus we put off the inevitable moment. I vent th. .."f^i""'" ^*'■"u 1°'' '°° «^"'ly perturbed. In Japera ** '* ''"' ''"' "°'"'"='' «^«="i"8 "CELEBRATED AUTHOR hV DIVORCE COURT. CURIOUS DISCLOSURES." ran the heading in one, and down tiie column every here and there were what I bdieve are callTd 'S It&.H '"^V".''"'^ '^' '=P°« '^' ^ new-comer. Ilk? to tf/^*^"*'°" *°.^he bones of the case that 1 nice to hnd m any serious treatise. There was little of Euclid about the method of recouSgThe proceedings. I h.J never read such reports befo^ and perhaps the writer merely followed a usage a convention. Ethel was always spoken of as beaut' hi, tT""' ^ ^r"" y""'" ^^* °"« °f the side- heads I have not kept copies of these papers Who- ever It was who was sent to report for the oumals .eemed to have dozed half the time, and loTave snTl'"''^ "P '^^•^ .^""^ 'gain by some explos on of speech, some tripping up of an octave in the 1 had read, would think. I did not feel myself entitled to express an opinion, and the pape" d'd wh cilUuldt "r^;, ^"""^ ^'^ - ' "a - Which I would have dared tc say who was right and A TALE THAT IS TOLD i09 Tom/r '''■""^-"'Jtii I ">"« to the statement that some women crowded round lohn as he left the courts and h.ssed him At thit I was hop "l Sr my brother I considered that wise people wou°d know that he was not in the wrong. Ifl had Cn Tn^-H "^ "' t u^™™ '"''"^' infom,ation, that litde incident would have made me consider that the eS! dence showed him at any rate as not the worst .n- ner of those .mpl.cated. But what matter my con- s.derat.ons? The main matter for us in GlLgow charge ,^A went home early in the afternoon, after reading the evening papers. I dreaded lest the «" 'r might, By some evil chance, see a copy of one of them^ Florence net me in the hall. Does she " I began. Oh she knows!" replied Florence, and gave a laugh that remainded me of Tom. "Truft ou? friends to come and condole. I think it makes them feel fasmonable to be able to call on the house." .^^^onfound them I" I said. "How does she take "With them— wonderfully. She tells them she has known all the truth of it for a long time " She was a wonderful woman. I knew it when she came m to the dining-room. She was wearing a beaufful gown, and seemed to have taken morf ha r ^A U ^''^'•«.';,^.°iffi"8- The thick white An U.u- ^^^^""^ *'" " *''°"« like white metal, of .S t" ""''''' ^'' '■"""'^ ''" n^^'^' » thread .1! ( J u^*" f?*"^ '•'^ ^'^ "°t want to eat, that she forced herself to do so; but even to us there was no sign, only when sb- -nt to bed— and she went early that night lii. 800 A TALE THAT IS TOLD Good-night, my dear," she said to Florence. Good-night, mother. Sleep well. I'll look in to see if you're comfy on the way up." "Oh, don't trouble, darling. I shall be asleep I am very tired. Good-night, Harold." She turned away. "It was very sweet of you, dear boy, to bum that paper." She drifted from the room. "You will look in and see her later, won't you?" I said to my sister. Florence nodded. ill CHAPTER XLII IT is all over long ago now. Ethel has left the man she ran away with and been married again; and the man who took her from John we hear of sometimes in similar cases, either giving evidence or disclaiming any knowledge. On such occasions there is some passing reference to the earlier affair, some brief mention of John, and I dare say that the effect is not against the sale of his books. I have met him many times since those days, and if I Have suggested that Dick and I had a view of him in common, to the effect that he knew how to be heard of, I would here say thai I am certain he would be glad if, when nev- escapa'^es bring into the limelight either Ethel or her forn .r lover, that the papers would not say: "It may be recalled that ..." and lightly retrace the old story of Cairc, without libellous words. He does not think about the circulation of his novels in that connection. That I would swear to. He has a look on Lim of a man who has been woefully hurt at some time. I do not believe that at the time, oddly enough, any of us considered primarily what is called the moral aspect — not even mother. Her view of mo- rality, it always seemed to me, might as well be called a view of what is usual. It was all rather a breach of les convenances than of the decalogue to her, but it aged her. She was shocked in the 301 Jl i m 803 A TALE THAT IS TOLD same manner as she would be shocked if she saw some one eating asparagus with a fork, or pickine a cutlet with their teeth— in the same manner, but m a greater degree. It is all, as I say, a long time ago now; and round about those days, as all days there was Eternity. I suppose that what is to be will be. CHAPTER XLIII J)HN came north to us, with his little boy, about two months after the affair was over, in Z sponse to solicitous invitations from mother Many other d:vorce cases had, I suppose, by that time been heard and read. Such things do happen- there .s nothmg far-fetched about them; but C fhS- ?»f "' '° '"'' ''"'• ""'^ I "o^" r"d about cnem m tne papers. I found him (for a man like myself, I being not very garrulous except here, on paper) a cha4S compamon. With his back to the fireplace,™"™ when there was no fire to toast him, he would talk by the hour, occasionally flinging himself in a chair, and with one leg thrown over the arm. He talked noIi£"%'"ff °^ P'?'l' °f P'^y« ^"d "-"Sic, of pohtics and affairs, and always with assurance. Like most of our family, he had a swift flick of the cynical in h.m; but that, to my mind, was as a dash of condiment. Florence and I, I have noted, ar, apt to turn the cynical gaze inward. It did not seem to me that John did this, but I cannot say for certain. The inner life of a man is hard to fathom, ihere is a bit of complexity even in the "Frederick Bettesworths" of the world, the simple souls. He talked much of himself, but he never bored, for he Old so m an inveigling way, reminding me of Ana- toie trance proposing to discuss himself apropos of 303 304 A TALE THAT IS TOLD ill .'. Shakespeare, Racine, Pascal, and so forth. I like John, not as greatly as I like Dick, but like him by aid of condoning little peccadilloes that I don't think I would have perpetrated were I in his place. But not being in his place I cannot speak for certain. As I listened, it struck me that, like my father (in- deed like most of us, and we were a fairly human and average bunch of progeny) he wished to be thought well of. We were neither black nor white; we were a little grayish— which is no attempt at a horrible pun. He was not greatly excited over the account of how Tom got rid of me and, having asked for it, seemed only half interested in my reply. "Oh, well," he said. "That's Tom— and that's supposed to be business acumen. It's a queer world!" Then he added: "And if I may say so, old chap, you are a little — I nearly said soft!— a little apt to sit in your garret looking at the stars while people pick down your foundations." He laughed. "One has to be commercial or go to the wall. That's why I have shares in Hardwood's now; I simply could not grub along. To a certain length one has to compromise. We are a dilettantish and dreamy family. I expect we all have some Utopia in the back of our heads; but the world is not run in such a way that we can live our Utopia and exist." John had great generosity in money-matters. His hand was always in his pocket for charities, and to lend money to poorer fellows of his craft, with a : "That's all right. Give it back when your ship comes in." To his boy, mother gave all her hear*; but I think the presence of the child always serveo A TALE THAT IS TOLD 305 to remind her of the downfall of all her ideals of marriage. "The poor little motherless chap," she would say, when his nurse had taken him off to bed. Regarding the publication of father's letters I consulted John. "Do you think," I said tentatively, "that Hard- wood would " He pursed his lips and shook his head doubt- fully. ^'It isn't just in his vein," he replied. "Oh, that's all right, then," I said. "Don't trouble. I only wondered." "You rome back to London with me," he sug- gested, and I'll get some good hopeful publisher out to lunch, and we'll tell him all about Balmoral If he does not know the Old Man's ecclesiastical fame already." The composite effect of his talk was to make me feel provincial. The world appeared to be such a blase place in his eyes— coloured, tinselly, savage; and he accepted it so. After a month with us he returned to London again, with In boy and die nurse. I mentioned to the mater, one day, that 1 did not know which publisher to go to for father's letters. ' I^Why not consult Tom?" said she. "Oh, he doesn't know much about publishers," I replied. "I spoke to John while he was here, but ne said it was not in Hardwood's vein." "But I think you should consult Tom!" she per- "n u ^.'.'¥^ '* "'^ ""^^^^^ '°"- And then consider all he did for you and Jack in the old days. Recall how he took you both into the business when neither 1 JwL. S06 A TALE THAT IS TOLD of you had any knowledge. I'm sure he could give you lots of introductions now — and maybe be could arrange the whole thing." I could not tell her I did not like Tom. "Perhaps I should go to London as John ad- vised," I said doubtfully. "That is a good idea," she replied. "You could talk it over with Tom. I should like to see the book published before I " and then came tears. I wonder if generation by generation the new generation pains the old over what seems but a trifle? Sometimes it all, everything — seems so trif- ling to me; that is why I began these memoirs by talking about sweetbread patties. Tiny lituc items take up our days. And why? Because they are, after all, in some ways, not trifling but cosmic. 11 m CHAPTER XLIV WHEN I came to the indexing of my fath- er's letters, I realised that the question of who was to publish them had soon to be decided. That final work took me longer than I had expected, but, truth to tell, I dallied over it trom sheer enjoyment. The pigeon-holes we used tor preparing our catalogues I pressed into my own intimate service then, writing upon slips the names ot all those with whom he had corresponded, and going through the letters to note special subjects that required mention in the index. The page-numbers would, of course, have to be added on the proofs. "Academy, Letters to, regarding article on John Knox. "Ayrshire, affection for. "Baxter's Saint's Rest. "Balmoral. "Bums, Robert. "Call "from Philadelphia. "'Calvin. "Carlyle, Thomas. "Chinese pottery. "Christ, exploited by the churches, but seldom followed; money-lenders scourged from the tabernacle; Lord's prayer a specimen, not in- tended as a 'prayer to mumble as it stands.' 307 1 1 mi S08 A TALE THAT IS TOLD "Dalziel, xv<;v. Henry. "Glasgow, Lecture Society; Woollen Comforts Endeavour. "Gordon, General. "Hardy, Thomas. "Hell. "Herrick, the ideal cleric. "Horace. "Irvine, an old house described. "Italy, account of Roman Catholic procession as arrogant rather than Christ-like. I'Janies, G. P. R., as soporific for insomnia. "Johnson, evils of tea-drinking." But though I loved pottering over that index, it is perhaps an aside in these memoirs. I was eager to have the volume published. I was not entirely confident of the romantic movement of the world, and dreaded lest mother might leave us before the book was produced. It is a small mat- ter, maybe, in face of Eternity, but thus I felt. Her own interest in the matter was slightly dimmed by the return from America of Marjory and Dick. Days of house-hunting followed, and at last a place was found on Loch Lomond-side, where Dick was determined to settle down to a winter of serious work. I did not see much of Marjory during the next months, for it was necessary for her to remain quiet, and so her visits to Glasgow were infrequent. Mother and Florence often visited them for week- ends, but I always managed to make father's letters an excuse for me to stay in Huntley Gardens. One day toward the end of that summer Dick came triumphantly into the shop in Buchanan Street. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 309 He walked up to my desk and said: "I'm on my way to see the mater, but I had to slide in and tell you I've got a son and heir." "And Marjory?" I asked. "Mother and child are doing well, old boy. So- long, see you later." ''Are you staying the night, then?" I said. "Not likely. But I don't suppose I shall have gone by the time you get home." I think it was a good thing for me that I had a deal of work to attend to just then. There are some thmgs one simply cannot brood over. When Mar- jory married Dick I knew that I had lost her; but the birth of their child seemed to take her irre- vocably from me. I bethought me of a London publisher with whom I had become acquainted dur- ing the Renfield Street days, and I decided to write to him. Now and again, when visiting Scotland, he had been wont to call on us, not to do business — leaving that to his commercial man — but merely, as he would say, with a very pleasant smile, because he liked to do so. "Just to shake hands I" was his phrase. "Awful o!d humbug," said Tom once, after we had all lunched with him; but according to Tom there was something wrong with everybody, al- though his store of acquaintances was great. To tell him one liked a certain person was generally to open the way to a laughing depreciation. I recalled this publisher, then. He had consider- able taste. Cover, choice of type, and the like, made his books pleasing to the eye. I wrote to him to say that I had my father's letters almost ready for the press, and would be glad to hear if he would 310 A TALE THAT IS TOLD care to take up the publication, charming letter by return: — He sent a most m • ^y °/^^ Grey,— For I think we can dispense with the formality of the Mr. in memory of those pleasant days when I used to see you in Glasgow, passing through, apart from business. I saw some time ago your request in The Spectator and The Athenaeum for letters and had it often in my mind to write to you on the matter. I feel it would be an honour to have my name on the title-page of such a book as, by your advertisement, I saw you had m view. I can't tell you what pleasure it gives me that you have remembered me after the lapse of years. If you will send the MSS. to me I shall be hippy to give my best consideration to it. "Yours faithfully, John Paramount." That communication greatly pleased me and also delignted mother. ..v"^ ^T 1° ^^'^'^" ^^^ *^'^' '" reading it twice. . I °"f "'ner would be pleas'id if he could know of It. The tone of this letter would please him. He was always himself so courteous and so dignified." Later on in the evening she came to me to ask for another perusal. "I'm a silly old woman," she declared, "but I would like to see that letter of Mr. Paramount's again. It makes me so happy." I sent off the manuscript, and received a formal post card acknowledging receipt. Within a fort- night came another letter, as follows: A TALE THAT IS TOLD Sir My Dear Grey,— I have made time not only to consider the essential financial side of the pul^ lication of your father's letters, but to read them. In tfiemselves they are, of course, a contribution to the epistolary literature of our country They stand with the addresses of such men as John Caird and Robertson of Irvine. They must be published. I. t'I '• ^° deMu am I about this that I have had special conferences with my read- ers, my manager and my travellers on the subject. Unfortunately my speculations for the coming sea- son are heavy. I am bringing out several books on my fiction list on which I am prepared to lose heavily. I have a travel book, the cost of the prep- aration of which appals me, but it must be under- taken. But I would never forgive myself if I saw another house put this volume before the public I should dearly like to be able to offer you an advance on royalty. Of course I realise that this has been to you a labour of love and that the financial side does not weigh with you. Nor, indeed, does it with me. My dear wife (a French lady), to whom I mentioned your kindness in sending me the book, vividly recalls meeting your father when he preached in the Scottish Presbyterian church in Paris. It ap- pears that he stayed a night with her father, who was the eminent Paul Calais. I feel that I should publish the book. One of the letters seems to state the case that I have to put very clearly. 'I have often wondered,' says your father, 'how right this man Thomas Carlyle is about the world being com- posed mostly of fools. If -he is right, then where IS the honour for any man in having a wide appre- ciation? Is popularity the true test of author, paint- 8.1 S A TALE THAT IS TOLD «r, orator, actor, and last but not least, I hope, preacher? It may be, however, to delv- further into this proposition of the Sage of Chelsea, that "he mostly fools* are those *ho have no interests m any of these activities, of author, painter— etc. But if It includes those who have such interests, then a wide public is poor recommendation. All these thoughts arise from my increasing flock at this new charge. ..." There, my dear Grey, is my trouble. Is there a wide public for these wonderful letters? I do not know. All my staff in the conference I mentioned are agreed on one point — that they must be published; but when it comes to the financial side we are divided. My manager and my travellers are, alas, doubtful. It is only mv most scholarly reader who says that of course the book will sell. After this consultation I want to publish it even if I lose. I must decide at once for the new publish- ing season (as you know) is almost on us, and if I take it up I will want to issue many notes to the press of its advent. I suggest that I publish 2,000 (two thousand) copies free of royalty and after these have been sold to begin the payment to you of a royalty of 5% (five per cent.). This, I assure you, you could agree to, without any feeling that you are taking advantage of my interest. The sale of 2,000 (two thousand) copies would pay for pro- duction. I would suggest, whether I have the hon- our to publish the volume or not, that you add photo- graphs. "Believe me to be, "Yours very cordially, "John Paramount." A TALE THAT IS TOLD 313 Mother read this also several times, and while regretting that such books have not a very large appeal, was much affected by Mr. Paramount's per- sonal interest, and by his directness. I have wished once or twice since that I could have had Florence's advice, but she was at Gartocharn with Marjory and Dick. "I wish you would write to Mr. Paramount at once," said the mater, her eyes moist, and on her face a look of quiet pride. "Tell him to go on with the matter Oh, I do look forward to seeinc the letters published!" "He is certainly eager " "And personally interested!" she said for the twentieth lime. "What is the printed form he en- closed ?" It was merely a circular regarding the work of Paul Calais translated into English, with a most charming preface written by Paramount himself, telhng of how, winning his French wife, he also won a distmguished father-in-law, and was thus hon- oured by being the sole British publisher authorised to produce translations of the late Paul Calais' clas- sics. I wrote to him, thanking him for his long letter, and saying that I would be glad if he would at once take up publication of the volume on the lines suggested. Then what a search we had into the past, my mother and I. Old jewel-cases were opened, and half.forgotten albums brought to life. Glasgow seemed more remote to me than ever, a city of dreams in which I came and went. I lived with daguerreotypes, miniatures, silhouettes, shadow-pic- tures, photographs; and we found an old envelope su ■ i'9'i V A TALE THAT IS TOLD contammg a w,,p of hair (of father's mother) from which a httle piece for father's collet ring, now wraVcli^inf''''"'^''''--''"--™ . On the Saturday that ended that week of search, mgs mto the past we went down to Loch Lomond to communicate the good news personally to Floi ence, Marjory and Dick. What wonderful blues there are m that part of the country! What a jense of tranquility broods on the fir-pkntations on he fields on the shoulder of moor that ripp « a^aj Z"u '^'JT""'^ P"ks- We had an^open cab! Autum?- '^ along very happily from the staton Autumn is very good to me. I think it seemed verv ten°ted V°f ."■ t.° '^" ^'y- She was more co2^ tented than I had known her for some time Her 5esh aiT^nd^f ^'.r"^ "Pi^''"'^^ and with the tresh air, and I could see, underlying the veneer of age, a youthful girlish face. The iehu .^fLil upright before usfthe hoofrw^It cliS";! the dry road; the air was keen but aot too cofd The maier put out her hand and touched my Zee with warm-gloved finger-tips. ' " ;'I am so happy Harold," she said. Im so glad," I replied. seein^°the''7,lle^7' ^°°^'-^ ? *'"' •""""^y ^'^<^^^'^' seeing the fallen leaves m the ditches, for everJ here and there instead of fir-plantation, there w^ woods of beech and birch, and the ro^d wasTor yellow and patma-tinted. Smoke went up n dI^ lars, like immaterial blue palm trees, from^he cS .-ge chimneys, fanned out high above and was Z A TALE THAT IS TOLD 818 sipated into nothingness. The lichen in the crannies of the walls, the stones of the walls even-all shared he benediction ot that late Indian summer. We left the cab at the end of the drive, and walked slowly toward the house. Florence had told uVb her last letter that Mary's youngest boy, Clouston. had joined them, and he came rushing now to mee us,^ leapt into mother's arms, almost upsetting "Oh, dear, oh, dear I" she cried. "What a bis boy you are getting to be." *• I'Look at my trousers," he interjected. Granny is hardly big enough to catch you now," mother ended. »«l7r '""'^.r''?'"' " '■"•'= ■■"* ^«^°re lunch," he told her. "We've got cold chicken." His little chin went down on his chest, and he gazed «u at her under diminutive brows. ''Isn't he like dad " I began. "Isn't he?" said mother, and then: "Oh ves— new trousers. Well, well !" . j »~ "Now I'm a man !" he announced. . i-lorence can.c hurrying from the house. She was m a pink garment— I mean as far as her upper parts-that I always describe as a sweater, though I have repeatedly been told that is not the name for It, that men wear sweaters but that the feminine of It has another name. I can never remember what tnat name is, however, so now, in concession, Flor- ence calls it nothing else but sweater when she wears one. She had on a blue skirt of the hue called, I behave, heather-mixture, and looked altogether very pretty. Behind her came Marjory in Harris tweed that was the quintessence of all the colours of r • SI6 A TALE THAT IS TOLD I IM i i.n landscape. Obviously they were setting out for a tramp. An odd thing happened to me. After our salaams were made we all moved on. Clouston's eyes were on me, noting how I stood back to let the ladies pass. Promptly he jumped to the other side of the path, deliberately imitating me; and in smiling at him they all smiled at me in a way I He stood pat there, very grave, heels together, and seemed to hold his breath. Florence gave him a serious bow; but I believe the little fellow had a faint sus- picion then that there was some levity in us regard- ing him. Marjory was behind my sister, chatting gaily to mother. \nd then — ^was it an accident? It was nothing. Her sleeve brushed the back of my hand, and for one moment all blurred — the late roses in the garden, the clumps of Michaelmas dais- ies, the path, the house. I gasped, then promptly turned to Clouston. "Come along, old chap," I said. It may only have been fancy, but it seemed to me that Marjory's back expressed — but no matter. I was no longer a boy; but I was too young to behave like an old fooL CHAPTER XLV WE had taken with us all the pictorial rep- resentations of my father for a family opi^ th. h„ t°K °".^'"'=^ '^o"'d be used in illustrating have Didcs advice, for we heard on our arrival that he had gone suddenly to London upon bu si ness, and was not yet back. But after the lamj, were lit there came the crackling of wheels on the h: ii;?""" °' '"^^ '^"- "P t° the hoLrand he tumbled in upon us, out of a dog-cart, with bulg- ing strapped suit-case and his wonted cheerfulnesi Salutations and the ephemeral gossip over, and hs i&rv' •• to'= >'^".'^''1',°;<1 giri. q-te, qui^'sS" istactory, to an inquiring lift of Marjory's brows Srnnh""''l°" t' "'''^ °^ '"'"'^'"^^ ^^ photo! graphs on the table. •To illustrate the volume of letters," I explained. Give us your opinion." H"'ncu. "Now, nobody speak!" said Florence. "Let us have his uncoggled and uninfluenced view " tion onS"'';^ *rf "^'^'l °^ '°°'''"g « the exhibi. tion on the table, lifted a finger in air and waggled it. Ma-hal' he said. ;|What is it?" asked mother. frn i'^°'^ 5'°^" ^""'"^ *"=• ='"'• fled precipitately from the room. We heard him unbuckling the straps 1; Hi 818 A TALE THAT IS TOLD of his suit-case which still lay In the hall. Back he came carrying i. portfolio of gray boards, tied with gray ribbons. He opened it, and held up for our admiration a photograph of father that I was amazed we had forgotten. To me there came sud- denly a picture of Irvine High l^treet, with the sun on the pavements, on the cobbles and on the tufts of grass thrust up raggedly between the stones. I saw the tobacconist's shop, with its bulging window like a great glass tun, or barrtl, with the staves left on; saw again the wooden effigy of the Highlander taking snuff to one side of the doorway. I seemed to hear father again studiously, meditatively, dis- cussing tobacco with the shopman, as though there were his first attempt; and in the end, I remembered, he bought a tin of the brand he usually smoked. The whole morning was reconstructed for me in Marjory's drawing-room at Gartocharn. I recalled slowly crossing the road to look in the photogra- pher s window, recalled the old portraits displayed there—of a lady smiling in a phaeton; of a gentle- man in a frock coat with chains of office round his neck; of the Burns' Statue at Ayr; of Queen Vic- toria, beaming benignly from her carriage. ^;Why!" I broke out. "That is one of the " .Jtl ^'* '*'^^" '" I"''"^'" said mother. That IS a portrait," said Dick. "And look at this one. He spread out the photographs side by side. The hrst that he thus exhibited was the original from which the clay block had been made for Mr. Smart's forgotten article on "Eminent Scottish Divines." Une of the others I likewise definitely and imme- diately recognised. Of the third I was uncertain, A TALE THAT IS TOLD 3,, _;They are wonderful," I said. SThL'e Tr'^ ^" ""^ •' 5~ -Sri' CL ** y""^* ' she murmured, and her evp« m^if.j She was mfatuated by Tom thr^ughou/hTr ifT '^'• "BufrnJ^M"^''' "'T ^^""^ London," said Dick "u '",'^"^"'8'^^ 'hem to me." How does he look?" she asked. awfJlS."'""^'°*-''^Dick. "It was an thotht' 'The 'It/ ^l* """P'^'^ -''^^ °ther what I can L.t P^°'°S'-aphs were mounted with Lh on \ '^""■'''' ^'^ ' sumptuous simplicity workoVa" Te' "•'"'"P''-^s'g"«ure, in i^K' worK ot art— like any name written by Auriol Dick saw me starmg at it: Carl Ferzon. "'' h,u ■ .^^ signature," he said. "It's worth half a gumea itself." ^"" 520 t 5- A TALE THAT IS TOLD 61 J - "Why, of course!" she ejaculated. "Then why this?" "He explained it all," said Dick, sitting down near Marjory on a settle by the fireside. "He was frank enough. He told me that with photographers, as with pianists, the mane and the name — rather difficult to say— are half the battle. He wears a French hat; he has changed his Christian name to aGerman one; and his surname to who knows what? He has hair like a golliwog. I believe it is a wig, but there it is. You have only to go into his place and you say at once : 'Obviously the business man I' He s immensrr. He is it. Gray walls, convex mir- ror, Toby-jug, stage-properties lying about that one wants to steal, and a be-oo-tiful l^.dy in the recep- tion room. But he's an artist, too. It was only by chance I got on to those things of the Old Man. There is a show on just now in Bond Street of photo- graphs. Some of them are wonderful. Steichen has a fine portrait of Gordon Craig and one of an Amer- ican, Chase, wearing eyeglasses, worth studying by a painter. I was pleased to see how high Glasgow stood. Craig Annan had one or two quiet and satis- fying things. It is sheer, genuine photography with him, of course; some other chaps get effects like brush-marks over some of their work. That man Langdon Coburn has no end of an eye for the value of Georgian pillars, and a curve in the path, and a cedar tree. And there is a thing by a man named Hoppe of a fir-b >ugh— a Japanesy sort of picture. 1 thought he only did actresses and duchesses; but that fir-bough is wonderful; and he showed also a green print of an old London cabby, or bus-driver, a change from women in pretty clothes. DaJ dom- A TALE THAT IS TOLD 321 mated the room in which he hung, though That IS the one that was on the wall," and he pointed to the one that gave the effect of a statue. "Ferzon told me that some of his early work he has never excelled. He s paymg the price of success. The day 1 went to see him " "Did he do you?" Marjory interrupted eagerly. Dick flung up his head and laughed. _ "Well, as a matter of fact he did," he replied, but I wasnt going to tell you anything about it until the proofs came. However! As I say— the day I went to see him he had been three hours photo- graphing a celebrated — er— actress." His enthusiasm suddenly ended. After firing off all his admiration like a machine-gun he stood star- ing critically at the Ferzon (or MacPherson) por- traits. I could not but note at one point, as Dick spoke, that mother looked at him a little sadly and sighed; and I hazarded a guess at the thought that occasioned the sigh; I surmised that she had noted u-u- •' ^^'^ ^°""'^ *™* *° SO to a photographic exhibition though he had been too greatly mshed to call on Tom. But the look passed from her ftce; that thought (if I have it right, and I think I have) was thrust aside and she smiled with a bright- ness of a kind that may be seen on faces of thosj growing old— a forced brightness, when they have a regret but do not voice it, realising that all may not be as they desire or hope. I had the impression that Dick had more to say, but that it was not for "' ^ I '° "^^'■- ^' ^*s "°t f'll we were going to bed that I had my suspicion proved correct. He came up to the bedroom assigned to me to see that all was comfortable, each carrying a candle in a brass 322 A TALE THAT IS TOLD '('■ • i ; ll\ candlestick. I set mine down to one side of the little walnut dressing-table; he set his down on the other side, and the central oval glass, and the small upright ones at either end, cast a haze of rings from their polished surface and their bevelled edges. "That chap Ferzon," he said. "Let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak, and the dead past bury its dead. Do you know who he is? Have you tumbled? I had not tumbled, so I shook my head. "No," I said. "Do you mean that he is not, after all, Charles MacPherson of Irvine?" Then it sud- denly dawned on me. "Whatl" I cried. "Is he Charles Pearson " "SsshI" he admonished. "There is no need to let the mater know and recall all that affair; but he is, all the same. He is the chap Victory Plant mar- ried" It was my turn to stare at him now. "Fact," he said. "And he has two amazing things of her in his show-room. I was looking at them when he came in. "That's my wife," he told me, and I bowed to her in sepia. He said that sometimes he wished he was back in the old days when his idol was Hill, and he could devote himself to gum-prints. I asked him what they were, and he showed me some. They take a devil of a time to do for a man who has a lot of money to make, it seems. While he was showing them to me he told me how he began in Irvine and then went to Glasgow. He did a bit of flattery business, of course, talked of how he wished he could devote himself to making camera-studies of such men as my esteemed father, but then, as he explained, he has a living to make. And the way he said : 'Huhl A TALE THAT IS TOT D 32» Ambition 1 would be fine on the stage. I rather liked him, struck me as being a very decent fellow interesting people human beings are, aren't they?" 'Yes," I said. ' After he had gone I undressed slowly, washed, and .ay awake a while listening to an owl hooting in the night outside. People are interesting, as Dick said, and their lives are interesting. I believe lots of folk have dreams in the back of their heads, but many leave them there. I remember hearing a man at the Glasgow Green once, when I passed, say: Christy-amty is all very well, but what I say is: Ihere is a place for everything and everything in Its place. Christy-anity should be kept in its place." U is the view of many regarding dreams and ideals. Ihey dont live with them. The dreams don't fit m, and they would not try to change the world. They accept it as it is. Going over my father's let- ters I had come to see him differently from the way r7 n™ when a boy and a young man. He lived a lite of his own in his heart, acting a part in the world. I wonder what he would have been like if he had not had his taste for whisky? Or was the whisky an effect, not a cause? I think his emotions pre often alcoholic; I think he often should have tought against things when instead he said: "Oh let s be fnends." He would make all sorts of com- promises for the sake of bonhomie. I lay musing while the owl hooted in the night and made it seem very big. I have not yet come to a decision as to how one should live. My father had the big body and the broad deportment to carry himself off grandly while compromising. He re- mamed genial to all the world, but never let the S34 A TALE THAT IS TOLD world really see him. Alone he had often v ry dif- ferent views from those he expressed in public, and in his letters to intimate friends I was struck to find how repeatedly he contradicted the public man. Even with mother he was diplomatic, much as he loved fter. He would agree when I am sure he had other opinions from those she expressed. How to live- how to live, I wondered; and fell asleep. The sun was high, twinkling in the yellowing discs of a thin- ning birch tree when I woke— to the light, and to the splendid rustling of the leaves. CHAPTER XLVI I LIKED that house of Dick's. I feel inclined to linger over it as I lingered over the indexing of my father s letters. It had once belonged to the venerable gentleman from whom I had learnt the first paces of accountancy. You will remember that Dick had often visited his painter-son on Loch Lomond-side, so he was the member of our family most at home there. He had a double interest in these former owners, having, as I have said else- where, met that son in Italy and made friends with him before discovering that there were earlier links between the families. I may mention, in passing, that I never regretted those years of which I have told, in the chartered accountant's office. I never for- got what I learnt there, and could help in auditing the books at Renfield Street, and my ledgers at Buchanan Street are as tidy as tidy. As for that house, it seemed as if the family in selling It had cast in with the actual stone-work, gardens, and fields what figures in account-makina under the entry of "intangibles." There was a knoi! close to the house (as I write I seem to be on its summit, and to hear the cocks crow across the peace- ful golden countryside) up which the boys of that tamily had made a path; and here and there, where the slope was steep, had cut steps in the soil, in some places shoring these up with a board or two. I never went there but I thought of Robinson Crusoe (even 325 326 A TALE THAT IS TOLD as a grown man I enjoy Robinson Crusoe), that part of his story where he dimmed on a hilkop and discovered a ship lying at an anchor about two leagues and a half's distance from me, south-south west, but not above a league and a half from the shore. And as that other mother had liked to climb up there and sit on a rough seat made for her, so did our mother like to do. On the Sunday afternoon as we sat there among the scattered firs, enjoying their stately branches against the sky, and the rich-coloured view, my mind went wandering off, thinking of the old stories of that countryside. "My old accountant has gone to his long home, md his wife, too, and the family is scattered," I thought, "and here rre we enjoying the place as they made it, touching something of their spirit dwelling here too." Dick and I carried tea up to the women-folk there, and I tramped up and down the path lost in thought, or reverie. I recalled the boy that had been I, poring over Rob- tnson Crusoe and, with a little step-ladder, climbing to die top of a chest of drawers, then drawing the ladder up after him, in imitation of Crusoe's way. I pictured Irvine, far south, beyond the twist of the Clyde and down the Ayrshire coast, saw the High Street and the wharf-front stores with the oilskin coats hanging in bunches at the doors, recalled the very tang of the days there, saw the fuschias like little purple lamps in Marjdry's old garden, saw her there again, and remembered arranging her lace-fall. So I came to the top of the knoll and set down at her feet the tea-things. Below us, where the wind blew, beech leaves went m streamers from the trees. I slipped my fingen A TALE THAT IS TOLD ^327 into my waistcoat pocket and felt a duodecimo Virml taineJ young Richard thusl- ^ '^' '"'"• "When the wind ceases The cradle will fall, Down will come baby, Cra-dle and all!" "Wrong hymn I" said Dick. Wrong song I" said Marjory. Wrong tune!" said mother. Wrong words !" said I f he remembered the goloshes she had7o wear whet "I remember them, too," I said "T rp™-..„k wa??fetTrst' '''}T i' ''^y^^ '^^^ U pat in rh. ,^ '^'" ^"'"J^'T'- ^ ""^'h slayed pat m the doorway mstead of going down to meet "There was a fond admirer I" she ejaculated, SfS A TALE THAT IS TOLD laughing, and next moment bit her lip, I suppose because my absurdly transparent face had shown something to her. We all helped the maid to carry the tea-things away again, and sat down beside the house to chat- ter. Mother having left us to go indoors, lest the damp of the lawn might affect her rheumatism, I followed to see that she was comfortable, after strolling round the garden, blowing smoke into a late rose or two, which made the little flies run out. Little Clouston was much amused by my entertain- ment, and followed me like a kitten from bush to ''»?'>. Then we went indoors together. All was quiet within. The hall was an arrangement of space and doors, like a Hammershoi picture. The boy seemed impressed by the hush and kept by my side, big^yed. We peeped into the sitting-room, and there in a big chair was mother. She had fallen asleep. Her hands lay in her lap, palms upward, and her head had fallen to one side. I stood and looked at her. The engagement and wedding rings on her finger were a spot of light. I never see any one asleep but somehow I feel the pathetic in life. Perhaps this is mock-sentiment? I do not know, i thought that I would do anything for her, even ii she asked for something contrary to my deepest be- liefs. It was very quiet The dodc went tick-tock, tick-tock. Suddenly she stirred, opened her eyes, and said: "Hallo, you two! I've been asleep!" J put all this down because I felt deeply then. It is mo- ments like that have made me what I am; and though these are memoirs of my family, I must try to tell of myself, too. She closed her eyes again, and we tiptoed away. Once out of the house. Clous- A TALE THAT TS TOLD 889 ton rushed round to where the others were still sit- "Granny's sleeping!" he told them. It was an impressive incident to him. CHAPTER XLVII 11 I k •A n FROM Gartocham I posted to Paramount the portraits that, between us, we selected as best for the volume; and those two of Ferzon's were of the number. The proofs began to come very quiddy, and the letters were published just before Christmas of that year. Two handsome volumes they were. Instead of Christmas cards, mother sent copies to many people in her large circle of friends. I subscribed to a press-cutting agency so as to see the reviews, and all that had anything chilly in them mother never saw ; these, however, were few. Every morning two or tL.ee eulogies of the Old Man, with words of praise for the editor— some remembering to thank for the "excellent indices"— were on her plate to begin the day for her with pleasure. Tom wrote to say that they had sold many copies on their hrni. In the middle of February I wrote to ask Mr. Paramount how the sales had gone. I received the following letter from him: — "Dear Grey,— In reply to your letter I am glad to be able to tell you that the book exceeded my hopes financially. I have sold 1,701 copies to date. 1 admit that the sales are now falling off, but there are sure to be a few odd sales still, and that will bnng them up to an amount that will show if not a profit, that at least the book has paid ite way I 330 '' iiiii A TALE THAT IS TOLD 331 ITt'S " 4? P°""k? '^°''' ^"^ ^' ^'" '^y nothing of that. The gamble was mine. Had there been a profit you would have shared. The author is not iin.1hf^ Ttf ^'^'"'- ^'?^y '''' « -y "'«■ ^o trif! img that I have a suggestion to make to you. Surelv you must have by you some of your eminent father's addresses and sermons. If they were published they would revive interest in the letters, and I believe the balance of the odd copies would be sold off To fheZt~^° have such a book on my list among the more serious volumes is, if not necessarily a great financial matter, excellent from the point of view of kudos. On this book I would be prepared to pay a royalty of 5% (five per cent.) after the saVof the first 1,000 (one thousand) copies, as tie ex- penses of production will be less, of course, than on a two-volume book. I can see a volume, bound uni" oeZLK^V^' ''"^T- ^".^ ^'''^ ^ frUispiece- perhaps by Ferzon My reader, nephew of the Duke of t)ussex, with whom I have discussed the idea is eager for me to write to you. "Yours very sincerely, "John Paramount." Here was another piece of work for me for the V\nrT\ ^^'I '''"! •'"°'' ''''PPi""* for mother. Florence helped much m the copying of the sermons and lectures, for we thought it advisable, just in case of any miscarriage in the post, to have duplicates OldLn ^' seemed quietly happy over her labours. Old man Simson, who had come out of the past with his foolish smile and painful air, half-unctuous, ha^f as though ashamed of himself, did not return. Per- haps he had written to Florence at Cairo and had S8S A TALE THAT IS TOLD received no reply. Perhaps Florence had told moth- ^n^""' *1 ^T^^'"" ■"?• °' *° ^'■'=«<= ''™ away, and mother had succumbed. Perhaps, even mother had realised her own folly and, amending, had frozen him unasked. She could be frigid with peo- ple, or maybe he realised that he was making an ass of himself and simply retired. At any rate, comet- like as he had come, comet-like he went— out of our , i^"^°^ him recalls that terrible day of Flor- ences breakdown; and memory of her cry on that one day in fFho's Who when I was looking for the address of a man to whom I wished one of my cata- logues to be sent. "Neil, Arthur Steuart," caught my eye. I did not know of the "Steuart" and read on to see if the entry was of our Neil. Obviously It was by the evidence, not only of "educ. Aberdeen Univs., but of "asst. ed. Glasgow Evening " and other early details. I followed his career with interest on the page of that fat volume, noted that he was m married) and had "one i" and "one d and two dubs. Fw long it seemed since I had p '/'if 'c'''' T"l"8 '^''h ''™ °" the pavement of Renfield Street I I wondered if Florence knew of his life, wondered what thought she had, looking back on him. I do not think he was ever good enough for her. It ^ .. fine to see her eagerly at work over these manuscripts, fine to see her easy car- riage and the jolly fulness of her cheeks, and their colour. The work went on apace; but mother did not live to see the publication of Addresses and Ser. mons. 1 he condition of her heart had been giving us increasing anxiety, and we had impressed upon her the necessity of not running upstairs, at her age. A TALE THAT IS TOLD SSS It IS difficult to curb temperament, and though the stately was her usual manner, she was often very girlish at home, despite her years. It was in her nature, if she wanted anything, ^o jump up and eo running for it. ' ^ r e While going over father's manuscripts, she must have suddenly remembered a little carrier of water- proof silk in which he was 'wont to carry some ser- mons when going on a visit anywhere for any length of time, lest he might be asked to take a service ^71"'%^"''"/''^ '?' '•'' "> drawing-room, had left her there for a few minutes, and, hearing the sound of a fall, ran back, only to find the little table strewn with manuscripts, but the chair in which mother had been sitting put back, and she gone from the room So my sister hastened upstairs. Mother had climbed on a stool to lit down from a shelf in her bedroom an old box and had then apparently collapsed. By the time Florence reached her she was in the article of death. When I came home I felt something in the air, as It were, that flustered me for a moment, and then made me take a calm hold on myself, for it was strong on me— I suppose in some telepathic way— that control would be necessary. The place was so still that I called: "Is noboj in?" Thenlsaw Florence on the stairs. "What is it?" I said sharply. She looked me in the eyes. "Nol" I cried out. lesf '*'"*' her lips, but with her eyes large and tear- "Yes," she said. "When?" I asked. 384 A TALE THAT IS TOLD m I*' As Florence turned to mount the stairs again, in a word or two I cannot recall now, she told me all, and how mother passed before the doctor arrived. I found myself in the bedroom where she lay, and seeing her face I had — I might abnost say the con- viction; I might almost say the knowler'^e — the be- lief that all was well, with father, w.,:h he.-, and with all of us. Age was obliterated on her face, and what I thought, standing there, was of that "peace of Gof' -vhich passeth understanding." My sister's hand slipped into mine. I took it and pressed it, feeling old. EPILOGUE not live into L wTr yea^s ""tJ '^tu'' ^'"= ^^ to have seen the ZJZ f ^1"',°"''^ ''^^^ "''ed «i"- . . .There isT.H '"''"'' ''•'™°"«. ^ut Tom and John c^Jfun t^fr '^ ''''f " '''= '°«^ h"- ^ndi Xr„'£?p-' » SCO,;:; ..t It may be recalled that while father w,. r had a parlour-maid called mLt ' """' ^^ us to g^t married We had fe^^ • ""°i[' '^'"' '^^* and at this period after mlh^^V" '""''' ^"'' l'". the deeper my tet £„^h J. ^ '"*' ""'"^ ''^"V !«<> we know'. sheSed o u, ot S'To °' ""^ "'^ oo5 3S6 A TALE THAT IS TOLD m i of. It was obvious that she must come back to us m her old capacity; and as the servant we had then. in the smaller house to which Florence and I had removed, was constantly being censured for feedina her family on the shoulders of mutton carried away trom table, and was very hoity-toity about what she considered to be meanness on our part when we dis- covered this, and reprimanded her, and further, as half a fowl went up the area steps under Florence's '\°^\^^^\''^eht—sht was dismissed. Mary Lennox (or MacArthur— that was her married name), came to reign in her stead. This is no mere figure of speech. Mary treats us as if we were a kind of superior vassals; we fall in with her views, and are all very comfortable together. I said at the beginning that this was partly a "slice of life," partly a "case." I have said that I, too! was a case. So much interested in all the others, lookmg on at them, wondering about them, I find my own life has drifted along. Nowadays, especially m nd when I could well wear that old ring I have told of-and I wear it not at aU. I have gone far beyond mood. It does not matter to me that I have heard at third hand that Tom calls us "The brother and sister Sterility." I only wish people would not repeat remarks like this to those thus commented upon. The world is such a splendid place that I cannot understand any one ever rising up to fight except against two evils, inhumanity and .njusfce. I may be a "dry old stick" in my ex7erior, but in^my heart is always the wonder at life, the eethmg, having scariet fever, courting • music, "'-"" ' — "■ • . -^' tening i , playing at golf, going to the dentist, A TALE THAT IS TOLD 837 bottles of hair-tonic. I think I become like Z You don't want to bo alone?" »»,. i j ■ng^away to a.ange so.«: fc^ o^'L^t^'oJr; "Damn it, no!" I said. l'° ^""^\°f 'he impression I hafe as of r„e fnd i Ah r'^ ' ^"i'"S i" them of going home lire. wS:Lrd"'^* "^ ''"" ^^' ' '" - ing to sleeo out P T^"-^ ""^ """^ "">• to hav- 338 A TALE THAT IS TOLD On the bridge we paused. I remembered that drive from the station years ago, when the streets wiggled m and out of the frame of the hotel-brake J *""• Jr^^ pavements and the streets were all bone dry. The lights in the windows shone bright. The faces of the passers-by were indistinct. Suddenly there came dropping down on us the boom of a bell striking the hour. It moved me. I did not con- sider why; I did not want to analyse anything We peered down at the river. It was all dark; if it had not been for the reHection of lights from house- windows, the water might not have been there save for an occasional plip-plop and a sucking sound. How queer to think," said Florence, "that a hun- dred years hence it will still be flowing past." "It is a thought," I replied, "that crosses many people s minds." We moved on. Just beyond the bridge we saw a little furniture shop; and turning our heads at- tracted by the light of the window, beheld a picture of ourselves in miniature, walking along, in a convex mirror. It hangs now above the desk in my shop where much of this book has been written (for I have carried the manuscript to and fro with me every day) ; and sometimes I.turn to look up at it and muse for minutes on end. It is a little tilted to show the street. It gathers the shop and the door- way, the sunhght on the pavement and the people drifting past, into its peaceful circle. that eets ■ake lone rhe :nly >ell, We f it my at- jre 'ex op