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Paul Kelver 
 
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 Paul K e 1 V e r 
 
 By 
 
 JEROME K. JEROME 
 
 Author of *' Second Thoughts of 
 
 an Idle Fellow," " Three 
 
 Men on Wheels," 
 
 etc. 
 
 New York 
 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 
 1902 
 
Copyright, 1902, 
 By Jerome K. Jerome. 
 
 Copyright, 1902, 
 By DoDD, Mead & Company. 
 
 First Edition published September, 1902. 
 
CONTE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prologue li 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. Paul, Arrived in a Strange Land, learns 
 MANY Things, and goes to meet the 
 
 Man in Grey 9 
 
 II. In which Paul makes Acquaintance of 
 
 THE Man with the Ugly Mouth 29 
 
 III. How Good Luck Knocked at the Door of 
 
 THE Man in Grey 43 
 
 IV. Paul, falling in with a Goodly Company 
 
 OF Pilgrims, learns of them the Road 
 
 THAT HE must TrAVEL, AND MeETS THE 
 
 Princess of the Golden Locks 61 
 
 V. In which there Comes by One bent upon 
 
 Pursuing his own Way 'j'j 
 
 VI. Of the Shadow that came between the 
 Man in Grey and the Lady of the 
 
 Love-lit Eyes 92 
 
 VII. Of the Passing of the Shadow 108 
 
 VIII. How THE Man in Grey made ready for 
 
 HIS Going 126 
 
 IX. Of the Fashioning of Paul 148 
 
 X. In which Paul is Shipwrecked, and cast 
 
 into Deep Waters 167 
 
 953909 
 
iv Contents. 
 
 BOOK 11. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Describes the Desert Island to which 
 
 Paul was Drifted 190 
 
 II. Paul, Escaping from his Solitude, Falls 
 INTO Strange Company, and becomes 
 Captive to one of Haughty Mien 212 
 
 III. Good Friends show Paul the Road to 
 
 Freedom. But before setting out, he 
 WILL GO A- Visiting 241 
 
 IV. Leads to a Meeting 267 
 
 V. How ON A Sweet Grey Morning the Fu- 
 ture CAME TO Paul 285 
 
 VI. Of the Glory and Goodness and the Evil 
 
 THAT GO TO THE MaKING OF LoVE 3II 
 
 VII. How Paul set forth upon a Quest 333 
 
 VIII. And how came back Again 365 
 
 IX. The Princess of the Golden Locks sends 
 
 Paul a Ring 382 
 
 X. Paul finds his Way 405 
 
Paul Kelver 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 IN WHICH THE AUTHOR SEEKS TO CAST THE RESPONSI- 
 BILITY OF THIS STORY UPON ANOTHER. 
 
 At the corner of a long, straight, brick-built street in 
 the far East End of London — one of those lifeless streets, 
 made of two drab walls upon which the level lines, 
 formed by the precisely even window-sills and doorsteps, 
 stretch in weary perspective from end to end, suggest- 
 ing petrified diagrams proving dead problems — stands a 
 house that ever draws me to it ; so that often, when least 
 conscious of my footsteps, I awake to fmd myself hurry- 
 ing through noisy, crowded thoroughfares, where flaring 
 naphtha lamps illumine fierce, patient, leaden-coloured 
 faces; through dim-lit, empty streets, where monstrous 
 shadows come and go upon the close-drawn blinds; 
 through narrow, noisome streets, where the gutters 
 swarm with children, and each ever-open doorway 
 vomits riot ; past reeking corners, and across waste places, 
 till at last I reach the dreary goal of my memory-driven 
 desire, and, coming to a halt beside the broken railings, 
 find rest. 
 
 The house, larger than its fellows, built when the street 
 was still a country lane, edging the marshes, strikes a 
 strange note of individuality amid the surrounding har- 
 mony of hideousness. It is encompassed on two sides 
 by what was once a garden, though now but a barren 
 
2i '.< ' IPaul Kelver 
 
 p'atcii'O'r' sioiiis itrid'dust where clothes — it is odd any- 
 one should have thought of washing — hang in perpetu- 
 ity; while about the door continue the remnants of a 
 porch, which the stucco falling has left exposed in all its 
 naked insincerity. 
 
 Occasionally I drift hitherward in the day time, when 
 slatternly women gossip round the area gates, and the 
 silence is broken by the hoarse, wailing cry of "Coals — 
 any coals — three and sixpence a sack — co-o-o-als!" 
 chanted in a tone that absence of response has stamped 
 with chronic melancholy; but then the street knows me 
 not, and my old friend of the corner, ashamed of its shab- 
 biness in the unpitying sunlight, turns its face away, and 
 will not see me as I pass. 
 
 Not until the Night, merciful alone of all things to the 
 ugly, draws her veil across its sordid features will it, as 
 some fond old nurse, sought out in after years, open wide 
 its arms to welcome me. Then the teeming life it now 
 shelters, hushed for a time within its walls, the flicker- 
 ing flare from the "King of Prussia" opposite extin- 
 guished, will it talk with me of the past, asking me many 
 questions, reminding me of many things I had forgotten. 
 Then into the silent street come the well-remembered 
 footsteps; in and out the creaking gate pass, not seeing 
 me, the well-remembered faces; and we talk concerning 
 them ; as two cronies, turning the torn leaves of some old 
 album where lie faded portraits in forgotten fashions, 
 speak together in low tones of those now dead or scat- 
 tered, with now a smile and now a sigh, and many an 
 "Ah me r or "Dear, dear r 
 
 This bent, worn man, coming towards us with quick, 
 impatient steps, which yet cease every fifty yards or so, 
 while he pauses, leaning heavily upon his high Malacca 
 cane: "It is a handsome face, is it not?" I ask, as I gaze 
 upon it, shadow framed. 
 
 "Aye, handsome enough," answers the old House; 
 "and handsomer still it must have been before you and 
 
Prologue 3 
 
 I knew it, before mean care had furrowed it with fretful 
 Hnes." 
 
 "I never could make out," continues the old House, 
 musingly, "whom you took after; for they were a hand- 
 some pair, your father and your mother, though Lord! 
 what a couple of children!" 
 
 "Children !" I say in surprise, for my father must have 
 been past five and thirty before the House could have 
 known him, and my mother's face is very close to mine, 
 in the darkness, so that I see the many grey hairs min- 
 gling with the bonny brown. 
 
 "Children," repeats the old House, irritably, so it seems 
 to me, not liking, perhaps,' its opinions questioned, a fail- 
 ing common to old folk; "the most helpless pair of chil- 
 dren I ever set eyes upon. Who but a child, I should like 
 to know, would have conceived the notion of repairing his 
 fortune by becoming a solicitor at thirty-eight, or, having 
 conceived such a notion, would have selected the out- 
 skirts of Poplar as a likely centre in which to put up his 
 door-plate ?" 
 
 "It was considered to be a rising neighbourhood," I 
 reply, a little resentful. No son cares to hear the family 
 wisdom criticised, even though at the bottom of his heart 
 he may be in agreement with the critic. "All sorts and 
 conditions of men, whose affairs were in connection with 
 the sea would, it was thought, come to reside hereabout, 
 so as to be near to the new docks; and had they, it is 
 not unreasonable to suppose they would have quarrelled 
 and disputed with one another, much to the advantage of 
 a cute solicitor, convenient to their hand." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense," retorts the old House, shortly; 
 "why, the mere smell of the place would have been suf- 
 ficient to keep a sensible man away. And" — the grim 
 brick face before me twists itself into a goblin smile — "he, 
 of all men in the world, as 'the cute solicitor,' giving ad- 
 vice to shady clients, eager to get out of trouble by the 
 shortest way, can you fancy it! he who for two years 
 
4 Paul Kelver 
 
 starved himself, living on five shillings a week — that was 
 before you came to London, when he was here alone. 
 Even your mother knew nothing of it till years after- 
 wards — so that no man should be a penny the poorer for 
 having trusted his good name. Do you think the crew 
 of chandlers and brokers, dock hustlers and freight 
 wreckers would have found him a useful man of business, 
 even had they come to settle here ?" 
 
 I have no answer; nor does the old House wait for 
 any, but talks on. 
 
 "And your mother! would any but a child have taken 
 that soft-tongued wanton to her bosom, and not have seen 
 through acting so transparent? Would any but the veri- 
 est child that never ought to have been let out into the 
 world by itself have thought to dree her weird in such 
 folly ? Children ! poor babies they were, both of them." 
 
 "Tell me," I say — for at such times all my stock of 
 common sense is not sufficient to convince me that the 
 old House is but clay. From its walls so full of voices, 
 from its floors so thick with footsteps, surely it has 
 learned to live ; as a violin, long played on, comes to learn 
 at last a music of its own. "Tell me, I was but a child to 
 whom life speaks in a strange tongue, was there any truth 
 in the story?" 
 
 "Truth !" snaps out the old House ; "just truth enough 
 to plant a lie upon ; and Lord knows not much ground is 
 needed for that weed. I saw what I saw, and I know what 
 I know. Your mother had a good man, and your father a 
 true wife, but it was the old story : a man's way is not a 
 woman's way, and a woman's way is not a man's way, so 
 there lives ever doubt between them." 
 
 "But they came together in the end," I say, remember- 
 ing. 
 
 "Aye, in the end," answers the House. "That is when 
 you begin to understand, you men and women, when you 
 come to the end." 
 
 The grave face of a not too recently washed angel 
 
Prologue 5 
 
 peeps shyly at me through the raiUngs, then, as I turn my 
 head, darts back and disappears. 
 
 ''What has become of her?" I ask. 
 
 ''She? Oh, she is well enough," replies the House. 
 "She lives close here. You must have passed the shop. 
 You might have seen her had you looked in. She weighs 
 fourteen stone, about ; and has nine children living. She 
 would be pleased to see you." 
 
 "Thank you," I say, with a laugh that is not wholly a 
 laugh ; "I do not think I will call." But I still hear the 
 pit-pat of her tiny feet, dying down the long street. 
 
 The faces thicken round me. A large looming, rubi- 
 cund visage smiles kindly on me, bringing back into my 
 heart the old, odd mingling of instinctive liking held in 
 check by conscientious disapproval. I turn from it, and 
 see a massive, clean-shaven face, with the ugliest mouth 
 and the loveliest eyes I ever have known in a man. 
 
 "Was he as bad, do you think, as they said ?" I ask of 
 my ancient friend. 
 
 "Shouldn't wonder," the old House answers. "I never 
 knew a worse — ^nor a better." 
 
 The wind whisks it aside, leaving to view a little old 
 woman, hobbling nimbly by aid of a stick. Three cork- 
 screw curls each side of her head bob with each step she 
 takes, and as she draws near to me, making the most 
 alarming grimaces, I hear her whisper, as though con- 
 fiding to herself some fascinating secret, "I'd like to skin 
 'em. I'd like to skin 'em all. I'd like to skin 'em all 
 alive!" 
 
 It sounds a fiendish sentiment, yet I only laugh, and 
 the little old lady, with a final facial contortion surpassing 
 all dreams, limps beyond my ken. 
 
 Then, as though choosing contrasts, follows a fair, 
 laughing face. I saw it in the life only a few hours ago — 
 at least, not it, but the poor daub that Evil has painted 
 over it, hating the sweetness underlying. And as I stand 
 gazing at it, wishing it were of the dead who change not. 
 
6 Paul Kelver 
 
 there drifts back from the shadows that other face, the 
 one of the wicked mouth and the tender eyes, so that I 
 stand again helpless between the two I loved so well, he 
 from whom I learned my first steps in manhood, she 
 from whom I caught my first glimpse of the beauty and 
 the mystery of woman. And again the cry rises from my 
 heart, "Whose fault was it — yours or hers?" And again 
 I hear his mocking laugh as he answers, "Whose fault? 
 God made us." And thinking of her and of the love I 
 bore her, which was as the love of a young pilgrim to a 
 saint, it comes into my blood to hate him. But when I 
 look into his eyes and see the pain that lives there, my 
 pity grows stronger than my misery, and I can only echo 
 his words, "God made us." 
 
 Merry faces and sad, fair faces and foul, they ride 
 upon the wind; but the centre round which they circle 
 remains always the one : a little lad with golden curls 
 more suitable to a girl than to a boy, with shy, awkward 
 ways and a silent tongue, and a grave, old-fashioned face. 
 
 And, turning from him to my old brick friend, I ask: 
 "Would he know me, could he see me, do you think?" 
 
 "How should he," answers the old House, "you are so 
 different to what he would expect. Would you recognise 
 your own ghost, think you ?" 
 
 "It is sad to think he would not recognise me," I say. 
 
 "It might be sadder if he did," grumbles the old 
 House. 
 
 We both remained silent for awhile; but I know of 
 what the old House is thinking. Soon it speaks as I ex- 
 pected. 
 
 "You — writer of stories, why don't you write a book 
 about him? There is something that you know." 
 
 It is the favourite theme of the old House. I never 
 visit it but it suggests to me this idea. 
 
 "But he has done nothing?" I say. 
 
 "He has lived," answers the old House. "Is not that 
 enough ?" 
 
Prologue 7 
 
 "Aye, but only in London in these prosaic modern 
 times," I persist. "How of such can one make a story 
 that shall interest the people ?" 
 
 The old House waxes impatient of me. 
 
 " The people !' " it retorts, "what are you all but chil- 
 dren in a dim-lit room, waiting until one by one you are 
 called out to sleep. And one mounts upon a stool and 
 tells a tale to the others who have gathered round. Who 
 shall say what will please them, what will not." 
 
 Returning home with musing footsteps through the 
 softly breathing streets, I ponder the words of the old 
 House. Is it but as some foolish mother thinking all the 
 world interested in her child, or may there lie wisdom 
 in its counsel? Then to my guidance or misguidance 
 comes the thought of a certain small section of the Public 
 who often of an evening commands of me a story; and 
 who, when I have told her of the dreadful giants and of 
 the gallant youths who slay them, of the wood-cutter's 
 sons who rescue maidens from Ogre-guarded castles ; of 
 the Princesses the most beautiful in all the world, of the 
 Princes with magic swords, still unsatisfied, creeps closer 
 yet, saying: "Now tell me a real story," adding for my 
 comprehending : "You know : about a little girl who lived 
 in a big house with her father and mother, and who was 
 sometimes naughty, you know." 
 
 So perhaps among the many there may be some who 
 for a moment will turn aside from tales of haughty 
 Heroes, ruffling it in Court and Camp, to listen to the 
 story of a very ordinary lad who lived with very ordinary 
 folk in a modern London street, and who grew up to be 
 a very ordinary sort of man, loving a little and grieving a 
 little, helping a few and harming a few, struggling and 
 failing and hoping; and if any such there be, let them 
 come round me. 
 
 But let not those who come to me grow indignant as 
 they listen, saying: "This rascal tells us but a humdrum 
 story, where nothing is as it should be ;" for I warn all be- 
 
8 Paul Kelver 
 
 forehand that I tell but of things that I have seen. My 
 villains, I fear, are but poor sinners, not altogether bad; 
 and my good men but sorry saints. My princes do not 
 always slay their dragons; alas, sometimes, the dragon 
 eats the prince. The wicked fairies often prove more 
 powerful than the good. The magic thread leads some- 
 times wrong, and even the hero is not always brave and 
 true. 
 
 So let those come round me only who will be content 
 to hear but their own story, told by another, saying as 
 they listen, "So dreamt I. Ah, yes, that is true, I re- 
 member." 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAUL, ARRIVED IN A STRANGE LAND, LEARNS MANY 
 THINGS, AND GOES TO MEET THE MAN IN GREY. 
 
 Fate intended me for a singularly fortunate man. 
 Properly, I ought to have been born in June, which being, 
 as is well known, the luckiest month in all the year for 
 such events, should, by thoughtful parents, be more gen- 
 erally selected. How it was I came to be born in May, 
 which is, on the other hand, of all the twelve the most 
 unlucky, as I have proved, I leave to those more conver- 
 sant with the subject to explain. An early nurse, the 
 first human being of whom I have any distinct recollec- 
 tion, unhesitatingly attributed the unfortunate fact to my 
 natural impatience; which quality she at the same time 
 predicted would lead me into even greater trouble, a 
 prophecy impressed by future events with the stamp of 
 prescience. It was from this same bony lady that I like- 
 wise learned the manner of my coming. It seems that I 
 arrived, quite unexpectedly, two hours after news had 
 reached the house of the ruin of my father's mines 
 through inundation; misfortunes, as it was expounded to 
 me, never coming singly in this world to any one. That 
 all things might be of a piece, my poor mother, attempt- 
 ing to reach the bell, fell against and broke the cheval- 
 glass, thus further saddening herself with the conviction 
 — for no amount of reasoning ever succeeded in purging 
 her Welsh blood of its natural superstition — that whatever 
 might be the result of future battles with my evil star, the 
 first seven years of my existence had been, by her act, 
 doomed to disaster. 
 
lo Paul Kelvei 
 
 "And I must confess," added the knobbly Mrs. Fursey, 
 with a sigh, "it does look as though there must be some 
 truth in the saying, after all." 
 
 "Then ain't I a lucky little boy?" I asked. For hither- 
 to it had been Mrs. Fursey's method to impress upon me 
 my exceptional good fortune. That I could and did, 
 involuntarily, retire to bed at six, while less happily 
 placed children were deprived of their natural rest until 
 eight or nine o'clock, had always been held up to me as an 
 astounding piece of luck. Some little boys had not a bed 
 at all; for the which, in my more riotous moments, I 
 envied them. Again, that at the first sign of a cold it 
 became my unavoidable privilege to lunch off linseed 
 gruel and sup off brimstone and treacle — a compound 
 named with deliberate intent to deceive the innocent, the 
 treacle, so far as taste is concerned, being wickedly sub- 
 ordinated to the brimstone — was another example of 
 Fortune's favouritism : other little boys were so astound- 
 ingly unlucky as to be left alone when they felt ill. If 
 further proof were needed to convince that I had been 
 signalled out by Providence as its especial protege, there 
 remained always the circumstance that I possessed Mrs. 
 Fursey for my nurse. The suggestion that I was not al- 
 together the luckiest of children was a new departure. 
 
 The good dame evidently perceived her error, and 
 made haste to correct it. 
 
 "Oh, you! You are lucky enough," she replied; "I 
 was thinking of your poor mother." 
 
 "Isn't mamma lucky?" 
 
 "Well, she hasn't been too lucky since you came." 
 
 "Wasn't it lucky, her having me?" 
 
 "I can't say it was, at that particular time." 
 
 "Didn't she want me?" 
 
 Mrs. Fursey was one of those well-meaning persons 
 who are of opinion that the only reasonable attitude of 
 childhood should be that of perpetual apology for its 
 existence. 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey 1 1 
 
 "Well, I daresay she could have done without you," 
 was the answer. 
 
 I can see the picture plainly still. I am sitting on a 
 low chair before the nursery fire, one knee supported in 
 my locked hands, meanwhile Mrs. Fursey's needle grate'; 
 with monotonous regularity against her thimble. At that 
 moment knocked at my small soul for the first time the 
 problem of life. 
 
 Suddenly, without moving, I said : 
 
 ''Then why did she take me in?" 
 
 The rasping click of the needle on the thimble ceased 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Took you in ! What's the child talking about ? Who's 
 took you in?" 
 
 "Why, mamma. If she didn't want me, why did she 
 take me in?" 
 
 But even while, with heart full of dignified resentment, 
 I propounded this, as I proudly felt, logically unanswer- 
 able question, I was glad that she had. The vision of my 
 being refused at the bedroom window presented itself to 
 my imagination. I saw the stork, perplexed and an- 
 noyed, looking as I had sometimes seen Tom Pinfold look 
 when the fish he had been holding out by the tail had been 
 sniffed at by Anna, and the kitchen door shut in his face. 
 Would the stork also have gone away thoughtfully 
 scratching his head with one of those long, compass-like 
 legs of his, and muttering to himself. And here, inci- 
 dentally, I fell a-wondering how the stork had carried 
 me. In the garden I had often watched a blackbird carry- 
 ing a worm, and the worm, though no doubt really safe 
 enough, had always appeared to me nervous and uncom- 
 fortable. Had I wriggled and squirmed in like fashion? 
 And where would the stork have taken me to then ? Pos- 
 sibly to Mrs. Fursey's : their cottage was the nearest. 
 But I felt sure Mrs. Fursey would not have taken me in ; 
 and next to them, at the first house in the village, lived 
 Mr. Chumdley, the cobbler, who was lame, and who sat 
 
12 Paul Kelver 
 
 all day hammering boots with very dirty hands, in a little 
 cave half under the ground, his whole appearance sug- 
 gesting a poor-spirited ogre. I should have hated being 
 his little boy. Possibly nobody would have taken me in. 
 I grew pensive, thinking of myself as the rejected of all 
 the village. What would the stork have done with me, 
 left on his hands, so to speak. The reflection prompted a 
 fresh question. 
 
 "Nurse, where did I come from?" 
 
 "Why, I've told you often. The stork brought you." 
 
 "Yes, I know. But where did the stork get me from ?" 
 
 Mrs. Fursey paused for quite a long while before reply- 
 ing. Possibly she was reflecting whether such answer 
 might not make me unduly conceited. Eventually she 
 must have decided to run that risk; other opportunities 
 could be relied upon for neutralising the effect. 
 
 "Oh, from Heaven." 
 
 "But I thought Heaven was a place where you went 
 to," I answered ; "not where you comed from." I know 
 I said "comed," for I remember that at this period my 
 irregular verbs wxre a bewildering anxiety to my poor 
 mother. "Comed" and "goned," which I had worked out 
 for myself, were particular favourites of mine. 
 
 Mrs. Fursey passed over my grammar in dignified 
 silence. She had been pointedly requested not to trouble 
 herself with that part of my education, my mother hold- 
 ing that diverging opinions upon the same subject only 
 confused a child. 
 
 "You came from Heaven," repeated Mrs. Fursey, "and 
 you'll go to Heaven — if you're good." 
 
 "Do all little boys and girls come from Heaven ?" 
 
 "So they say." Mrs. Fursey's tone implied that she 
 was stating what might possibly be but a popular fallacy, 
 for which she individually took no responsibility. 
 
 "And did you come from Heaven, Mrs. Fursey ?" Mrs. 
 Fursey's reply to this was decidedly more emphatic. 
 
 "Of course I did. Where do you think I came from?" 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey i 3 
 
 At once, I am ashamed to say, Heaven lost its exalted 
 position in my eyes. Even before this, it had puzzled me 
 that everybody I knew should be going there — for so I 
 was always assured ; now, connected as it appeared to be 
 with the origin of Mrs. Fursey, much of its charm disap- 
 peared. 
 
 But this was not all. Mrs. Fursey's information had 
 suggested to me a fresh grief. I stopped not to console 
 myself with the reflection that my fate had been but the 
 fate of all little boys and girls. With a child's egoism I 
 seized only upon my own particular case. 
 
 "Didn't they want me in Heaven then, either?" I 
 asked. ''Weren't they fond of me up there?" 
 
 The misery in my voice must have penetrated even 
 Mrs. Fursey's bosom, for she answered more sympathet- 
 ically than usual. 
 
 "Oh, they liked you well enough, I daresay. I like 
 you, but I Hke to get rid of you sometimes." There 
 could be no doubt as to this last. Even at the time, I often 
 doubted whether that six o'clock bedtime was not occa- 
 sionally half-past five. 
 
 The answer comforted me not. It remained clear that 
 I was not wanted either in Heaven nor upon the earth. 
 God did not want me. He was glad to get rid of me. 
 My mother did not want me. She could have done with- 
 out me. Nobody wanted me. Why was I here ? 
 
 And then, as the sudden opening and shutting of the 
 door of a dark room, came into my childish brain the 
 feeling that Something, somewhere, must have need of 
 me, or I could not be. Something I felt I belonged to and 
 that belonged to me. Something that was as much a part 
 of me as I of It. The feeling came back to me more 
 than once during my childhood, though I could never put 
 it into words. Years later the son of the Portuguese Jew 
 explained to me my thought. But all that I myself could 
 have told was that in that moment I knew for the first 
 time that I lived, that I was I. 
 
14 Paul Kelver 
 
 The next instant all was dark again, and I once more 
 a puzzled little boy, sitting by a nursery fire, asking of a 
 village dame questions concerning life. 
 
 Suddenly a new thought came to me, or rather the 
 recollection of an old. 
 
 "Nurse, why haven't we got a husband ?'' 
 
 Mrs. Fursey left off her sewing, and stared at me. 
 
 "What maggot has the child got into its head now?" 
 was her observation ; "who hasn't got a husband ?" 
 
 "Why, mamma." 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense. Master Paul; you know your 
 mamma has got a husband." 
 
 "No, she ain't." 
 
 "And don't contradict. Your mamma's husband is your 
 papa, who lives in London." 
 
 "What's the good of himT 
 
 Mrs. Fursey's reply appeared to me to be unnecessarily 
 vehement. 
 
 "You wicked child, you ; where's your commandments ? 
 Your father is in London working hard to earn money to 
 keep you in idleness, and you sit there and say 'What's 
 the good of him !' I'd be ashamed to be such an ungrate- 
 ful little brat." 
 
 I had not meant to be ungrateful. My words were but 
 the repetition of a conversation I had overheard the day 
 before between my mother and my aunt. 
 
 Had said my aunt: "There she goes, moping again. 
 Drat me if ever I saw such a thing to mope as a woman." 
 
 My aunt was entitled to preach on the subject. She 
 herself grumbled all day about all things, but she did it 
 cheerfully. 
 
 My mother was standing with her hands clasped be- 
 hind her — a favourite attitude of hers — ^gazing through 
 the high French window into the garden beyond. It must 
 have been spring time, for I remember the white and 
 yellow crocuses decking the grass. 
 
 "I want a husband," had answered my mother, in a 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey 1 5 
 
 tone so ludicrously childish that at sound of it I had 
 looked up from the fairy story I was reading, half ex- 
 pectant to find her changed into a little girl ; "I hate not 
 having a husband." 
 
 "Help us and save us," my aunt had retorted; "how 
 many more does a girl want ? She's got one." 
 
 "What's the good of him all that way off," had pouted 
 my mother; "I want him here where I can get at him." 
 
 I had often heard of this father of mine, who lived far 
 away in London, and to whom we owed all the blessings 
 of life ; but my childish endeavours to square information 
 with reflection had resulted in my assigning to him an 
 entirely spiritual existence. I agreed with my mother 
 that such an one, however to be revered, was no substitute 
 for the flesh and blood father possessed by luckier folk — 
 the big, strong, masculine thing that would carry a fellow 
 pig-a-back round the garden, or take a chap to sail in 
 boats. 
 
 "You don't understand me, nurse," I explained ; "what 
 I mean is a husband you can get at." 
 
 "Well, and you'll 'get at him,' poor gentleman, one of 
 these days," answered Mrs. Fursey. "When he's ready 
 for you he'll send for you, and then you'll go to him in 
 London." 
 
 I felt that still Mrs. Fursey didn't understand. But I 
 foresaw that further explanation would only shock her, 
 so contented myself with a simple, matter-of-fact ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "How do you get to London ; do you have to die first ?" 
 
 "I do think," said Mrs. Fursey, in the voice of resigned 
 despair rather than of surprise, "that, without exception, 
 you are the silliest little boy I ever came across. I've no 
 patience with you." 
 
 "I am very sorry, nurse," I answered ; "I thought " 
 
 "Then," interrupted Mrs. Fursey, in the voice of many 
 generations, "you shouldn't think. London," continued 
 the good dame, her experience no doubt suggesting that 
 
1 6 Paul Kelver 
 
 the shortest road to peace would be through my under- 
 standing of this matter, "is a big town, and you go there 
 in a train. Some time — soon now — your father will write 
 to your mother that everything is ready. Then you and 
 your mother and your aunt will leave this place and go to 
 London, and I shall be rid of you." 
 
 "And shan't we come back here ever any more?" 
 
 "Never again." 
 
 "And ril never play in the garden again, never go 
 down to the pebble-ridge to tea, or to Jacob's tower ?" 
 
 "Never again." I think Mrs. Fursey took a pleasure in 
 the phrase. It sounded, as she said it, like something out 
 of the prayer-book. 
 
 "And I'll never see Anna, or Tom Pinfold, or old Yeo, 
 or Pincher, or you, ever any more?" In this moment of 
 the crumbling from under me of all my footholds I would 
 have clung even to that dry tuft, Mrs. Fursey herself. 
 
 "Never any more. You'll go away and begin an en- 
 tirely new life. And I do hope. Master Paul," added 
 Mrs. Fursey, piously, "it may be a better one. That you 
 will make up your mind to " 
 
 But Mrs. Fursey's well-meant exhortations, whatever 
 they may have been, fell upon deaf ears. Here was I face 
 to face with yet another problem. This life into which 
 I had fallen : it was understandable ! One went away, 
 leaving the pleasant places that one knew, never to return 
 to them. One left one's labour and one's play to enter 
 upon a new existence in a strange land. One parted from 
 the friends one had always known, one saw them never 
 again. Life was indeed a strange thing; and, would a 
 body comprehend it, then must a body sit staring into 
 the fire, thinking very hard, unheedful of all idle chatter. 
 
 That night, when my mother came to kiss me good- 
 night, I turned my face to the wall and pretended to be 
 asleep, for children as well as grown-ups have their fool- 
 ish moods ; but when I felt the soft curls brush my cheek. 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey 17 
 
 my pride gave way, and clasping my arms about her neck, 
 and drawing her face still closer down to mine, I voiced 
 the question that all the evening had been knocking at my 
 heart : 
 
 "I suppose you couldn't send me back now, could you? 
 You see, you've had me so long." 
 
 "Send you back?" 
 
 "Yes. I'd be too big for the stork to carry now, 
 wouldn't I?" 
 
 My mother knelt down beside the bed so that her face 
 and mine were on a level, and looking into her eyes, the 
 fear that had been haunting me fell from me. 
 
 "Who has been talking foolishly to a foolish little 
 boy?" asked my mother, keeping my arms still clasped 
 about her neck. 
 
 "Oh, nurse and I were discussing things, you know," I 
 answered, "and she said you could have done without 
 me." Somehow, I did not mind repeating the words 
 now ; clearly it could have been but Mrs. Fursey's fun. 
 
 My mother drew me closer to her. 
 
 "And what made her think that?" 
 
 "Well, you see," I replied, "I came at a very awkward 
 time, didn't I ; when you had a lot of other troubles." 
 
 My mother laughed, but the next moment looked grave 
 again. 
 
 "I did not know you thought about such things," she 
 said; "we must be more together, you and I, Paul, and 
 you shall tell me all you think, because nurse does not 
 quite understand you. It is true what she said about the 
 trouble; it came just at that time. But I could not have 
 done without you. I was very unhappy, and you were 
 sent to comfort me and help me to bear it." I liked this 
 explanation better. 
 
 "Then it was lucky, your having me?" I said. Again 
 my mother laughed, and again there followed that graver 
 look upon her childish face. 
 
1 8 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Will you remember what I am going to say?'* She 
 spoke so earnestly that I, wriggling into a sitting posture, 
 became earnest also. 
 
 "I'll try/' I answered; /'but I ain't got a very good 
 memory, have I?" 
 
 "Not very," smiled my mother ; "but if you think about 
 it a good deal it will not leave you. When you are a 
 good boy, and later on, when you are a good man, then 
 I am the luckiest little mother in all the world. And 
 every time you fail, that means bad luck for me. You 
 will remember that after I'm gone, when you are a big 
 man, won't you, Paul ?" 
 
 So, both of us quite serious, I promised ; and though I 
 smile now when I remember, seeing before me those two 
 earnest, childish faces, yet I think, however little success 
 it may be I have to boast of, it would perhaps have been 
 still less had I entirely forgotten. 
 
 From that day my mother waxes in my rhemory ; Mrs. 
 Fursey, of the many promontories, waning. There were 
 sunny mornings in the neglected garden, where the leaves 
 played round us while we worked and read; twilight 
 evenings in the window seat where, half hidden by the 
 dark red curtains, we would talk in whispers, why I 
 know not, of good men and noble women, ogres, fairies, 
 saints and demons; they were pleasant days. 
 
 Possibly our curriculum lacked method ; maybe it was 
 too varied and extensive for my age, in consequence of 
 which chronology became confused within my brain, and 
 fact and fiction more confounded than has usually been 
 considered permissible, even in history. I saw Aphrodite, 
 ready armed and risen from the sea, move with stately 
 grace to meet King Canute, who, throned upon the sand, 
 bade her come no further lest she should wet his feet. In 
 forest glade I saw King Rufus fall from a poisoned arrow 
 shot by Robin Hood ; but thanks to sweet Queen Eleanor, 
 who sucked the poison from his wound, I knew he lived. 
 Oliver Cromwell, having killed King Charles, married his 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey 1 9 
 
 widow, and was in turn stabbed by Hamlet. Ulysses, in 
 the Argo, it was fixed upon my mind, had discovered 
 America. Romulus and Remus had slain the wolf and 
 rescued Little Red Riding Hood. Good King Arthur, for 
 letting the cakes burn, had been murdered by his uncle in 
 the Tower of London. Prometheus, bound to the Rock, 
 had been saved by good St. George. Paris had given the 
 apple to William Tell. What matter! the information 
 was there. It needed rearranging, that was all. 
 
 Sometimes, of an afternoon, we would climb the steep 
 winding pathway through the woods, past awful preci- 
 pices, spirit-haunted, by grassy swards where fairies 
 danced o* nights, by briar and bracken sheltered caves 
 where fearsome creatures lurked, till high above the creep- 
 ing sea we would reach the open plateau where rose old 
 Jacob's ruined tower. "Jacob's Folly" it was more often 
 called about the country side, and by some **The Devil's 
 Tower;" for legend had it that there old Jacob and his 
 master, the Devil, had often met in windy weather to 
 wave false wrecking lights to troubled ships. Who "old 
 Jacob" was, I never, that I can remember, learned, nor 
 how nor why he built the Tower. Certain only it is his 
 memory was unpopular, and the fisher folk would swear 
 that still on stormy nights strange lights would gleam and 
 flash from the ivy-curtained windows of his Folly. 
 
 But in day time no spot was more inviting, the short 
 moss-grass before its shattered door, the lichen on its 
 crumbling stones. From its topmost platform one saw 
 the distant mountains, faint like spectres, and the silent 
 ships that came and vanished; and about one's feet the 
 pleasant farm lands and the grave, sweet river. 
 
 Smaller and poorer the world has grown since then. 
 Now, behind those hills lie naught but smoky towns and 
 dingy villages ; but then they screened a land of wonder 
 where princesses dwelt in castles, where the cities were 
 of gold. Now the ocean is but six days' journey wide, 
 ending at the New York Custom House. Then, had one 
 
20 Paul Kelver 
 
 set one's sail upon it, one would have travelled far and 
 far, beyond the golden moonlight, beyond the gate of 
 clouds ; to the magic land of the blood red shore, t'other 
 side o' the sun. I never dreamt in those days a world 
 could be CO small. 
 
 Upon the topmost platform a wooden seat ran round 
 within the parapet, and sitting there hand in hand, shel- 
 tered from the wind which ever blew about the tower, 
 my mother would people for me all the earth and air 
 with the forms of myth and legend — perhaps unwisely, 
 yet I do not know. I took no harm from it, good rather, 
 I think. They were beautiful fancies, most of them; or 
 so my mother turned them, making for love and pity, as 
 do all the tales that live, whether poems or old wives' 
 fables. But at that time of course they had no meaning 
 for me other than the literal ; so that my mother, looking 
 into my eyes, would often hasten to add : "But that, you 
 know, is only an old superstition, and of course there are 
 no such things nowadays." Yet, forgetful sometimes of 
 the time, and overtaken homeward by the shadows, we 
 would hasten swiftly through the darkening path, hold- 
 ing each other tightly by the hand. 
 
 Spring had waxed to summer, summer waned to 
 autumn. Then my aunt and I one morning, waiting at 
 the breakfast table, saw through the open window my 
 mother skipping, dancing, pirouetting up the garden 
 path. She held a letter open in her hand, which as she 
 drew near she waved about her head, singing : 
 
 ''Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, then comes 
 Wednesday morning." 
 
 She caught me to her and began dancing with me 
 round the room. 
 
 Observed my aunt, who continued steadily to eat bread 
 and butter : 
 
 "Just like 'em all. Goes mad with joy. What for? 
 Because she's going to leave a decent house, to live in a 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey 2 1 
 
 poky hole in the East End of London, and keep one ser- 
 vant." 
 
 To my aunt the second person ever remained a gram- 
 matical superfluity. Invariably she spoke not to but of a 
 person, throwing out her conversation in the form of 
 commentary. This had the advantage of permitting the 
 party intended to ignore it as mere impersonal philos- 
 ophy. Seeing it was generally uncomplimentary, most 
 people preferred so to regard it; but my mother had 
 never succeeded in schooling herself to indifference. 
 
 "It's not a poky hole," she replied; "it's an old-fash- 
 ioned house, near the river." 
 
 "Plaistow marshes!" ejaculated my aunt, "calls it the 
 river !" 
 
 "So it is the river," returned my mother; "the river is 
 the other side of the marshes." 
 
 "Let's hope it will always stop there," said my aunt. 
 
 "And it's got a garden," continued my mother, ignor- 
 ing my aunt's last remark; "which is quite an unusual 
 feature in a London house. And it isn't the East End of 
 London ; it is a rising suburb. And you won't make me 
 miserable because I am too happy." 
 
 "Drat the woman!" said my aunt, "why can't she sit 
 down and give us our tea before it's all cold ?" 
 
 "You are a disagreeable thing!" said my mother. 
 
 "Not half milk," said my aunt. My aunt was never 
 in the least disturbed by other people's opinion of her, 
 which was perhaps well for her. 
 
 For three days my mother packed and sang; and a 
 dozen times a day unpacked and laughed, looking for 
 things wanted that were always found at the very bot- 
 tom of the very last box looked into, so that Anna, wait- 
 ing for a certain undergarment of my aunt's which shall 
 be nameless, suggested a saving of time: 
 
 "If I were you, ma'am," said Anna, "I'd look into the 
 last box you're going to look into first." 
 
22 Paul Kelver 
 
 But it was found eventually in the first box — ^the box, 
 that is, my mother had intended to search first, but which, 
 acting on Anna's suggestion, she had reserved till the 
 last. This caused my mother to be quite short with 
 Anna, who she said had wasted her time. But by Tues- 
 day afternoon all stood ready: we were to start early 
 Wednesday morning. 
 
 That evening, missing my mother in the 'house, I 
 sought her in the garden and found her, as I had ex- 
 pected, on her favourite seat under the great lime tree; 
 but to my surprise there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "But I thought you were glad we were going," I said. 
 
 "So I am," answered my mother, drying her eyes only 
 to make room for fresh tears. 
 
 "Then why are you crying?" 
 
 "Because Vm sorry to leave here." 
 
 Grown-up folks with their contradictory ways were a 
 continual puzzle to me in those days; I am not sure I 
 quite understand them even now, myself included. 
 
 We were up and off next day before the dawn. The 
 sun rose as the wagon reached the top of the hill; and 
 there we paused and took our farewell look at Old 
 Jacob's Tower. My mother cried a little behind her veil ; 
 but my aunt only said, "I never did care for earwigs in my 
 tea ;" and as for myself I was too excited and expectant to 
 feel much sentiment about anything. 
 
 On the journey I sat next to an exceptionally large and 
 heavy man, who in his sleep — and he slept often — 
 imagined me to be a piece of stuffing out of place. Then, 
 grunting and wriggling, he would endeavour to rub me 
 out, until the continued irritation of my head between the 
 window and his back would cause him to awake, when 
 he would look down upon me reprovingly but not un- 
 kindly, observing to the carriage generally : "It's a funny 
 thing, ain't it, nobody's ever made a boy yet that could 
 keep still for ten seconds." After which he would pat 
 me heartily on the head, to show he was not vexed with 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey 23 
 
 me, and fall to sleep again upon me. He was a good- 
 tempered man. 
 
 My mother sat occupied chiefly with her own thoughts, 
 and my aunt had found a congenial companion in a lady 
 who had had her cap basket sat upon; so I was left 
 mainly to my own resources. When I could get my head 
 free of the big man's back, I gazed out of the window, 
 and watched the flying fragments as we shed the world. 
 Now a village would fall from us, now the yellow corn- 
 land would cling to us for awhile, or a wood catch at 
 our rushing feet, and sometimes a strong town would 
 stop us, and hold us, panting for a space. Or, my eyes 
 weary, I would sit and listen to the hoarse singing of the 
 wheels beneath my feet. It was a monotonous chaunt, 
 ever the same two lines : 
 
 "Here we suffer grief and pain. 
 Here we meet to part again," 
 
 followed by a low, rumbling laugh. Sometimes fortis- 
 simo, sometimes pianissimo; now vivace, now largo; but 
 ever those same two lines, and ever followed by the same 
 low, rumbling laugh; still to this day the iron wheels 
 sing to me that same song. 
 
 Later on I also must have slept, for I dreamt that as 
 the result of my having engaged in single combat with 
 a dragon, the dragon, ignoring all the rules of Fairyland, 
 had swallowed me. It was hot and stuffy in the dragon's 
 stomach. He had, so it appeared to me, disgracefully 
 overeaten himself; there were hundreds of us there, en- 
 tirely undigested, including Mother Hubbard and a gen- 
 tleman named Johnson, against whom, at that period, I 
 entertained a strong prejudice by reason of our divergent 
 views upon the subject of spelling. Even in this hour of 
 our mutual discomfort Johnson would not leave me alone, 
 but persisted in asking me how I spelt Jonah. Nobody 
 was looking, so I kicked him. He sprang up and came 
 after me. I tried to run away, but became wedged be- 
 
24 Paul Kelver 
 
 tween Hop-o'-my-Thumb and Julius Caesar. I suppose 
 our tearing about must have hurt the dragon, for at that 
 moment he gave vent to a most fearful scream, and I 
 awoke to find the fat man rubbing his left shin, while we 
 struggled slowly, with steps growing ever feebler, against 
 a sea of brick that every moment closed in closer round 
 us. 
 
 We scrambled out of the carriage into a great echoing 
 cave that might have been the dragon's home, where, to 
 my alarm, my mother was immediately swooped down 
 upon by a strange man in grey. 
 
 ''Why's he do that ?" I asked of my aunt. 
 
 "Because he's a fool," answered my aunt; "they all 
 are. 
 
 He put my mother down and came towards us. He was 
 a tall, thin man, with eyes one felt one would never be 
 afraid of; and instinctively even then I associated him in 
 my mind with windmills and a lank white horse. 
 
 "Why, how he's grown," said the grey man, raising 
 me in his arms until my mother beside me appeared to 
 me in a new light as quite a little person ; "and solid too." 
 
 My mother whispered something. I think from her 
 face, for I knew the signs, it was praise of me. 
 
 "And he's going to be our new fortune," she added 
 aloud, as the grey man lowered me. 
 
 "Then," said my aunt, who had this while been sitting 
 rigid upon a flat black box, "don't drop him down a coal- 
 mine. That's all I say." 
 
 I wondered at the time why the grey man's pale face 
 should flush so crimson, and why my mother should whis- 
 per angrily : 
 
 "How can you be so wicked, Fanny? How dare you 
 say such a thing?" 
 
 "I only said 'don't drop him down a coal-mine,' " re- 
 turned my aunt, apparently much surprised; "you don't 
 want to drop him down a coal-mine, do you ?" 
 
 We passed through glittering, joyous streets, piled 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey 25 
 
 high each side with all the good things of the earth ; toys 
 and baubles, jewels and gold, things good to eat and 
 good to drink, things good to wear and good to see; 
 through pleasant ways where fountains splashed and 
 flowers bloomed. The people wore bright clothes, had 
 happy faces. They rode in beautiful carriages, they 
 strolled about, greeting one another with smiles. The 
 children ran and laughed. London, thought I to myself, 
 is the city of the fairies. 
 
 It passed, and we sank into a grim city of hoarse, roar- 
 ing streets, wherein the endless throngs swirled and 
 surged as I had seen the yellow waters curve and fret, 
 contending, where the river pauses, rock-bound. Here 
 were no bright costumes, no bright faces, none stayed to 
 greet another; all was stern, and swift, and voiceless. 
 London, then, said I to myself, is the city of the giants. 
 They must live in these towering castles side by side, and 
 these hurrying thousands are their driven slaves. 
 
 But this passed also, and wc sank lower yet until we 
 reached a third city, where a pale mist filled each sombre 
 street. None of the beautiful things of the world were 
 to be seen here, but only the things coarse and ugly. And 
 wearily to and fro its sunless passages trudged with 
 heavy steps a weary people, coarse-clad, and with dull, 
 listless faces. And London, I knew, was the city of 
 the gnomes who labour sadly all their lives, imprisoned 
 underground; and a terror seized me lest I, too, should 
 remain chained here, deep down below the fairy city that 
 was already but a dream. 
 
 We stopped at last in a long, unfinished street. I re- 
 member our pushing our way through a group of dirty 
 urchins, all of whom, my aunt remarked in passmg, ought 
 to be skinned. It was my aunt's one prescription for all 
 to whom she took objection; but really in the present in- 
 stance I think it would have been of service; nothing 
 else whatever could have restored them to cleanliness. 
 Then the door closed behind us with an echoing clang, 
 
26 Paul Kelver 
 
 and the small, cold rooms came forward stiffly to greet 
 us. 
 
 The man in grey went to the one window and drew 
 back the curtain ; it was growing dusk now. My aunt sat 
 on a straight, hard chair and stared fixedly at the three- 
 armed gaselier. My mother stood in the centre of the 
 room with one small ungloved hand upon the table, and 
 I noticed — for I was very near — ^that the poor little one- 
 legged thing was trembling. 
 
 "Of course it's not what youVe been accustomed to, 
 Maggie," said the man in grey ; "but it's only for a little 
 while." 
 
 He spoke in a new, angry voice ; but I could not see his 
 face, his back being to the light. 
 
 My mother drew his arms around us both. 
 
 "It is the best home in all the world," she said; and 
 thus we stayed for awhile. 
 
 "Nonsense," said my aunt, suddenly; and this aroused 
 us ; "it's a poky hole, as I told her it would be. Let her 
 thank the Lord she's got a man clever enough to get her 
 out of it. I know him ; he never could rest where he was 
 put. Now he's at the bottom ; he'll go up." 
 
 It sounded to me a very disagreeable speech; but the 
 grey man laughed — I had not heard him laugh till then — 
 and my mother ran to my aunt and kissed her ; and some- 
 how the room seemed to become lighter. 
 
 For some reason I slept downstairs that night, on the 
 floor, behind a screen improvised out of a clothes horse 
 and a blanket; and later in the evening the clatter of 
 knives and forks and the sound of subdued voices awoke 
 me. My aunt had apparently gone to bed; my mother 
 and the man in grey were talking together over their 
 supper. 
 
 "We must buy land," said the voice of the grey man ; 
 "London is coming this way. The Somebodies" (I for- 
 get the name my father mentioned) "made all their 
 money by buying up land round New York for a mere 
 
Paul Goes to Meet the Man in Grey 27 
 
 song. Then, as the city spread, they became worth 
 milHons." 
 
 "But where will you get the money from, Luke?" asked 
 the voice of my mother. 
 
 The voice of the grey man answered airily : 
 
 "Oh, that's merely a matter of business. You grant a 
 mortgage. The property goes up in value. You borrow 
 more. Then you buy more — and so on." 
 
 'T see," said my mother. 
 
 "Being on the spot gives one such an advantage," said 
 the grey man. "I shall know just when to buy. It's a 
 great thing, being on the spot." 
 
 "Of course, it must be," said my mother. 
 
 I suppose I must have dozed, for the next words I 
 heard the grey man say were : 
 
 "Of course you have the park opposite, but then the 
 house is small." 
 
 "But shall we need a very large one?" asked my 
 mother. 
 
 "One never knows," said the grey man. "If I should 
 go into Parliament " 
 
 At this point a hissing sound arose from the neigh- 
 bourhood of the fire. 
 
 "It looks/' said my mother, "as if it were done." 
 
 "If you will hold the dish," said the grey man, "I think 
 I can pour it in without spilling." 
 
 Again I must have dozed. 
 
 "It depends," said the grey man, "upon what he is 
 going to be. For the classics, of course, Oxford." 
 
 "He's going to be very clever," said my mother. She 
 spoke as one who knows. 
 
 "We'll hope so," said the grey man. 
 
 "I shouldn't be surprised," said my mother, "if he 
 turned out a poet." 
 
 The grey man said something in a low tone that I did 
 not hear. 
 
 "I'm not so sure," answered my mother, "it's in the 
 
28 Paul Kelver 
 
 blood. IVe often thought that you, Luke, ought to have 
 been a poet." 
 
 "I never had the. time," said the grey man. "There 
 were one or two Httle things " 
 
 "They were very beautiful," interrupted my mother. 
 
 The clatter of the knives and forks continued undis- 
 turbed for a few moments. Then continued the grey 
 man: 
 
 "There would be no harm, provided I made enough. 
 It's the law of nature. One generation earns, the next 
 spends. We must see. In any case, I think I should 
 prefer Oxford for him." 
 
 "It will be so hard parting from him," said my mother. 
 
 "There will be the vacations," said the grey man, "when 
 we shall travel." 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN WHICH PAUL MAKES ACQUAINTANCE OF THE MAN 
 WITH THE UGLY MOUTH. 
 
 The case of my father and mother was not normal. 
 You understand they had been separated for some years, 
 and though they were not young in age — indeed, before 
 my childish eyes they loomed quite ancient folk, and in 
 fact my father must have been nearly forty and my mother 
 quit of thirty — yet, as you will come to think yourself, no 
 doubt, during the course of my story, they were in all the 
 essentials of life little more than boy and girl. This I 
 came to see later on, but at that time, had I been con- 
 sulted by enquiring maid or bachelor, I might unwittingly 
 have given wrong impressions concerning marriage in the 
 general. I should have described a husband as a man who 
 could never rest quite content unless his wife were by his 
 side; who twenty times a day would call from his office 
 door: "Maggie, are you doing anything important? I 
 want to talk to you about a matter of business." . . . 
 "Maggie, are you alone? Oh, all right, I'll come down." 
 Of a wife I should have said she was a woman whose 
 eyes were ever love-lit when resting on her man; who 
 was glad where he was and troubled where he was not. 
 But in every case this might not have been correct. 
 
 Also, I should have had something to say concerning 
 the alarms and excursions attending residence with any 
 married couple. I should have recommended the holding 
 up of feet under the table lest, mistaken for other feet, 
 they should be trodden on and pressed. Also, I should 
 have advised against entry into any room unpreceded by 
 
30 Paul Kelver 
 
 what in Stageland is termed "noise without/* It is some- 
 what disconcerting to the nervous incomer to be met, the 
 door still in his hand, by a sound as of people springing 
 suddenly into the air, followed by a weird scuttling of feet, 
 and then to discover the occupants sitting stiffly in oppo- 
 site corners, deeply engaged in book or needlework. But, 
 as I have said, with regard to some households, such pre- 
 cautions might be needless. 
 
 Personally, I fear, I exercised little or no controlling 
 influence upon my parents in this respect, my intrusions 
 coming soon to be greeted with: "Oh, it's only Spud," 
 in a tone of relief, accompanied generally by the sofa 
 cushion; but of my aunt they stood more in awe. Not 
 that she ever said anything, and, indeed, to do her justice, 
 in her efforts to spare their feelings she erred, if at all, on 
 the side of excess. Never did she move a footstep about 
 the house except to the music of a sustained and pen- 
 etrating cough. As my father once remarked, ungrate- 
 fully, I must confess, the volume of bark produced by 
 my aunt in a single day would have done credit to the 
 dying efforts of a hospital load of consumptives ; to a ro- 
 bust and perfectly healthy lady the cost in nervous force 
 must have been prodigious. Also, that no fear should live 
 with them that her eyes had seen aught not intended for 
 them, she would invariably enter backwards any room in 
 which they might be, closing the door loudly and with 
 difficulty before turning round : and through dark pas- 
 sages she would walk singing. No woman alive could 
 have done more ; yet — such is human nature ! — neither my 
 father nor my mother was grateful to her, so far as I 
 could judge. 
 
 Indeed, strange as it may appear, the more sympathetic 
 towards them she showed herself, the more irritated 
 against her did they become. 
 
 "I believe, Fanny, you hate seeing Luke and me happy 
 together," said my mother one day, coming up from the 
 kitchen to find my aunt preparing for entry into the draw- 
 
The Man with the Ugly Mouth 31 
 
 ing-room by dropping teaspoons at five-second intervals 
 outside the door : ''Don't make yourself so ridiculous." My 
 mother spoke really quite unkindly. 
 
 "Hate it!" replied my aunt. "Why should I? Why 
 shouldn't a pair of turtle doves bill and coo, when their 
 united age is only a little over seventy, the pretty dears ?" 
 The mildness of my aunt's answers often surprised me. 
 
 As for my father, he grew positively vindictive. I re- 
 member the occasion well. It was the first, though not the 
 last time I knew him lose his temper. What brought up 
 the subject I forget, but my father stopped suddenly ; we 
 were walking by the canal bank. 
 
 "Your aunt" — my father may not have intended it, but 
 his tone and manner when speaking of my aunt always 
 conveyed to me the impression that he regarded me as per- 
 sonally responsible for her existence. This used to weigh 
 upon me. "Your aunt is the most cantankerous, the 
 most — " he broke off, and shook his fist towards the set- 
 ting sun. "I wish to God," said my father, "your aunt 
 had a comfortable little income of her own, with a free- 
 hold cottage in the country, by God I do !" But the next 
 moment, ashamed, I suppose, of his brutality: "Not but 
 what sometimes, of course, she can be very nice, you 
 know," he added ; "don't tell your mother what I said just 
 now." 
 
 Another who followed with sympathetic interest the 
 domestic comedy was Susan, our maid-of-all-work, the 
 first of a long and varied series, extending unto the advent 
 of Amy, to whom the blessing of Heaven. Susan was a 
 stout and elderly female, liable to sudden fits of sleepi- 
 ness, the result, we were given to understand, of trouble ; 
 but her heart, it was her own proud boast, was always in 
 the right place. She could never look at my father and 
 mother sitting anywhere near each other but she must 
 flop down and weep awhile ; the sight of connubial bliss al- 
 ways reminding her, so she would explain, of the past 
 glories of her own married state. 
 
32 Paul Kelver 
 
 Though an earnest enquirer, I was never able myself to 
 grasp the ins and outs of this past married life of Susan's. 
 Whether her answers were purposely framed to elude 
 curiosity, or whether they were the result of a naturally 
 incoherent mind, I cannot say. Their tendency was to con- 
 vey confusion. 
 
 On Monday I have seen Susan shed tears of regret into 
 the Brussels sprouts, that she had been debarred by the 
 pressure of other duties from lately watering "his" grave, 
 which, I gathered, was at Manor Park. While on Tues- 
 day I have listened, blood chilled, to the recital of her 
 intentions should she ever again enjoy the luxury of get- 
 ting her fingers near the scruff of his neck. 
 
 "But, I thought, Susan, he was dead," was my very 
 natural comment upon this outbreak. 
 
 "So did I, Master Paul," was Susan's rejoinder; "that 
 was his artfulness." 
 
 "Then he isn't buried in Manor Park Cemetery ?" . 
 
 "Not yet ; but he'll wish he was, the half-baked monkey, 
 when I get hold of him." 
 
 "Then he wasn't a good man?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Your husband." 
 
 "Who says he ain't a good man?" It was Susan's fly- 
 ing leaps from tense to tense that most bewildered me. 
 "If anybody says he ain't I'll gouge their eye out !" 
 
 I hastened to assure Susan that my observation had 
 been intended in the nature of enquiry, not of assertion. 
 
 "Brings me a bottle of gin — for my headaches — every 
 time he comes home," continued Susan, showing cause for 
 opinion, "every blessed time." 
 
 And at some such point as this I would retire to the 
 clearer atmosphere of German grammar or mixed frac- 
 tions. 
 
 We suffered a good deal from Susan one way and an- 
 other; for having regard to the admirable position of her 
 heart, we all felt it our duty to overlook mere failings of 
 
The Man with the Ugly Mouth 33 
 
 the flesh — all but my aunt, that is, who never made any 
 pretence of being a sentimentalist. 
 
 . ''She's a lazy hussy," was the opinion expressed of her 
 one morning by my aunt, who was rinsing; "a gulping, 
 snorting, lazy hussy, that's what she is." There was some 
 excuse for my aunt's indignation. It was then eleven 
 o'clock and Susan was still sleeping off an attack of what 
 she called "new-ralgy." 
 
 "She has seen a good deal of trouble," said my mother, 
 who was wiping. 
 
 "And if she was my cook and housemaid," replied my 
 aunt, "she would see more, the slut !" 
 
 "She's not a good servant in many respects," admitted 
 my mother, "but I think she's good-hearted." 
 
 "Oh, drat her heart," was my aunt's retort. "The right 
 place for that heart of hers is on the doorstep. And that's 
 where I'd put it, and her and her box alongside it, if I had 
 my way." 
 
 The departure of Susan did take place not long after- 
 wards. It occurred one Saturday night. My mother 
 came upstairs looking pale. 
 
 "Luke/' she said, "do please run for the doctor." 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked my father. 
 
 "Susan," gasped my mother, "she's lying on the kitchen 
 floor breathing in the strangest fashion and quite unable to 
 speak." 
 
 "I'll go for Washburn," said my father ; "if I am quick 
 I shall catch him at the dispensary." 
 
 Five minutes later my father came back panting, fol- 
 lowed by the doctor. This was a big, black-bearded man ; 
 added to which he had the knack of looking bigger than 
 even he really was. He came down the kitchen stairs two 
 at a time, shaking the whole house. He brushed my 
 mother aside, and bent over the unconscious Susan, who 
 was on her back with her mouth wide open. Then he 
 rose and looked at my father and mother, who were watch- 
 ing him with troubled faces; and then he opened his 
 
34 Paul Kelver 
 
 mouth, and there came from it a roar of laughter, the 
 like of which sound I had never heard. 
 
 The next moment he had seized a pail half full of 
 water and had flung it over the woman. She opened her 
 eyes and sat up. 
 
 "Feeling better ?" said the doctor, with the pail still in 
 his hand ; ''have another dose?" 
 
 Susan began to gather herself together with the evident 
 intention of expressing her feelings ; but before she could 
 find the first word, he had pushed the three of us outside 
 and slammed the door behind us. 
 
 From the top of the stairs we could hear Susan's thick, 
 rancorous voice raging fiercer and fiercer, drowned every 
 now and then by the man's savage roar of laughter. And, 
 when for want of breath she would flag for a moment, he 
 would yell out encouragement to her, shouting: "Bravo! 
 Go it, my beauty, give it tongue ! Bark, bark ! I love to 
 hear you," applauding her, clapping his hands and stamp- 
 ing his feet. 
 
 "What a beast of a man," said my mother. 
 
 "He is really a most interesting man when you come to 
 know him," explained my father. 
 
 Replied my mother, stiffly : "I don't ever mean to know 
 him." But it is only concerning the past that we possess 
 knowledge. 
 
 The riot from below ceased at length, and was followed 
 by a new voice, speaking quietly and emphatically, and 
 then we heard the doctor's step again upon the stairs. 
 
 My mother held her purse open in her hand, and as the 
 man entered the room she went forward to meet him. 
 
 "How much do we owe you, Doctor?" said my mother. 
 She spoke in a voice trembling with severity. 
 
 He closed the purse and gently pushed it back towards 
 her. 
 
 "A glass of beer and a chop, Mrs. Kelver," he 
 answered, "which I am coming back in an hour to cook 
 for myself. And as you will be without any servant," he 
 
The Man with the Ugly Mouth 35 
 
 continued, while my mother stood staring at him incapable 
 of utterance, "you had better let me cook some for you at 
 the same time. I am an expert at grilling chops." 
 
 "But, really, Doctor — " my mother began. He laid 
 his huge hand upon her shoulder, and my mother sat 
 down upon the nearest chair. 
 
 "My dear lady," he said, "she's a person you never 
 ought to have had inside your house. She's promised me 
 to be gone in half an hour, and I'm coming back to see she 
 keeps her word. Give her a month's wages, and have a 
 clear fire ready for me." And before my mother could 
 reply, he had slammed the front door. 
 
 "What a very odd sort of a man," said my mother, re- 
 covering herself. 
 
 "He's a character," said my father; "you might not 
 think it, but he's worshipped about here." 
 
 "I hardly know what to make of him," said my mother ; 
 "I suppose I had better go out and get some chops ;" which 
 she did. 
 
 Susan went, as sober as a judge, on Friday, as the say- 
 ing is, her great anxiety being to get out of the house 
 before the doctor returned. The doctor himself arrived 
 true to his time, and I lay awake — for no human being 
 ever slept or felt he wanted to sleep while Dr. Washburn 
 was anywhere near — and listened to the gusts of laugh- 
 ter that swept continually through the house. Even my 
 aunt laughed that supper time, and when the doctor him- 
 self laughed it seemed to me that the bed shook under 
 me. Not liking to be out of it, I did what spoilt little boys 
 and even spoilt little girls sometimes will do under similar 
 stress of feeling, wrapped the blanket round my legs and 
 pattered down, with my face set to express the sudden 
 desire of a sensitive and possibly short-lived child for 
 parents' love. My mother pretended to be angry, but that 
 I knew was only her company manners. Besides, I really 
 had, if not exactly a pain, an extremely uncomfortable 
 sensation (one common to me about that period) as of 
 
36 Paul Kelver 
 
 having swallowed the dome of St. Paurs. The doctor said 
 it was a frequent complaint with children, the result of too 
 early hours and too much study; and, taking me on his 
 knee, wrote then and there a diet chart for me, which 
 included one tablespoonful of golden syrup four times a 
 day, and one ounce of sherbet to be placed upon the 
 tongue and taken neat ten minutes before each meal. 
 
 That evening will always live in my remembrance. 
 My mother was brighter than I had ever seen her. A 
 flush was on her cheek and a sparkle in her eye, and look- 
 ing across at her as she sat holding a small painted screen 
 to shield her face from the fire, the sense of beauty became 
 suddenly born within me, and answering an impulse I 
 could not have explained, I slipped down, still with my 
 blanket around me, from the doctor's knee, and squatted 
 on the edge of the fender, from where, when I thought no 
 one was noticing me, I could steal furtive glances up into 
 her face. 
 
 So also my father seemed to me to have become all at 
 once bigger and more dignified, talking with a vigour and 
 an enjoyment that sat newly on him. Aunt Fan was quite 
 witty and agreeable — for her; and even I asked one or 
 two questions, at which, for some reason or another, every- 
 body laughed ; which determined me to remember and ask 
 those same questions again on some future occasion. 
 
 That was the great charm of the man, that by the mag- 
 netic spell of his magnificent vitality he drew from every- 
 one their best. In his company clever people waxed intel- 
 lectual giants, while the dull sat amazed at their own 
 originality. Conversing with him, Podsnap might have 
 been piquant, Dogberry incisive. But better than all else, 
 I found it listening to his own talk. Of what he spoke I 
 could tell you no more than could the children of Hamelin 
 have told the tune the Pied Piper played. I only know 
 that at the tangled music of his strong voice the walls of 
 the mean room faded away, and that beyond I saw a brave, 
 laughing world that called to me ; a world full of joyous 
 
The Man with the Ugly Mouth 37 
 
 fight, where some won and some lost. But that mattered 
 not a jot, because whatever else came of it there was a 
 right royal game for all ; a world where merry gentlemen 
 feared neither life nor death, and Fate was but the Master 
 of the Revels. 
 
 Such was my first introduction to Dr. Washburn, or to 
 give him the name by which he was known in every slum 
 and alley of that quarter. Dr. Fighting Hal; and in a 
 minor key that evening was an index to the whole man. 
 Often he would wrinkle his nose as a dog before it bites, 
 and then he was more brute than man — ^brutish in his in- 
 stincts, in his appetites, brutish in his pleasure, brutish in 
 his fun. Or his deep blue eyes would grow soft as a 
 mother's, and then you might have thought him an angel 
 in a soft felt hat and a coat so loose-fitting as to suggest 
 the possibility of his wings being folded away underneath. 
 Often have I tried to make up my mind whether it has 
 been better for me or worse that I ever came to know him ; 
 but as easy would it be for the tree to say whether the 
 rushing winds and the wild rains have shaped it or mis- 
 shaped. 
 
 Susan's place remained vacant for some time. My 
 mother would explain to the few friends who occasion- 
 ally came from afar to see us, that her "housemaid" she 
 had been compelled to suddenly discharge, and that we 
 were waiting for the arrival of a new and better specimen. 
 But the months passed and we still waited, and my father 
 on the rare days when a client would ring the office bell, 
 would, after pausing a decent interval, open the front 
 door himself, and then call downstairs indignantly and 
 loudly, to know why "Jane" or "Mary" could not attend 
 to their work. And my mother, that the bread-boy or the 
 milkman might not put it about the neighbourhood that 
 the Kelvers in the big corner house kept no servant, would 
 hide herself behind a thick veil and fetch all things herself 
 from streets a long way off. 
 
 For this family of whom I am writing were, I confess, 
 
38 Paul Kelver 
 
 weak and human. Their poverty they were ashamed of as 
 though it were a crime, and in consequence their Hfe was 
 more full of paltry and useless subterfuge than should be 
 perhaps the life of brave men and women. The larder, I 
 fancy, was very often bare, but the port and sherry with 
 the sweet biscuits stood always on the sideboard ; and the 
 fire had often to be low in the grate that my father's tall 
 hat might shine resplendent and my mother's black silk 
 rustle on Sundays. 
 
 But I would not have you sneer at them, thinking all 
 pretence must spring from snobbishness and never from 
 mistaken self-respect. Some fine gentleman writers there 
 be — men whose world is bounded on the east by Bond 
 Street — who see in the struggles of poverty to hide its 
 darns only matter for jest. But myself, I cannot laugh at 
 them. I know the long hopes and fears that centre round 
 the hired waiter; the long cost of the cream and the ice 
 jelly ordered the week before from the confectioner's. 
 But to me it is pathetic, not ridiculous. Heroism is not 
 all of one pattern. Dr. Washburn, had the Prince of 
 Wales come to see him, would have put his bread and 
 cheese and jug of beer upon the table, and helped His 
 Royal Highness to half. But my father and mother's tea 
 was very weak that Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith might have a 
 glass of wine should they come to dinner. I remember the 
 one egg for breakfast, my mother arguing that my father 
 should have it because he had his business to attend to; 
 my father insisting that my mother should eat it, she hav- 
 ing to go out shopping, a compromise being effected by 
 their dividing it between them, each clamouring for the 
 white as the most nourishing. And I know however little 
 the meal looked upon the table when we started I always 
 rose well satisfied. These are small things to speak of, but 
 then you must bear in mind this is a story moving in 
 narrow ways. 
 
 To me this life came as a good time. That I was en- 
 couraged to eat treacle in preference to butter seemed to 
 
The Man with the Ugly Mouth 39 
 
 me admirable. Personally, I preferred sausages for din- 
 ner; and a supper of fried fish and potatoes, brought in 
 stealthily in a carpet bag, was infinitely more enjoyable 
 than the set meal where nothing was of interest till one 
 came to the dessert. What fun there was about it all! 
 The cleaning of the doorstep by night, when from the ill- 
 lit street a gentleman with a piece of sacking round his 
 legs might very well pass for a somewhat tall charwoman. 
 I would keep watch at the gate to give warning should 
 any one looking like a possible late caller turn the corner 
 of the street, coming back now and then in answer to a 
 low whistle to help my father grope about in the dark for 
 the hearthstone ; he was always mislaying the hearthstone. 
 How much better, helping to clean the knives or running 
 errands than wasting all one's morning dwelling upon the 
 shocking irregularity of certain classes of French verbs ; 
 or making useless calculations as to how long X, walking 
 four and a quarter miles an hour, would be overtaking Y, 
 whose powers were limited to three and a half, but who 
 had started two and three quarter hours sooner ; the whole 
 argument being reduced to sheer pedantry by reason of no 
 information being afforded to the student concerning the 
 respective thirstiness of X and Y. 
 
 Even my father and mother were able to take it lightly 
 with plenty of laughter and no groaning that I ever heard. 
 For over all lay the morning light of hope, and what pris- 
 oner, escaping from his dungeon, ever stayed to think of 
 his torn hands and knees when beyond the distant opening 
 he could see the sunlight glinting through the brambles ? 
 
 "I had no idea," said my mother, "there was so much 
 to do in a house. In future I shall arrange for the ser- 
 vants to have regular hours, and a little time to them- 
 selves, for rest. Don't you think it right, Luke ?" 
 
 "Quite right," replied my father ; "and I'll tell you an- 
 other thing we'll do. I shall insist on the landlord's put- 
 ting a marble doorstep to the next house we take; you 
 pass a sponge over marble and it is always clean." 
 
40 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Or tesselated/' suggested my mother. 
 
 "Or tesselated," agreed my father ; "but marble is more 
 uncommon." 
 
 Only once, can I recall a cloud. That was one Sunday 
 when my mother, speaking across the table in the middle 
 of dinner, said to my father, "We might save the rest of 
 that stew, Luke ; there's an omelette coming." 
 
 My father laid down the spoon. "An omelette !" 
 
 "Yes," said my mother. "I thought I would like to try 
 again." 
 
 My father stepped into the back kitchen— we dined in 
 the kitchen, as a rule, it saved much carriage — returning 
 with the wood chopper. 
 
 "What ever are you going to do, Luke, with the chop- 
 per ?" said my mother. 
 
 "Divide the omelette," replied my father. 
 
 My mother began to cry. 
 
 "Why, Maggie — !" said my father. 
 
 "I know the other one was leathery," said my mother, 
 "but it was the fault of the oven, you know it was, Luke." 
 
 "My dear," said my father, "I only meant it as a joke." 
 
 "I don't like that sort of joke," said my mother; "it isn't 
 nice of you, Luke." 
 
 I don't think, to be candid, my mother liked much any 
 joke that was against herself. Indeed, when I come to 
 think of it, I have never met a woman who did, nor man, 
 either. 
 
 There had soon grown up a comradeship between my 
 father and myself, for he was the youngest thing I had 
 met with as yet. Sometimes my mother seemed very 
 young, and later I met boys and girls nearer to my 
 own age in years; but they grew, while my father re- 
 mained always the same. The hair about his temples was 
 turning grey, and when you looked close you saw many 
 crow's feet and lines, especially about the mouth. But his 
 eyes were the eyes of a boy, his laugh the laugh of a boy. 
 
The Man with the Ugly Mouth 41 
 
 and his heart the heart of a boy. So we were very close 
 to each other. 
 
 In a narrow strip of ground we called our garden we 
 would play a cricket of our own, encompassed about by 
 many novel rules, rendered necessary by the locality. For 
 instance, all hitting to leg was forbidden, as tending to 
 endanger neighbouring windows, while hitting to off was 
 likewise not to be encouraged, as causing a temporary ad- 
 journment of the game, while batter and bowler went 
 through the house and out into the street to recover the 
 ball from some predatory crowd of urchins to whom it had 
 evidently appeared as a gift direct from Heaven. Some- 
 times rising very early we would walk across the marshes 
 to bathe in a small creek that led down to the river, but 
 this was muddy work, necessitating much washing of legs 
 on the return home. And on rare days we would, taking 
 the train to Hackney and walking to the bridge, row up 
 the river Lea, perhaps as far as Ponder's End. 
 
 But these sports being hedged around with difficulties, 
 more commonly for recreation we would take long walks. 
 There were pleasant nooks even in the neighbourhood of 
 Plaistow marshes in those days. Here and there a grace- 
 ful elm still clung to the troubled soil. Surrounded on all 
 sides by hideousness, picturesque inns still remained hid- 
 den within green walls where, if you were careful not to 
 pry too curiously, you might sit and sip your glass of beer 
 beneath the oak and dream yourself where reeking chim- 
 neys and mean streets were not. During such walks my 
 father would talk to me as he would talk to my mother, 
 telling me all his wild, hopeful plans, discussing with me 
 how I was to lodge at Oxford, to what particular branches 
 of study and of sport I was to give my preference, speak- 
 ing always with such catching confidence that I came to 
 regard my sojourn in this brick and mortar prison as only 
 a question of months. 
 
 One day, talking of this future, and laughing as we 
 
42 Paul Kelver 
 
 walked briskly through the shrill streets, I told him the 
 words my mother had said — long ago, as it seemed to me, 
 for life is as a stone rolling down-hill, and moves but 
 slowly at first ; she and I sitting on the moss at the foot 
 of old "Jacob's Folly" — that he was our Prince fighting 
 to deliver us from the grim castle called "Hard Times," 
 guarded by the dragon Poverty. 
 
 My father laughed and his boyish face flushed with 
 pleasure. 
 
 "And she was right, Paul," he whispered, pressing my 
 small hand in his — it was necessary to whisper, for the 
 street where we were was very crowded, but I knew that 
 he wanted to shout. "I will fight him and I will slay him." 
 My father made passes in the air with his walking-stick, 
 and it was evident from the way they drew aside that the 
 people round about fancied he was mad. "I will batter 
 down the iron gates and she shall be free. I will, God 
 help me, I will." 
 
 The gallant gentleman ! How long and how bravely he 
 fought ! But in the end it was the Dragon triumphed, the 
 Knight that lay upon the ground, his great heart still. I 
 have read how, with the sword of Honest Industry, one 
 may always conquer this grim Dragon. But such was in 
 foolish books. In truth, only with the sword of Chicanery 
 and the stout buckler of Unscrupulousness shall you be 
 certain of victory over him. If you care not to use these, 
 pray to your Gods, and take what comes with a stout 
 heart. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW GOOD LUCK KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE MAN IN 
 
 GREY. 
 
 "Louisa!" roared my father down the kitchen stairs, 
 "are you all asleep? Here have I had to answer the front 
 door myself." Then my father strode into his office, and 
 the door slammed. My father could be very angry when 
 nobody was by. 
 
 Quarter of an hour later his bell rang with a quick, 
 authoritative jangle. My mother, who was peeling 
 potatoes with difficulty in wash-leather gloves, looked at 
 my aunt who was shelling peas. The bell rang again 
 louder still this time. 
 
 "Once for Louisa, twice for James, isn't it?" enquired 
 my aunt. 
 
 "You go, Paul," said my mother ; "say that Louisa — " 
 but with the words a sudden flush overspread my mother's 
 face, and before I could lay down my slate she had drawn 
 off her gloves and had passed me. "No, don't stop your 
 lessons, I'll go myself," she said, and ran out. 
 
 A few minutes later the kitchen door opened softly, and 
 my mother's hand, appearing through the jar, beckoned to 
 me mysteriously. 
 
 "Walk on your toes," whispered my mother, setting the 
 example as she led the way up the stairs ; which after the 
 manner of stairs showed their disapproval of deception by 
 creaking louder and more often than under any other 
 circumstances ; and in this manner we reached my parents' 
 bedroom, where, in the old-fashioned wardrobe, relic of 
 
44 Paul Kelver 
 
 better 'days, reposed my best suit of clothes, or, to be 
 strictly grammatical, my better. 
 
 Never before had I worn these on a week-day morning, 
 but all conversation not germane to the question of get- 
 ting into them quickly my mother swept aside ; and when 
 I was complete, down even to the new shoes — Bluchers, 
 we called them in those days — ^took me by the hand, and 
 together we crept down as we had crept up, silent, stealthy 
 and alert. My mother led me to the street door and opened 
 it. 
 
 "Shan't I want my cap ?" I whispered. But my mother 
 only shook her head and closed the door with a bang ; and 
 then the explanation of the pantomime came to me, for 
 with such "business" — comic, shall I call it, or tragic ? — I 
 was becoming familiar; and, my mother's hand upon 
 my shoulder, we entered my father's office. 
 
 Whether from the fact that so often of an evening — our 
 drawing-room being reserved always as a show-room in 
 case of chance visitors ; Cowper's poems, open face-down- 
 wards on the wobbly loo table; the half-finished crochet 
 work, suggestive of elegant leisure, thrown carelessly over 
 the arm of the smaller easy-chair — this office would be- 
 come our sitting-room, its books and papers, as things of 
 no account, being huddled out of sight ; or whether from 
 the readiness with which my father would come out of it 
 at all times to play at something else — at cricket in the 
 back garden on dry days or ninepins in the passage on 
 wet, charging back into it again whenever a knock 
 sounded at the front door, I cannot say. But I know that 
 as a child it never occurred to me to regard my father's 
 profession as a serious affair. To me he was merely play- 
 ing there, surrounded by big books and bundles of docu- 
 ments, labelled profusely but consisting only of blank 
 papers; by japanned tin boxes, lettered imposingly, but 
 for the most part empty. "Sutton Hampden, Esq.," I 
 remember was practically my mother's work-box. The 
 "Drayton Estates" yielded apparently nothing but apples, 
 
How Good Luck Knocked at the Door 45 
 
 a fruit of which my father was fond ; while "Mortgages" 
 it was not until later in life I discovered had no connec- 
 tion with poems in manuscript, some in course of cor- 
 rection, others completed. 
 
 Now, as the door opened, he rose and came towards us. 
 His hair stood up from his head, for it was a habit of his 
 to rumple it as he talked; and this added to his evident 
 efforts to compose his face into an expression of business- 
 like gravity, added emphasis, if such were needed, to the 
 suggestion of the over long schoolboy making believe. 
 
 "This is the youngster," said my father, taking me from 
 my mother, and passing me on. "Tall for his age, isn't 
 he?" 
 
 With a twist of his thick lips, he rolled the evil-smell- 
 ing cigar he was smoking from the left corner of his 
 mouth to the right ; and held out a fat and not too clean 
 hand, which, as it closed round mine, brought to my mind 
 the picture of the walrus in my natural history book ; with 
 the other he flapped me kindly on the head. 
 
 "Like 'is mother, wonderfully like 'is mother, ain't 'e?" 
 he observed, still holding my hand. "And that," he added 
 with a wink of one of his small eyes towards my father, "is 
 about the 'ighest compliment I can pay 'im, eh ?" 
 
 His eyes were remarkably small, but marvellously 
 bright and piercing ; so much so that when he turned them 
 again upon me I tried to think quickly of something nice 
 about him, feeling sure that he could see right into me. 
 
 "And where are you thinkin' of sendin' 'im?" he con- 
 tinued ; "Eton or 'Arrow ?" 
 
 "We haven't quite made up our minds as yet," replied 
 my father ; "at present we are educating him at home." 
 
 "You take my tip," said the fat man, "and learn all you 
 can. Look at me ! If I'd 'ad the opportunity of being a 
 schollard I wouldn't be here offering your father an ex- 
 travagant price for doin' my work; I'd be able to do it 
 myself." 
 
 "You seem to have got on very well without it," laughed 
 
46 Paul Kelver 
 
 my father ; and in truth his air of prosperity might have 
 justified greater self-complacency. Rings sparkled on his 
 blunt fingers, and upon the swelling billows of his waist- 
 coat rose and sank a massive gold cable. 
 
 "I'd 'ave done better with it/' he grunted. 
 
 "But you look very clever," I said ; and though divining 
 with a child's cuteness that it was desired I should make a 
 favourable impression upon him, I hoped this would 
 please him, the words were yet spontaneous. 
 
 He laughed heartily, his whole body shaking like some 
 huge jelly. 
 
 "Well, old Noel Hasluck's not exactly a fool," he as- 
 sented, "but I'd like myself better if I could talk about 
 something else than business, and didn't drop my aitches. 
 And so would my little gell." 
 
 "You have a daughter?" asked my mother, with whom 
 a child, as a bond of sympathy with the stranger took the 
 place assigned by most women to disrespectful cooks and 
 incompetent housemaids. 
 
 "I won't tell you about 'er. But I'll just bring 'er to 
 see you now and then, ma'am, if you don't mind," 
 answered Mr. Hasluck. "She don't often meet gentle- 
 folks, an' it'll do 'er good." 
 
 My mother glanced across at my father, but the man, 
 intercepting her question, replied to it himself. 
 
 "You needn't be afraid, ma'am, that she's anything 
 like me," he assured her quite good-temperedly ; "nobody 
 ever believes she's my daughter, except me and the old 
 woman. She's a little lady, she is. Freak o' nature, I call 
 it." 
 
 "We shall be delighted," explained my mother. 
 
 "Well, you will when you see 'er," replied Mr. Hasluck, 
 quite contentedly. 
 
 He pushed half-a-crown into my hand, overriding my 
 parents' susceptibilities with the easy good-temper of a 
 man accustomed to have his way in all things. 
 
How Good Luck Knocked at the Door 47 
 
 "No squanderin' it on the 'eathen/' was his parting 
 injunction as I left the room ; "you spend that on a Chris- 
 tian tradesman." 
 
 It was the first money I ever remember having to spend, 
 that half-crown of old Hasluck's ; suggestions of the de- 
 lights to be derived from a new pair of gloves for Sunday, 
 from a Latin grammar, which would then be all my own, 
 and so on, having hitherto displaced all less exalted 
 visions concerning the disposal of chance coins coming 
 into my small hands. But on this occasion I was left free 
 to decide for myself. 
 
 The anxiety it gave me ! the long tossing hours in bed ! 
 the tramping of the bewildering streets ! Even advice 
 when asked for was denied me. 
 
 "You must learn to think for yourself," said my father, 
 who spoke eloquently on the necessity of early acquiring 
 sound judgment and what he called "commercial apti- 
 tude." 
 
 "No, dear," said my mother, "Mr. Hasluck wanted you 
 to spend it as you like. If I told you, that would be spend- 
 ing it as I liked. Your father and I want to see what you 
 will do with it." 
 
 The good little boys in the books bought presents or 
 gave away to people in distress. For this I hated them 
 with the malignity the lower nature ever feels towards the 
 higher. I consulted my aunt Fan. 
 
 "If somebody gave you half-a-crown," I put it to her, 
 "what would you buy with it ?" 
 
 "Side-combs," said my aunt ; she was always losing or 
 breaking her side-combs. 
 
 "But I mean if you were me," I explained. 
 
 "Drat the child !" said my aunt ; "how do I know what 
 he wants if he don't know himself. Idiot !" 
 
 The shop windows into which I stared, my nose glued 
 to the pane ! The things I asked the price of ! The things 
 I made up my mind to buy and then decided that I 
 
48 Paul Kelver 
 
 wouldn*t buy! Even my patient mother began to show 
 signs of irritation. It was rapidly assuming the dimen- 
 sions of a family curse, was old Hasluck's half-crown. 
 
 Then one day I made up my mind, and so ended the 
 trouble. In the window of a small plumber's shop in a 
 back street near, stood on view among brass taps, rolls of 
 lead piping and cistern requisites, various squares of col- 
 oured glass, the sort of thing chiefly used, I believe, for 
 lavatory doors and staircase windows. Some had stars in 
 the centre, and others, more elaborate, were enriched with 
 designs, severe but inoffensive. I purchased a dozen of 
 these, the plumber, an affable man who appeared glad to 
 see me, throwing in two extra out of sheer generosity. 
 
 Why I bought them I did not know at the time, and I 
 do not know now. My mother cried when she saw them. 
 My father could get no further than : "But what are you 
 going to do with them ?" to which I was unable to reply. 
 My aunt, alone, attempted comfort. 
 
 "If a person fancies coloured glass," said my aunt, 
 "then he's a fool not to buy coloured glass when he gets 
 the chance. We haven't all the same tastes." 
 
 In the end, I cut myself badly with them and consented 
 to their being thrown into the dust-bin. But looking back, 
 I have come to regard myself rather as the victim of Fate 
 than of Folly. Many folks have I met since, recipients of 
 Hasluck's half-crowns — many a man who has slapped his 
 pocket and blessed the day he first met that "Napoleon of 
 Finance," as later he came to be known among his friends 
 —but it ever ended so ; coloured glass and cut fingers. Is 
 it fairy gold that he and his kind fling round? It would 
 seem to be. 
 
 Next time old Hasluck knocked at our front door a 
 maid in cap and apron opened it to him, and this was but 
 the beginning of change. New oilcloth glistened in the 
 passage. Lace curtains, such as in that neighbourhood 
 were the hall-mark of the plutocrat, advertised our rising 
 fortunes to the street, and greatest marvel of all, at least to 
 
How Good Luck Knocked at the Door 49 
 
 my awed eyes, my father's Sunday clothes came into week- 
 day wear, new ones taking their place in the great ward- 
 robe that hitherto had been the stronghold of our gen- 
 tility; to which we had ever turned for comfort when 
 rendered despondent by contemplation of the weakness of 
 our outer walls. "Seeing that everything was all right" 
 is how my mother would explain it. She would lay the 
 lilac silk upon the bed, fondly soothing down its rustling 
 undulations, lingering lovingly over its deep frosted 
 flounces of rich Honiton. Maybe she had entered the 
 room weary looking and depressed, but soon there would 
 proceed from her a gentle humming as from some small 
 winged thing when the sun first touches it and warms 
 it, and sometimes by the time the Indian shawl, which 
 could go through a wedding ring, but never would when it 
 was wanted to, had been refolded and fastened again with 
 the great cameo brooch, and the poke bonnet, like some 
 fractious child, shaken and petted into good condition, she 
 would be singing softly to herself, nodding her head to 
 the words : which were generally to the effect that some- 
 body was too old and somebody else too bold and 
 another too cold, "so he wouldn't do for me;" and step- 
 ping lightly as though the burden of the years had fallen 
 from her. 
 
 One evening — it was before the advent of this Hasluck 
 — I remember climbing out of bed, for trouble was within 
 me. Creatures, indescribable but heavy, had sat upon my 
 chest, after which I had fallen downstairs, slowly and 
 reasonably for the first few hundred flights, then with 
 haste for the next million miles or so, until I found myself 
 in the street with nothing on but my nightshirt. Per- 
 sonally, I was shocked, but nobody else seemed to mind, 
 and I hailed a two-penny 'bus and climbed in. But when 
 I tried to pay I found I hadn't any pockets, so I jumped 
 out and ran away and the conductor came after me. My 
 feet were like lead, and with every step he gained on me, 
 till with a scream I made one mighty effort and awoke. 
 
50 Paul Kelver 
 
 Feeling the need of comfort after these unpleasant but ISy 
 no means unfamiliar experiences, I wrapped some clothes 
 round me and crept downstairs. The "office" was dark, 
 but to my surprise a light shone from under the drawing- 
 room door, and I opened it. 
 
 The candles in the silver candlesticks were lighted, and 
 in state, one in each easy-chair, sat my father and mother, 
 both in their best clothes ; my father in the buckled shoes 
 and the frilled shirt that I had never seen him wear before, 
 my mother with the Indian shawl about her shoulders, and 
 upon her head the cap of ceremony that reposed three 
 hundred and sixty days out of the year in its round 
 wicker-work nest lined with silk. They started guiltily as 
 I pushed open the door, but I congratulate myself that I 
 had sense enough — or was it instinct — to ask no ques- 
 tions. 
 
 The last time I had seen them, three hours ago, they 
 had been engaged, the lights carefully extinguished, clean- 
 ing the ground floor windows, my father the outside, my 
 mother within, and it astonished me the change not only 
 in their appearance, but in their manner and bearing, and 
 even in their very voices. My father brought over from 
 the sideboard the sherry and sweet biscuits and poured 
 out and handed a glass to my mother, and he and my 
 mother drank to each other, while I between them ate the 
 biscuits, and the conversation was of Byron's poems and 
 the great glass palace in Hyde Park. 
 
 I wonder am I disloyal setting this down? Maybe to 
 others it shows but a foolish man and woman, and that is 
 far from my intention. I dwell upon such trifles because 
 to me the memory of them is very tender. The virtues of 
 our loved ones we admire, yet after all 'tis but what we 
 expected of them : how could they do otherwise ? Their 
 failings we would forget; no one of us is perfect. But 
 over their follies we love to linger, smiling. 
 
 To me personally, old Hasluck's coming and all that fol- 
 lowed thereupon made perhaps more difference than to 
 
How Good Luck Knocked at the Door 51 
 
 any one else. My father now was busy all the day ; if not 
 in his office, then away in the grim city of the giants, as 
 I still thought of it ; while to my mother came every day 
 more social and domestic duties ; so that for a time I was 
 left much to my own resources. 
 
 Rambling — "bummelling," as the Germans term it — 
 was my bent. This my mother would have checked, but 
 my father said: 
 
 ''Don't molly-coddle him. Let him learn to be smart." 
 
 "I don't think the smart people are always the nicest," 
 demurred my mother. "I don't call you at all 'smart,' 
 Luke." 
 
 My father appeared surprised, but reflected. 
 
 "I should call myself smart — in a sense," he explained, 
 after consideration. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, dear," replied my mother ; "and 
 of course boys are different from girls." 
 
 Sometimes I would wander Victoria Park way, which 
 was then surrounded by many small cottages in leafy gar- 
 dens ; or even reach as far as Clapton, where old red brick 
 Georgian houses still stood behind high palings, and tall 
 elms gave to the wide road on sunny afternoons an old- 
 world air of peace. But such excursions were the excep- 
 tion, for strange though it may read, the narrow, squalid 
 streets had greater hold on me. Not the few main thor- 
 oughfares, filled ever with a dull, deep throbbing as of 
 some tireless iron machine ; where the endless human files, 
 streaming ever up and down, crossing and recrossing, 
 seemed mere rushing chains of flesh and blood, working 
 upon unseen wheels ; but the dim, weary, lifeless streets — 
 the dark, tortuous roots, as I fancied them, of that grim 
 forest of entangled brick. Mystery lurked in their gloom. 
 Fear whispered from behind their silence. Dumb figures 
 flitted swiftly to and fro, never pausing, never glancing 
 right nor left. Far-off footsteps, rising swiftly into sound, 
 as swiftly fading, echoed round their lonely comers. 
 Dreading, yet drawn on, I would creep along their pave- 
 
52 Paul Kelver 
 
 ments as through some city of the dead, thinking' of the 
 eyes I saw not watching from the thousand windows ; 
 starting at each muffled sound penetrating the long, 
 dreary walls, behind which that close-packed, writhing 
 life lay hid. 
 
 One day there came a cry from behind a curtained 
 window. I stood still for a moment and then ran; but 
 before I could get far enough away I heard it again, a 
 long, piercing cry, growing fiercer before it ceased ; so that 
 I ran faster still, not heeding where I went, till I found 
 myself in a raw, unfinished street, ending in black waste 
 land, bordering the river. I stopped, panting, wondering 
 how I should find my way again. To recover myself and 
 think I sat upon the doorstep of an empty house, and there 
 came dancing down the road with a curious, half-running, 
 half-hopping step — something like a water wagtail's — a 
 child, a boy about my own age, who, after eyeing me 
 strangely sat down beside me. 
 
 We watched each other for a few minutes; and I no- 
 ticed that his mouth kept opening and shutting, though he 
 said nothing. Suddenly, edging closer to me, he spoke in 
 a thick whisper. It sounded as though his mouth were 
 full of wool. 
 
 "Wot 'appens to yer when yer dead ?" 
 
 "If you're good you go to Heaven. If you're bad you 
 go to Hell." 
 
 "Long way off, both of 'em, ain't they ?" 
 
 "Yes. Millions of miles." 
 
 "They can't come after yer? Can't fetch yer back 
 again ?" 
 
 "No, never." 
 
 The doorstep that we occupied was the last. A yard 
 beyond began the black Waste of mud. From the other 
 end of the street, now growing dark, he never took his 
 staring eyes for an instant. 
 
 "Ever seen a stiff 'un — a dead 'un?" 
 
 "No." 
 
How Good Luck Knocked at the Door 
 
 53 
 
 '1 'ave — stuck a pin into 'im. 'E never felt it. Don't 
 feel anything when yer dead, do yer ?" 
 
 All the while he kept swaying his body to and fro, 
 twisting his arms and legs, and making faces. Comical 
 figures made of ginger-bread, with quaintly curved limbs 
 and grinning features, were to be bought then in bakers' 
 shops : he made me hungry, reminding me of such. 
 
 "Oi course not. When you are dead you're not there, 
 you know. Our bodies are but senseless clay." I was 
 glad I remembered that line. I tried to think of the next 
 one, which was about food for worms ; but it evaded me. 
 
 *'I Hke you," he said ; and making a fist, he gave me a 
 punch in the chest. It was the token of palship among the 
 youth of that neighbourhood, and gravely I returned it, 
 meaning it, for friendship with children is an affair of the 
 instant, or not at all, and I knew him for my first chum. 
 
 He wormed himself up. 
 
 "Yer won't tell ?" he said. 
 
 I had no notion what I was not to tell, but our compact 
 demanded that I should agree. 
 
 "Say 'I swear.' " 
 
 "I swear." 
 
 The heroes of my favourite fiction bound themselves by 
 such like secret oaths. Here evidently was a comrade 
 after my own heart. 
 
 "Good-bye, cockey." 
 
 But he turned again, and taking from his pocket an old 
 knife, thrust it into my hand. Then with that extraor- 
 dinary hopping movement of his ran off across the mud. 
 
 I stood watching him, wondering where he could be 
 going. He stumbled a little further, where the mud be- 
 gan to get softer and deeper, but struggling up again, 
 went hopping on towards the river. 
 
 I shouted to him, but he never looked back. At every 
 few yards he would sink down almost to his knees in the 
 black mud, but wrenching himself free would flounder 
 forward. Then, still some distance from the river, he fell 
 
54 Paul Kelver 
 
 upon his face, and did not rise again. I saw his arms 
 beating feebler and feebler as he sank till at last the oily 
 slime closed over him, and I could detect nothing but a 
 faint heaving underneath the mud. And after a time even 
 that ceased. 
 
 It was late before I reached home, and fortunately my 
 father and mother were still out. I did not tell any one 
 what I had seen, having sworn not to ; and as time went 
 on the incident haunted me less and less until it became 
 subservient to my will. But of my fancy for those silent, 
 lifeless streets it cured me for the time. From behind 
 their still walls I would hear that long cry; down their 
 narrow vistas see that writhing figure, like some animated 
 ginger-bread, hopping, springing, falling. 
 
 Yet in the more crowded streets another trouble awaited 
 me, one more tangible. 
 
 Have you ever noticed a pack of sparrows round some 
 crumbs perchance that you have thrown out from your 
 window? Suddenly the rest of the flock will set upon 
 one. There is a tremendous Lilliputian hubbub, a tossing 
 of tiny wings and heads, a babel of shrill chirps. It is 
 comical. 
 
 "Spiteful little imps they are," you say to yourself, much 
 amused. 
 
 So I have heard good-tempered men and women call- 
 ing out to one another with a laugh. 
 
 "There go those young devils chivvying that poor little 
 beggar again ; ought to be ashamed of theirselves." 
 
 But, oh! the anguish of the poor little beggar! Can 
 any one who has not been through it imagine it ! Reduced 
 to its actualities, what was it? Gibes and jeers that, after 
 all, break no bones. A few pinches, kicks and slaps; at 
 worst a few hard knocks. But the dreading of it before- 
 hand ! Terror lived in every street, hid, waiting for me, 
 round each corner. The half-dozen wrangling over their 
 marbles — ^had they seen me? The boy whistling as he 
 
How Good Luck Knocked at the Door 55 
 
 stood staring into the print shop, would I get past him 
 without his noticing me; or would he, swinging round 
 upon his heel, raise the shrill whoop that brought them 
 from every doorway to hunt me? 
 
 The shame, when caught at last and cornered : the grin- 
 ning face that would stop to watch ; the careless jokes 
 of passers-by, regarding the whole thing but as a spar- 
 rows' squabble : worst of all, perhaps, the rare pity ! The 
 after humiliation when, finally released, I would dart 
 away, followed by shouted taunts and laughter ; every eye 
 turned to watch me, shrinking by ; my whole small carcass 
 shaking with dry sobs of bitterness and rage ! 
 
 If only I could have turned and faced them ! So far as 
 the mere bearing of pain was concerned, I knew myself 
 brave. The physical suffering resulting from any number 
 of stand-up fights would have been trivial compared with 
 the mental agony I endured. That I, the comrade of a 
 hundred heroes — I, who nightly rode with Richard Coeur 
 de Lion, who against Sir Lancelot himself had couched a 
 lance, and that not altogether unsuccessful, I to whom all 
 damsels in distress were wont to look for succour — ^that 
 I should run from varlets such as these ! 
 
 My friend, my bosom friend, good Robin Hood! how 
 would he have behaved under similar circumstances ? how 
 Ivanhoe, my chosen companion in all quests of knightly 
 enterprise? how — to come to modern times — Jack Hark- 
 away, mere schoolboy though he might be? Would not 
 one and all have welcomed such incident with a joyous 
 shout, and in a trice have scattered to the winds the 
 worthless herd? 
 
 But, alas ! upon my pale lips the joyous shout sank into 
 an unheard whisper, and the thing that became scattered 
 to the wind was myself, the first opening that occurred. 
 
 Sometimes, the blood boiling in my veins, I would turn, 
 thinking to go back and at all risk defying my tormentors, 
 prove to myself I was no coward. But before I had re- 
 
56 Paul Kelver 
 
 traced my steps a dozen paces, I would see In Imagination 
 the whole scene again before me : the laughing crowd, the 
 halting passers-by, the spiteful, mocking little faces every 
 way I turned; and so instead would creep on home, and 
 climbing stealthily up into my own room, cry my heart out 
 in the dark upon my bed. 
 
 Until one blessed day, when a blessed Fairy, in the form 
 of a small kitten, lifted the spell that bound me, and set 
 free my limbs. 
 
 I have always had a passionate affection for the dumb 
 world, if it be dumb. My first playmate, I remember, was 
 a water rat. A stream ran at the bottom of our garden ; 
 and sometimes, escaping the vigilant eye of Mrs. Fursey, 
 I would steal out with my supper and join him on the 
 banks. There, hidden behind the osiers, we would play 
 at banquets, he, it is true, doing most of the banqueting, 
 and I the make-believe. But it was a good game ; added to 
 which it was the only game I could ever get him to play, 
 though I tried. He was a one-ideaed rat. 
 
 Later I came into the possession of a white specimen all 
 my own. He lived chiefly in the outside breast pocket of 
 my jacket, in company with my handkerchief, so that 
 glancing down I could generally see his little pink eyes 
 gleaming up at me, except on very cold days, when it 
 would be only his tail that I could see; and when I felt 
 miserable, somehow he would know it, and, swarming up, 
 push his little cold snout against my ear. He died just so, 
 clinging round my neck; and from many of my fellow- 
 men and women have I parted with less pain. It sounds 
 callous to say so ; but, after all, our feelings are not under 
 our own control; and I have never been able to under- 
 stand the use of pretending to emotions one has not. All 
 this, however, comes later. Let me return now^ to my 
 fairy kitten. 
 
 I heard its cry of pain from afar, and instinctively 
 hastened my steps. Three or four times I heard it again, 
 and at each call I ran faster, till, breathless, I arrived upon 
 
How Good Luck Knocked at the Door 57 
 
 the scene, the opening of a narrow court, leading out of a 
 by-street. At first I saw nothing but the backs of a small 
 mob of urchins. Then from the centre of them came an- 
 other wailing appeal for help, and without waiting for any 
 invitation, I pushed my way into the group. 
 
 What I saw was Hecuba to me — gave me the motive 
 and the cue for passion, transformed me from the dull and 
 muddy-mettled little John-a-dreams I had been into a 
 small, blind Fury. Pale Thought, that mental emetic, ban- 
 ished from my system, I became the healthy, unreasoning 
 animal^ and acted as such. 
 
 From my methods, I frankly admit, science was absent. 
 In simple, primitive fashion that would have charmed a 
 Darwinian disciple to observe, I "went for" the whole 
 crowd. To employ the expressive idiom of the neigh- 
 bourhood, I was "all over it and inside." Something clung 
 about my feet. By kicking myself free and then standing 
 on it I gained the advantage of quite an extra foot in 
 height; I don't know what it was and didn't care. I 
 fought with my arms and I fought with my legs; where 
 I could get in with my head I did. I fought whatever 
 came to hand in a spirit of simple thankfulness, grateful 
 for what I could reach and indifferent to what was beyond 
 me. 
 
 That the "show" — if again I may be permitted the local 
 idiom — was not entirely mine I was well aware. That not 
 alone my person but my property also was being damaged 
 in the rear became dimly conveyed to me through the 
 sensation of draught. Already the world to the left of me 
 was mere picturesque perspective, while the growing im- 
 portance of my nose was threatening the absorption of all 
 my other features. These things did not trouble me. I 
 merely noted them as phenomena and continued to punch 
 steadily. 
 
 Until I found that I was punching something soft and 
 yet unyielding. I looked up to see what this foreign mat- 
 ter that thus mysteriously had entered into the mixture 
 
58 Paul Kelver 
 
 might be, and discovered it to be a policeman. Still I did 
 not care. The felon's dock ! the prison cell ! a fig for such 
 mere bogies. An impudent word, an insulting look, and I 
 would have gone for the Law itself. Pale Thought — it 
 must have been a livid green by this time — still trembled at 
 respectful distance from me. 
 
 Fortunately for all of us, he was not impertinent, and 
 though he spoke the language of his order, his tone dis- 
 armed offence. 
 
 "Now, then. Now, then. What is all this about ?" 
 
 There was no need for me to answer. A dozen voluble 
 tongues were ready to explain to him; and to explain 
 wholly in my favour. This time the crowd was with me. 
 Let a man school himself to bear dispraise, for thereby 
 alone shall he call his soul his own. But let no man lie, 
 saying he is indifferent to popular opinion. That was my 
 first taste of public applause. The public was not select, 
 and the applause might, by the sticklers for English pure 
 and undefiled, have been deemed ill-worded, but to me it 
 was the sweetest music I had ever heard, or have heard 
 since. I was called a "plucky little devil/' a "fair 'ot 'un," 
 not only a "good 'un," but a "good 'un" preceded by the 
 adjective that in the East bestows upon its principal every 
 admirable quality that can possibly apply. Under the cir- 
 cumstances it likewise fitted me literally ; but I knew it was 
 intended rather in its complimentary sense. 
 
 Kind; if dirty, hands wiped my face. A neighbouring 
 butcher presented me with a choice morsel of steak, not to 
 eat but to wear ; and I found it, if I may so express myself 
 without infringing copyright, "grateful and comforting." 
 My enemies had long since scooted, some of them, I had 
 rejoiced to notice, with lame and halting steps. The 
 mutilated kitten had been restored to its owner, a lady of 
 ample bosom, who, carried beyond judgment by emotion, 
 publicly offered to adopt me on the spot. The Law sug- 
 gested, not for the first time, that everybody should now 
 move on ; and slowly, followed by feminine commendation 
 
How Good Luck Knocked at the Door 59 
 
 mingled with masculine advice as to improved methods 
 for the future, I was allowed to drift away. 
 
 My bones ached, my flesh stung me, yet I walked as 
 upon air. Gradually I became conscious that I was not 
 alone. A light, pattering step was trying to keep pace 
 with me. Graciously I slacked my speed, and the patter- 
 ing step settled down beside me. Every now and again 
 she would run ahead and then turn round to look up into 
 my face, much as your small dog does when he happens 
 not to be misbehaving himself and desires you to note the 
 fact. Evidently she approved of me. I was not at my 
 best, as far as appearance was concerned, but women are 
 kittle cattle, and I think she preferred me so. Thus we 
 walked for quite a long distance without speaking, I 
 drinking in the tribute of her worship and enjoying it. 
 Then gaining confidence, she shyly put her hand into mine, 
 and finding I did not repel her, promptly assumed posses- 
 sion of me, according to woman's way. 
 
 For her age and station she must have been a person of 
 means, for having tried in vain various methods to make 
 me more acceptable to followers and such as having 
 passed would turn their heads, she said : 
 
 *T know, gelatines ;" and disappearing into a sweetstuff 
 shop, returned with quite a quantity. With these, first 
 sucked till glutinous, we joined my many tatters. I still 
 attracted attention, but felt warmer. 
 
 She informed me that her name was Cissy, and that her 
 father's shop was in Three Colt Street. I informed her 
 that my name was Paul, and that my father was a lawyer. 
 I also pointed out to her that a lawyer is much superior in 
 social position to a shopkeeper, which she acknowledged 
 cheerfully. We parted at the corner of the Stainsby Road, 
 and I let her kiss me once. It was understood that in the 
 Stainsby Road we might meet again. 
 
 I left Eliza gaping after me, the front door in her hand, 
 and ran straight up into my own room. Robinson Crusoe, 
 King Arthur, The Last of the Barons, Rob Roy ! I looked 
 
6o Paul Kelver 
 
 them all in the face and was not ashamed. I aiso was a 
 gentleman. 
 
 My mother was much troubled when she saw me, but 
 my father, hearing the story, approved. 
 
 ''But he looks so awful," said my mother. "In this 
 world," said my father, ''one must occasionally be aggres- 
 sive — if necessary, brutal." 
 
 My father would at times be quite savage in his senti- 
 ments. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PAUL, FALLING IN WITH A GOODLY COMPANY OF PILGRIMS, 
 LEARNS OF THEM THE ROAD THAT HE MUST TRAVEL. 
 AND MEETS THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS. 
 
 The East India Dock Road is nowadays a busy, 
 crowded thoroughfare. The jingle of the tram-bell and 
 the rattle of the omnibus and cart mingle continuously 
 with the rain of many feet, beating ceaselessly upon its 
 pavements. But at the time of which I write it was an 
 empty, voiceless way, bounded on the one side by the 
 long, echoing wall of the docks and on the other by occa- 
 sional small houses isolated amid market gardens, drying 
 grounds and rubbish heaps. Only one thing remains — or 
 did remain last time I passed along it, connecting it with 
 its former self — and that is the one-storeyed brick cottage 
 at the commencement of the bridge, and which was for- 
 merly the toll-house. I remember this toll-house so well 
 because it was there that my childhood fell from me, and 
 sad and frightened I saw the world beyond. 
 
 I cannot explain it better. I had been that afternoon to 
 Plaistow on a visit to the family dentist. It was an out-of- 
 the-way place in which to keep him, but there existed 
 advantages of a counterbalancing nature. 
 
 "Have the half-crown in your hand," my mother would 
 direct me, while making herself sure that the purse con- 
 taining it was safe at the bottom of my knickerbocker 
 pocket ; ''but of course if he won't take it, why, you must 
 bring it home again." 
 
 I am not sure, but I think he was some distant connec- 
 tion of ours ; at all events, I know he was a kind friend. I, 
 
62 Paul Kelver 
 
 seated In the velvet chair of state, he would unroll his case 
 of instruments before me, and ask me to choose, recom- 
 mending with affectionate eulogisms the most murderous 
 looking. 
 
 But on my opening my mouth to discuss the fearful 
 topic, lo! a pair would shoot from under his coat-sleeve, 
 and almost before I knew what had happened, the trouble 
 would be over. After that we would have tea together. 
 He was an old bachelor, and his house stood in a great 
 garden — for Plaistow in those days was a picturesque vil- 
 lage — and out of the plentiful fruit thereof his house- 
 keeper made the most wonderful of jams and jellies. Oh, 
 they were good, those teas ! Generally our conversation 
 was of my mother who, it appeared, was once a little girl : 
 not at all the sort of little girl I should have imagined her ; 
 on the contrary, a prankish, wilful little girl, though good 
 company, I should say, if all the tales he told of her were 
 true. And I am inclined to think they were, in spite of the 
 fact that my mother, when I repeated them to her, would 
 laugh, saying she was sure she had no recollection of any- 
 thing of the kind, adding severely that it was a pity he and 
 I could not find something better to gossip about. Yet 
 her next question would be : 
 
 "And what else did he say, if you please?" explaining 
 impatiently when my answer was not of the kind ex- 
 pected : "No, no, I mean about me." 
 
 The tea things cleared away, he would bring out his 
 great microscope. To me it was a peep-hole into a fairy 
 world where dwelt strange dragons, mighty monsters, so 
 that I came to regard him as a sort of harmless magician. 
 It was his pet study, and looking back, I cannot help asso- 
 ciating his enthusiasm for all things microscopical with 
 the fact that he was an exceptionally little man himself, 
 but one of the biggest hearted that ever breathed. 
 
 On leaving I would formally hand him my half-crown, 
 "with mamma's compliments," and he would formally ac- 
 
Meets the Princess of the; Golden Locks 63 
 
 cept it. But on putting my hand into my jacket pocket 
 when outside the gate I would invariably find it there. 
 The first time I took it back to him, but unblushingly he 
 repudiated all knowledge. 
 
 "Must be another half-crown," he suggested; "such 
 things do happen. One puts change into a pocket and 
 overlooks it. Slippery things, half-crowns." 
 
 Returning home on this particular day of days, I paused 
 upon the bridge, and watched for awhile ths lazy barges 
 manoeuvring their way between the piers. It was one of 
 those hushed summer evenings when the air even of grim 
 cities is full of whispering voices ; and as, turning away 
 from the river, I passed through the white toll-gate, I had 
 a sense of leaving myself behind me on the bridge. So 
 vivid was the impression, that I looked back, half expect- 
 ing to see myself still leaning over the iron parapet, look- 
 ing down into the sunlit water. 
 
 It sounds foolish, but I leave it standing, wondering if 
 to others a like experience has ever come. The little chap 
 never came back to me. He passed away from me as a 
 man's body may possibly pass away from him, leaving 
 him only remembrance and regret. For a time I tried to 
 play his games, to dream his dreams, but the substance 
 was wanting. I was only a thin ghost, making believe. 
 
 It troubled me for quite a spell of time, even to the 
 point of tears, this feeling that my childhood lay behind 
 me, this sudden realisation that I was travelling swiftly 
 the strange road called growing up. I did not want to 
 grow up ; could nothing be done to stop it ? Rather would 
 I be always as I had been, playing, dreaming. The dark 
 way frightened me. Must I go forward? 
 
 Then gradually, but very slowly, with the long months 
 and years, came to me the consciousness of a new being, 
 new pulsations, sensories, throbbings, rooted in but differ- 
 ing widely from the old ; and little Paul, the Paul of whom 
 I have hitherto spoken, faded from my life. 
 
64 Paul Kelver 
 
 So likewise must I let him fade with sorrow from this 
 book. But before I part with him entirely, let me recall 
 what else I can remember of him. Thus we shall be quit 
 of him, and he will interfere with us no more. 
 
 Chief among the pictures that I see is that of my aunt 
 Fan, crouching over the kitchen fire ; her skirt and crino- 
 line rolled up round her waist, leaving as sacrifice to cus- 
 tom only her petticoat. Up and down her body sways in 
 rhythmic motion, her hands stroking affectionately her 
 own knees; the while I, with paper knife for sword, or 
 horse of broomstick, stand opposite her, flourishing and 
 declaiming. Sometimes I am a knight and she a wicked 
 ogre. She is slain, growling and swearing, and at once 
 becomes the beautiful princess that I secure and bear 
 away with me upon the prancing broomstick. So long as 
 the princess is merely holding sweet converse with me 
 from her high-barred window, the scene is realistic, at 
 least, to sufficiency ; but the bearing away has to be make- 
 believe; for my aunt cannot be persuaded to leave her 
 chair before the fire, and the everlasting rubbing of her 
 knees. 
 
 At other times, with the assistance of the meat chopper, 
 I am an Indian brave, and then she is Laughing Water 
 or Singing Sunshine, and we go out scalping together ; or 
 in less bloodthirsty moods I am the Fairy Prince and she 
 the Sleeping Beauty. But in such parts she is not at her 
 best. Better, when seated in the centre of the up-turned 
 table, I am Captain Cook, and she the Cannibal Chief. 
 
 "I shall skin him and hang him in the larder till Sunday 
 week," says my aunt, smacking her lips, "then he'll be just 
 in right condition ; not too tough and not too high." She 
 was always strong in detail, was my aunt Fan. 
 
 I do not wish to deprive my aunt of any credit due to 
 her, but the more I exercise my memory for evidence, the 
 more I am convinced that her compliance on these occa- 
 sions was not conceived entirely in the spirit of self-sac- 
 rifice. Often would she suggest the game and even the 
 
Meets the Princess of the Golden Locks 65 
 
 theme; in such case, casting herself invariably for what, 
 in old theatrical parlance, would have been termed the 
 heavy lead, the dragons and the wicked uncles, the fussy 
 necromancers and the uninvited fairies. As authoress of 
 a new cookery book for use in giant-land, my aunt, I am 
 sure, would have been successful. Most recipes that one 
 reads are so monotonously meagre : "Boil him," "Put her 
 on the spit and roast her for supper," "Cook 'em in a pie — 
 with plenty of gravy;" but my aunt into the domestic 
 economy of Ogredom introduced variety and daintiness. 
 
 "I think, my dear," my aunt would direct, "we'll have 
 him stuffed with chestnuts and served on toast. And 
 don't forget the giblets. They make such excellent 
 sauce." 
 
 With regard to the diet of imprisoned maidens she 
 would advise : 
 
 "Not too much fish — it spoils the flesh for roasting." 
 
 The things that she would turn people into — king's sons, 
 rightful princesses, such sort of people — people who after 
 a time, one would think, must have quite forgotten what 
 they started as. To let her have her way was a lesson to 
 me in natural history both present and pre-historic. The 
 most beautiful damsel that ever lived she would without 
 a moment's hesitation turn into a Glyptodon or a Hippo- 
 crepian. Afterwards, when I could guess at the spelling, 
 I would look these creatures up in the illustrated diction- 
 ary, and feel that under no circumstances could I have 
 loved the lady ever again. Warriors and kings she would 
 delight in transforming into plaice or prawns, and haughty 
 queens into Brussels sprouts. 
 
 With gusto would she plan a complicated slaughter, 
 paying heed to every detail : the sharpening of the knives, 
 the having ready of mops and pails of water for purposes 
 of after cleaning up. As a writer she would have followed 
 the realistic school. 
 
 Her death, with which we invariably wound up the 
 afternoon, was another conscientious effort. Indeed, her 
 
66 Paul Kelver 
 
 groans and writhlngs would sometimes frighten me. I 
 always welcomed the last gurgle. That finished, but not 
 a moment before, my aunt would let down her skirt — in 
 this way suggesting the fall of the curtain upon our play — 
 and set to work to get the tea. 
 
 Another frequently recurring picture that I see is of 
 myself in glazed-peaked cap explaining many things the 
 while we walk through dingy streets to yet a smaller fig- 
 ure curly haired and open eyed. Still every now and then 
 she runs ahead to turn and look admiringly into my face 
 as on the day she first became captive to the praise and 
 fame of me. 
 
 I was glad of her company for more reasons than she 
 knew of. For one, she protected me against my baser self. 
 With her beside me I should not have dared to flee from 
 sudden foes. Indeed, together we courted adventure ; for 
 once you get used to it this standing hazard of attack adds 
 a charm to outdoor exercise that older folk in districts 
 better policed enjoy not. So possibly my dog feels when 
 together we take the air. To me it is a simple walk, 
 maybe a little tiresome, suggested rather by contemplation 
 of my waistband than by desire for walking for mere 
 walking's sake; to him an expedition full of danger and 
 surprises : "The gentleman asleep with one eye open on 
 The Chequer's doorstep ! will he greet me with a friendly 
 sniff or try to bite my head off? This cross-eyed, lop- 
 eared loafer, lurching against the lamp-post ! shall we pass 
 with a careless wag and a 'how-do/ or become locked in a 
 life and death struggle? Impossible to say. This com- 
 ing corner, now, 'Ware ! Is anybody waiting round there 
 to kill me, or not?" 
 
 But the trusting face beside me nerved me. As reward 
 in lonely places I would let her hold my hand. 
 
 A second advantage I derived from her company was 
 that of being less trampled on, less walked over, less swept 
 aside into doorway or gutter than when alone. A pretty, 
 winsome face had this little maid, if Memory plays me not 
 
Meets the Princess of the Golden Locks 67 
 
 kindly false ; but also she had a vocabulary ; and when the 
 blind idiot, male or female, instead of passing us by walk- 
 ing round us, would, after the custom of the blind idiot, 
 seek to gain the other side of us by walking through us, 
 she would use it. 
 
 "Now, then, where yer coming to, old glass-eye? We 
 ain't sperrits. Can't yer see us ?" 
 
 And if they attempted reply, her child's treble, so 
 strangely at variance with her dainty appearance, would 
 only rise more shrill. 
 
 "Garn ! They'd run out of 'eads when they was making 
 you. That's only a turnip wot you've got stuck on top of 
 yer !" I offer but specimens. 
 
 Nor was it of the slightest use attempting personal chas- 
 tisement, as sometimes an irate lady or gentleman would 
 be foolish enough to do. As well might an hippopotamus 
 attempt to reprove a terrier. The only result was to pro- 
 vide comedy for the entire street. 
 
 On these occasions our positions were reversed, I being 
 the admiring spectator of her prowess. Yet to me she was 
 ever meek, almost irritatingly submissive. She found out 
 where I lived and would often come and wait for me for 
 hours, her little face pressed tight against the iron railings, 
 until either I came out or shook my head at her from my 
 bedroom window, when she would run off, the dying away 
 into silence of her pattering feet leaving me a little sad. 
 
 I think I cared for her in a way, yet she never entered 
 into my day-dreams, which means that she existed for me 
 only in the outer world of shadows that lay round about 
 me and was not of my real life. 
 
 Also, I think she was unwise, introducing me to the 
 shop, for children and dogs — one seems unconsciously to 
 bracket them in one's thoughts — are snobbish little 
 wretches. If only her father had been a dealer in fire- 
 wood I could have soothed myself by imagining mistakes. 
 It was a common occurrence, as I well knew, for children 
 of quite the best families to be brought up by wood chop- 
 
68 Paul Kelver 
 
 pers. Fairies, the best intentioned in the world, but born 
 muddlers, were generally responsible for these mishaps, 
 which, however, always became righted in time for the 
 wedding. Or even had he been a pork butcher, and there 
 were many in the neighbourhood, I could have thought of 
 him as a swineherd, and so found precedent for hope. 
 
 But a fishmonger — from six in the evening a fried fish- 
 monger! I searched history in vain. Fried fishmongers 
 were without the pale. 
 
 So gradually our meetings became less frequent, though 
 I knew that every afternoon she waited in the quiet Stains- 
 by Road, where dwelt in semi-detached, six-roomed villas 
 the aristocracy of Poplar, and that after awhile, for arriv- 
 ing late at times I have been witness to the sad fact, tears 
 would trace pathetic patterns upon her dust-besprinkled 
 cheeks; and with the advent of the world-illuminating 
 Barbara, to which event I am drawing near, they ceased 
 altogether. 
 
 So began and ended my first romance. One of these 
 days — some quiet summer's afternoon, when even the air 
 of Pigott Street vibrates with tenderness beneath the 
 whispered sighs of Memory, I shall walk into the little 
 grocer's shop and boldly ask to see her. So far have I 
 already gone as to trace her, and often have I tried to catch 
 sight of her through the glass door, but hitherto in vain. 
 I know she is the more or less troubled mother of a nu- 
 merous progeny. I am told she has grown stout, and 
 probable enough it is that her tongue has gained rather 
 than lost in sharpness. Yet under all the unrealities the 
 clumsy-handed world has built about her, I shall see, I 
 know, the lithesome little maid with fond, admiring eyes. 
 What help they were to me I never knew till I had lost 
 them. How hard to gain such eyes I have learned since. 
 Were we to write the truth in our confession books, 
 should we not admit the quality we most admire in others 
 is admiration of ourselves ? And is it not a wise selection ? 
 If you would have me admirable, my friend, admire me. 
 
Meets the Princess of the Golden Locks 69 
 
 and speak your commendation without stint that in the 
 sunshine of your praises I may wax. For indifference 
 maketh an indifferent man, and contempt a contemptible 
 man. Come, is it not true ? Does not all that is worthy in 
 us grow best by honour ? 
 
 Chief among the remaining figures on my childhood's 
 stage were the many servants of our house, the "generals," 
 as they were termed. So rapid, as a rule, was their 
 transit through our kitchen that only one or two, conspicu- 
 ous by reason of their lingering, remain upon my view. It 
 was a neighbourhood in which domestic servants were not 
 much required. Those intending to take up the calling 
 seriously went westward. The local ranks were recruited 
 mainly from the discontented or the disappointed, from 
 those who, unappreciated at home, hoped from the 
 stranger more discernment; or from the love-lorn, the 
 jilted and the jealous, who took the cap and apron as in 
 an earlier age their like would have taken the veil. Maybe, 
 to the comparative seclusion of our basement, as con- 
 trasted with the alternative frivolity of shop or factory, 
 they felt in such mood more attuned. With the advent of 
 the new or the recovery of the old young man they would 
 plunge again into the vain world, leaving my poor mother 
 to search afresh amid the legions of the cursed. 
 
 With these I made such comradeship as I could, for I 
 had no child friends. Kind creatures were most of them, 
 at least so I found them. They were poor at "making be- 
 lieve," but would always squeeze ten minutes from their 
 work to romp with me, and that, perhaps, was healthier 
 for me. What, perhaps, was not so good for me was that, 
 staggered at the amount of "book-learning" implied by my 
 conversation (for the journalistic instinct, I am inclined 
 to think, was early displayed in me), they would listen 
 open-mouthed to all my information, regarding me as a 
 precocious oracle. Sometimes they would obtain per- 
 mission to take me home with them to tea, generously 
 eager that their friends should also profit by me. Then, 
 
JO Paul Kelver 
 
 encouraged by admiring, grinning faces, I would ''hold 
 forth," keenly enjoying the sound of my own proud 
 piping. 
 
 "As good as a book, ain't he?" was the tribute most 
 often paid to me. 
 
 "As good as a play," one enthusiastic listener, an old 
 greengrocer, went so far as to say. 
 
 Already I regarded myself as among the Immortals. 
 
 One girl, a dear, wholesome creature named Janet, 
 stayed with us for months and might have stayed years, 
 but for her addiction to strong language. The only and 
 well-beloved child of the captain of the barge "Nancy 
 Jane," trading between Purfleet and Ponder's End, her 
 conversation was at once my terror and delight. 
 
 "Janet," my mother would exclaim in agony, her hands 
 going up instinctively to guard her ears, "how can you 
 use such words?" 
 
 "What words, mum?" 
 
 "The things you have just called the gas man." 
 
 "Him ! Well, did you see what he did, mum ? Walked 
 straight into my clean kitchen, without even wiping his 
 boots, the — " And before my mother could stop her, Janet 
 had relieved her feelings by calling him it — or rather them 
 — again, without any idea that she had done aught else 
 than express in fitting phraseology a natural human emo- 
 tion. 
 
 We were good friends, Janet and I, and therefore it 
 was that I personally undertook her reformation. It was 
 not an occasion for mincing one's words. The stake at 
 issue was, I felt, too important. I told her bluntly that if 
 she persisted in using such language she would inevitably 
 go to hell. 
 
 "Then where's my father going?" demanded Janet. 
 
 "Does he use language ?" 
 
 I gathered from Janet that no one who had enjoyed the 
 privilege of hearing her father could ever again take inter- 
 est in the feeble efforts of herself. 
 
Meets the Princess of the Golden Locks 71 
 
 "I am afraid, Janet," I explained, "that if he doesn't 
 give it up " 
 
 "But it's the only way he can talk," interrupted Janet. 
 "He don't mean anything by it." 
 
 I sighed, yet set my face against weakness. "You see, 
 Janet, people who swear do go there." 
 
 But Janet would not believe. 
 
 "God send my dear, kind father to hell just because he 
 can't talk like the gentlefolks! Don't you believe it of 
 Him, Master Paul. He's got more sense." 
 
 I hope I pain no one by quoting Janet's common sense. 
 For that I should be sorry. I remember her words be- 
 cause so often, when sinking in sloughs of childish 
 despond, they afforded me firm foothold. More often than 
 I can tell, when compelled to listen to the sententious voice 
 of immeasurable Folly glibly explaining the eternal mys- 
 teries, has it comforted me to whisper to myself : "I don't 
 believe it of Him. He's got more sense." 
 
 And about that period I had need of all the comfort I 
 could get. As we descend the road of life, the journey, 
 demanding so much of our attention, becomes of more 
 importance than the journey's end ; but to the child, stand- 
 ing at the valley's gate, the terminating hills are clearly 
 visible. What lies beyond them is his constant wonder. 
 I never questioned my parents directly on the subject, 
 shrinking as so strangely we all do, both young and old, 
 from discussion of the very matters of most moment to us ; 
 and they, on their part, not guessing my need, contented 
 themselves with the vague generalities with which we seek 
 to hide even from ourselves the poverty of our beliefs. 
 But there were foolish voices about me less reticent ; while 
 the literature, illustrated and otherwise, provided in those 
 days for serious-minded youth, answered all questionings 
 with blunt brutality. If you did wrong you burnt in a 
 fiery furnace for ever and ever. Were your imagination 
 weak you could turn to the accompanying illustration, and 
 see at a glance how you yourself would writhe and shrink 
 
72 Paul Kelver 
 
 and scream, while cheerful devils, well organised, were 
 busy stoking. I had been burnt once, rather badly, in con- 
 sequence of live coals, in course of transit on a shovel, be- 
 ing let fall upon me. I imagined these burning coals, not 
 confined to a mere part of my body, but pressing upon me 
 everywhere, not snatched swiftly off by loving hands, the 
 pain assuaged by applications of soft soap and the blue 
 bag, but left there, eating into my flesh and veins. And 
 this continued for eternity. You suffered for an hour, a 
 day, a thousand years, and were no nearer to the end ; ten 
 thousand, a million years, and yet, as at the very first, it 
 was for ever, and for ever still it would always be for ever ! 
 I suffered also from insomnia about this period. 
 
 "Then be good," replied the foolish voices round me; 
 "never do wrong, and so avoid this endless agony." 
 
 But it was so easy to do wrong. There were so many 
 wrong things to do, and the doing of them was so natural. 
 
 "Then repent," said the voices, always ready. 
 
 But how did one repent ? What was repentance ? Did 
 I "hate my sin," as I was instructed I must, or merely hate 
 the idea of going to hell for it ? Because the latter, even 
 my child's sense told me, was no true repentance. Yet 
 how could one know the difference? 
 
 Above all else there haunted me the fear of the "Unfor- 
 givable Sin." What this was I was never able to discover. 
 I dreaded to enquire too closely, lest I should find I had 
 committed it. Day and night the terror of it clung to me. 
 
 "Believe," said the voices ; "so only shall you be saved." 
 
 How believe? How know you did believe? Hours 
 would I kneel in the dark, repeating in a whispered scream : 
 "I believe, I believe. Oh, I do believe!" and then rise 
 with white knuckles, wondering if I really did believe. 
 
 Another question rose to trouble me. In the course 
 of my meanderings I had made the acquaintance of an 
 old sailor, one of the most disreputable specimens possible 
 to find ; and had learned to love him. Our first meeting 
 had been outside a confectioner's window, in the Commer- 
 
Meets the Princess of the Golden Locks 73 
 
 cial Road, where he had discovered me standing, my nose 
 against the glass, a mere palpitating Appetite on legs. He 
 had seized me by the collar, and hauled me into the shop. 
 There, dropping me upon a stool, he bade me eat. Pride 
 of race prompted me politely to decline, but his language 
 became so awful that in fear and trembling I obeyed. So 
 soon as I was finished — it cost him two and fourpence, I 
 remember — we walked down to the docks together, and 
 he told me stories of the sea and land that made my blood 
 run cold. Altogether, in the course of three weeks or a 
 month, we met about half a dozen times, when much the 
 same programme was gone through. I think I was a 
 fairly frank child, but I said nothing about him at home, 
 feeling instinctively that if I did there would be an end 
 of our comradeship, which was dear to me: not merely 
 by reason of the pastry, though I admit that was a con- 
 sideration, but also for his wondrous tales. I believed 
 them all implicitly, and so came to regard him as one of the 
 most interesting criminals as yet unhanged : and what was 
 sad about the case, as I felt myself, was that his recital 
 of his many iniquities, instead of repelling, attracted me 
 to him. If ever there existed a sinner, here was one. He 
 chewed tobacco — one of the hundred or so deadly sins, 
 according to my theological library — and was generally 
 more or less drunk. Not that a stranger would have 
 noticed this; the only difference being that when sober 
 he appeared constrained — was less his natural, genial self. 
 In a burst of confidence he once admitted to me that he was 
 the biggest blackguard in the merchant service. Unac- 
 quainted with the merchant service, as at the time I was, 
 I saw no reason to doubt him. 
 
 One night in a state of intoxication he walked over a 
 gangway and was drowned. Our mutual friend, the con- 
 fectioner, seeing me pass the window, came out to tell me 
 so ; and having heard, I walked on, heavy of heart, and 
 pondering. 
 
 About his eternal destination there could be no question. 
 
74 Paul Kelver 
 
 The known facts precluded the least ray of hope. How- 
 could I be happy in heaven, supposing I eventually did 
 succeed in slipping in, knowing that he, the lovable old 
 scamp, was burning for ever in hell? 
 
 How could Janet, taking it that she reformed and thus 
 escaped damnation, be contented, knowing the father she 
 loved doomed to torment? The heavenly hosts, so I 
 argued, could be composed only of the callous and indif- 
 ferent. 
 
 I wondered how people could go about their business, 
 eat, drink and be merry, with tremendous fate hanging 
 thus ever suspended over their heads. When for a little 
 space I myself forgot it, always it fell back upon me with 
 increased weight. 
 
 Nor was the contemplation of heaven itself particularly 
 attractive to me, for it was a foolish paradise these foolish 
 voices had fashioned out of their folly. You stood about 
 and sang hymns — for ever! I was assured that my fear 
 of finding the programme monotonous was due only to 
 my state of original sin, that when I got there I should 
 discover I liked it. But I would have given much for the 
 hope of avoiding both their heaven and their hell. 
 
 Fortunately for my sanity I was not left long to brood 
 unoccupied upon such themes. Our worldly affairs, under 
 the sunshine of old Hasluck's round red face, prospered — 
 for awhile; and one afternoon my father, who had been 
 away from home since breakfast time, calling me into his 
 office, where also sat my mother, informed me that the 
 long-talked-of school was become at last a concrete thing. 
 
 "The term commences next week," explained my 
 father. "It is not exactly what I had intended, but it will 
 do — for the present. Later, of course, you will go to one 
 of the big public schools ; your mother and I have not yet 
 quite decided which." 
 
 "You will meet other boys there, good and bad," said 
 my mother, who sat clasping and unclasping her hands. 
 
Meets the Princess of the Golden Locks j^ 
 
 "Be very careful, dear, how you choose your com- 
 panions." 
 
 "You will learn to take your own part," said my father. 
 "School is an epitome of the world. One must assert 
 oneself, or one is sat upon." 
 
 I knew not what to reply, the vista thus opened out to 
 me was so unexpected. My blood rejoiced, but my heart 
 sank. 
 
 "Take one of your long walks," said my father, smil- 
 ing, "and think it over." 
 
 "And if you are in any doubt, you know where to go 
 for guidance, don't you ?" whispered my mother, who was 
 very grave. 
 
 Yet I went to bed, dreaming of quite other things that 
 night: of Queens of Beauty bending down to crown my 
 brows with laurel : of wronged Princesses for whose cause 
 I rode to death or victory. For on my return home, 
 being called into the drawing-room by my father, I stood 
 transfixed, my cap in hand, staring with all my eyes at 
 the vision that I saw. 
 
 No such wonder had I ever seen before, at all events, 
 not to my remembrance. The maidens that one meets in 
 Poplar streets may be fair enough in their way, but their 
 millinery displays them not to advantage; and the few 
 lady visitors that came to us were of a staid and matronly 
 appearance. Only out of pictures hitherto had such 
 witchery looked upon me ; and from these the spell faded 
 as one gazed. 
 
 I heard old Hasluck's smoky voice saying, "My little 
 gell, Barbara," and I went nearer to her, moving uncon- 
 sciously. 
 
 "You can kiss 'er," said the smoky voice again; "she 
 won't bite." But I did not kiss her. Nor ever felt I 
 wanted to, upon the mouth. 
 
 I suppose she must have been about fourteen, and I a 
 little over ten, though tall for my age. Later I came to 
 
jb Paul Kelver 
 
 know she had that rare gold hair that holds the light, so 
 that upon her face, which seemed of dainty porcelain, 
 there ever fell a softened radiance as from some shining 
 aureole; those blue eyes where dwell mysteries, shadow 
 veiled. At the time I knew nothing, but that it seemed to 
 me as though the fairy-tales had all come true. 
 
 She smiled, understanding and well pleased with my 
 confusion. Child though I was — little more than child 
 though she was, it flattered her vanity. 
 
 Fair and sweet, you had but that one fault. Would it 
 had been another, less cruel to you yourself. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN WHICH THERE COMES BY ONE BENT UPON PURSUING 
 HIS OWN WAY. 
 
 "Correct" is, I think, the adjective by which I can best 
 describe Doctor Florret and all his attributes. He was a 
 large man, but not too large — just the size one would 
 select for the head-master of an important middle-class 
 school ; stout, not fat, suggesting comfort, not grossness. 
 His hands were white and well shaped. On the left 
 he wore a fine diamond ring, but it shone rather than 
 sparkled. He spoke of commonplace things in a voice 
 that lent dignity even to the weather. His face, which 
 was clean-shaven, radiated benignity tempered by discre- 
 tion. 
 
 So likewise all about him : his wife, the feminine coun- 
 terpart of himself. Seeing them side by side one felt 
 tempted to believe that for his special benefit original 
 methods had been reverted to, and she fashioned, as his 
 particular helpmeet, out of one of his own ribs. His 
 furniture was solid, meant for use, not decoration. His 
 pictures, following the rule laid down for dress, graced 
 without drawing attention to his walls. He ever said the 
 correct thing at the correct time in the correct manner. 
 Doubtful of the correct thing to do, one could always 
 learn it by waiting till he did it ; when one at once felt that 
 nothing else could possibly have been correct. He held 
 on all matters the correct views. To differ from him was 
 to discover oneself a revolutionary. 
 
 In practice, as I learned at the cost of four more or less 
 
yS Paul Kelver 
 
 wasted years, he of course followed the methods con- 
 sidered correct by English schoolmen from the days of 
 Edward VI. onwards. 
 
 Heaven knows I worked hard. I wanted to learn. 
 Ambition — the all containing ambition of a boy that "has 
 its centre everywhere nor cares to fix itself to form" stir- 
 red within me. Did I pass a speaker at some corner, hat- 
 less, perspiring, pointing Utopias in the air to restless 
 hungry eyes, at once I saw myself, a Demosthenes sway- 
 ing multitudes, a statesman holding the House of Com- 
 mons spellbound, the Prime Minister of England, wor- 
 shipped by the entire country. Even the Opposition 
 papers, had I known of them, I should have imagined 
 forced to reluctant admiration. Did the echo of a distant 
 drum fall upon my ear, then before me rose picturesque 
 fields of carnage, one figure ever conspicuous: Myself, 
 well to the frost, isolated. Promotion in the British 
 army of my dream being a matter purely of merit, I re- 
 turned Commander-in-Chief. Vast crowds thronged 
 every flag-decked street. I saw white waving hands 
 from every roof and window. I heard the dull, deep roar 
 of welcome, as with superb seat upon my snow-white 
 charger — or should it be coal-black? The point cost me 
 much consideration, so anxious was I that the day should 
 be without a flaw — I slowly paced at the head of my vic- 
 torious troops, between wild waves of upturned faces: 
 walked into a lamp-post or on to the toes of some irascible 
 old gentleman, and awoke. A drunken sailor stormed 
 from between swing doors and tacked tumultuously down 
 the street : the factory chimney belching smoke became a 
 swaying mast. The costers round about me shouted 
 ''Ay, ay, sir." "Ready, ay, ready." I was Christopher 
 Columbus, Drake, Nelson, rolled into one. Spurning the 
 presumption of modern geographers, I discovered new 
 continents. I defeated the French — those useful French ! 
 I died in the moment of victory. A nation mourned me 
 and I was buried in Westminster Abbey. Also I lived 
 
Bent Upon Pursuing His Own Way 79 
 
 and was created a Duke. Either alternative had its charm : 
 personally I was indifferent. Boys who on November the 
 ninth, as explained by letters from their mothers, read by 
 Doctor Florret with a snort, were suffering from a severe 
 toothache, told me on November the tenth of the glories 
 of Lord Mayor's Shows. I heard their chatter fainter 
 and fainter as from an ever-increasing distance. 
 The bells of Bow were ringing in my ears. I saw 
 myself a merchant prince, though still young. Nobles 
 crowded my counting house. I lent them millions 
 and married their daughters. I listened, unobserved 
 in a corner, to discussion on some new book. Im- 
 mediately I was a famous author. All men praised me : 
 for of reviewers and their density I, in those days, knew 
 nothing. Poetry, fiction, history, I wrote them all; and 
 all men read, and wondered. Only here was a crumpled 
 rose leaf in the pillow on which I laid my swelling head : 
 penmanship was vexation to me, and spelling puzzled me, 
 so that I wrote with sorrow and many blots and scratch- 
 ings out. Almost I put aside the idea of becoming an 
 author. 
 
 But along whichever road I might fight my way to the 
 Elysian Fields of fame, education, I dimly but most cer- 
 tainly comprehended, was a necessary weapon to my 
 hand. And so, with aching heart and aching head, I 
 pored over my many books. I see myself now in my 
 small bedroom, my elbows planted on the shaky, one- 
 legged table, startled every now and again by the friz- 
 zling of my hair coming in contact with the solitary can- 
 dle. On cold nights I wear my overcoat, turned up about 
 the neck, a blanket round my legs, and often I must sit 
 with my fingers in my ears, the better to shut out the 
 sounds of life, rising importunately from below. "A 
 song. Of a song, To a song, A song, O ! song !" "I love. 
 Thou lovest. He she or it loves. I should or would 
 love" over and over again, till my own voice seems some 
 strange buzzing thing about me, while my head grows 
 
8o Paul Kelver 
 
 smaller and smaller till I put my hands up frightened, 
 wondering if it still be entire upon my shoulders. 
 
 Was I more stupid than the average, or is a boy's brain 
 physically incapable of the work our educational system 
 demands of it? 
 
 "Latin and Greek" I hear repeating the suave tones of 
 Doctor Florret, echoing as ever the solemn croak of Cor- 
 rectness, "are useful as mental gymnastics." My dear 
 Doctor Florret and Co., cannot you, out of the vast store- 
 house of really necessary knowledge, select apparatus bet- 
 ter fitted to strengthen and not overstrain the mental 
 muscles of ten-to-fourteen ? You, gentle reader, with 
 brain fully grown, trained by years of practice to its 
 subtlest uses, take me from your bookshelf, say, your 
 Browning or even your Shakespeare. Come, you know 
 this language well. You have not merely learned : it is 
 your mother tongue. Construe for me this short pas- 
 sage, these few verses : parse, analyse, resolve into com- 
 ponent parts ! And now, will you maintain that it is good 
 for Tommy, tear-stained, ink-bespattered little brat, to be 
 given ^sop's Fables, Ovid's Metamorphoses to treat in 
 like manner? Would it not be just as sensible to insist 
 upon his practising his skinny little arms with hundred 
 pounds dumb-bells ? 
 
 We were the sons of City men, of not well-to-do pro- 
 fessional men, of minor officials, clerks, shopkeepers, our 
 roads leading through the workaday world. Yet quite 
 half our time was taken up in studies utterly useless to us. 
 How I hated them, these youth-tormenting Shades. 
 Homer! how I wished the fishermen had asked him that 
 absurd riddle earlier. Horace ! why could not that ship- 
 wreck have succeeded : it would have in the case of any 
 one but a classic. 
 
 Until one blessed day there fell into my hands a won- 
 drous talisman. 
 
 Hearken unto me, ye heavy burdened little brethren of 
 mine. Waste not your substance upon tops and marbles, 
 
Bent Upon Pursuing His Own Way 8i 
 
 nor yet upon tuck (Do ye still call it "tuck"?), but 
 scrape and save. For in the neighbourhood of Pater- 
 noster Row there dwells a good magician who for silver 
 will provide you with a ''Key" that shall open wide for 
 you the gates of Hades. 
 
 By its aid, the Frogs of Aristophanes became my merry 
 friends. With Ulysses I wandered eagerly through 
 Wonderland. Doctor Florret was charmed with my 
 progress, which was real, for now, at last, I was studying 
 according to the laws of common sense, understanding 
 first, explaining afterwards. Let Youth, that the folly of 
 Age would imprison in ignorance, provide itself with 
 "Keys." 
 
 But let me not seem to claim credit due to another. 
 Dan it was — Dan of the strong arm and the soft smile, 
 Dan the wise hater of all useless labour, sharp-witted, 
 easy-going Dan, who made this grand discovery. 
 
 Dan followed me a term later into the Lower Fourth, 
 but before he had been there a week was handling Latin 
 verse with an ease and dexterity suggestive of unholy 
 dealings with the Devil. In a lonely corner of Regent's 
 Park, first making sure no one was within earshot, he re- 
 vealed to me his magic. 
 
 "Don't tell the others," he commanded; "or it will get 
 out, and then nobody will be any the better." 
 
 "But is it right ?" I asked. 
 
 "Look here, young 'un," said Dan ; "what are you here 
 for — what's your father paying school fees for (it was the 
 appeal to our conscientiousness most often employed by 
 Dr. Florret himself), for you to play a silly game, or to 
 learn something ? 
 
 "Because if it's only a game — we boys against the mas- 
 ters," continued Dan, "then let's play according to rule. 
 If we're here to learn — well, you've been in the class four 
 months and I've just come, and I bet I know more Ovid 
 than you do already." Which was true. 
 
 So I thanked Dan and shared with him his key ; and all 
 
82 Paul Kelver 
 
 the Latin I remember, for whatever good it may be to me, 
 I take it I owe to him. 
 
 And knowledge of yet greater value do I owe to the 
 good fortune that his sound mother wit was ever at my 
 disposal to correct my dreamy unfeasibility ; for from 
 first to last he was my friend ; and to have been the chosen 
 friend of Dan, shrewd judge of man and boy, I deem no 
 unimportant feather in my cap. He "took to" me, he 
 said, because I was "so jolly green" — "such a rummy 
 little mug." No other reason would he ever give me, 
 save only a sweet smile and a tumbling of my hair with 
 his great hand; but I think I understood. And I loved 
 him because he was big and strong and handsome and 
 kind; no one but a little boy knows how brutal or how 
 kind a big boy can be. I was still somewhat of an effemi- 
 nate little chap, nervous and shy, with a pink and white 
 face, and hair that no amount of wetting would make 
 straight. I was growing too fast, which took what 
 strength I had, and my journey every day, added to 
 school work and home work, maybe was too much for 
 my years. Every morning I had to be up at six, leaving 
 the house before seven to catch the seven fifteen from 
 Poplar station ; and from Chalk Farm I had to walk yet 
 another couple of miles. But that I did not mind, for at 
 Chalk Farm station Dan was always waiting for me. In 
 the afternoon we walked back together also ; and when I 
 was tired and my back ached — just as if some one had cut 
 a piece out of it, I felt — he would put his arm round me, 
 for he always knew, and oh, how strong and restful it 
 was to lean against, so that one walked as in an easy-chair. 
 
 It seems to me, remembering how I would walk thus by 
 his side, looking up shyly into his face, thinking how 
 strong and good he was, feeling so glad he liked me, I 
 can understand a little how a woman loves. He was so 
 solid. With his arm round me, it was good to feel weak. 
 
 At first we were in the same class, the Lower Third. 
 He had no business there. He was head and shoulders 
 
Bent Upon Pursuing His Own Way 83 
 
 taller than any of us and years older. It was a disgrace 
 to him that he was not in the Upper Fourth. The Doctor 
 would tell him so before us all twenty times a week. Old 
 Waterhouse (I call him "Old Waterhouse" because 
 "Mister Waterhouse, M.A.," would convey no meaning to 
 me, and I should not know about whom I was speaking) 
 who cordially liked him, was honestly grieved. We, his 
 friends, though it was pleasant to have him among us, 
 suffered in our pride of him. The only person quite con- 
 tented was Dan himself. It was his way in all things. 
 Others had their opinion of what was good for him. He 
 had his own, and his own was the only opinion that ever 
 influenced him. The Lower Third suited him. For 
 him personally the Upper Fourth had no attraction. 
 
 And even in the Lower Third he was always at the 
 bottom. He preferred it. He selected the seat and kept 
 it, in spite of all allurements, in spite of all reproaches. 
 It was nearest to the door. It enabled him to be first out 
 and last in. Also it afforded a certain sense of retire- 
 ment. Its occupant, to an extent screened from observa- 
 tion, became in the course of time almost forgotten. To 
 Dan's philosophical temperament its practical advantages 
 outweighed all sentimental objection. 
 
 Only on one occasion do I remember his losing it. As 
 a rule, tiresome questions, concerning past participles, 
 square roots, or meridians never reached him, being 
 snapped up in transit by arm-waving lovers of such trifles. 
 The few that by chance trickled so far he took no notice 
 of. They possessed no interest for him, and he never 
 pretended that they did. But one day, taken off his 
 guard, he gave voice quite unconsciously to a correct re- 
 ply, with the immediate result of finding himself in an 
 exposed position on the front bench. I had never seen 
 Dan out of temper before, but that moment had any of us 
 ventured upon a whispered congratulation we would have 
 had our head punched, I feel confident. 
 
 Old Waterhouse thought that here at last was reforma- 
 
84 Paul Kelver 
 
 tion. "Come, Brian," he cried, rubbing his long thin 
 hands together with deHght, "after all, you're not such a 
 fool as you pretend." 
 
 "Never said I was," muttered Dan to himself, with a 
 backward glance of regret towards his lost seclusion ; and 
 before the day was out he had worked his way back to 
 it again. 
 
 As we were going out together, old Waterhouse passed 
 us on the stairs : "Haven't you any sense of shame, my 
 boy?" he asked sorrowfully, laying his hand kindly on 
 Dan's shoulder. 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Dan, with his frank smile ; "plenty. 
 It isn't yours, that's all." 
 
 He was an excellent fighter. In the whole school of 
 over two hundred boys, not half a dozen, and those only 
 Upper Sixth boys — fellows who came in top hats with 
 umbrellas, and who wouldn't out of regard to their own 
 dignity — could have challenged him with any chance of 
 success. Yet he fought very seldom, and then always in 
 a bored, lazy fashion, as though he were doing it purely to 
 oblige the other fellow. 
 
 One afternoon, just as we were about to enter Regent's 
 Park by the wicket opposite Hanover Gate, a biggish 
 boy, an errand boy carrying an empty basket, and sup- 
 ported by two smaller boys, barred our way. 
 
 "Can't come in here," said the boy with the basket. 
 
 "Why not ?" inquired Dan. 
 
 " 'Cos if you do I shall kick you," was the simple ex- 
 planation. 
 
 Without a word Dan turned away, prepared to walk 
 on to the next opening. The boy with the basket, evi- 
 dently encouraged, followed us : "Now, I'm going to give 
 you your coward's blow," he said, stepping in front of us ; 
 "will you take it quietly ?" It is a lonely way, the Outer 
 Circle, on a winter's afternoon. 
 
 "I'll tell you afterwards," said Dan, stopping short. 
 
Bent Upon Pursuing His Own Way 85 
 
 The boy gave him a slight slap on the cheek. It could 
 not have hurt, but the indignity, of course, was great. No 
 boy of honour, according to our code, could have accepted 
 it without retaliating. 
 
 'Is that all ?" asked Dan. 
 
 ''That's all — for the present," replied the boy with the 
 basket. 
 
 "Good-bye," said Dan, and walked on. 
 
 "Glad he didn't insist on fighting," remarked Dan, 
 cheerfully, as we proceeded; 'T'm going to a party to- 
 night." 
 
 Yet on another occasion, in a street off Lisson Grove, 
 he insisted on fighting a young rough half again his own 
 weight, who, brushing up against him, had knocked his 
 hat off into the mud. 
 
 "I wouldn't have said anything about his knocking it 
 off," explained Dan afterwards, tenderly brushing the 
 poor bruised thing with his coat sleeve, "if he hadn't 
 kicked it." 
 
 On another occasion I remember, three or four of us, 
 Dan among the number, were on our way one broiling 
 summer's afternoon to Hadley Woods. As we turned off 
 form the highroad just beyond Barnet and struck into the 
 fields, Dan drew from his pocket an enormous juicy- 
 looking pear. 
 
 "Where did you get that from ?" inquired one, Dudley. 
 
 "From that big greengrocer's opposite Barnet Church," 
 answered Dan. "Have a bit?" 
 
 "You told me you hadn't any more money," retorted 
 Dudley, in reproachful tones. 
 
 "No more I had," replied Dan, holding out a tempting 
 slice at the end of his pocket-knife. 
 
 "You must have had some, or you couldn't have bought 
 that pear," argued Dudley, accepting. 
 
 "Didn't buy it." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you stole it?" 
 
86 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You're a thief," denounced Dudley, wiping his mouth 
 and throwing away a pip. 
 
 "I know it. So are you." 
 
 "No, Fm not." 
 
 "What's the good of talking nonsense. You robbed an 
 orchard only last Wednesday at Mill Hill, and gave your- 
 self the stomach-ache." 
 
 "That isn't stealing." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "It isn't the same thing." 
 
 "What's the difference?" 
 
 And nothing could make Dan comprehend the differ- 
 ence. "Stealing is stealing," he would have it, "whether 
 you take it off a tree or out of a basket. You're a thief, 
 Dudley ; so am I. Anybody else say a piece ?" 
 
 The thermometer was at that point where morals be- 
 come slack. We all had a piece; but we were all of us 
 shocked at Dan, and told him so. It did not agitate him 
 in the least. 
 
 To Dan I could speak my inmost thoughts, knowing 
 he would understand me, and sometimes from him I re- 
 ceived assistance and sometimes confusion. The yearly 
 examination was approaching. My father and mother 
 said nothing, but I knew how anxiously each of them 
 awaited the result; my father, to see how much I had 
 accomplished ; my mother, how much I had endeavoured. 
 I had worked hard, but was doubtful, knowing that prizes 
 depend less upon what you know than upon what you can 
 make others believe you know; which applies to prizes 
 beyond those of school. 
 
 "Are you going in for anything, Dan?" I asked him. 
 We were discussing the subject, crossing Primrose Hill, 
 one bright June morning. 
 
 I knew the question absurd. I asked it of him because 
 I wanted him to ask it of me. 
 
 "They're not giving away anything I particularly 
 
Bent Upon Pursuing His Own Way 87 
 
 want," murmured Dan, in his lazy drawl : looked at from 
 that point of view, school prizes are, it must be confessed, 
 not worth their cost. 
 
 "You're sweating yourself, young 'un, of course?" he 
 asked next, as I expected. 
 
 "I mean to have a shot at the History," I admitted. 
 "Wish I was better at dates." 
 
 "It's always two-thirds dates," Dan assured me, to my 
 discouragement. "Old Florret thinks you can't eat a 
 potato until you know the date that chap Raleigh was 
 born." 
 
 "I've prayed so hard that I may win the History prize," 
 I explained to him, I never felt shy with Dan. He never 
 laughed at me. 
 
 "You oughtn't to have done that," he said. I stared. 
 "It isn't fair to the other fellows. That won't be your win- 
 ning the prize ; that will be your getting it through favour- 
 itism." 
 
 "But they can pray, too," I reminded him. 
 
 "If you all pray for it," answered Dan, '^then it will go, 
 not to the fellow that knows most history, but to the fel- 
 low that's prayed the hardest. That isn't old Florret's 
 idea, I'm sure." 
 
 "But we are told to pray for things we want," I insisted. 
 
 "Beastly mean way of getting 'em," retorted Dan. And 
 no argument that came to me, neither then nor at any 
 future time, brought him to right thinking on this point. 
 
 He would judge all matters for himself. In his opinion 
 Achilles was a coward, not a hero. 
 
 "He ought to have told the Trojans that they couldn't 
 hurt any part of him except his heel, and let them have a 
 shot at that," he argued ; "King Arthur and all the rest 
 of them with their magic swords, it wasn't playing the 
 game. There's no pluck in fighting if you know you're 
 bound to win. Beastly cads, I call them all." 
 
 I won no prize that year. Oddly enough, Dan did, for 
 arithmetic; the only subject studied in the Lower Fourth 
 
88 Paul Kelver 
 
 that interested him. He liked to see things coming right, 
 he explained. 
 
 My father shut himself up with me for half an hour 
 and examined me himself. 
 
 ''It's very curious, Paul," he said, *'you seem to know a 
 good deal." 
 
 ''They asked me all the things I didn't know. They 
 seemed to do it on purpose," I blurted out, and laid my 
 head upon my arm. My father crossed the room and sat 
 down beside me. 
 
 "Spud !" he said — it was a long time since he had called 
 me by that childish nickname — "perhaps you are going to 
 be with me, one of the unlucky ones." 
 
 "Are you unlucky ?" I asked. 
 
 "Invariably," answered my father, rumpling his hair. 
 "I don't know why. I try hard — I do the right thing, but 
 it turns out wrong. It always does." 
 
 "But I thought Mr. Hasluck was bringing us such good 
 fortune," I said, looking up in surprise. "We're getting 
 on, aren't we?" 
 
 "I have thought so before, so often," said my father, 
 "and it has always ended in a — in a collapse." 
 
 I put my arms round his neck, for I always felt to my 
 father as to another boy; bigger than myself and older, 
 but not so very much. 
 
 "You see, when I married your mother," he went on, "I 
 was a rich man. She had everything she wanted." 
 
 "But you will get it all back," I cried. 
 
 "I try to think so," he answered. "I do think so — gen- 
 erally speaking. But there are times — you would not un- 
 derstand — they come to you." 
 
 "But she is happy," I persisted ; "we are all happy." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I watch her," he said. "Women suffer more than we 
 do. They live more in the present. I see my hopes, but 
 she — she sees only me, and I have always been a failure. 
 She has lost faith in me." 
 
Bent Upon Pursuing His Own Way 89 
 
 I could say nothing. I understood but dimly. 
 
 ''That is why I want you to be an educated man, Paul," 
 he continued after a silence. ''You can't think what a 
 help education is to a man. I don't mean it helps you to 
 get on in the world; I think for that it rather hampers 
 you. But it helps you to bear adversity. To a man with a 
 well-stored mind, life is interesting on a piece of bread 
 and a cup of tea. I know. If it were not for you and 
 your mother I should not trouble." 
 
 And yet at that time our fortunes were at their bright- 
 est, so far as I remember them ; and when they were dark 
 again he was full of fresh hope, planning, scheming, 
 dreaming again. It was never acting. A worse actor 
 never trod this stage on which we fret. His occasional 
 attempts at a cheerfulness he did not feel inevitably re- 
 sulted in our all three crying in one another's arms. No ; 
 it was only when things were going well that experience 
 came to his injury. Child of misfortune, he ever rose, 
 Antaeus-like, renewed in strength from contact with his 
 mother. 
 
 Nor must it be understood that his despondent moods, 
 even in time of prosperity, were oft recurring. Generally 
 speaking, as he himself said, he was full of confidence. 
 Already had he fixed upon our new house in Guilford 
 Street, then still a good residential quarter; while at the 
 same time, as he would explain to my mother, sufficiently 
 central for office purposes, close as it was to Lincoln and 
 Grey's Inn and Bedford Row, pavements long worn with 
 the weary footsteps of the Law's sad courtiers. 
 
 "Poplar," said my father, "has disappointed me. It 
 seemed a good idea — a rapidly rising district, singularly 
 destitute of solicitors. It ought to have turned out well, 
 and yet somehow it hasn't." 
 
 "There have been a few come," my mother reminded 
 him. 
 
 "Of a sort," admitted my father; "a criminal lawyer 
 might gather something of a practice here, I have no 
 
90 Paul Kelver 
 
 doubt. But for general work, of course, you must be in a 
 central position. Now, in Guilford Street people will come 
 to me/' 
 
 "It should certainly be a pleasanter neighbourhood to 
 live in," agreed my mother. 
 
 "Later on," said my father, "in case I want the whole 
 house for offices, we could live ourselves in Regent's Park. 
 It is quite near to the Park." 
 
 "Of course you have consulted Mr. Hasluck?" asked 
 my mother, who of the two was by far the more practical. 
 
 "For Hasluck," replied my father, "it will be much 
 more convenient. He grumbles every time at the dis- 
 tance." 
 
 "I have never been quite able to understand," said my 
 mother, "why Mr. Hasluck should have come so far out of 
 his wav. There must surely be plenty of solicitors in the 
 City." " 
 
 "He had heard of me," explained my father. "A curi- 
 our old fellow — likes his own way of doing things. It's 
 not everyone who would care for him as a client. But I 
 seem able to manage him." 
 
 Often we would go together, my father and I, to Guil- 
 ford Street. It was a large corner house that had taken 
 his fancy, half creeper covered, with a balcony, and pleas- 
 antly situated, overlooking the gardens of the Foundling 
 Hospital. The wizened old caretaker knew us well, and 
 having opened the door, would leave us to wander through 
 the empty, echoing rooms at our own will. We furnished 
 them handsomely in later Queen Anne style, of which my 
 father was a connoisseur, sparing no necessary expense ; 
 for, as my father observed, good furniture is always worth 
 its price, while to buy cheap is pure waste of money. 
 
 "This," said my father, on the second floor, stepping 
 from the bedroom into the smaller room adjoining, "I 
 shall make your mother's boudoir. We will have the 
 walls in lavender and maple green — she is fond of soft 
 
Bent Upon Pursuing His Own Way 91 
 
 tones — and the window looks out upon the gardens. 
 There we will put her writing--table," 
 
 My own bedroom was on the third floor, a sunny little 
 room. 
 
 "You will be quiet here," said my father, "and we can 
 shut out the bed and the washstand with a screen." 
 
 Later, I came to occupy it ; though its rent — eight and 
 sixpence a week, including attendance — was somewhat 
 more than at the time I ought to have afforded. Never- 
 theless, I adventured it, taking the opportunity of being an 
 inmate of the house to refurnish it, unknown to my stout 
 landlady, in later Queen Anne style, putting a neat brass 
 plate with my father's name upon the door. "Luke Kel- 
 ver. Solicitor. Oflice hours, 10 till 4." A medical stu- 
 dent thought he occupied my mother's boudoir. He was 
 a dull dog, full of tiresome talk. But I made acquaintance- 
 ship with him ; and often of an evening would smoke my 
 pipe there in silence while pretending to be listening to his 
 monotonous brag. 
 
 The poor thing! he had no idea that he was only a 
 foolish ghost; that his walls, seemingly covered with 
 coarse-coloured prints of wooden-looking horses, simper- 
 ing ballet girls and petrified prize-fighters, were in reality 
 a delicate tone of lavender and maple green ; that at her 
 writing-table in the sunlit window sat my mother, her soft 
 curls curtaining her quiet face. 
 
CHAPTER VL 
 
 OF THE SHADOW THAT CAME BETWEEN THE MAN IN GREY 
 AND THE LADY OF THE LOVE-LIT EYES. 
 
 'There's nothing missing," said my mother, "so far as 
 I can find out. Depend upon it, that's the explanation : she 
 has got frightened and has run away." 
 
 "But what was there to frighten her?" said my father, 
 pausing with a decanter in one hand and the bottle in the 
 other. 
 
 "It was the idea of the thing," replied my mother. 
 "She has never been used to waiting at table. She was 
 actually crying about it only last night." 
 
 "But what's to be done?" said my father. "They will 
 be here in less than an hour." 
 
 "There will be no dinner for them," said my mother, 
 "unless I put on an apron and bring it up myself." 
 
 "Where does she live?" asked my father. 
 
 "At Ilford," answered my mother. 
 
 "We must make a joke of it," said my father. 
 
 My mother, sitting down, began to cry. It had been 
 a trying week for my mother. A party to dinner — to a 
 real dinner, beginning with anchovies and ending with 
 ices from the confectioner's; if only they would remain 
 ices and not, giving way to unaccustomed influences, pre- 
 sent themselves as cold custard — was an extraordinary 
 departure from the even tenor of our narrow domestic 
 way; indeed, I recollect none previous. First there had 
 been the house to clean and rearrange almost from top 
 to bottom ; endless small purchases to be made of articles 
 that Need never misses, but which Ostentation, if ever you 
 
Of the Shadow that Came Between 
 
 93 
 
 let her sneering nose inside the door, at once demands. 
 Then the kitchen range — it goes without saying: one 
 might imagine them all members of a stove union, con- 
 trolled by some agitating old boiler out of work — had 
 taken the opportunity to strike, refusing to bake another 
 dish except under permanently improved conditions, ne- 
 cessitating weary days with plumbers. Fat cookery books, 
 long neglected on their shelf, had been consulted, argued 
 with and abused ; experiments made, failures sighed over, 
 successes noted; cost calculated anxiously; means and 
 ways adjusted, hope finally achieved, shadowed by fear. 
 
 And now with victory practically won, to have the re- 
 ward thus dashed from her hand at the last moment! 
 Downstairs in the kitchen would be the dinner, waiting 
 for the guests; upstairs round the glittering table would 
 be the assembled guests, waiting for their dinner. But 
 between the two yawned an impassable gulf. The bridge, 
 without a word of warning, had bolted — was probably by 
 this time well on its way to Ilford. There was excuse for 
 my mother's tears. 
 
 "Isn't it possible to get somebody else?" asked my 
 father. 
 
 ''Impossible, in the time," said my mother. 'T had been 
 training her for the whole week. We had rehearsed it 
 perfectly." 
 
 "Have it in the kitchen," suggested my aunt, who was 
 folding napkins to look like ships, which they didn't in the 
 least, "and call it a picnic." Really it seemed the only 
 practical solution. 
 
 There came a light knock at the front door. 
 
 "It can't be anybody yet, surely," exclaimed my father 
 in alarm, making for his coat. 
 
 "It's Barbara, I expect," explained my mother. "She 
 promised to come round and help me dress. But now, of 
 course, I shan't want her." My mother's nature was pes- 
 simistic. 
 
 But with the words Barbara ran into the room, for I 
 
94 Paul Kelver 
 
 had taken it upon myself to admit her, knowing that shad- 
 ows sHpped out through the window when Barbara came 
 in at the door — in those days, I mean. 
 
 She kissed them all three, though it seemed but one 
 movement, she was so quick. And at once they saw the 
 humour of the thing. 
 
 "There's going to be no dinner," laughed my father. 
 "We are going to look surprised and pretend that it was 
 yesterday. It will be fun to see their faces," 
 
 "There will be a very nice dinner," smiled my mother, 
 "but it will be in the kitchen, and there's no way of get- 
 ting it upstairs." And they explained to her the situation. 
 
 She stood for an instant, her sweet face the gravest in 
 the group. Then a light broke upon it. 
 
 "I'll get you someone," she said. 
 
 "My dear, you don't even know the neighbourhood," 
 began my mother. But Barbara had snatched the latch- 
 key from its nail and was gone. 
 
 With her disappearance, shadow fell again upon us. 
 
 "If there were only an hotel in this beastly neighbour- 
 hood," said my father. 
 
 "You must entertain them by yourself, Luke," said my 
 mother; "and I must wait — that's all." 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Maggie," cried my father, getting 
 angry. "Can't cook bring it in?" 
 
 "No one can cook a dinner and serve it, too," answered 
 my mother, impatiently. "Besides, she's not presentable." 
 
 "What about Fan?" whispered my father. 
 
 My mother merely looked. It was sufficient. 
 
 "Paul?" suggested my father. 
 
 "Thank you," retorted my mother. "I don't choose to 
 have my son turned into a footman, if you do." 
 
 "Well, hadn't you better go and dress?" was my father's 
 next remark. 
 
 "It won't take me long to put on an apron," was my 
 mother's reply. 
 
 "I was looking forward to seeing you in that new 
 
Of the Shadow that Came Between 95 
 
 frock," said my father. In the case of another, one might 
 have attributed such a speech to tact; in the case of my 
 father, one felt it was a happy accident. 
 
 My mother confessed — speaking with a certain in- 
 dulgence, as one does of one's own follies when past — 
 that she herself also had looked forward to seeing herself 
 therein. Threatening discord melted into mutual sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 ''I so wanted everything to be all right, for your sake, 
 Luke," said my mother; "I know you were hoping it 
 would help on the business." 
 
 'T was only thinking of you, Maggie, dear," answered 
 my father. "You are my business." 
 
 "I know, dear," said my mother. "It is hard." 
 
 The key turned in the lock, and we all stood quiet to 
 listen. 
 
 "She's come back alone," said my mother. "I knew it 
 was hopeless." 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 "Please, ma'am," said the new parlour-maid, "will I 
 do?" 
 
 She stood there, framed by the lintel, in the daintiest of 
 aprons, the daintiest of caps upon her golden hair; and 
 every objection she swept aside with the wind of her 
 merry wilfulness. No one ever had their way with her, 
 nor wanted it. 
 
 "You shall be footman," she ordered, turning to me— - 
 but this time my mother only laughed. "Wait here till I 
 come down again." Then to my mother : "Now, ma'am, 
 are you ready ?" 
 
 It was the first time I had seen my mother, or, indeed, 
 any other flesh and blood woman, in evening dress, and to 
 tell the truth I was a little shocked. Nay, more than a 
 little, and showed it, I suppose; for my mother flushed 
 and drew her shawl over the gleaming whiteness of her 
 shoulders, pleading coldness. But Barbara cried out 
 against this, saying it was a sin such beauty should be 
 
96 Paul Kelver 
 
 hid ; and my father, filching a shawl with a quick hand, 
 so dextrously indeed as to suggest some previous practice 
 in the feat, dropped on one knee — as though the world 
 were some sweet picture book — and raised my mother's 
 hand with grave reverence to his lips ; and Barbara, stand- 
 ing behind my mother's chair, insisted on my following 
 suit, saying the Queen was receiving. So I knelt also, 
 glancing up shyly as towards the gracious face of some 
 fair lady hitherto unknown, thus catching my first 
 glimpse of the philosophy of clothes. 
 
 My memory lingers upon this scene by contrast with 
 the sad, changed days that swiftly followed, when my 
 mother's eyes would flash towards my father angry 
 gleams, and her voice ring cruel and hard; though the 
 moment he was gone her lips would tremble and her eyes 
 grow soft again and fill with tears ; when my father 
 would sit with averted face and sullen lips tight pressed, 
 or worse, would open them only to pour forth a rapid 
 flood of savage speech ; and fling out of the room, slam- 
 ming the door behind him, and I would find him hours 
 afterwards, sitting alone in the dark, with bowed head 
 between his hands. 
 
 Wretched, I would lie awake, hearing through the 
 flimsy walls their passionate tones, now rising high, now 
 fiercely forced into cold whispers; and then their words 
 to each other sounded even crueller. 
 
 In their estrangement from each other, so new to 
 them, both clung closer to me, though they would tell me 
 nothing, nor should I have understood if they had. When 
 my mother was sobbing softly, her arms clasping me 
 tighter and tighter with each quivering throb, then I hated 
 my father, who I felt had inflicted this sorrow upon her. 
 Yet when my father drew me down upon his knee, and I 
 looked into his kind eyes so full of pain, then I felt angry 
 with my mother, remembering her bitter tongue. 
 
 It seemed to me as though some cruel, unseen thing had 
 crept into the house to stand ever between them, so that 
 
Of the Shadow that Came Between 97 
 
 they might never look into each other's loving eyes but 
 only into the eyes of this evil shadow. The idea grew 
 upon me until at times I could almost detect its outline in 
 the air, feel a chillness as it passed me. It trod silently 
 through the pokey rooms, always alert to thrust its grin- 
 ning face before them. Now beside my mother it would 
 whisper in her ear ; and the next moment, stealing across 
 to my father, answer for him with his voice, but strangely 
 different. I used to think I could hear it laughing to 
 itself as it stepped back into enfolding space. 
 
 To this day I seem to see it, ever following with noise- 
 less footsteps man and woman, waiting patiently its op- 
 portunity to thrust its face between them. So that I can 
 read no love tale, but, glancing round, I see its mocking 
 eyes behind my shoulder, reading also, with a silent laugh. 
 So that never can I meet with boy and girl, whispering 
 in the twilight, but I see it lurking amid the half lights, 
 just behind them, creeping after them with stealthy tread, 
 as hand in hand they pass me in quiet ways. 
 
 Shall any of us escape, or lies the road of all through 
 this dark valley of the shadow of dead love ? Is it Love's 
 ordeal ? testing the feeble-hearted from the strong in faith, 
 who shall find each other yet again, the darkness passed? 
 
 Of the dinner itself, until time of dessert, I can give no 
 consecutive account, for as footman, under the orders of 
 this enthusiastic parlour-maid, my place was no sinecure, 
 and but few opportunities of observation through the 
 crack of the door were afforded me. All that was clear 
 to me was that the chief guest was a Mr. Teidelmann — or 
 Tiedelmann, I cannot now remember which — a snuffy, 
 mumbling old frump, with whose name then, however, 
 I was familiar by reason of seeing it so often in huge let- 
 ters, though with a Co. added, on dreary long blank walls, 
 bordering the Limehouse reach. He sat at my mother's 
 right hand ; and I wondered, noticing him so ugly and so 
 foolish seeming, how she could be so interested in him, 
 shouting much and often to him; for added to his other 
 
98 Paul Kelver 
 
 disattractions he was very deaf, which necessitated his 
 putting his hand up to his ear at every other observation 
 made to him, crying querulously : "Eh, what ? What are 
 you talking about? Say it again," — smiling upon him 
 and paying close attention to his every want. Even old 
 Hasluck, opposite to him, and who, though pleasant 
 enough in his careless way, was far from being a 
 slave to politeness, roared himself purple, praising some 
 new disinfectant of which this same Teidelmann appeared 
 to be the proprietor. 
 
 *'My wife swears by it," bellowed Hasluck, leaning 
 across the table. 
 
 "Our drains!" chimed in Mrs. Hasluck, who was a 
 homely soul; "well, you'd hardly know there was any in 
 the house since I've took to using it." 
 
 "What are they talking about ?" asked Teidelmann, ap- 
 pealing to my mother. "What's he say his wife does?" 
 
 "Your disinfectant," explained my mother ; "Mrs. Has- 
 luck swears by it." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Mrs. Hasluck." 
 
 "Does she ? Delighted to hear it," grunted the old gen- 
 tleman, evidently bored. 
 
 "Nothing like it for a sick-room," persisted Hasluck; 
 "might almost call it a scent." 
 
 "Makes one quite anxious to be ill," remarked my aunt, 
 addressing no one in particular. 
 
 "Reminds me of cocoanuts," continued Hasluck. 
 
 Its proprietor appeared not to hear, but Hasluck was 
 determined his flattery should not be lost. 
 
 "I say it reminds me of cocoanuts." He screamed it 
 this time. 
 
 "Oh, does it?" was the reply. 
 
 "Doesn't it you?" 
 
 "Can't say it does," answered Teidelmann. "As a mat- 
 ter of fact, don't know much about it myself. Never 
 use it." 
 
Of the Shadow that Came Between 99 
 
 Old Teidelmann went on with his dinner, but Hasluck 
 was still full of the subject. 
 
 "Take my advice," he shouted, "and buy a bottle." 
 
 "Buy a what?" 
 
 "A bottle," roared the other, with an effort palpably 
 beyond his strength. 
 
 "What's he say ? What's he talking about now ?" asked 
 Teidelmann, again appealing to my mother. 
 
 "He says you ought to buy a bottle," again explained 
 my mother. 
 
 "What of?" 
 
 "Of your own disinfectant." 
 
 "Silly fool !" 
 
 Whether he intended the remark to be heard and thus 
 to close the topic (which it did), or whether, as deaf peo- 
 ple are apt to, merely misjudged the audibility of an 
 intended sotto vocalism, I cannot say. I only know that 
 outside in the passage I heard the words distinctly, and 
 therefore assume they reached round the table also. 
 
 A lull in the conversation followed, but Hasluck was 
 not thin-skinned, and the next thing I distinguished was 
 his cheery laugh. 
 
 "He's quite right," was Hasluck's comment; "that's 
 what I am undoubtedly. Because I can't talk about any- 
 thing but shop myself, I think everybody else is the same 
 sort of fool." 
 
 But he was doing himself an injustice, for on my 
 next arrival in the passage he was again shouting across 
 the table, and this time Teidelmann was evidently inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "Well, if you could spare the time, I'd be more obliged 
 than I can tell you," Hasluck was saying. "I know abso- 
 lutely nothing about pictures myself, and Pearsall says 
 you are one of the best judges in Europe." 
 
 "He ought to know," chuckled old Teidelmann. "He's 
 tried often enough to palm off rubbish onto me." 
 
 "That last purchase of yours must have been a good 
 
loo Paul Kelver 
 
 thing for young " Hasluck mentioned the name of a 
 
 painter since world famous; "been the making of him, 
 I should say." 
 
 "1 gave him two thousand for the six," replied Teidel- 
 mann, "and they'll sell for twenty thousand." 
 
 "But you'll never sell them?" exclaimed my father. 
 
 "No," grunted old Teidelmann, "but my widow will." 
 
 There came a soft, low laugh from a corner of the table 
 I could not see. 
 
 "It's Anderson's great disappointment," followed a lan- 
 guid, caressing voice (the musical laugh translated into 
 prose, it seemed), "that he has never been able to educate 
 me to a proper appreciation of art. He'll pay thousands 
 of pounds for a child in rags or a badly dressed Madonna. 
 Such a waste of money, it appears to me." 
 
 "But you would pay thousands for a diamond to hang 
 upon your neck," argued my father's voice. 
 
 "It would enhance the beauty of my neck," replied the 
 musical voice. 
 
 "An even more absolute waste of money," was my 
 father's answer, spoken low. And I heard again the 
 musical, soft laugh. 
 
 "Who is she?" I asked Barbara. 
 
 "The second Mrs. Teidelmann," whispered Barbara. 
 "She is quite a swell. Married him for his money — I 
 don't like her myself, but she's very beautiful." 
 
 "As beautiful as you?" I asked incredulously. We 
 were sitting on the stairs, sharing a jelly. 
 
 "Oh, me !" answered Barbara. "I'm only a child. No- 
 body takes any notice of me — except other kids, like you." 
 For some reason she appeared out of conceit with her- 
 self, which was not her usual state of mind. 
 
 "But everybody thinks you beautiful," I maintained. 
 
 "Who?" she asked quickly. 
 
 "Dr. Hal," I answered. 
 
 We were with our backs to the light, so that I could not 
 see her face. 
 
Of the Shadow that Came Between loi 
 
 "What did he say?" she asked, aijd hcf.lvdice had iriore 
 of contentment in it. -'^ -. . \V"'^''\>'\ <'] \ .\ 
 
 I could not remember his exaqt jVo/rdsi iut' atoiit the 
 sense of them I was positive. 
 
 ''Ask him what he thinks of me, as if you wanted to 
 know yourself," Barbara instructed me, "and don't for- 
 get what he says this time. I'm curious." And though 
 it seemed to me a foolish command — for what could he 
 say of her more than I myself could tell her — I never 
 questioned Barbara's wishes. 
 
 Yet if I am right in thinking that jealousy of Mrs. 
 Teidelmann may have clouded for a moment Barbara's 
 sunny nature, surely there was no reason for this, seeing 
 that no one attracted greater attention throughout the din- 
 ner than the parlour-maid. 
 
 "Where ever did you get her from ?" asked Mrs. Florret, 
 Barbara having just descended the kitchen stairs. 
 
 "A neat-handed Phillis," commented Dr. Florret with 
 approval. 
 
 "I'll take good care she never waits at my table," 
 laughed the wife of our minister, the Rev. Cottle, a broad- 
 built, breezy-voiced woman, mother of eleven, eight of 
 them boys. 
 
 "To tell the truth," said my mother, "she's only here 
 temporarily." 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said my father, "we have to thank 
 Mrs. Hasluck for her." 
 
 "Don't leave me out of it," laughed Hasluck; "can't 
 let the old girl take all the credit," 
 
 Later my father absent-mindedly addressed her as "My 
 dear," at which Mrs. Cottle shot a swift glance towards 
 my mother ; and before that incident could have been for- 
 gotten, Hasluck, when no one was looking, pinched her 
 elbow, which would not have mattered had not the unex- 
 pectedness of it drawn from her an involuntary "augh," 
 upon which, for the reputation of the house, and the din- 
 ner being then towards its end, my mother deemed it better 
 
10^^^ Paul Kelver 
 
 to take the whctle^c'driipany into her confidence. Naturally 
 the 'story g'p.i^ec;!; for Barbara still greater admiration, so 
 that when with'ths dessert, discarding the apron but still 
 wearing the dainty cap, which showed wisdom, she and 
 the footman took their places among the guests, she was 
 even more than before the centre of attention and remark. 
 
 '*It was very nice of you," said Mrs. Cottle, thus com- 
 pleting the circle of compliments, "and, as I always tell 
 my girls, that is better than being beautiful." 
 
 "Kind hearts," added Dr. Florret, summing up the 
 case, "are more than coronets." Dr. Florret had ever 
 ready for the occasion the correct quotation, but from him, 
 somehow, it never irritated ; rather it fell upon the ear as 
 a necessary rounding and completing of the theme; like 
 the Amen in church. 
 
 Only to my aunt would further observations have oc- 
 curred. 
 
 "When I was a girl," said my aunt, breaking suddenly 
 upon the passing silence, "I used to look into the glass and 
 say to myself: 'Fanny, you've got to be amiable,' and I 
 was amiable," added my aunt, challenging contradiction 
 with a look ; "nobody can say that I wasn't, for years." 
 
 "It didn't pay?" suggested Hasluck. 
 
 "It attracted," replied my aunt, "no attention what- 
 ever." 
 
 Hasluck had changed places with my mother, and hav- 
 ing after many experiments learned the correct pitch for 
 conversation with old Teidelmann, talked with him as 
 much aside as the circumstances of the case would permit. 
 Hasluck never wasted time on anything else than bus- 
 iness. It was in his opera box on the first night of Verdi's 
 Aida (I am speaking of course of days then to come) that 
 he arranged the details of his celebrated deal in guano; 
 and even his very religion, so I have been told and can 
 believe, he varied to suit the enterprise of the moment, 
 once during the protracted preliminaries of a cocoa 
 scheme becoming converted to Quakerism. 
 
Of the Shadow that Came Between 103 
 
 But for the most of us interest lay in a discussion be- 
 tween Washburn and Florret concerning the superior ad- 
 vantages attaching to residence in the East End. 
 
 As a rule, incorrect opinion found itself unable to exist 
 in Dr. Florret's presence. As no bird, it is said, can con- 
 tinue its song once looked at by an owl, so all originality 
 grew silent under the cold stare of his disapproving eye. 
 But Dr. "Fighting Hal" was no gentle warbler of 
 thought. Vehement, direct, indifferent, he swept through 
 all polite argument as a strong wind through a murmur- 
 ing wood, carrying his partisans with him further than 
 they meant to go, and quite unable to turn back ; leaving 
 his opponents clinging desperately — upside down, any- 
 how — to their perches, angry, their feathers much ruffled. 
 
 "Life!" flung out Washburn — Dr. Florret had just 
 laid down unimpeachable rules for the conduct of all man- 
 kind on all occasions — "what do you respectable folk 
 know of life? You are not men and women, you are 
 marionettes. You don't move to your natural emotions 
 implanted by God ; you dance according to the latest book 
 of etiquette. You live and love, laugh and weep and sin 
 by rule. Only one moment do you come face to face with 
 life ; that is in the moment when you die, leaving the other 
 puppets to be dressed in black and make believe to cry." 
 
 It was a favourite subject of denunciation with him, 
 the artificiality of us all. 
 
 "Little doll," he had once called me, and I had resented 
 the term. 
 
 "That's all you are, little Paul," he had persisted, "a 
 good little hard-working doll, that does what it's made to 
 do, and thinks what it's made to think. We are all dolls. 
 Your father is a gallant-hearted, soft-headed little doll; 
 your mother the sweetest and primmest of dolls. And I'm 
 a silly, dissatisfied doll that longs to be a man, but hasn't 
 the pluck. We are only dolls, little Paul." 
 
 "He's a trifle — a trifle whimsical on some subjects," ex- 
 plained my father, on my repeating this conversation. 
 
I04 Paul Kelver 
 
 "There are a certain class of men," explained my 
 mother — "you will meet with them more as you grow up 
 — who talk for talking's sake. They don't know what 
 they mean. And nobody else does either." 
 
 "But what would you have ?" argued Dr. Florret, "that 
 every man should do that which is right in his own eyes ?" 
 
 "Far better than, like the old man in the fable, he should 
 do what every other fool thinks right," retorted Wash- 
 burn. "The other day I called to see whether a patient 
 of mine was still alive or not. His wife was washing 
 clothes in the front room. 'How's your husband?' I 
 asked. 'I think he's dead,' replied the woman. Then, 
 without leaving off her work, 'Ji"^/ she shouted, 'are you 
 there?' No answer came from the inner room. 'He's a 
 goner,' she said, wringing out a stocking." 
 
 "But surely," said Dr. Florret, "you don't admire a 
 woman for being indifferent to the death of her hus- 
 band?" 
 
 "I don't admire her for that," replied Washburn, "and 
 I don't blame her. I didn't make the world and I'm not 
 responsible for it. What I do admire her for is not pre- 
 tending a grief she didn't feel. In Berkeley Square she'd 
 have met me at the door with an agonised face and a 
 handkerchief to her eyes." 
 
 "Assume a virtue, if you have it not," murmured Dr. 
 Florret. 
 
 "Go on," said Washburn. "How does it run? 'That 
 monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, of devil's habit, 
 is angel yet in this, that to the use of actions fair and good 
 he gives a frock that aptly is put on.' So was the lion's 
 skin by the ass, but it showed him only the more an ass. 
 Here asses go about as asses, but there are lions also. I 
 had a woman under my hands only a little while ago. I 
 could have cured her easily. Why she got worse every 
 day instead of better I could not understand. Then by 
 accident learned the truth: instead of helping me she 
 was doing all she could to kill herself. 'I must. Doctor/ 
 
Of the Shadow that Came Between 105 
 
 she cried. 'I must. I have promised. If I get well he 
 will only leave me, and if I die now he has sworn to be 
 good to the children.' Here, I tell you, they live — think 
 their thoughts, work their will, kill those they hate, die 
 for those they love; savages if you like, but savage men 
 and women, not bloodless dolls." 
 
 "I prefer the dolls," concluded Dr. Florret. 
 
 "I admit they are pretty," answered Washburn, 
 
 "I remember," said my father, "the first masked ball 
 I ever went to when I was a student in Paris. It struck 
 me just as you say, Hal; everybody was so exactly alike. 
 I was glad to get out into the street and see faces." 
 
 "But I thought they always unmasked at midnight," 
 said the second Mrs. Teidelmann in her soft, languid 
 tones. 
 
 "I did not wait," explained my father. 
 
 "That was a pity," she replied. "I should have been 
 interested to see what they were like, underneath." 
 
 "I might have been disappointed," answered my father. 
 "I agree with Dr. Florret that sometimes the mask is an 
 improvement." 
 
 Barbara was right. She was a beautiful woman, with 
 a face that would have been singularly winning if one 
 could have avoided the hard cold eyes ever restless behind 
 the half-closed lids. 
 
 Always she was very kind to me. Moreover, since the 
 disappearance of Cissy she was the first to bestow again 
 upon me a good opinion of my small self. My mother 
 praised me when I was good, which to her was the one 
 thing needful; but few of us, I fear, child or grown-up, 
 take much pride in our solid virtues, finding them gen- 
 erally hindrances to our desires : like the oyster's pearl, 
 of more comfort to the world than to ourselves. If oth- 
 ers there were who admired me, very guardedly must they 
 have kept the secret I would so gladly have shared with 
 them. But this new friend of ours — or had I not better 
 at once say enemy — made me feel when in her presence 
 
io6 Paul Kelver 
 
 a person of Importance. How it was accomplished I can- 
 not explain. No word of flattery nor even of mere ap- 
 proval ever passed her lips. Her charm to me was not 
 that she admired me, but that she led me by some mys- 
 terious process to admire myself. 
 
 And yet in spite of this and many lesser kindnesses she 
 showed to me, I never really liked her ; but rather feared 
 her, dreading always the sudden raising of those ever 
 half-closed eyelids. 
 
 She sat next to my father at the corner of the table, 
 her chin resting on her long white hands, her sweet lips" 
 parted, and as often as his eyes were turned away from 
 her, her soft low voice would draw them back again. 
 Once she laid her hand on his, laughing the while at some 
 light jest of his, and I saw that he flushed; and following 
 his quick glance, saw that my mother's eyes were watch- 
 ing also. 
 
 I have spoken of my father only as he then appeared to 
 me, a child — an older chum with many lines about his mo- 
 bile mouth, the tumbled hair edged round with grey ; but 
 looking back with older eyes, I see him a slightly stooping, 
 yet still tall and graceful man, with the face of a poet — the 
 face I mean a poet ought to possess but rarely does, 
 nature apparently abhorring the obvious — with the shy 
 eyes of a boy, and a voice tender as a woman's. Never the 
 dingiest little drab that entered the kitchen but adored 
 him, speaking always of ''the master" in tones of fond 
 proprietorship, for to'the most slatternly his "orders" had 
 ever the air of requests for favours. Women, I so often 
 read, can care for only masterful men. But may there 
 not be variety in women as in other species ? Or per- 
 haps — if the suggestion be not over-daring — the many 
 writers, deeming themselves authorities upon this subject 
 of woman, may in this one particular have erred ? I only 
 know my father spoke to few women whose eyes did not 
 brighten. Yet hardly should I call him a masterful man. 
 
Of the Shadow that Came Between 1 07 
 
 "I think it's all right," whispered Hasluck to my father 
 in the passage — they were the last to go. ''What does she 
 think of it, eh?" 
 
 ''I think she'll be with us," answered my father. 
 
 "Nothing like food for bringing people together," said 
 Hasluck. **Good-night." 
 
 The door closed, but Something had crept into the 
 house. It stood between my father and mother. It fol- 
 lowed them silently up the narrow creaking stairs. 
 
 17808' 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OF THE PASSING OF THE SHADOW. 
 
 Better is little, than treasure and trouble therewith. 
 Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox 
 and hatred therewith. None but a great man would have 
 dared to utter such a glaring commonplace as that. Not 
 only on Sundays now, but all the week, came the hot 
 joint to table, and on every day there was pudding, 
 till a body grew indifferent to pudding ; thus a joy-giving 
 luxury of life being lost and but another item added to the 
 long list of uninteresting needs. Now we could eat and 
 drink without stint. No need now to organise for the 
 morrow's hash. No need now to cut one's bread instead 
 of breaking it, thinking of Saturday's bread pudding. But 
 there the saying fails, for never now were we merry. A 
 silent unseen guest sat with us at the board, so that no 
 longer we laughed and teased as over the half pound of 
 sausages or the two sweet-scented herrings; but talked 
 constrainedly of empty things that lay outside us. 
 
 Easy enough would it have been for us to move to Guil- 
 ford Street. Occasionally in the spiritless tones in which 
 they now spoke on all subjects save the one, my mother 
 and father would discuss the project; but always into the 
 conversation would fall, sooner or later, some loosened 
 thought to stir it to anger, and so the aching months went 
 by, and the cloud grew. 
 
 Then one day the news came that old Teidelmann had 
 died suddenly in his counting house. 
 
 "You are going to her ?" said my mother. 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow 109 
 
 "I have been sent for," said my father; "I must — it may- 
 mean business." 
 
 My mother laughed bitterly ; why, at the time, I could 
 not understand; and my father flung out of the house. 
 During the many hours that he was away my mother re- 
 mained locked in her room, and, stealing sometimes to the 
 door, I was sure I heard her crying; and that she should 
 grieve so at old Teidelmann's death puzzled me. 
 
 She came oftener to our house after that. Her mourn- 
 ing added, I think, to her beauty, softening — or seeming 
 to soften — the hardness of her eyes. Always she was 
 very sweet to my mother, who by contrast beside her ap- 
 peared witless and ungracious; and to me, whatever her 
 motive, she was kindness itself ; hardly ever arriving with- 
 out some trifling gift or plan for affording me some child- 
 ish treat. By instinct she understood exactly what I de- 
 sired and liked, the books that would appeal to me as those 
 my mother gave me never did, the pleasures that did please 
 me as opposed to the pleasures that should have pleased 
 me. Often my mother, talking to me, would chill me with 
 the vista of the life that lay before me : a narrow, viewless 
 way between twin endless walls of ''Must" and "Must 
 not." This soft-voiced lady set me dreaming of life as of 
 sunny fields through which one wandered laughing, along 
 the winding path of Will ; so that, although as I have said, 
 there lurked at the bottom of my thoughts a fear of her ; 
 yet something within me I seemed unable to control went 
 out to her, drawn by her subtle sympathy and understand- 
 ing of it. 
 
 ''Has he ever seen a pantomime?" she asked of my 
 father one morning, looking at me the while with a whim- 
 sical screwing of her mouth. 
 
 My heart leaped within me. My father raised his eye- 
 brows : 
 
 "What would your mother say, do you think?" he 
 asked. My heart sank. 
 
 "She thinks," I replied, "that theatres are very wicked 
 
1 1 o Paul Kelver 
 
 places/* It was the first time that any doubt as to the 
 correctness of my mother's judgments had ever crossed 
 my mind. 
 
 Mrs. Teidelmann's smile strengthened my doubt. 
 
 "Dear me," she said, *'I am afraid I must be very 
 wicked. I have always regarded a pantomime as quite a 
 moral entertainment. All the bad people go down so very 
 straight to — well, to the fit and proper place for them. 
 And we could promise to leave before the Clown stole the 
 sausages, couldn't we, Paul?" 
 
 My mother was called and came ; and I could not help 
 thinking how insignificant she looked with her pale face 
 and plain dark frock, standing stiffly beside this shining 
 lady in her rustling clothes. 
 
 "You will let him come, Mrs. Kelver," she pleaded in 
 her soft caressing tones; "it's Dick Whittington, you 
 know — such an excellent moral." 
 
 My mother had stood silent, clasping and unclasping 
 her hands, a childish trick she had when troubled ; and her 
 lips were trembling. Important as the matter loomed be- 
 fore my own eyes, I wondered at her agitation. 
 
 "I am very sorry," said my mother, "it is very kind of 
 you. But I would rather he did not go." 
 
 "Just this once," persisted Mrs. Teidelmann. "It is 
 hoHday time." 
 
 A ray of sunlight fell into the room, lighting upon her 
 coaxing face, making where my mother stood seem 
 shadow. 
 
 "I would rather he did not go," repeated my mother, 
 and her voice sounded harsh and grating. "When he is 
 older others must judge for him, but for the present he 
 must be guided by me — alone." 
 
 "I really don't think there could be any harm, Maggie," 
 urged my father. "Things have changed since we were 
 young." 
 
 "That may be," answered my mother, still in the same 
 harsh voice ; "it is long ago since then." 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow 1 1 1 
 
 "I didn't intend it that way," said my father with a 
 short laugh. 
 
 *'I merely meant that I may be wrong," answered my 
 mother. "I seem so old among you all — so out of place. 
 I have tried to change, but I cannot." 
 
 *'We will say no more about it," said Mrs. Teidelmann, 
 sweetly. "I merely thought it would give him pleasure; 
 and he has worked so hard this last term, his father tells 
 me." 
 
 She laid her hand caressingly on my shoulder, drawing 
 me a little closer to her ; and it remained there. 
 
 "It was very kind of you," said my mother, ''I would 
 do anything to give him pleasure, anything — I could. He 
 knows that. He understands." 
 
 My mother's hand, I knew, was seeking mine, but I was 
 angry and would not see ; and without another word she 
 left the room. 
 
 My mother did not allude again to the subject; but the 
 very next afternoon she took me herself to a hall in the 
 neighbourhood, where we saw a magic-lantern, followed 
 by a conjurer. She had dressed herself in a prettier frock 
 than she had worn for many a long day, and was brighter 
 and gayer in herself than had lately been her wont, laugh- 
 ing and talking merrily. But I, nursing my wrongs, re- 
 mained moody and sulky. At any other time such rare 
 amusement would have overjoyed me ; but the wonders of 
 the great theatre that from other boys I had heard so 
 much of, that from gaudy-coloured posters I had built up 
 for myself, were floating vague and undefined before me in 
 the air ; and neither the open-mouthed sleeper, swallowing 
 his endless chain of rats, nor even the live rabbit found in 
 the stout old gentleman's hat — the last sort of person in 
 whose hat one would have expected to find such a thing — 
 could draw away my mind from the joy I had caught a 
 glimpse of only to lose. 
 
 So we walked home through the muddy, darkening 
 streets, speaking but little; and that night, waking — or 
 
1 1 2 Paul Kelver 
 
 rather half waking, as children do — I thought I saw a 
 figure in white crouching at the foot of my bed. I must 
 have gone to sleep again; and later, though I cannot say 
 whether the intervening time was short or long, I opened 
 my eyes to see it still there ; and frightened, I cried out ; 
 and my mother rose from her knees. 
 
 She laughed, a curious broken laugh, in answer to my 
 questions. "It was a silly dream I had," she explained ; 
 ''I must have been thinking of the conjurer we saw. I 
 dreamt that a wicked Magician had spirited you away 
 from me. I could not find you and was all alone in the 
 world." 
 
 She put her arms around me, so tight as almost to hurt 
 me. And thus we remained until again I must have fallen 
 asleep. 
 
 It was towards the close of these same holidays that my 
 mother and I called upon Mrs. Teidelmann in her great 
 stone-built house at Clapton. She had sent a note round 
 that morning, saying she was suffering from terrible 
 headaches that quite took her senses away, so that she was 
 unable to come out. She would be leaving England in a 
 few days to travel. Would my mother come and see her, 
 she would like to say good-bye to her before she went. 
 My mother handed the letter across the table to my father. 
 
 "Of course you will go," said my father. "Poor girl, 
 I wonder what the cause can be. She used to be so free 
 from everything of the kind." 
 
 "Do you think it well for me to go?" said my mother. 
 "What can she have to say to me?" 
 
 "Oh, just to say good-bye," answered my father. "It 
 would look so pointed not to go." 
 
 It was a dull, sombre house without, but one entered 
 through its commonplace door as through the weed-grown 
 rock into Aladdin's cave. Old Teidelmann had been a 
 great collector all his life, and his treasures, now scattered 
 through a dozen galleries, were then heaped there in curi- 
 ous confusion. Pictures filled every inch of wall, stood 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow 1 1 3 
 
 propped against the wonderful old furniture, were even 
 stretched unframed across the ceilings. Statues gleamed 
 from every corner (a few of the statues were, I remember, 
 the only things out of the entire collection that Mrs. 
 Teidelmann kept for herself), carvings, embroideries, 
 priceless china, miniatures framed in gems, illuminated 
 missals and gorgeously bound books crowded the room. 
 The ugly little thick-lipped man had surrounded himself 
 with the beauty of every age, brought from every land. 
 He himself must have been the only thing cheap and un- 
 interesting to be found within his own walls ; and now he 
 lay shrivelled up in his coffin, under a monument by means 
 of which an unknown cemetery became quite famous. 
 
 Instructions had been given that my mother was to be 
 shown up into Mrs. Teidelmann's boudoir. She was ly- 
 ing on a sofa near the fire when we entered, asleep, dressed 
 in a loose lace robe that fell away, showing her thin but 
 snow-white arms, her rich dark hair falling loose about 
 her. In sleep she looked less beautiful : harder and with 
 a suggestion of coarseness about the face, of which at 
 other times it showed no trace. My mother said she 
 would wait, perhaps Mrs. Teidelmann would awake; and 
 the servant, closing the door softly, left us alone with her. 
 
 An old French clock standing on the mantelpiece, a 
 heart supported by Cupids, ticked with a muffled, soothing 
 sound. My mother, choosing a chair by the window, sat 
 with her eyes fixed on the sleeping woman's face, and it 
 seemed to me — though this may have been but my fancy 
 born of after-thought — that a faint smile relaxed for a 
 moment the sleeping woman's pained, pressed lips. 
 Neither I nor my mother spoke, the only sound in the 
 room being the hushed ticking of the great gilt clock. 
 Until the other woman after a few slight movements of 
 unrest began to talk in her sleep. 
 
 Only confused murmurs escaped her at first, and then I 
 heard her whisper my father's name. Very low — hardly 
 more than breathed — were the words, but upon the silence 
 
1 14 Paul Kelver 
 
 each syllable struck clear and distinct : "Ah no, we must 
 not. Luke, my darling." 
 
 My mother rose swiftly from her chair, but she spoke 
 in quite matter-of-fact tones. 
 
 "Go, Paul," she said, "wait for me downstairs;" and 
 noiselessly opening the door, she pushed me gently out, 
 and closed it again behind me. 
 
 It was half an hour or more before she came down, and 
 at once we left the house, letting ourselves out. All the 
 way home my mother never once spoke, but walked as one 
 in a dream with eyes that saw not. With her hand upon 
 the lock of our gate she came back to life. 
 
 "You must say nothing, Paul, do you understand ?" she 
 said. "When people are delirious they use strange words 
 that have no meaning. Do you understand, Paul ; you 
 must never breathe a word — never." 
 
 I promised, and we entered the house; and from that 
 day my mother's whole manner changed. Not another 
 angry word ever again escaped her lips, never an angry 
 flash lighted up again her eyes. Mrs. Teidelmann re- 
 mained away three months. My father, of course, wrote 
 to her often, for he was managing all her affairs. But my 
 mother wrote to her also — though this my father, I do not 
 think, knew — long letters that she would go away by her- 
 self to pen, writing them always in the twilight, close to 
 the window. 
 
 "Why do you choose this time, just when it's getting 
 dark, to write your letters," my father would expostulate, 
 when by chance he happened to look into the room. "Let 
 me ring for the lamp, you will strain your eyes." But my 
 mother would always excuse herself, saying she had only 
 a few lines to finish. 
 
 "I can think better in this light," she would explain. 
 
 And when Mrs. Teidelmann returned, it was my mother 
 who was the first to call upon her ; before even my father 
 knew that she was back. And from thence onward one 
 might have thought them the closest of friends, my mother 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow i 1 5 
 
 visiting her often, speaking of her to all in terms of praise 
 and liking. 
 
 In this way peace returned unto the house, and my 
 father was tender again in all his words and actions to- 
 wards my mother, and my mother thoughtful as before of 
 all his wants and whims, her voice soft and low, the sweet 
 smile ever lurking around her lips as in the old days before 
 this evil thing had come to dwell among us ; and I might 
 have forgotten it had ever cast its blight upon our life but 
 that every day my mother grew feebler, the little ways 
 that had seemed a part of her gone from her. 
 
 The summer came and went — that time in towns of 
 panting days and stifling nights, when through the open 
 window crawls to one's face the hot foul air, heavy with 
 reeking odours drawn from a thousand streets ; when ly- 
 ing awake one seems to hear the fitful breathing of the 
 myriad mass around, as of some over-laboured beast too 
 tired to even rest ; and my mother moved about the house 
 ever more listlessly. 
 
 'There's nothing really the matter with her," said Dr. 
 Hal, "only weakness. It is the place. Cannot you get 
 her away from it?" 
 
 '*I cannot leave myself," said my father, "just yet; but 
 there is no reason why you and the boy should not take a 
 holiday. This year I can afford it, and later I might pos- 
 sibly join you." 
 
 My mother consented, as she did to all things now, and 
 so it came about that again of afternoons we climbed — 
 though more slowly and with many pauses — the steep 
 path to the ruined tower old Jacob in his happy foolishness 
 had built upon the headland, rested once again upon its 
 topmost platform, sheltered from the wind that ever blew 
 about its crumbling walls, saw once more the distant 
 mountains, faint like spectres, and the silent ships that 
 came and vanished, and about our feet the pleasant farm 
 lands, and the grave, sweet river. 
 
 We had taken lodgings in the village : smaller now it 
 
ii6 Paul Kelver 
 
 seemed than previously; but wonderful its sunny calm, 
 after the turmoil of the fierce dark streets. Mrs. Fursey 
 was there still, but quite another than the Mrs. Fursey of 
 my remembrance, a still angular but cheery dame, bent no 
 longer on suppressing me, but rather on drawing me out 
 before admiring neighbours, as one saying : *'The material 
 was unpromising, as you know. There were times when I 
 almost despaired. But with patience, and — may I say, a 
 natural gift that way — ^you see what can be accom- 
 plished !" And Anna, now a buxom wife and mother, 
 with an uncontrollable desire to fall upon and kiss me at 
 most unexpected moments, necessitating a never sleeping 
 watchfulness on my part, and a choosing of positions af- 
 fording means of ready retreat. And old Chumbley, still 
 cobbling shoes in his tiny cave. On the bench before him in 
 a row they sat and watched him while he tapped and tap- 
 ped and hammered : pert little shoes piping "Be quick, be 
 quick, we want to be toddling. You seem to have no idea, 
 my good man, how much toddling there is to be done." 
 Dapper boots, sighing: "Oh, please make haste, we are 
 waiting to dance and to strut. Jack walks in the lane, Jill 
 waits by the gate. Oh, deary, how slowly he taps." 
 Stout sober boots, saying : "As soon as you can, old friend. 
 Remember we've work to do." Flat-footed old boots, rusty 
 and limp, mumbling: "We haven't much time, Mr. 
 Chumbley. Just a patch, that is all, we haven't much fur- 
 ther to go." And old Joe, still peddling his pack, with the 
 help of the same old jokes. And Tom Pinfold, still puz- 
 zled and scratching his head, the rejected fish still hanging 
 by its tail from his expostulating hand ; one might almost 
 have imagined it the same fish. Grown-up folks had 
 changed but little. Only the foolish children had been 
 playing tricks ; parties I had left mere sucking babes now 
 swaggering in pinafore or knickerbocker ; children I had 
 known now mincing it as men and women; such affecta- 
 tion annoyed me. 
 
 One afternoon — it was towards the close of the last 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow 117 
 
 week of our stay — my mother and I had climbed, as was 
 so often our wont, to the upper platform of old Jacob's 
 tower. My mother leant upon the parapet, her eyes fixed 
 dreamingly upon the distant mountains, and a smile crept 
 to her lips. 
 
 *'What are you thinking of?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, only of things that happened over there" — she 
 nodded her head towards the distant hills as to some old 
 crony with whom she shares secrets — **when I was a girl." 
 
 "You lived there, long ago, didn't you, when you were 
 young?" I asked. Boys do not always stop to consider 
 whether their questions might or might not be better ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 "You're very rude," said my mother — it was long since 
 a tone of her old self had rung from her in answer to any 
 touch ; "it was a very little while ago." 
 
 Suddenly she raised her head and listened. Perhaps 
 some twenty seconds she remained so with her lips parted, 
 and then from the woods came a faint, long-drawn 
 "Coo-ee." We ran to the side of the tower commanding 
 the pathway from the village, and waited until from 
 among the dark pines my father emerged into the sun- 
 light. 
 
 Seeing us, he shouted again and waved his stick, and 
 from the light of his eyes and his gallant bearing, and the 
 spring of his step across the heathery turf, we knew in- 
 stinctively that trouble had come upon him. He always 
 rose to meet it with that look and air. It was the old 
 Norse blood in his veins, I suppose. So, one imagines, 
 must those godless old Pirates have sprung to their feet 
 when the North wind, loosed as a hawk from the leash, 
 struck at the beaked prow. 
 
 We heard his quick step on the rickety stair, and the 
 next moment he was between us, breathing a little hard, 
 but laughing. 
 
 He stood for awhile beside my mother without speak- 
 ing, both of them gazing at the distant hills among which. 
 
Ii8 Paul Kelver 
 
 as my mother had explained, things had happened long 
 ago. And maybe, ''over there," their memories met and 
 looked upon each other with kind eyes. 
 
 "Do you remember," said my father, "we climbed up 
 here — it was the first walk we took together after coming 
 here. We discussed our plans for the future, how we 
 would retrieve our fortunes." 
 
 "And the future," answered my mother, "has a way 
 of making plans for us instead." 
 
 "It would seem so," replied my father, with a laugh. "I 
 am an unlucky beggar, Maggie. I dropped all your 
 money as well as my own down that wretched mine." 
 
 "It was the will — it was Fate, or whatever you call it," 
 said my mother. "You could not help that, Luke." 
 
 "If only that damned pump hadn't jambed," said my 
 father. 
 
 "Do you remember that Mrs. Tharand?" asked my 
 mother. 
 
 "Yes, what of her?" 
 
 "A worldly woman, I always thought her. She called 
 on me the morning we were leaving; I don't think you 
 saw her. 'I've been through more worries than you would 
 think, to look at me,' she said to me, laughing. I've al- 
 ways remembered her words : 'and of all the troubles that 
 come to us in this world, believe me, Mrs. Kelver, money 
 troubles are the easiest to bear.' " 
 
 "I wish I could think so," said my father. 
 
 "She rather irritated me at the time," continued my. 
 mother. "I thought it one of those commonplaces with 
 which we console ourselves for other people's misfortunes. 
 But now I know she spoke the truth." 
 
 There was silence between them for awhile. Then 
 said my father in a cheery tone : 
 
 "I've broken with old Hasluck." 
 
 "I thought you would be compelled to sooner or later," 
 answered my mother. 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow 1 1 9 
 
 "Hasluck," exclaimed my father, with sudden vehe- 
 mence, "is Httle better than a thief ; I told him so." 
 
 "What did he say?" asked my mother. 
 
 "Laughed, and said that was better than some people." 
 My father laughed himself. 
 
 I wish to do the memory of Noel Hasluck no injustice. 
 Ever was he a kind friend to me; not only then, but in 
 later years, when, having come to learn that kindness is 
 rarer in the world than I had dreamt, I was glad of it. 
 Added to which, if only for Barbara's sake, I would pre- 
 fer to write of him throughout in terms of praise. Yet 
 even were his good-tempered, thick-skinned ghost (and 
 unless it were good-tempered and thick-skinned it would 
 be no true ghost of old Noel Hasluck) to be reading over 
 my shoulder the words as I write them down, I think it 
 would agree with me — I do not think it would be offended 
 with me (for ever in his life he was an admirer and a lover 
 of the Truth, being one of those good fighters capable of 
 respecting even his foe, his enemy, against whom from ten 
 to four, occasionally a little later, he fought right vali- 
 antly) for saying that of all the men who go down into 
 the City each day in a cab or 'bus or train, he was perhaps 
 one of the most unprincipled : and whether that be saying 
 much or little I leave to those with more knowledge to 
 decide. 
 
 To do others, as it was his conviction, right or wrong, 
 that they would do him if ever he gave them half a chance, 
 was his notion of "business ;" and in most of his transac- 
 tions he was successful. "I play a game," he would ar- 
 gue, "where cheating is the rule. Nine out of every ten 
 men round the table are sharpers like myself, and the tenth 
 man is a fool who has no business to be there. We prey 
 upon each other, and the cutest of us is the winner." 
 
 "But the innocent people, lured by your fine promises," 
 I ventured once to suggest to him, "the widows and the 
 orphans ?" 
 
 "My dear lad," be said, with a laugh, laying his fat hand 
 
I20 Paul Kelver 
 
 upon my shoulder, "I remember one of your widows writ- 
 ing me a pathetic letter about some shares she had taken in 
 a Silver Company of mine. Lord knows where the mine 
 is now — somewhere in Spain, I think. It looked as 
 though all her savings were gone. She had an only son, 
 and it was nearly all they possessed in the world, etc., etc. 
 — you know the sort of thing. Well, I did what I've often 
 been numskull enough to do in similar cases, wrote and 
 offered to buy her out at par. A week later she answered, 
 thanking me, but saying it did not matter. There had oc- 
 curred a momentary rise, and she had sold out at a profit — 
 to her own brother-in-law, as I discovered, happening to 
 come across the transfers. You can find widows and or- 
 phans round the Monte Carlo card tables, if you like to 
 look for them ; they are no more deserving of considera- 
 tion than the rest of the crowd. Besides, if it comes to 
 that, I'm an orphan myself ;" and he laughed again, one of 
 his deep, hearty, honest laughs. No one ever possessed a 
 laugh more suggestive in its every cadence of simple, 
 transparent honesty. He used to say himself it was worth 
 thousands to him. 
 
 Better from the Moralists' point of view had such a 
 man been an out-and-out rogue. Then might one have 
 pointed, crying : "Behold : Dishonesty, as you will observe 
 in the person of our awful example, to be hated, needs but 
 to be seen." But the duty of the Chronicler is to bear 
 witness to what he knows, leaving Truth with the whole 
 case before her to sum up and direct the verdict. In the 
 City, old Hasluck had a bad reputation and deserved it ; in 
 Stoke- Newington — then a green suburb, containing many 
 fine old houses, standing in great wooded gardens — he 
 was loved and respected. In his business, he was a man 
 void of all moral sense, without bowels of compassion for 
 any living thing ; in retirement, a man with a strong sense 
 of duty and a fine regard for the rights and feelings of 
 others, never happier than when planning to help or give 
 pleasure. In his office, he would have robbed his own 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow 121 
 
 mother. At home, he would have spent his last penny to 
 add to her happiness or comfort. I make no attempt to 
 explain. I only know that such men do exist, and that 
 Hasluck was one of them. One avoids difficulties by dis- 
 missing them as a product of our curiously complex civili- 
 sation — a convenient phrase; let us hope the recording 
 angel may be equally impressed by it. 
 
 Casting about for some reason of excuse to myself for 
 my liking of him, I hit upon the expedient of regarding 
 him as a modern Robin Hood, whom we are taught to ad- 
 mire without shame, a Robin Hood up to date, adapted to 
 the changed conditions of modern environment; making 
 his living relieving the rich; taking pleasure relieving 
 the poor. 
 
 "What will you do?" asked my mother. 
 
 '*I shall have to give up the office," answered my father. 
 "Without him there's not enough to keep it going. He 
 was quite good-tempered about the matter — offered to di- 
 vide the work, letting me retain the straightforward por- 
 tion for whatever that might be worth. But I declined. 
 Now I know, I feel I would rather have nothing more to 
 do with him." 
 
 "I think you were quite right," agreed my mother. 
 
 "What I blame myself for," said my father, "is that I 
 didn't see through him before. Of course he has been 
 making a mere tool of me from the beginning. I ought 
 to have seen through him. Why didn't I ?" 
 
 They discussed the future, or, rather, my father dis- 
 cussed, my mother listening in silence, stealing a puzzled 
 look at him from time to time, as though there were some- 
 thing she could not understand. 
 
 He would take a situation in the City. One had been 
 offered him. It might sound poor, but it would be a 
 steady income on which we must contrive to live. The 
 little money he had saved must be kept for investments — 
 nothing speculative — judicious "dealings," by means of 
 which a cool, clear-headed man could soon accumulate 
 
122 Paul Kelver 
 
 capital. Here the training acquired by working for old 
 Hasluck would serve him well. One man my father knew 
 — quite a dull, commonplace man — starting a few years 
 ago with only a few hundreds, was now worth tens of 
 thousands. Foresight was the necessary qualification. 
 You watched the "tendency" of things. So often had my 
 father said to himself: "This is going to be a big thing. 
 That other, it is no good," and in every instance his prog- 
 nostications had been verified. He had "felt it;" some 
 men had that gift. Now was the time to use it for prac- 
 tical purposes. 
 
 "Here," said my father, breaking off, and casting an 
 approving eye upon the surrounding scenery, "would be a 
 pleasant place to end one's days. The house you had was 
 very pretty and you liked it. We might enlarge it, the 
 drawing-room might be thrown out — perhaps another 
 wing." I felt that our good fortune as from this day was 
 at last established. 
 
 But my mother had been listening with growing impa- 
 tience, her puzzled glances giving place gradually to 
 flashes of anger; and now she turned her face full upon 
 him, her question written plainly thereon, demanding an- 
 swer. 
 
 Some idea of it I had even then, watching her ; and since 
 I have come to read it word for word : 
 
 "But that woman — that woman that loves you, that you 
 love. Ah, I know — why do you play with me? She is 
 rich. With her your life will be smooth. And the boy — 
 it will be better far for him. Cannot you three wait a little 
 longer? What more can I do? Cannot you see that I 
 am surely dying — dying as quickly as I can — dying as 
 that poor creature your friend once told us of ; knowing it 
 was the only thing she could do for those she loved. Be 
 honest with me : I am no longer jealous. All that is past : 
 a man is ever younger than a woman, and a man changes. 
 I do not blame you. It is for the best. She and I have 
 talked ; it is far better so. Only be honest with me, or at 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow 123 
 
 least silent. Will you not honour me enough for even 
 that?" 
 
 My father did not answer, having that to speak of that 
 put my mother's question out of her mind for all time ; so 
 that until the end no word concerning that other woman 
 passed again between them. Twenty years later, nearly, 
 I myself happened to meet her, and then long physical suf- 
 fering had chased the wantonness away for ever from the 
 pain-worn mouth ; but in that hour of waning voices, as 
 some trouble of the fretful day when evening falls, so she 
 faded from their life ; and if even the remembrance of her 
 returned at times to either of them, I think it must have 
 been in those moments when, for no seeming reason, shyly 
 their hands sought one another. 
 
 So the truth of the sad ado — how far my mother's sus- 
 picions wronged my father; for the eye of jealousy (and 
 what loving woman ever lived that was not jealous?) has 
 its optic nerve terminating not in the brain but in the 
 heart, which was not constructed for the reception of true 
 vision — I never knew. Later, long after the curtain of 
 green earth had been rolled down upon the players, I 
 spoke once on the matter with Doctor Hal, who must have 
 seen something of the play and with more understanding 
 eyes than mine, and who thereupon delivered to me a short 
 lecture on life in general, a performance at which he ex- 
 celled. 
 
 ''Flee from temptation and pray that you may be deliv- 
 ered from evil," shouted the Doctor — (his was not the 
 Socratic method) — "but remember this : that as sure as 
 the sparks fly upward there will come a time when, how- 
 ever fast you run, you will be overtaken — cornered — no 
 one to deliver you but yourself — the gods sitting round 
 interested. It is a grim fight, for the Thing, you may be 
 sure, has chosen its right moment. And every woman in 
 the world will sympathise with you and be just to you, not 
 even despising you should you be overcome ; for however 
 they may talk, every woman in the world knows that male 
 
124 P^^l Kelver 
 
 and female cannot be judged by the same standard. To 
 woman, Nature and the Law speak with one voice : 'Sin 
 not, lest you be cursed of your sex !' It is no law of man : 
 it is the law of creation. When the woman sins, she sins 
 not only against her conscience, but against her every in- 
 stinct. But to the man Nature whispers : 'Yield.' It is 
 the Law alone that holds him back. Therefore every 
 woman in the world, knowing this, will be just to you — 
 every woman in the world but one — the woman that loves 
 you From her, hope for no sympathy, hope for no jus- 
 tice." 
 
 "Then you think — " I began. 
 
 "I think," said the Doctor, "that your father loved your 
 mother devotedly; but he was one of those fighters that 
 for the first half-dozen rounds or so cause their backers 
 much anxiety. It is a dangerous method." 
 
 "Then you think my mother — " 
 
 "I think your mother was a good woman, Paul ; and the 
 good woman will never be satisfied with man till the Lord 
 lets her take him to pieces and put him together herself." 
 
 My father had been pacing to and fro the tiny platform. 
 Now he came to a halt opposite my mother, placing his 
 hands upon her shoulders. 
 
 "I want you to help me, Maggie — help me to be brave. 
 I have only a year or two longer to live, and there's a lot 
 to be done in that time." 
 
 Slowly the anger died out of my mother's face. 
 
 "You remember that fall I had when the cage broke," 
 my father went on. "Andrews, as you know, feared from 
 the first it might lead to that. But I always laughed at 
 him." 
 
 "How long have you known ?" my mother asked. 
 
 "Oh, about six months. I felt it at the beginning of 
 the year, but I didn't say anything to Washburn till a 
 month later. I thought it might be only fancy." 
 
 "And he is sure?" 
 
 My father nodded. 
 
Of the Passing of the Shadow 125 
 
 "But why have you never told me ?" 
 
 "Because," rephed my father, with a laugh, "I didn't 
 want you to know. If I could have done without you, I 
 should not have told you now." 
 
 And at this there came a light into my mother's face 
 that never altogether left it until the end. 
 
 She drew him down beside her on the seat. I had come 
 nearer; and my father, stretching out his hand, would 
 have had me with them. But my mother, putting her 
 arms about him, held him close to her, as though in that 
 moment she would have had him to herself alone. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HOW THE MAN IN GREY MADE READY FOR HIS GOING. 
 
 The eighteen months that followed — for the end came 
 sooner than we had expected — were, I think, the happiest 
 days my father and mother had ever known ; or if happy 
 be not altogether the right word, let me say the most beau- 
 tiful, and most nearly perfect. To them it was as though 
 God in His sweet thoughtfulness had sent death to knock 
 lightly at the door, saying: ''Not yet. You have still a 
 little longer to be together. In a little while." In those 
 last days all things false and meaningless they laid aside. 
 Nothing was of real importance to them but that they 
 should love each other, comforting each other, learning 
 to understand each other. Again we lived poorly; but 
 there was now no pitiful straining to keep up appearances, 
 no haunting terror of what the neighbours might think. 
 The petty cares and worries concerning matters not worth 
 a moment's thought, the mean desires and fears with 
 which we disfigure ourselves, fell from them. There came 
 to them broader thought, a wider charity, a deeper pity. 
 Their love grew greater even than their needs, overflow- 
 ing towards at things. Sometimes, recalling these months, 
 it has seemed to me that we make a mistake seeking 
 to keep Death, God's go-between, ever from our thoughts. 
 Is it not closing the door to a friend who would help us 
 would we let him (for who knows life so well), whisper- 
 ing to us : "In a little while. Only a little longer that you 
 have to be together. Is it worth taking so much thought 
 for self ? Is it worth while being unkind ?" 
 
 From them a graciousness emanated pervading all 
 around. Even my aunt Fan decided for the second time 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 1 27 
 
 in her career to give amiability a trial. This intention 
 she announced publicly to my mother and myself one af- 
 ternoon soon after our return from Devonshire. 
 
 "I'm a beast of an old woman," said my aunt, suddenly. 
 
 "Don't say that. Fan," urged my mother. 
 
 "What's the good of saying 'Don't say it' when I've 
 just said it," snapped back my aunt. 
 
 "It's your manner," explained my mother; "people 
 sometimes think you disagreeable." 
 
 "They'd be daft if they didn't," interrupted my aunt. 
 
 "Of course you don't really mean it," continued my 
 mother. 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense," snorted my aunt; "does she think 
 I'm a fool. I like being disagreeable. I like to see 'em 
 squirming." 
 
 My mother laughed. 
 
 "I can be agreeable," continued my aunt, "if I choose. 
 Nobody more so." 
 
 "Then why not choose?" suggested my mother. 
 
 "I tried it once," said my aunt, "and it fell flat. Noth- 
 ing could have fallen flatter." 
 
 "It may not have attracted much attention," replied my 
 mother, with a smile, "but one should not be agreeable 
 merely to attract attention." 
 
 "It wasn't only that," returned my aunt, "it was that 
 it gave no satisfaction to anybody. It didn't suit me. A 
 disagreeable person is at their best when they are dis- 
 agreeable." 
 
 "I can hardly agree with you there," answered my 
 mother. 
 
 "I could do it again," communed my aunt to herself. 
 There was a suggestion of vindictiveness in her tones. 
 "It's easy enough. Look at the sort of fools that are 
 agreeable." 
 
 "I'm sure you could be if you tried," urged my mother. 
 
 "Let 'em have it," continued my aunt, still to herself ; 
 "that's the way to teach 'em sense. Let 'em have it." 
 
128 Paul Kelver 
 
 And strange though it may seem, my aunt was right 
 and my mother altogether wrong. My father was the 
 first to notice the change. 
 
 ''Nothing the matter with poor old Fan, is there?" he 
 asked. It was one evening a day or two after my aunt 
 had carried her threat into effect. "Nothing happened, 
 has there ?" 
 
 "No," answered my mother, "nothing that I know of." 
 
 "Her manner is so strange," explained my father, "so 
 — so weird." 
 
 My mother smiled. "Don't say anything to her. She's 
 trying to be agreeable." 
 
 My father laughed and then looked wistful. "I almost 
 wish she wouldn't," he remarked; "we were used to it, 
 and she was rather amusing." 
 
 But my aunt, being a woman of will, kept her way ; and 
 about the same time that occurred tending to confirm her 
 in her new departure. This was the introduction into our 
 small circle of James Wellington Gadley. Properly 
 speaking, it should have been Wellington James, that 
 being the order in which he had been christened in the 
 year 1815. But in course of time, and particularly 
 during his school career, it had been borne in upon him 
 that Wellington is a burdensome name for a commonplace 
 mortal to bear, and very wisely he had reversed the ar- 
 rangement. He was a slightly pompous but simple- 
 minded little old gentleman, very proud of his position as 
 head clerk to Mr. Stillwood, the solicitor to whom my 
 father was now assistant. Stillwood, Waterhead and 
 Royal dated back to the Georges, and was a firm bound 
 up with the history — occasionally shady — of aristocratic 
 England. True, in these later years its glory was dwind- 
 ling. Old Mr. Stillwood, its sole surviving representative, 
 declined to be troubled with new partners, explaining 
 frankly, in answer to all applications, that the business was 
 a dying one, and that attempting to work it up again 
 would be but putting new wine into worn-out skins. But 
 
How the Man In Grey Made Ready 129 
 
 though its clientele was a yearly diminishing quantity, 
 much business yet remained to it, and that of a good class, 
 its name being still a synonym for solid respectability ; and 
 my father had deemed himself fortunate indeed in secur- 
 ing such an appointment. James Gadley had entered the 
 firm as office boy in the days of its pride, and had never 
 awakened to the fact that it was not still the most impor- 
 tant legal firm within the half mile radius from Lombard 
 Street. Nothing delighted him more than to discuss over 
 and over again the many strange affairs in which Still- 
 wood, Waterhead and Royal had been concerned, all of 
 which he had at his tongue's tip. Could he find a hearer, 
 these he would reargue interminably, but with profes- 
 sional reticence, personages becoming Mr. Y. and Lady 
 X. ; and places, "the capital of, let us say, a foreign coun- 
 try,'* or "a. certain town not a thousand miles from where 
 we are now sitting." The majority of his friends, his 
 methods being somewhat forensic, would seek to discour- 
 age him, but my aunt was a never wearied listener, espe- 
 cially if the case were one involving suspicion of mystery 
 and crime. When, during their very first conversation, he 
 exclaimed : "Now why — why, after keeping away from his 
 wife for nearly eighteen years, never even letting her 
 know whether he was alive or dead, why this sudden re- 
 solve to return to her ? That is what I want explained to 
 me!" he paused, as was his wont, for sympathetic com- 
 ment, my aunt, instead of answering as others, with a 
 yawn: "Oh, I'm sure I don't know. Felt he wanted to 
 see her, I suppose," replied with prompt intelligence : 
 
 "To murder her — by slow poison." 
 
 "To murder her! But why?" 
 
 "In order to marry the other woman." 
 
 "What other woman?" 
 
 "The woman he had just met and fallen in love with. 
 Before that it was immaterial to him what had become of 
 his wife. This woman had said to him: 'Come back to 
 me a free man or never see my face again.' " 
 
130 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Dear me ! Now that's very curious/* 
 
 "Nothing of the sort. Plain common sense." 
 
 "I mean, it's curious because, as a matter of fact, his 
 wife did die a little later, and he did marry again." 
 
 "Told you so," remarked my aunt. 
 
 In this way every case in the Stillwood annals was re- 
 viewed, and light thrown upon it by my aunt's insight 
 into the hidden springs of human action. Fortunate that 
 the actors remained mere Mr. X. and Lady Y., for into 
 the most innocent seeming behaviour my aunt read ever 
 dark criminal intent. 
 
 "I think you are a little too severe," Mr. Gadley would 
 now and then plead. 
 
 "We're all of us miserable sinners," my aunt would 
 cheerfully affirm; "only we don't all get the same 
 chances." 
 
 An elderly maiden lady, a Miss Z., residing in "a western 
 town once famous as the resort of fashion, but which we 
 v/ill not name," my aunt was convinced had burnt down a 
 house containing a will, and forged another under which 
 her children — should she ever marry and be blessed with 
 such — would inherit among them on coming of age a for- 
 tune of seven hundred pounds. 
 
 The freshness of her views on this, his favourite topic, 
 always fascinated Mr. Gadley. 
 
 "I have to thank you, ma'am," he would remark on 
 rising, "for a most delightful conversation. I may not be 
 able to agree with your conclusions, but they afford food 
 for reflection." 
 
 To which my aunt would reply, "I hate talking to any 
 one who agrees with me. It's like taking a walk to see 
 one's own looking-glass. I'd rather talk to somebody 
 who didn't, even if he were a fool," which for her was 
 gracious. 
 
 He was a stout little gentleman with a stomach that 
 protruded about a foot in front of him, and of this he ap- 
 peared to be quite unaware. Nor would it have mattered 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 131 
 
 had it not been for his desire when talking to approach as 
 close to his listener as possible. Gradually in the course 
 of conversation, his stomach acting as a gentle battering 
 ram, he would in this way drive you backwards round the 
 room, sometimes, unless you were artful, pinning you 
 hopelessly into a corner, when it would surprise him that 
 in spite of all his efforts he never succeeded in getting any 
 nearer to you. His first evening at our house he was 
 talking to my aunt from the corner of his chair. As he 
 grew more interested so he drew his chair nearer and 
 nearer, till at length, having withdrawn inch by inch to 
 avoid his encroachments, my aunt was sitting on the ex- 
 treme edge of her own. His next move sent her on to the 
 floor. She said nothing, which surprised me ; but on the 
 occasion of his next visit she was busy darning stockings, 
 an unusual occupation for her. He approached nearer 
 and nearer as before; but this time she sat her ground, 
 and it was he who in course of time sprang back with an 
 exclamation foreign to the subject under discussion. 
 
 Ever afterwards my aunt met him with stockings in her 
 hand, and they talked with a space between their chairs. 
 
 Nothing further came of it, though his being a widower 
 added to their intercourse that spice of possibility no 
 woman is ever too old to relish ; but that he admired her 
 intellectually was evident. Once he even went so far as 
 to exclaim : "Miss Davies, you should have been a solici- 
 tor's wife I" to his thinking the crown of feminine ambi- 
 tion. To which my aunt had replied : "Chances are I 
 should have been if one had ever asked me." And 
 warmed by appreciation, my aunt's amiability took root 
 and flourished, though assuming, as all growth developed 
 late is apt to, fantastic shape. 
 
 There came to her the idea, by no means ill-founded, 
 that by flattery one can most readily render oneself agree- 
 able ; so conscientiously she set to work to flatter in season 
 and out. I am sure she meant to give pleasure, but the 
 effect produced was that of thinly veiled sarcasm. 
 
132 Paul Kelver 
 
 My father would relate to us some trifling story, some 
 incident noticed during the day that had seemed to him 
 amusing. At once she would break out into enthusiasm, 
 holding up her hands in astonishment. 
 
 "What a funny man he is ! And to think that it comes, 
 to him naturally without an effort. What a gift it is !'* 
 
 On my mother appearing in a new bonnet, or an old 
 one retrimmed, an event not unf requent ; for in these days 
 my mother took more thought than ever formerly for her 
 appearance (you will understand, you women who have 
 loved), she would step back in simulated amazement. 
 
 "Don't tell me it's a married woman with a boy getting 
 on for fourteen. It's a girl. A saucy, tripping girl. 
 That's what it is." 
 
 Persons have been known, I believe, whose vanity, not 
 checked in time, has grown into a hopeless disease. But 
 I am inclined to think that a dose of my aunt, about this 
 period, would have cured the most obstinate case. 
 
 So also, and solely for our benefit, she assumed a vivac- 
 ity and spriteliness that ill suited her, that having regard 
 to her age and tendency towards rheumatism must have 
 cost her no small effort. From these experiences there 
 remains to me the perhaps immoral opinion that Virtue, 
 in common with all other things, is at her best when un- 
 assuming. 
 
 Occasionally the old Adam — or should one say Eve — 
 would assert itself in my aunt, and then, still thoughtful 
 for others, she would descend into the kitchen and be dis- 
 agreeable to Amy, our new servitor, who never minded it. 
 Amy was a philosopher who reconciled herself to all 
 things by the reflection that there were only twenty-four 
 hours in a day. It sounds a dismal theory, but from it 
 Amy succeeded in extracting perpetual cheerfulness. My 
 mother would apologise to her for my aunt's interference. 
 
 "Lord bless you, mum, it don't matter. If I wasn't 
 listening to her something else worse might be happening. 
 Everything's al^^t^he same when it's over." 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 133 
 
 Amy had come to us merely as a stop gap, explaining 
 to my mother that she was about to be married and desired 
 only a temporary engagement to bridge over the few 
 weeks between then and the ceremony. 
 
 "It's rather unsatisfactory," had said my mother. "I 
 dislike changes." 
 
 ''I can quite understand it, mum," had replied 
 Amy; *'I dislike 'em myself. Only I heard you were in 
 a hurry, and I thought maybe that while you were on the 
 lookout for somebody permanent " 
 
 So on that understanding she came. A month later my 
 mother asked her when she thought the marriage would 
 actually take place. 
 
 "Don't think I'm wishing you to go," explained my 
 mother, "indeed I'd like you to stop. I only want to 
 know in time to make my arrangements." 
 
 "Oh, some time in the spring, I expect," was Amy's 
 answer. 
 
 "Oh !" said my mother, "I understood it was coming off 
 almost immediately." 
 
 Amy appeared shocked. 
 
 "I must know a little bit more about him before I go as 
 far as that," she said. 
 
 "But I don't understand," said my mother; "you told 
 me when you came to me that you were going to be mar- 
 ried in a few weeks." 
 
 "Oh, that one!" Her tone suggested that an unfair 
 strain was being put upon her memory. "I didn't feel I 
 wanted him as much as I thought I did when it came to 
 the point." 
 
 "You had meantime met the other one?" suggested my 
 mother, with a smile. 
 
 "Well, we can't help our feelings, can we, mum?" ad- 
 mitted Amy, frankly, "and what I always say is" — she 
 spoke as one with experience even then — "better change 
 your mind before it's too late afterwards." 
 
 Amiable, sweet- faced, broad-hearted Amy ! most faith- 
 
134 Pa^l Kelver 
 
 ful of friends, but oh ! most faithless of lovers. Age has 
 not withered nor custom staled her liking for infinite 
 variety. Butchers, bakers, soldiers, sailors. Jacks of all 
 trades! Does the sighing procession never pass before 
 you. Amy, pointing ghostly fingers of reproach! Still 
 Amy is engaged. To whom at the particular moment I 
 cannot say, but I fancy to an early one who has lately be- 
 come a widower. After more exact knowledge I do not 
 care to enquire; for to confess ignorance on the subject, 
 implying that one has treated as a triviality and has for- 
 gotten the most important detail of a matter that to her is 
 of vital importance, is to hurt her feelings ; while to angle 
 for information is but to entangle oneself. To speak of 
 Him as "Tom," when Tom has belonged for weeks to the 
 dead and buried past, to hastily correct oneself to "Dick" 
 when there hasn't been a Dick for years, clearly not to 
 know that he is now Harry, annoys her even more. In 
 my mother's time we always referred to him as "Dearest." 
 It was the title with which she herself distinguished them 
 all, and it avoided confusion. 
 
 "Well, and how's Dearest?" my mother would enquire, 
 opening the door to Amy on the Sunday evening. 
 
 "Oh, very well indeed, mum, thank you, and he sends 
 you his respects," or, "Well, not so nicely as I could wish. 
 I'm a little anxious about him, poor dear !" 
 
 "When you are married you will be able to take good 
 care of him." 
 
 "That's really what he wants — some one to take care of 
 him. It's what they all want, the poor dears." 
 
 "And when is it coming off?" 
 ' "In the spring, mum." She always chose the spring 
 when possible. 
 
 Amy was nice to all men, and to Amy all men were nice. 
 Could she have married a dozen, she might have settled 
 down, with only occasional regrets concerning those left 
 without in the cold. But to ask her to select only one out 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 135 
 
 of so many "poor dears" was to suggest shameful waste of 
 affection. 
 
 We had meant to keep our grim secret to ourselves ; but 
 to hide one's troubles long from Amy was like keeping 
 cold hands from the fire. Very soon she knew everything 
 that was to be known, drawing it all from my mother as 
 from some overburdened child. Then she put my mother 
 down into a chair and stood over her. 
 
 "Now you leave the house and everything connected 
 with it to me, mum," commanded Amy; "you've got 
 something else to do." 
 
 And from that day we were in the hands of Amy, and 
 had nothing else to do but praise the Lord for His good- 
 ness. 
 
 Barbara also found out (from Washburn, I expect), 
 though she said nothing, but came often. Old Hasluck 
 would have come himself, I am sure, had he thought he 
 would be welcome. As it was, he always sent kind mes- 
 sages and presents of fruit and flowers by Barbara, and al- 
 ways welcomed me most heartily whenever she allowed 
 me to see her home. 
 
 She brought, as ever, sunshine with her, making all 
 trouble seem far off and shadowy. My mother tended to 
 the fire of love, but Barbara lit the cheerful lamp of 
 laughter. 
 
 And with the lessening. days my father seemed to grow 
 younger, life lying lighter on him. 
 
 One summer's night he and I were walking with Bar- 
 bara to Poplar station, for sometimes, when he was not 
 looking tired, she would order him to fetch his hat and 
 stick, explaining to him with a caress, "I like them tall 
 and slight and full grown. The young ones, they don't 
 know how to flirt ! We will take the boy with us as 
 gooseberry;" and he, pretending to be anxious that my 
 mother did not see, would kiss her hand, and slip out 
 quietly with her arm linked under his. It was admirable, 
 the way he would enter into the spirit of the thing. 
 
136 Paul Kelver 
 
 The last cloud faded from before the moon as we turned 
 the corner, and even the East India Dock Road lay restful 
 in front of us. 
 
 "I have always regarded myself," said my father, "as a 
 failure in life, and it has troubled me." I felt him pulled 
 the slightest little bit away from me, as though Barbara, 
 who held his other arm, had drawn him towards her with 
 a swift pressure. ''But do you know the idea that has 
 come to me within the last few months? That on the 
 whole I have been successful. I am Hke a man," con- 
 tinued my father, "who in some deep wood has been 
 frightened, thinking he has lost his way, and suddenly 
 coming to the end of it, finds that by some lucky chance 
 he has been guided to the right point after all. I cannot 
 tell you what a comfort it is to me." 
 
 "What is the right point ?" asked Barbara. 
 
 "Ah, that I cannot tell you," answered my father, with 
 a laugh. "I only know that for me it is here where I am. 
 All the time I thought I was wandering away from it I 
 was drawing nearer to it. It is very wonderful. I am 
 just where I ought to be. If I had only known I never 
 need have worried." 
 
 Whether it would have troubled either him or my 
 mother very much even had it been otherwise I cannot say, 
 for Life, so small a thing when looked at beside Death, 
 seemed to have lost all terror for them ; but be that as it 
 may, I like to remember that Fortune at the last was kind 
 to my father, prospering his adventures, not to the extent 
 his sanguine nature had dreamt, but sufficiently: so that 
 no fear for our future marred the peaceful passing of his 
 tender spirit. 
 
 Or should I award thanks not to Fate, but rather to 
 sweet Barbara, and behind her do I not detect shameless 
 old Hasluck. grinning good-naturedly in the background ? 
 
 "Now, Uncle Luke, I want your advice. Dad's given 
 me this cheque as a birthday present. I don't want to 
 spend it. How shall I invest it ?" 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 137 
 
 "My dear, why not consult your father?" 
 
 "Now, Uncle Luke, dad's a dear, especially after din- 
 ner, but you and I know him. Giving me a present is 
 one thing, doing business for me is another. He'd un- 
 load on me. He'd never be able to resist the tempta- 
 tion." 
 
 My father would suggest,, and Barbara would thank 
 him. But a minute later would murmur: "You don't 
 know anything about Argentinos." 
 
 My father did not, but Barbara did ; to quite a remark- 
 able extent for a young girl. 
 
 "That child has insisted on leaving this cheque with me, 
 and I have advised her to buy Argentinos," my father 
 would observe after she was gone. "I am going to put a 
 few hundreds into them myself. I hope they will turn 
 out all right, if only for her sake. I have a presentiment 
 somehow that they will." 
 
 A month later Barbara would greet him with : "Isn't it 
 lucky we bought Argentinos !" 
 
 "Yes ; they haven't turned out badly, have they ? I had 
 a feeling, you know, for Argentinos." 
 
 "You're a genius. Uncle Luke. And now we will sell 
 out and buy Calcuttas, won't we ?" 
 
 "Sellout? But why?" 
 
 "You said so. You said, 'We will sell out in about a 
 month and be quite safe.' " 
 
 "My dear, I've no recollection of it." 
 
 But Barabara had, and before she had done with him, 
 so had he. And the next day Argentinos would be sold 
 — not any too soon — and Calcuttas bought. 
 
 Could money so gained bring a blessing with it ? The 
 question would plague my father. 
 
 "It's very much like gambling," he would mutter un- 
 easily to himself at each success, "uncommonly like gam- 
 bling." 
 
 "It is for your mother," he would impress upon me. 
 "When she is gone, Paul, put it aside. Keep it for doing 
 
138 Paul Kelver 
 
 good ; that may make it clean. Start your own life with- 
 out any help from it." 
 
 He need not have troubled. It went the road that all 
 luck derived however indirectly from old Hasluck ever 
 went. Yet it served good purpose on its way. 
 
 But the most marvellous feat, to my thinking, ever ac- 
 complished by Barbara was the bearing off of my father 
 and mother to witness "A Voice from the Grave, or the 
 Power of Love, New and Original Drama in five acts 
 and thirteen tableaux." 
 
 They had been bred in a narrow creed, both my father 
 and my mother. That Puritan blood flowed in their veins 
 that throughout our land has drowned much harmless 
 joyousness; yet those who know of it only from hearsay 
 do foolishly to speak but ill of it. If ever earnest times 
 should come again, not how to enjoy but how to live being 
 the question. Fate demanding of us to show not what we 
 have but what we are, we may regret that they are fewer 
 among us than formerly, those who trained themselves to 
 despise all pleasure, because in pleasure they saw the 
 subtlest foe to principle and duty. No graceful growth, 
 this Puritanism, for its roots are in the hard, stern facts of 
 life; but it is strong, and from it has sprung all that is 
 worth preserving in the Anglo-Saxon character. Its men 
 feared and its women loved God, and if their words were 
 harsh their hearts were tender. If they shut out the sun- 
 shine from their lives it was that their eyes might see 
 better the glory lying beyond ; and if their view be correct, 
 that earth's threescore years and ten are but as prepara- 
 tion for eternity, then who shall call them even foolish for 
 turning away their thoughts from its allurements. 
 
 "Still, I think I should like to have a look at one, just 
 to see what it is like," argued my father; "one cannot 
 judge of a thing that one knows nothing about." 
 
 I imagine it was his first argument rather than his sec- 
 ond that convinced my mother. 
 
 "That is true," she answered. "I remember how 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 139 
 
 shocked my poor father was when he found me one night 
 at the bedroom window reading Sir Walter Scott by the 
 light of the moon." 
 
 "What about the boy?" said my father, for I had been 
 included in the invitation. 
 
 ''We will all be wicked together," said my mother. 
 
 So an evening or two later the four of us stood at the 
 corner of Pigott Street waiting for the 'bus. 
 
 "It is a close evening," said my father; "let's go the 
 whole hog and ride outside." 
 
 In those days for a lady to ride outside a 'bus was as in 
 these days for a lady to smoke in public. Surely my 
 mother's guardian angel must have betaken himself off in 
 a huff. 
 
 "Will you keep close behind and see to my skirt?" an- 
 swered my mother, commencing preparations. If you 
 will remember that these were the days of crinolines, that 
 the "knife-boards" of omnibuses were then approached by 
 a perpendicular ladder, the rungs two feet apart, you will 
 understand the necessity for such precaution. 
 
 Which of us was the most excited throughout that long 
 ride it would be difficult to say. Barbara, feeling keenly 
 her responsibility as prompter and leader of the dread en- 
 terprise, sat anxious, as she explained to us afterwards, 
 hoping there would be nothing shocking in the play, noth- 
 ing to belie its innocent title ; pleased with her success so 
 far, yet still fearful of failure, doubtful till the last mo- 
 ment lest we should suddenly repent, and stopping the 
 'bus, flee from the wrath to come. My father was the 
 youngest of us all. Compared with him I was sober and 
 contained. He fidgeted : people remarked upon it. He 
 hummed. But for the stern eye of a thin young man sit- 
 ting next to him trying to read a paper, I believe he would 
 have broken out into song. Every minute he would lean 
 across to enquire of my mother : "How are you feeling — 
 all right ?" To which my mother would reply with a nod 
 and a smile. She sat very silent herself, clasping and un- 
 
140 Paul Kelver 
 
 clasping her hands. As for myself, I remember feeling 
 so sorry for the crowds that passed us on their way home. 
 It was sad to think of the long dull evening that lay before 
 them. I wondered how they could face it. 
 
 Our seats were in the front row of the upper circle. 
 The lights were low and the house only half full when we 
 reached them. 
 
 "It seems very orderly and — and respectable," whis- 
 pered my mother. There seemed a touch of disappoint- 
 ment in her tone. 
 
 *'We are rather early," replied Barbara; *'it will be 
 livelier when the band comes in and they turn up the gas." 
 
 But even when this happened my mother was not con- 
 tent. "There is so little room for the actors," she com- 
 plained. 
 
 It was explained to her that the green curtain would go 
 up, that the stage lay behind. 
 
 So we waited, my mother sitting stiffly on the extreme 
 edge of her seat, holding me tightly by the hand ; I believe 
 with some vague idea of flight, should out of that vault- 
 scented gloom the devil suddenly appear to claim us for 
 his own. But before the curtain was quite up she had 
 forgotten him. 
 
 You poor folk that go to the theatre a dozen times a 
 year, perhaps oftener, v/hat do you know of plays? You 
 see no drama, you see but middle-aged Mr. Brown, 
 churchwarden, payer of taxes, foolishly pretending to be 
 a brigand ; Miss Jones, daughter of old Jones the Chemist, 
 making believe to be a haughty Princess. How can you, 
 a grown man, waste money on a seat to witness such tom- 
 foolery! What we saw was something very different. 
 A young and beautiful girl — true, not a lady by birth, 
 being merely the daughter of an honest yeoman, but one 
 equal in all the essentials of womanhood to the noblest in 
 the land — suffered before our very eyes an amount of mis- 
 fortune that, had one not seen it for oneself, one would 
 never have believed Fate could have accumulated upon 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 141 
 
 the head of any single individual. Beside her woes our 
 own poor troubles sank into insignificance. We had used 
 to grieve, as my mother in a whisper reminded my father, 
 if now and again we had not been able to afford meat for 
 dinner. This poor creature, driven even from her 
 wretched attic, compelled to wander through the snow 
 without so much as an umbrella to protect her, had not 
 even a crust to eat ; and yet never lost her faith in Prov- 
 idence. It was a lesson, as my mother remarked after- 
 wards, that she should never forget. And virtue had been 
 triumphant, let shallow cynics say what they will. Had 
 we not proved it with our own senses? The villain — I 
 think his Christian name, if one can apply the word 
 "Christian" in connection with such a fiend, was Jasper — 
 had never really loved the heroine. He was incapable of 
 love. My mother had felt this before he had been on the 
 stage five minutes, and my father — in spite of protests 
 from callous people behind who appeared to be utterly in- 
 different to what was going on under their very noses — 
 had agreed with her. What he was in love with was her 
 fortune — the fortune that had been left to her by her uncle 
 in Australia, but about which nobody but the villain knew 
 anything. Had she swerved a hair's breadth from 
 the course of almost supernatural rectitude, had her love 
 for the hero ever weakened, her belief in him — in spite of 
 damning evidence to the contrary — for a moment 
 wavered, then wickedness might have triumphed. How 
 at times, knowing all the facts but helpless to interfere, 
 we trembled, lest deceived by the cruel lies the villain told 
 her^ she should yield to importunity. How we thrilled 
 when, in language eloquent though rude, she flung his 
 false love back into his teeth. Yet still we feared. We 
 knew well that it was not the hero who had done the mur- 
 der. "Poor dear," as Amy would have called him, he 
 was quite incapable of doing anything requiring one-half 
 as much smartness. We knew that it was not he, poor in- 
 nocent lamb ! who had betrayed the lady with the French 
 
142 Paul Kelver 
 
 accent; we had heard her on the subject ai^d had formed 
 a very shrewd conjecture. But appearances, we could not 
 help admitting, were terribly to his disfavour. The cir- 
 cumstantial evidence against him would have hanged an 
 Archbishop. Could she in face of it still retain her faith ? 
 There were moments when my mother restrained with 
 difficulty her desire to rise and explain. 
 
 Between the acts Barbara would whisper to her that she 
 was not to mind, because it was only a play, and that 
 everything would be sure to come right in the end. 
 
 "I know, my dear," my mother would answer, laughing, 
 "it is very foolish of me ; I forget. Paul, when you see 
 me getting excited, you must remind me." 
 
 But of what use was I in such case ! I, who only by 
 holding on to the arms of my seat could keep myself from 
 swarming down on to the stage to fling myself between 
 this noble damsel and her persecutor — this fair-haired, 
 creamy angel in whose presence for the time being I had 
 forgotten even Barbara. 
 
 The end came at last. The uncle from Australia was 
 not dead. The villain — ^bungler as well as knave — had 
 killed the wrong man, somebody of no importance what- 
 ever. As a matter of fact, the comic man himself was the 
 uncle from Australia — had been so all along. My mother 
 had had a suspicion of this from the very first. She told 
 us so three times, to make up, I suppose, for not having 
 mentioned it before. How we cheered and laughed, in 
 spite of the tears in our eyes. 
 
 By pure accident it happened to be the first night of the 
 piece, and the author, in response to much shouting and 
 whistHng, came before the curtain. He was fat and 
 looked commonplace ; but I deemed him a genius, and my 
 mother said he had a good face, and waved her handker- 
 chief wildly ; while my father shouted "Bravo !" long after 
 everybody else had finished ; and people round about mut- 
 tered "packed house," which I didn't understand at the 
 time, but came to later. 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 143 
 
 And stranger still, it happened to be before that very 
 same curtain that many years later I myself stepped forth 
 to make my first bow as a playwright. I saw the house 
 but dimly, for on such occasion one's vision is apt to be 
 clouded. All that I saw clearly was in the front row of 
 the second circle — a sweet face laughing though the tears 
 were in her eyes; and she waved to me a handker- 
 chief. And on one side of her stood a gallant gentleman 
 with merry eyes who shouted "Bravo !" and on the other 
 a dreamy-looking lad ; but he appeared disappointed, hav- 
 ing expected better work from me. And the fourth face 
 I could not see, for it was turned away from me. 
 
 Barbara, determined on completeness, insisted upon 
 supper. In those days respectability fed at home ; but one 
 resort possible there was, an eating-house with some pre- 
 tence to gaiety behind St. Clement Danes, and to that she 
 led us. It was a long, narrow room, divided into wooden 
 compartments, after the old coffee-house plan, a gangway 
 down the centre. Now we should call it a dismal hole, 
 and closing the door hasten away. But to Adam, Eve in 
 her Sunday fig-leaves was a stylishly dressed woman ; and 
 to my eyes, with its gilded mirrors and its flaring gas, the 
 place seemed a palace. 
 
 Barbara ordered oysters, a fish that familiarity with its 
 empty shell had made me curious concerning. Truly no 
 spot on the globe is so rich in oyster shells as the East End 
 of London. A stranger might be led to the impression 
 (erroneous) that the customary lunch of the East End 
 labourer consists of oysters. How they collect there in 
 such quantities is a mystery, though Washburn, to whom 
 I once presented the problem, found no difficulty in solv- 
 ing it to his own satisfaction : *'To the rich man the oyster ; 
 to the poor man the shell ; thus are the Creator's gifts di- 
 vided among all His creatures; none being sent empty 
 away." For drink the others had stout and I had ginger 
 beer. The waiter, who called me "Sir," advised against 
 this mixture; but among us all the dominating sentiment 
 
144 P^^l Kelver 
 
 by this time was that nothing really mattered very much. 
 Afterwards my father called for a cigar and boldly 
 lighted it, though my mother looked anxious ; and fortu- 
 nately perhaps it would not draw. And then it came out 
 that he himself had once written a play. 
 
 ''You never told me of that," complained my mother. 
 
 "It was a long while ago," replied my father ; "nothing 
 came of it." 
 
 "It might have been a success," said my mother; "you 
 always had a gift for writing." 
 
 "I must look it over again," said my father ; "I had quite 
 forgotten it. I have an impression it wasn't at all bad." 
 
 "It can be of much help," said my mother, "a good play. 
 It makes one think." 
 
 We put Barbara into a cab and rode home ourselves in- 
 side a 'bus. My mother was tired, so my father slipped 
 his arm round her, telling her to lean against him, and 
 soon she fell asleep with her head upon his shoulder. A 
 coarse-looking wench sat opposite, her man's arm round 
 her likewise, and she also fell asleep, her powdered face 
 against his coat. 
 
 "They can do with a bit of nursing, can't they?" said 
 the man with a grin to the conductor. 
 
 "Ah, they're just kids," agreed the conductor, sympa- 
 thetically, "that's what they are, all of 'em, just kids." 
 
 So the day ended. But oh, the emptiness of the mor- 
 row ! Life without a crime, without a single noble senti- 
 ment to brighten it ! — no comic uncles, no creamy angels ! 
 Oh, the barrenness and dreariness of life! Even my 
 mother at moments was quite irritable. 
 
 We were much together again, my father and I, about 
 this time. Often, making my way from school into the 
 City, I would walk home with him, he leaning on each oc- 
 casion a little heavier upon my arm. To this day I can 
 always meet and walk with him down the Commercial 
 Road. And on Saturday afternoons, crossing the river to 
 Greenwich, we would climb the hill and sit there talking, 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 145 
 
 or sometimes merely thinking together, watching the dim 
 vast city so strangely still and silent at our feet. 
 
 At first I did not grasp the fact that he was dying. The 
 "year to two" of life that Washburn had allowed to him 
 had somehow become converted in my mind to vague 
 years, a fate with no immediate meaning; the meanwhile 
 he himself appeared to grow from day to day in buoyancy. 
 How could I know it was his great heart rising to his 
 need. 
 
 The comprehension came to me suddenly. It was one 
 afternoon in early spring. I was on my way to the City 
 to meet him. The Holborn Viaduct was then in building, 
 and the traffic round about was in consequence always 
 much disorganised. The 'bus on which I was riding be- 
 came entangled in a block at the corner of Snow Hill, and 
 for ten minutes we had been merely crawling, one joint of 
 a long, sinuous serpent moving by short, painful jerks. It 
 came to me while I was sitting there with a sharp spasm 
 of physical pain. I jumped from the 'bus and began to 
 run, and the terror and the hurt of it grew with every step. 
 I ran as if I feared he might be dead before I could reach 
 the office. He was waiting for me with a smile as usual, 
 and I flung myself sobbing into his arms. 
 
 I think he understood, though I could explain nothing, 
 but that I had had a fear something had happened to him, 
 for from that time forward he dropped all reserve with 
 me, and talked openly of our approaching parting. 
 
 *Tt might have come to us earlier, my dear boy," he 
 would say with his arm round me, "or it might have been 
 a little later. A year or so one way or the other, what 
 does it matter? And it is only for a little while, Paul. 
 We shall meet again." 
 
 But I could not answer him, for clutch them to me as 
 I would, all my beliefs — the beHefs in which I had been 
 bred, the beliefs that until then I had never doubted, in 
 that hour of their first trial, were falling from me. I 
 could not even pray. If I could have prayed for any- 
 
146 Paul Kelver 
 
 thing, it would have been for my father's life. But if 
 prayer were all powerful, as they said, would our loved 
 ones ever die? Man has not faith enough, they would 
 explain ; if he had there would be no parting. So the 
 Lord jests with His creatures, offering with the one hand 
 to snatch back with the other. I flung the mockery from 
 me. There was no firm foothold anywhere. What were 
 all the religions of the word but narcotics with which Hu- 
 manity seeks to dull its pain, drugs in which it drowns 
 its terrors, faith but a bubble that death pricks. 
 
 I do not mean my thoughts took this form. I was 
 little more than a lad, and to the young all thought is 
 dumb, speaking only with a cry. But they were there, 
 vague, inarticulate. Thoughts do not come to us as we 
 grow older. They are with us all our lives. We learn 
 their language, that is all. 
 
 One fair still evening it burst from me. We had lin- 
 gered in the Park longer than usual, slowly pacing the 
 broad avenue leading from the Observatory to the Heath. 
 I poured forth all my doubts and fears — that he was leav- 
 ing me for ever, that I should never see him again, I could 
 not believe. What could I do to believe ? 
 
 "I am glad you have spoken, Paul," he said, "it would 
 have been sad had we parted not understanding each 
 other. It has been my fault. I did not know you had 
 these doubts. They come to all of us sooner or later. But 
 we hide them from one another. It is foolish." 
 
 "But tell me," I cried, "what can I do? How can I 
 make myself believe ?" 
 
 "My dear lad," answered my father, "how can it matter 
 what we believe or disbelieve? It will not alter God's 
 facts. Would you liken Him to some irritable school- 
 master, angry because you cannot understand him?" 
 
 "What do you believe," I asked, "father, really I 
 mean." 
 
 The night had fallen. My father put his arm round 
 me and drew me to him. 
 
How the Man in Grey Made Ready 147 
 
 "That we are God's children, little brother," he an- 
 swered, "that what He wills for us is best. It may be life, 
 it may be sleep; it will be best. I cannot think that 
 He will let us die: that were to think of Him as with- 
 out purpose. But His uses may not be our desires. We 
 must trust Him. 'Though He slay me yet will I trust in 
 Him.' " 
 
 We walked awhile in silence before my father spoke 
 again. 
 
 " 'Now abideth these three, Faith, Hope and Charity' — 
 you remember the verse — Faith in God's goodness to us, 
 Hope that our dreams may be fulfiled. But these con- 
 cern but ourselves — the greatest of all is Charity." 
 
 Out of the night-shrouded human hive beneath our feet 
 shone here and there a point of light. 
 
 "Be kind, that is all it means," continued my father. 
 "Often we do what we think right, and evil comes of it, 
 and out of evil comes good. We cannot understand — 
 maybe the old laws we have misread. But the new Law, 
 that we love one another — all creatures He has made ; that 
 is so clear. And if it be that we are here together only for 
 a little while, Paul> the future dark, how much the 
 greater need have we of one another." 
 
 I looked up into my father's face, and the peace that 
 shone from it slid into my soul and gave me strength. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OF THE FASHIONING OF PAUL. 
 
 Loves of my youth, whither are ye vanished? Tubby 
 of the golden locks ; Langley of the dented nose ; Shamus 
 stout of heart but faint of limb, easy enough to "down," 
 but utterly impossible to make to cry : "I give you best ;" 
 Neal the thin; and Dicky, "dicky Dick" the fat; Ballett 
 of the weeping eye ; Beau Bunnie lord of many ties, who 
 always fought in black kid gloves ; all ye others, ye whose 
 names I cannot recollect, though I well remember ye were 
 very dear to me, whither are ye vanished, where haunt 
 your creeping ghosts ? Had one told me then there would 
 come a day I should never see again your merry faces, 
 never hear 3^our wild, shrill whoop of greeting, never feel 
 again the warm clasp of your inky fingers, never fight 
 again nor quarrel with you, never hate you, never love 
 you, could I then have borne the thought, I wonder ? 
 
 Once, methinks, not long ago, I saw you. Tubby, you 
 with whom so often I discovered the North Pole, probed 
 the problem of the sources of the Nile, (Have you for- 
 gotten, Tubby, our secret camping ground beside the 
 lonely waters of the Regent's Park canal, where discuss- 
 ing our frugal meal of toasted elephant's tongue — by the 
 uninitiated mistakable for jumbles — there would break 
 upon our trained hunters' ear the hungry lion or tiger's 
 distant roar, mingled with the melancholy, long-drawn 
 growling of the Polar Bear, growing ever in volume and 
 impatience until half-past four precisely; and we would 
 snatch our rifles, and with stealthy tread and every sense 
 alert make our way through the jungle — until stopped by 
 the spiked fencing round the Zoological Gardens?) I feel 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul 149 
 
 sure it was you, in spite of your side whiskers and the grey- 
 ness and the thinness of your once clustering golden locks. 
 You were hurrying down Throgmorton Street chained to 
 a small black bag. I should have stopped you, but that I 
 had no time to spare, having to catch a train at Liverpool 
 Street and to get shaved on the way. I wonder if you 
 recognised you : you looked at me a little hard, I thought. 
 Gallant, kindly hearted Shamus, you who fought once for 
 half an hour to save a frog from being skinned ; they tell 
 me you are now an Income Tax assessor ; a man, it is re- 
 ported, with power of disbelief unusual among even In- 
 land Revenue circles ; of little faith, lacking in the charity 
 that thinketh no evil. May Providence direct you to 
 other districts than to mine. 
 
 So Time, Nature's handy-man, bustles to and fro about 
 the many rooms, making all things tidy, covers with sweet 
 earth the burnt volcanoes, turns to use the debris of the 
 ages, smoothes again the ground above the dead, heals 
 again the beech bark marred by lovers. 
 
 In the beginning I was far from being a favourite with 
 my schoolmates, and this was the first time trouble came 
 to dwell with me. Later, we men and women generally 
 succeed in convincing ourselves that whatever else we 
 may have missed in life, popularity in a greater or less de- 
 gree we have at all events secured, for without it alto- 
 gether few of us, I think, would care to face existence. 
 But where the child suffers keener than the man is in find- 
 ing himself exposed to the cold truth without the protect- 
 ing clothes of self-deception. My ostracism was painfully 
 plain to me, and, as was my nature, I brooded upon it in 
 silence. 
 
 **Can you run ?" asked of me one day a most important 
 personage whose name I have forgotten. He was head of 
 the Lower Fourth, a tall youth with a nose like a beak, 
 and the manner of one born to authority. He was the 
 son of a draper in the Edgware Road, and his father fail- 
 ing, he had to be content for a niche in life with a lower 
 
150 Paul Kelver 
 
 clerkship in the Civil Service. But to us youngsters he 
 always appeared a Duke of Wellington in embryo, and 
 under other circumstances might, perhaps, have become 
 one. 
 
 "Yes," I answered. As a matter of fact it was my one 
 accomplishment, and rumour of it maybe had reached him. 
 
 "Run round the playground twice at your fastest," he 
 commanded ; "let me see you." 
 
 I clinched my fists and charged off. How grateful I 
 was to him for having spoken to me, the outcast of the 
 class, thus publicly, I could only show by my exertions 
 to please him. When I drew up before him I was panting 
 hard, but I could see that he was satisfied. 
 
 "Why don't the fellows like you?" he asked bluntly. 
 
 If only I could have stepped out of my shyness, spoken 
 my real thoughts ! "O Lord of the Lower Fourth ! You 
 upon whom success — the only success in life worth having 
 — has fallen as from the laps of the gods ! You to whom 
 all Lower Fourth hearts turn! tell me the secret of 
 this popularity. How may I acquire it? No price can 
 be too great for me to pay for it. Vain little egoist that 
 I am, it is the sum of my desires, and will be till the long 
 years have taught me wisdom. The want of it embitters 
 all my days. Why does silence fall upon their chattering 
 groups when I draw near? Why do they drive me from 
 their games ? What is it shuts me out from them, repels 
 them from me? I creep into the corners and shed scald- 
 ing tears of shame. I watch with envious eyes and ears 
 all you to whom the wondrous gift is given. What is 
 your secret? Is it Tommy's swagger? Then I will 
 swagger, too, with anxious heart, with mingled fear and 
 hope. But why — why, seeing that in Tommy they ad- 
 mire it, do they wait for me with imitations of cock-a- 
 doodle-do, strut beside me mimicking a pouter pigeon? 
 Is it Dicky's playfulness? — Dicky, who runs away with 
 their balls, snatches their caps from off their heads, 
 springs upon their backs when they are least expecting it? 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul 151 
 
 Why should Dicky's reward be laughter, and mine a 
 bloody nose and a widened, deepened circle of dislike ? I 
 am no heavier than Dicky; if anything a pound or two 
 lighter. Is it Billy's friendliness? I too would fling my 
 arms about their necks ; but from me they angrily wrench 
 themselves free. Is indifference the best plan? I walk 
 apart with step I try so hard to render careless ; but none 
 follows, no little friendly arm is slipped through mine. 
 Should one seek to win one's way by kind offices ? Ah, if 
 one could ! How I would fag for them. I could do their 
 sums for them — I am good at sums — write their imposi- 
 tions for them, gladly take upon myself their punishments, 
 would they but return my service with a little love and — 
 more important still — a little admiration." 
 
 But all I could find to say was, sulkily: "They do 
 like me, some of them." I dared not, aloud, acknowledge 
 the truth. 
 
 "Don't tell lies," he answered; "you know they don't — 
 none of them." And I hung my head. 
 
 "I'll tell you what I'll do," he continued in his lordly 
 way; "I'll give you a chance. We're starting hare and 
 hounds next Saturday; you can be a hare. You needn't 
 tell anybody. Just turn up on Saturday and I'll see to it. 
 Mind, you'll have to run like the devil." 
 
 He walked away without waiting for my answer, leav- 
 ing me to meet Joy running towards me with outstretched 
 hands. The great moment comes to all of us ; to the poli- 
 tician, when the Party whip slips from confabulation 
 with the Front Bench to congratulate him, smiling, on his 
 really admirable little speech; to the youthful dramatist, 
 reading in his bed-sitting-room the managerial note ask- 
 ing him to call that morning at eleven ; to the subaltern, 
 beckoned to the stirrup of his chief — the moment when 
 the sun breaks through the morning mists, and the world 
 lies stretched before us, our way clear. 
 
 Obeying orders, I gave no hint in school of the great 
 fortune that had come to me; but hurrying home, I ex- 
 
152 Paul Kelver 
 
 ploded in the passage before the front door could be 
 closed behind me. 
 
 "I am to be a hare because I run so fast. Anybody can 
 be a hound, but there's only two hares, and they all want 
 me. And can I have a jersey ? We begin next Saturday. 
 He saw me run. I ran twice round the playground. He 
 said I was splendid ! Of course, it's a great honour to be 
 a hare. We start from Hampstead Heath. And may I 
 have a pair of shoes?" 
 
 The jersey and the shoes my mother and I purchased 
 that very day, for the fear was upon me that unless we 
 hastened, the last blue and white striped jersey in London 
 might be sold, and the market be empty of running shoes. 
 That evening, before getting into bed, I dressed myself in 
 full costume to admire myself before the glass ; and from 
 then till the end of the week, to the terror of my mother, 
 I practised leaping over chairs, and my method of de- 
 scending stairs was perilous and roundabout. But, as I 
 explained to them, the credit of the Lower Fourth was at 
 stake, and banisters and legs equally of small account as 
 compared with fame and honour ; and my father, nodding 
 his head, supported me with manly argument; but my 
 mother added to her prayers another line. 
 
 Saturday came. The members of the hunt were mostly 
 boys who lived in the neighbourhood ; so the arrangemepit 
 was that at half-past two we should meet at the turnpike 
 gate outside the Spaniards. I brought my lunch with me 
 and ate it in Regent's Park, and then took the 'bus to the 
 Heath. One by one the others came up. Beyond mere 
 glances, none of them took any notice of me. I was wear- 
 ing my ordinary clothes over my jersey. I knew they 
 thought I had come merely to see them start, and I hugged 
 to myself the dream of the surprise that was in store for 
 them, and of which I should be the hero. He came, one 
 of the last, our leader and chief, and I sidled up behind 
 him and waited, while he busied himself organising and 
 constructing. 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul 153 
 
 "But we've only got one hare," cried one of them. ''We 
 ought to have two, you know, in case one gets blown." 
 
 "We've got two," answered the Duke. "Think I don't 
 know what I'm about? Young Kelver's going to be the 
 other one." 
 
 Silence fell upon the meet. 
 
 "Oh, I say, we don't want him," at last broke in a voice. 
 "He's a muff." 
 
 "He can run," explained the Duke. 
 
 "Let him run home," came another voice, which was 
 greeted with laughter. 
 
 "You'll run home in a minute yourself," threatened the 
 Duke, "if I have any of your cheek. Who's captain here 
 — you or me ? Now, young 'un, are you ready ?" 
 
 I had commenced unbuttoning my jacket, but my hands 
 fell to my side. "I don't want to come," I answered, "if 
 they don't want me." 
 
 "He'll get his feet wet," suggested the boy who had 
 spoken first. "Don't spoil him, he's his mother's pet." 
 
 "Are you coming or are you not?" shouted the Duke, 
 seeing me still motionless. But the tears were coming 
 into my eyes and would not go back. I turned my face 
 away without speaking. 
 
 "All right, stop then," cried the Duke, who, like all au- 
 thoritative people, was impatient above all things of hesi- 
 tation. "Here, Keefe, you take the bag and be off. It'll 
 be dark before we start." 
 
 My substitute snatched eagerly at the chance, and away 
 went the hares, while I, still keeping my face hid, moved 
 slowly off. 
 
 "Cry-baby !" shouted a sharp-eyed youngster. 
 
 "Let him alone," growled the Duke ; and I went on to 
 where the cedars grew. 
 
 I heard them start off a few minutes later with a whoop. 
 How could I go home, confess my disappointment, my 
 shame? My father would be expecting me with many 
 questions, my mother waiting for me with hot water and 
 
154 P^^l Kelver 
 
 blankets. What explanation could I give that would not 
 betray my miserable secret ? 
 
 It was a chill, dismal afternoon, the Heath deserted, a 
 thin rain commencing. I slipped off my shirt and jacket, 
 and rolling them under my arm, trotted off alone, hare 
 and hounds combined in one small carcass, to chase my- 
 self sadly by myself. 
 
 I see it still, that pathetically ridiculous little figure, jog- 
 ging doggedly over the dank fields. Mile after mile it 
 runs, the little idiot; jumping — sometimes falling into the 
 muddy ditches : it seems anxious rather than otherwise to 
 get itself into a mess; scrambling through the dripping 
 hedges; swarming over tarry fence and slimy paling. 
 On, on it pants — through Bishop's Wood, by tangled 
 Churchyard Bottom, where now the railway shrieks; 
 down sloppy lanes, bordering Muswell Hill, where now 
 stand rows of jerry-built, prim villas. At intervals it 
 stops an instant to dab its eyes with its dingy little rag of 
 a handkerchief, to rearrange the bundle under its arm, 
 its chief anxiety to keep well out of sight of chance wan- 
 derers, to dodge farmhouses, to dart across highroads 
 when nobody is looking. And so tear-smeared and mud- 
 bespattered up the long rise of darkening Crouch End 
 Lane, where to-night the electric light blazes from a hun- 
 dred shops, and dead beat into the Seven Sisters Road 
 station, there to tear off its soaked jersey; and then home 
 to Poplar, with shameless account of the jolly afternoon 
 that it has spent, of the admiration and the praise that it 
 has won. 
 
 You poor, pitiful little brat! Popularity? it is a 
 shadow. Turn your eyes towards it, and it shall ever 
 run before you, escaping you. Turn your back upon it, 
 walk joyously towards the living sun, and it shall follow 
 you. Am I not right? Why, then, do you look at me, 
 your little face twisted into that quizzical grin ? 
 
 When one takes service with Deceit, one signs a con- 
 tract that one may not break but under penalty. Maybe 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul 155 
 
 it was good for my health, those lonely runs ; but oh, they 
 were dreary ! By a process of argument not uncommon 
 I persuaded myself that truth was a matter of mere words, 
 that so long as I had actually gone over the ground I de- 
 scribed I was not lying. To further satisfy my con- 
 science, I bought a big satchel and scattered from it torn- 
 up paper as I ran. 
 
 "And they never catch you ?" asked my mother. 
 
 "Oh, no, never; they never even get within sight of 
 me. 
 
 "Be careful, dear," would advise my mother; "don't 
 overstrain yourself." But I could see that she was proud 
 of me. 
 
 And after awhile imagination came to my help, so that 
 often I could hear behind me the sound of pursuing feet, 
 catch through gaps in the trees a sight of a merry host 
 upon my trail, and would redouble my speed. 
 
 Thus, but for Dan, my loneliness would have been un- 
 bearable. His friendship was always there for me to 
 creep to, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. To 
 this day one may always know Dan's politics : they are 
 those of the Party out of power. Always without ques- 
 tion one may know the cause that he will champion, the 
 unpopular cause ; the man he will defend, the man who is 
 down. 
 
 "You are such an un-understandable chap," complained 
 a fellow Clubman to him once in my hearing. "I some- 
 times ask myself if you have any opinions at all." 
 
 "I hate a crowd," was Dan's only confession of faith. 
 
 He never claimed anything from me in return for his 
 affection; he was there for me to hold to when I wanted 
 him. When, baffled in all my attempts to win the affec- 
 tions of others, I returned to him for comfort, he gave it 
 me, without even relieving himself of friendly advice. 
 When at length childish success came to me and I needed 
 him less, he was neither hurt nor surprised. Other peo- 
 ple — their thoughts, their actions, even when these con- 
 
156 Paul Kelver 
 
 cerned himself — never troubled him. He loved to bestow, 
 but as to response was strangely indifferent; indeed, if 
 anything, it bored him. His nature appeared to be that 
 of the fountain, which fulfils itself by giving, but is un- 
 able to receive. 
 
 My popularity came to me unexpectedly after I had 
 given up hoping for it; surprising me, annoying me. 
 Gradually it dawned upon me that my company was being 
 sought. 
 
 "Come along, Kelver," would say the spokesman of one 
 group; "we're going part of your way home. You can 
 walk with us." 
 
 Maybe I would go with them, but more often, before we 
 reached the gate, the delight of my society would be 
 claimed by a rival troop. 
 
 "He's coming with us this afternoon. He promised." 
 
 "No, he didn't." 
 
 "Yes, he did." 
 
 "Well, he ain't, anyhow. See?" 
 
 "Oh, isn't he? Who says he isn't?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Punch his head, Dick!" 
 
 "Yes, you do, Jimmy Blake, and I'll punch yours. 
 Come, Kelver." 
 
 I might have been some Queen of Beauty offered as 
 prize for knightly contest. Indeed, more than once the 
 argument concluded thus primitively, I being carried off 
 in triumph by the victorious party. 
 
 For a period it remained a mystery to me, until I asked 
 explanation of Norval — we called him "Norval," he being 
 one George Grampian : it was our wit. From taking joy 
 in teasing me, Norval had suddenly become one of my 
 greatest admirers. This by itself was difficult enough to 
 understand. He was in the second eleven, and after Dan 
 the best fighter in the lower school. If I could under- 
 stand Norval's change of attitude all would be plain to 
 me ; so when next time, bounding upon me in the cloak- 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul 157 
 
 room and slipping his arm into mine, he clamoured for 
 my company to Camden Town, I put the question to him 
 bluntly. 
 
 ''Why should I walk home with you? Why do you 
 want me?" 
 
 "Because we like you." 
 
 "But why do you like me?" 
 
 "Why ! Why, because you're such a funny chap. You 
 say such funny things." 
 
 It struck me like a slap in the face. I had thought to 
 reach popularity upon the ladder of heroic qualities. In 
 all the school books I had read, Leonard or Marmaduke 
 (we had a Marmaduke in the Lower Fifth — they called 
 him Marmalade: in the school books these disasters are 
 not contemplated), won love and admiration by reason 
 of integrity of character, nobility of sentiment, goodness 
 of heart, brilliance of intellect; combined maybe with a 
 certain amount of agility, instinct in the direction of bowl- 
 ing, or aptitude for jumping; but such only by the way. 
 Not one of them had ever said a funny thing, either con- 
 sciously or unconsciously. 
 
 "Don't be disagreeable, Kelver. Come with us and we 
 will let you into the team as an extra. I'll teach you bat- 
 ting." 
 
 So I was to be their Fool — I, dreamer of knightly 
 dreams, aspirant to hero's fame ! I craved their wonder ; 
 I had won their laughter. I had prayed for popularity; 
 it had been granted to me — in this guise. Were the gods 
 still the heartless practical jokers poor Midas had found 
 them? 
 
 Had my vanity been less I should have flung their gift 
 back in their faces. But my thirst for approbation was 
 too intense. I had to choose : Cut capers and be followed, 
 or walk in dignity, ignored. I chose to cut the capers. 
 As time wore on I found myself striving to cut them 
 quicker, quainter, thinking out funny stories, preparing 
 
158 Paul Kelver 
 
 ingenuous impromptus, twisting all ideas into odd expres- 
 sion. 
 
 I had my reward. Before long my company was de- 
 sired by all the school. But I was never content. I 
 would rather have been the Captain of their football club, 
 even his deputy Vice; would have given all my meed of 
 laughter for stuttering Jerry's one round of applause 
 when in our match against Highbury he knocked up his 
 century, and so won the victory for us by just three. 
 
 Till the end I never quite abandoned hope of exchang- 
 ing my vine leaves for the laurels. I would rise an hour 
 earlier in the morning to practise throwing at broomsticks 
 set up in waste places. At another time, the sport coming 
 into temporary fashion, I wearied body and mind for 
 weeks in vain attempts to acquire skill on stilts. That 
 even fat Tubby could out-distance me upon them sad- 
 dened my life for months. 
 
 A lad there was, a Sixth Form boy, one Wakeham by 
 name, if I remember rightly, who greatly envied me my 
 gift of being able to amuse. He was of the age when the 
 other sex begins to be of importance to a fellow, and the 
 desire had come to him to be regarded as a star of wit 
 among the social circles of Gospel Oak. Need I say that 
 by nature he was a ponderously dull boy. 
 
 One afternoon I happened to be the centre of a small 
 group in the playground. I had been holding forth and 
 they had been laughing. Whether I had delivered myself 
 of anything really entertaining or not I cannot say. It 
 made no difference ; they had got into the habit of laugh- 
 ing when I talked. Sometimes I would say quite serious 
 things on purpose; they would laugh just the same. 
 Wakeham was among them, his eyes fixed on me, watch- 
 ing me as boys watch a conjurer in the hope of finding out 
 "how he does it." Later in the afternoon he slipped his 
 arm through mine, and drew me away into an empty cor- 
 ner of the ground. 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul 159 
 
 "I say, Kelver," he broke out, the moment we were be- 
 yond hearing, "you really are funny!" 
 
 It gave me no pleasure. If he had told me that he ad- 
 mired my bowling I might not have believed him, but 
 should have loved him for it. 
 
 "So are you," I answered savagely, "only you don't 
 know it." 
 
 "No, I'm not," he repHed. "Wish I was. I say, Kel- 
 ver" — he glanced round to see that no one was within 
 earshot — "do you think you could teach me to be funny?" 
 
 I was about to reply with conviction in the negative 
 when an idea occurred to me. Wakeham was famous 
 among us for one thing ; he could, inserting two fingers in 
 his mouth, produce a whistle capable of confusing dogs a 
 quarter of a mile off, and of causing people near at hand 
 to jump from six to eighteen inches into the air. 
 
 This accomplishment of his I envied him as keenly as he 
 envied me mine. I did not admire it ; I could not see the 
 use of it. Generally speaking, it called forth irritation 
 rather than affection. A purple- faced old gentleman, 
 close to whose ear he once performed, promptly cuffed his 
 head for it ; and for so doing was commended by the whole 
 street as a public benefactor. Drivers of vehicles would 
 respond by flicking at him, occasionally with success. 
 Even youth, from whom sympathy might have been ex- 
 pected, appeared impelled, if anything happened to be at 
 all handy, to take it up and throw it at him. My own 
 social circle would, I knew, regard it as a vulgar accom- 
 plishment, and even Wakeham himself dared not perform 
 it in the hearing of his own classmates. That any human 
 being should have desired to acquire it seems incompre- 
 hensible. Yet for weeks in secret I had wrestled to pro- 
 duce the hideous sound. Why? For three reasons, so 
 far as I can analyse this youngster of whom I am writing : 
 Firstly, here was a means of attracting attention; sec- 
 ondly, it was something that somebody else could do and 
 that he couldn't ; thirdly, it was a thing for which he evi- 
 
i6o Paul Kelver 
 
 dently had no natural aptitude whatever, and therefore 
 a thing to acquire which his soul yearned the more. Had 
 a boy come across his path, clever at walking on his hands 
 with his heels in the air. Master Paul Kelver would in all 
 probability have broken his neck in attempts to copy and 
 excel. I make no apologies for the brat : I merely present 
 him as a study for the amusement of a world of wiser 
 boys — and men. 
 
 I struck a bargain with young Wakeham ; I undertook 
 to teach him to be funny in return for his teaching me 
 this costermonger's whistle. 
 
 Each of us strove conscientiously to impart knowledge. 
 Neither of us succeeded. Wakeham tried hard to be 
 funny; I tried hard to whistle. He did all I told him; I 
 followed his instructions implicitly. The result was the 
 feeblest of wit and the feeblest of whistles. 
 
 *'Do you think anybody would laugh at that?" Wake- 
 ham would pathetically enquire at the termination of his 
 supremest effort. And honestly I would have to confess 
 I did not think any living being would. 
 
 "How far off do you think any one could hear that?" 
 I would demand anxiously, on recovering sufficient breath 
 to speak at all. 
 
 "Well, it would depend upon whether you knew it was 
 coming," Wakeham would reply kindly, not wishing to 
 discourage me. 
 
 We abandoned the scheme by mutual consent at about 
 the end of a fortnight. 
 
 "I suppose it's something that you've got to have inside 
 you," I suggested to Wakeham in consolation. 
 
 "I don't think the roof of your mouth can be quite the 
 right shape for it," concluded Wakeham. 
 
 My success as story-teller, commentator, critic, jester, 
 revived my childish ambition towards authorship. My 
 first stirrings in this direction I cannot rightly place. I 
 remember when very small falling into a sunk dust-bin — 
 a deep hole, rather, into which the gardener shot his rub- 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul i6i 
 
 bish. The fall twisted my ankle so that I could not move ; 
 and the time being evening and my prison some distance 
 from the house, my predicament loomed large before me. 
 Yet one consolation remained with me : the incident would 
 be of value to me in the autobiography upon which I was 
 then engaged. I can distinctly recollect lying on my back 
 among decaying leaves and broken glass, framing my ac- 
 count. "On this day a strange adventure befell me. Walk- 
 ing in the garden, all unheeding, I suddenly" — I did not 
 want to add the truth — "tumbled into a dust-hole, six feet 
 square, that any one but a moon calf might have seen." I 
 puzzled to evolve a more dignified situation. The dust-bin 
 became a cavern, the entrance to which had been artfully 
 concealed; the six or seven feet I had really fallen, "an 
 endless descent, terminating in a vast and gloomy cham- 
 ber." I was divided between opposing desires : One, for 
 rescue followed by sympathy and supper; the other, for 
 the alarming experience of a night of terror where I lay. 
 Nature conquering Art, I yelled ; and the episode termi- 
 nated prosaically with a warm bath and arnica. But from 
 it I judge that desire for the woes and perils of authorship 
 was with me somewhat early. 
 
 Of my many other dreams I would speak freely, dis- 
 cussing them at length with sympathetic souls, but con- 
 cerning this one ambition I was curiously reticent. Only 
 to two — my mother and a grey-bearded Stranger — did I 
 ever breathe a word of it. Even from my father I kept 
 it a secret, close comrades in all else though we were. He 
 would have talked of it much and freely, dragged it into 
 the light of day ; and from this I shrank. 
 
 My talk with the Stranger came about in this wise. 
 One evening I had taken a walk to Victoria Park — a 
 favourite haunt of mine in summer time. It was a fair 
 and peaceful evening, and I fell a-wandering there in 
 pleasant reverie, until the waning light hinted to me the 
 question of time. I looked about me. Only one human 
 being was in sight, a man with his back towards me, 
 
1 62 Paul Kelver 
 
 seated upon a bench overlooking the ornamental water. 
 I drew nearer. He took no notice of me, and interested 
 — though why, I could not say — I seated myself beside 
 him at the other end of the bench. He was a handsome, 
 distinguished-looking man, with wonderfully bright, clear 
 eyes and iron-grey hair and beard. I might have thought 
 him a sea captain, of whom many were always to be met 
 with in that neighbourhood, but for his hands, which were 
 crossed upon his stick, and which were white and delicate 
 as a woman's. He turned his face and glanced at me. 
 I fancied that his lips beneath the grey moustache smiled ; 
 and instinctively I edged a little nearer to him. 
 
 "Please, sir," I said, after awhile, ''could you tell me 
 the right time?" 
 
 ''Twenty minutes to eight," he answered, looking at his 
 watch. And his voice drew me towards him even more 
 than had his beautiful strong face. I thanked him, and 
 we fell back into silence. 
 
 "Where do you live?" he turned and suddenly asked 
 me. 
 
 "Oh, only over there," I answered, with a wave of 
 my arm towards the chimney-fringed horizon behind us. 
 "I needn't be in till half-past eight. I Hke this Park so 
 much," I added, "I often come and sit here of an even- 
 ing." 
 
 "Why do you like to come and sit here?" he asked. 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," I answered. "I think." 
 
 I marvelled at myself. With strangers generally I was 
 shy and silent; but the magic of his bright eyes seemed 
 to have loosened my tongue. 
 
 I told him my name; that we lived in a street always 
 full of ugly sounds, so that a gentleman could not think, 
 not even in the evening time, when Thought goes a- visit- 
 ing. 
 
 "Mamma does not like the twilight time," I confided to 
 him. "It always makes her cry But then mamma is— 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul 163 
 
 not very young, you know, and has had a deal of trouble ; 
 and that makes a difference, I suppose." 
 
 He laid his hand upon mine. We were sitting nearer 
 to each other now. "God made women weak to teach us 
 men to be tender," he said. "But you, Paul, like this 'twi- 
 light time' ?" 
 
 "Yes," I answered, "very much. Don't you ?" 
 
 "And why do you like it?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh," I answered, "things come to you." 
 
 "What things ?" 
 
 "Oh, fancies," I explained to him. "I am going to be 
 an author when I grow up, and write books." 
 
 He took my hand in his and shook it gravely, and then 
 returned it to me. "I, too, am a writer of books," he said. 
 
 And then I knew what had drawn me to him. 
 
 So for the first time I understood the joy of talking 
 "shop" with a fellow craftsman. I told him my favourite 
 authors — Scott, and Dumas, and Victor Hugo ; and to my 
 delight found they were his also; he agreeing with me 
 that real stories were the best, stories in which people did 
 things. 
 
 "I used to read silly stuff once," I confessed, "Indian 
 tales and that sort of thing, you know. But mamma said 
 I'd never be able to write if I read that rubbish." 
 
 "You will find it so all through life, Paul," he replied. 
 "The things that are nice are rarely good for us. And 
 what do you read now?" 
 
 "I am reading Marlowe's Plays and De Quincey's Con- 
 fessions just now," I confided to him. 
 
 "And do you understand them?" 
 
 "Fairly well," I answered. "Mamma says I'll like them 
 better as I go on. I want to learn to write very, very well 
 indeed," I admitted to him ; "then I'll be able to earn heaps 
 of money." 
 
 He smiled. "So you don't believe in Art for Art's sake, 
 Paul?" 
 
 I was puzzled. "What does that mean?" I asked. 
 
164 Paul Kelver 
 
 "It means in our case, Paul," he answered, "writing 
 books for the pleasure of writing books, without thinking 
 of any reward, without desiring either money or fame." 
 
 It was a new idea to me. ''Do many authors do that?" 
 I asked. 
 
 He laughed outright this time. It was a delightful 
 laugh. It rang through the quiet Park, awaking echoes ; 
 and caught by it, I laughed with him, 
 
 ''Hush !" he said ; and he glanced round with a whim- 
 sical expression of fear, lest we might have been over- 
 heard. "Between ourselves, Paul," he continued, draw- 
 ing me more closely towards him and whispering, "I don't 
 think any of us do. We talk about it. But I'll tell you 
 this, Paul ; it is a trade secret and you must remember it : 
 No man ever made money or fame but by writing his 
 very best. It may not be as good as somebody else's 
 best, but it is his best. Remember that, Paul." 
 
 I promised I would. 
 
 "And you must not think merely of the money and the 
 fame, Paul," he added the next moment, speaking more 
 seriously. "Money and fame are very good things, and 
 only hypocrites pretend to despise them. But if you write 
 books thinking only of money, you will be disappointed. 
 It is earned easier in other ways. Tell me, that is not 
 your only idea?" 
 
 I pondered. "Mamma says it is a very noble calling, 
 authorship," I remembered, "and that any one ought to 
 be very proud and glad to be able to write books, because 
 they give people happiness and make them forget things ; 
 and that one ought to be very good if one is going to be 
 an author, so as to be worthy to help and teach others." 
 
 "And do you try to be good, Paul ?" he enquired. 
 
 "Yes," I answered ; "but it's very hard to be quite good 
 — until of course you're grown up." 
 
 He smiled, but more to himself than to me. "Yes," he 
 said, "I suppose it is difficult to be good until you are 
 grown up. Perhaps we shall all of us be good when we're 
 
Of the Fashioning of Paul 165 
 
 quite grown up." Which, from a gentleman with a grey 
 beard, appeared to me a puzzling observation. 
 
 "And what else does mamma say about literature?" he 
 asked. "Can you remember?" 
 
 Again I pondered, and her words came back to me. 
 "That he who can write a great book is greater than a 
 king; that the gift of being able to write is given to any- 
 body in trust; that an author should never forget he is 
 God's servant." 
 
 He sat for awhile without speaking, his chin resting on 
 his folded hands supported by his gold-topped cane. 
 Then he turned and laid a hand upon my shoulder, and 
 his clear, bright eyes were close to mine. 
 
 "Your mother is a wise lady, Paul," he said. "Remem- 
 ber her words always. In later life let them come back to 
 you; they will guide you better than the chatter of the 
 Clubs." 
 
 "And what modern authors do you read?" he asked 
 after a silence : "any of them — Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, 
 Dickens?" 
 
 "I have read 'The Last of the Barons,' " I told him ; "I 
 like that. And I've been to Barnet and seen the church. 
 And some of Mr. Dickens'." 
 
 "And what do you think of Mr. Dickens?" he asked. 
 But he did not seem very interested in the subject. He 
 had picked up a few small stones, and was throwing them 
 carefully into the water. 
 
 "I like him very much," I answered; "he makes you 
 laugh." 
 
 "Not always?" he asked. He stopped his stone-throw- 
 ing, and turned sharply towards me. 
 
 "Oh, no, not always," I admitted ; "but I like the funny 
 bits best. I like so much where Mr. Pickwick " 
 
 "Oh, damn Mr. Pickwick !" he said. 
 
 "Don't you Hke him ?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I like him well enough, or used to," he re- 
 plied; "I'm a bit tired of him, that's ah. Does your 
 mamma Hke Mr. — Mr. Dickens?" 
 
1 66 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Not the funny parts," I explained to him. "She 
 thinks he is occasionally " 
 
 "I know," he interrupted, rather irritably, I thought; 
 "a trifle vulgar." 
 
 It surprised me that he should have guessed her exact 
 words. "I don't think mamma has much sense of 
 humour," I explained to him. "Sometimes she doesn't 
 even see papa's jokes." 
 
 At that he laughed again. "But she likes the other 
 parts?" he enquired, "the parts where Mr. Dickens isn't 
 — vulgar ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," I answered. "She says he can be so beauti- 
 ful and tender, when he likes." 
 
 Twilight was deepening. It occurred to me to enquire 
 of him again the time. 
 
 "Just over the quarter," he answered, looking at his 
 watch. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," I said. "I must go now." 
 
 "So am I sorry, Paul," he answered. "Perhaps we 
 shall meet again. Good-bye." Then as our hands 
 touched : "You have never asked me my name, Paul," he 
 reminded me. 
 
 "Oh, haven't I?" I answered. 
 
 "No, Paul," he repHed, "and that makes me think of 
 your future with hope. You are an egotist, Paul; and 
 that is the beginning of all art." 
 
 And after that he would not tell me his name. "Per- 
 haps next time we meet," he said. "Good-bye, Paul. 
 Good luck to you!" 
 
 So I went my way. Where the path winds out of sight 
 I turned. He was still seated upon the bench, but his 
 face was towards me, and he waved his hand to me. I 
 answered with a wave of mine. And then the intervening 
 boughs and bushes gradually closed in around me. And 
 across the rising mist there rose the hoarse, harsh cry: 
 "All out! All out!" 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN WHICH PAUL IS SHIPWRECKED, AND CAST fNTO DEEP 
 
 WATERS. 
 
 My father died, curiously enough, on the morning of his 
 birthday. We had not expected the end to arrive for 
 some time, and at first did not know that it had come. 
 
 ''I have left him sleeping," said my mother, who had 
 slipped out very quietly in her dressing-gown. **Wash- 
 burn gave him a draught last night. We won't disturb 
 him." 
 
 So we sat round the breakfast table, speaking in low 
 tones, for the house was small and flimsy, all sound easily 
 heard through its thin partitions. Afterwards my mother 
 crept upstairs, I following, and cautiously opened the door 
 a little way. 
 
 The blinds were still down, and the room dark. It 
 seemed a long time that my mother stood there listening, 
 her ear against the jar. The first costermonger — a girl's 
 voice, it sounded — ^passed, crying shrilly : "Watercreases, 
 fine fresh watercreases with your breakfast — a'penny a 
 bundle watercreases ;" and further off a hoarse youth was 
 wailing : "Mee-ilk-mee-ilk-oi." 
 
 Inch by inch my mother opened the door wider and 
 we stole in. He was lying with his eyes still closed, the 
 lips just slightly parted. I had never seen death before, 
 and could not realise it. All that I could see was that he 
 looked even younger than I had ever seen him look before. 
 By slow degrees only, it came home to me, the knowledge 
 that he was gone away from us. For days — for weeks, 
 I would hear his step behind me in the street, his voice 
 calling to me, see his face among the crowds, and hasten- 
 
1 68 Paul Kelver 
 
 ing to meet him, stand bewildered because it had mysteri- 
 ously disappeared. But at first I felt no pain whatever. 
 
 To my mother it was but a short parting. Into her 
 placid faith had never fallen fear nor doubt. He was wait- 
 ing for her. In God's good time they would meet again. 
 What need of sorrow ! Without him the days passed 
 slowly : the house must ever be a little dull when the good 
 man's away. But that was all. So my mother would 
 speak of him always — of his dear, kind ways, of his odd- 
 ities and follies we loved so to recall, not through tears, 
 but smiles, thinking of him not as of one belonging to the 
 past, but as of one beckoning to her from the future. 
 
 We lived on still in the old house though ever planning 
 to move, for the great brick monster had crept closer 
 round about us year by year, devouring in his progress 
 all things fair. Field and garden, tree and cottage, time- 
 mellowed house suggesting story, kind hedgerow hiding 
 hideousness beyond — the few spots yet in that doomed 
 land lingering to remind one of the sunshine, one by one 
 had he scrunched them between his ugly teeth. A world 
 apart, this east end of London, this ghetto of the poor for 
 ever growing, dreariness added year by year to dreariness, 
 hopelessness stretching ever farther its long, shrivelled 
 arms, these endless rows of reeking cells where London 
 herds her slaves. Often of a misty afternoon when we 
 knew that without this city of the dead life was stirring in 
 the sunshine, we would fare forth to house-hunt in pleas- 
 ant suburbs, now themselves added to the weary catacomb 
 of narrow streets — ^to Highgate, then a tiny town con- 
 nected by a coach with leafy Holloway; to Hampstead 
 with its rows of ancient red-brick houses, from whose 
 wind-blown heath one saw beyond the woods and farms, 
 far London's domes and spires, to Wood Green among the 
 pastures, where smock-coated labourers discussed their 
 politics and ale beneath wide-spreading elms ; to Hornsey, 
 then a village consisting of an ivy-covered church and one 
 grass-bordered way. But though we often saw "the very 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 169 
 
 thing for us" and would discuss its possibilities from every 
 point of view and find them good, we yet delayed. 
 
 "We must think it over," would say my mother ; "there 
 is no hurry; for some reasons I shall be sorry to leave 
 Poplar." 
 
 "For what reasons, mother?" 
 
 "Oh, well, no particular reason, Paul. Only we have 
 lived there so long, you know. It will be a wrench leav- 
 ing the old house." 
 
 To the making of man go all things, even to the in- 
 stincts of the clinging vine. We fling our tendrils round 
 what is the nearest castle-keep or pig-stye wall, rain and 
 sunshine fastening them but firmer. Dying Sir Walter 
 Scott — do you remember? — hastening home from Italy, 
 fearful lest he might not be in time to breathe again the 
 damp mists of the barren hills. An ancient dame I knew, 
 they had carried her from her attic in slumland that she 
 might be fanned by the sea breezes, and the poor old soul 
 lay pining for what she called her "home." Wife, mother, 
 widow, she had lived there till the alley's reek smelt good 
 to her nostrils, till its riot was the voices of her people. 
 Who shall understand us save He who fashioned us ? 
 
 So the old house held us to its dismal bosom; and not 
 until within its homely but unlovely arms, first my aunt, 
 and later on my mother had died, and I had said good-bye 
 to Amy, crying in the midst of littered emptiness, did I 
 leave it. 
 
 My aunt died as she had lived, grumbling. 
 
 "You will be glad to get rid of me, all of you!" she 
 said, dropping for the first and last time I can recol- 
 lect into the retort direct ; "and I can't say I shall be very 
 sorry to go myself. It hasn't been my idea of life." 
 
 Poor old lady ! That was only a couple of weeks be- 
 fore the end. I do not suppose she guessed it was so cer- 
 tain or perhaps she might have been more sentimental. 
 
 "Don't be foolish," said my mother, "you're not going 
 to die !'' 
 
170 Paul Kelver 
 
 "What's the use of talking Hke an idiot/* retorted my 
 aunt, "I've got to do it some time. Why not now, when 
 everything's all ready for it. It isn't as if I was enjoying 
 myself." 
 
 "I am sure we do all we can for you," said my mother. 
 
 "I know you do," replied my aunt. "I'm a burden to 
 you. I always have been." 
 
 "Not a burden," corrected my mother. 
 
 "What does the woman call it then," snapped back my 
 aunt. "Does she reckon I've been a sunbeam in the house? 
 I've been a trial to everybody. That's what I was born 
 for ; it's my metier." 
 
 My mother put her arms about the poor old soul and 
 kissed her. "We should miss you very much," she said. 
 
 "I'm sure I hope they all will!" answered my aunt. 
 "It's the only thing I've got to leave 'em, worth having." 
 
 My mother laughed. 
 
 "Maybe it's been a good thing for you, Maggie," 
 grumbled my aunt; "if it wasn't for cantankerous, dis- 
 agreeable people like me, gentle, patient people like you 
 wouldn't get any practice. Perhaps, after all, I've been a 
 blessing to you in disguise." 
 
 I cannot honestly say we ever wished her back ; though 
 we certainly did miss her — missed many a joke at her 
 oddities, many a laugh at her cornery ways. It takes all 
 sorts, as the saying goes, to make a world. Possibly 
 enough if only we perfect folk were left in it we would 
 find it uncomfortably monotonous. 
 
 As for Amy, I believe she really regretted her. 
 
 "One never knows what's good for one till one's lost 
 it," sighed Amy. 
 
 "I'm glad to think you liked her," said my mother. 
 
 "You see, mum," explained Amy, "I was one of a large 
 family; and a bit of a row now and again cheers one up, 
 I always think. I'll be losing the power of my tongue if 
 something doesn't come along soon." 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 171 
 
 "Well, you are going to be married in a few weeks 
 now," my mother reminded her. 
 
 But Amy remained despondent. "They're poor things, 
 the men, at a few words, the best of them," she replied. 
 "As likely as not just when you're getting interested you 
 turn round to find that they've put on their hat and gone 
 out." 
 
 My mother and I were very much alone after my aunt's 
 death. Barbara had gone abroad to put the finishing 
 touches to her education — to learn the tricks of the Nobs' 
 trade, as old Hasluck phrased it ; and I had left school and 
 taken employment with Mr. Stillwood, without salary, 
 the idea being that I should study for the law. 
 
 "You are in luck's way, my boy, in luck's way," old Mr. 
 Gadley had assured me. "To have commenced your 
 career in the office of Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal 
 will be a passport for you anywhere. It will stamp you, 
 my boy." 
 
 Mr. Stillwood himself was an extremely old and feeble 
 gentleman — so old and feeble it seemed strange that he, 
 a wealthy man, had not long ago retired. 
 
 "I am always meaning to," he explained to me one day 
 soon after my advent in his office. "When your poor 
 father came to me he told me very frankly the sad fact — 
 that he had only a few more years to live. 'Mr. Kelver,' 
 I answerered him, 'do not let that trouble you, so far as I 
 am concerned. There are one or two matters in the office 
 I should like to see cleared up, and in these you can help 
 me. When they are completed I shall retire ! Yet, you 
 see, I linger on. I am like the old hackney coach horse, 
 Mr. Weller — or is it Mr. Jingle — tells us of ; if the shafts 
 were drawn away I should probably collapse. So I jog 
 on, I jog on.' " 
 
 He had married late in life a common woman much 
 younger than himself, who had brought to him a horde 
 of needy and greedy relatives, and no doubt, as a refuge 
 from her noisy neighbourhood, the daily peace of Lom- 
 
172 Paul Kelver 
 
 bard Street was welcome to him. We saw her occasion- 
 ally. She was one of those blustering, "managing" 
 women who go through life under the impression that 
 making a disturbance is somehow ''putting things to 
 rights." Ridiculously ashamed of her origin, she sought 
 to hide it under what her friends assured her was the air 
 of a duchess, but which, as a matter of fact, resembled 
 rather the Sunday manners of an elderly barmaid. Mr. 
 Gadley alone was not afraid of her ; but, on the contrary, 
 kept her always very much in fear of him, often speaking 
 to her with refreshing candour. He had known her in 
 the days it was her desire should be buried in oblivion, 
 and had always resented as a personal insult her entry into 
 the old established aristocratic firm of Stillwood & Co. 
 
 Her history was peculiar. Mr. Stillwood, when a blase 
 man about town, verging on forty, had first seen her, then 
 a fair-haired, ethereal-looking child, in spite of her dirt, 
 playing in the gutter. To his lasting self-reproach it was 
 young Gadley himself, accompanying his employer home 
 from Westminster, who had drawn Mr. Stillwood's atten- 
 tion to the girl by boxing her ears for having, as he passed, 
 slapped his face with a convenient sprat. Stillwood, act- 
 ing on the impulse of the moment, had taken the child by 
 the hand and dragged her, unwilling, to her father's place 
 of business — a small coal shed in the Horseferry Road. 
 The arrangement he there made amounted practically to 
 the purchase of the child. She was sent abroad to school 
 and the coal shed closed. On her return, ten years later, 
 a big, handsome young woman, he married her, and learned 
 at leisure the truth of the old saying, "what's bred in the 
 bone will come out in the flesh," scrub it and paint it and 
 hide it away under fine clothes as you will. 
 
 Her constant complaint against her husband was that 
 he was only a solicitor, a profession she considered vul- 
 gar; and nothing "riled" old Gadley more than hearing 
 her views upon this point. 
 
 "It's not fair to the gals," I once heard her say to him. 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 173 
 
 I was working in the next room, with the door not quite 
 closed, added to which she talked at the top of her voice 
 on all subjects. "What real gentleman, I should like to 
 know, is going to marry the daughter of a City attorney ? 
 As I told him years ago, he ought to have retired and gone 
 into the House." 
 
 ''The very thing your poor father used to talk of doing 
 whenever things were going a bit queer in the retail coal 
 and potato business," grunted old Gadley. 
 
 Mrs. Stillwood called him a ''low beast" in her most 
 aristocratic tones, and swept out of the room. 
 
 Not that old Stillwood himself ever expressed fondness 
 for the law. 
 
 "I am not at all sure, Kelver," I remember his saying 
 to me on one occasion, "that you have done wisely in 
 choosing the law. It makes one regard humanity morally 
 as the medical profession regards it physically : — as uni- 
 versally unsound. You suspect everybody of being a 
 rogue. When people are behaving themselves, we lawyers 
 hear nothing of them. All we hear of is roguery, trickery 
 and hypocrisy. It deteriorates the character, Kelver. 
 We live in a perpetual atmosphere of transgression. I 
 sometimes fancy it may be infectious." 
 
 "It does not seem to have infected you, sir," I replied; 
 for, as I think I have already mentioned, the firm of Still- 
 wood, Waterhead and Royal was held in legal circles as 
 the synonym for rectitude of dealing quite old-fashioned. 
 
 "I hope not, Kelver, I hope not," the old gentleman re- 
 plied ; "and yet, do you know, I sometimes suspect myself 
 — wonder if I may not perhaps be a scamp without realis- 
 ing it. A rogue, you know, Kelver, can always explain 
 himself into an honest man to his own satisfaction. A 
 scamp is never a scamp to himself." 
 
 His words for the moment alarmed me, for, acting on 
 old Gadley's advice, I had persuaded my mother to put 
 all her small capital into Mr. Stillwood's hands for re-in- 
 vestment, a transaction that had resulted in substantial 
 
174 P^ul Kelver 
 
 increase of our small income. But, looking Into his smil- 
 ing eyes, my momentary fear vanished. 
 
 Laughing, he laid his hand upon my shoulder. "One 
 person always be suspicious of, Kelver — yourself. No- 
 body can do you so much harm as yourself." 
 
 Of Washburn we saw more and more. **Hal" we both 
 called him now, for removing with his gentle, masterful 
 hands my mother's shyness from about her, he had es- 
 tablished himself almost as one of the family, my mother 
 regarding him as she might some absurdly bearded boy 
 entrusted to her care without his knowing it, I looking up 
 to him as to some wonderful elder brother. 
 
 "You rest me, Mrs. Kelver," he would say, lighting his 
 pipe and sinking down into the deep leathern chair that 
 always waited for him in our parlour. "Your even voice, 
 your soft eyes, your quiet hands, they soothe me." 
 
 "It is good for a man," he would say, looking from one 
 to the other of us through the hanging smoke, "to test 
 his wisdom by two things : the face of a good woman, and 
 the ear of a child — I beg your pardon, Paul — of a young 
 man. A good woman's face is the white sunlight. Un- 
 der the gas-lamps who shall tell diamond from paste? 
 Bring it into the sunlight : does it stand that test ? Then it 
 is good. And the children ! they are the waiting earth on 
 which we fling our store. Is it chaff and dust or living 
 seed ? Wait and watch. I shower my thoughts over our 
 Paul, Mrs. Kelver. They seem to me brilliant, deep, 
 original. The young beggar swallows them, forgets 
 them. They were rubbish. Then I say something that 
 dwells with him, that grows. Ah, that was alive, that 
 was a seed. The waiting earth, it can make use only of 
 what is true." 
 
 "You should marry, Hal," my mother would say. It 
 was her panacea for all mankind. 
 
 "I would, Mrs. Kelver," he answered her on one occa- 
 sion, "I would to-morrow if I could marry half a dozen 
 women. I should make an ideal husband for half a dozen 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 175 
 
 wives. One I should neglect for five days, and be a bur- 
 den to upon the sixth." 
 
 From any other than Hal my mother would have taken 
 such a remark, made even in jest, as an insult to her sex. 
 But Hal's smile was a coating that could sugar any pill. 
 
 "I am not one man, Mrs. Kelver, I am half a dozen. If 
 I were to marry one wife she would be married to six 
 husbands. It is too many for any woman to manage." 
 
 "Have you never fallen in love ?" asked my mother. 
 
 'Three of me have, but on each occasion the other five 
 of me out-voted him." 
 
 "You're sure six would be sufficient?" queried my 
 mother, smiling. 
 
 "Just the right number, Mrs. Kelver. There is one of 
 me must worship, adore a woman madly, abjectly ; grovel 
 before her like the Troubadour before his Queen of Song, 
 eat her slipper, drink the water she has washed in, scourge 
 himself before her window, die for a kiss of her glove 
 flung down with a laugh. She must be scornful, con- 
 temptuous, cruel. There is another I would cherish, a 
 tender, yielding creature, one whose face would light at 
 my coming, cloud at my going ; one to whom I should be a 
 god. There is a third I, a child of Pan — an ugly little 
 beast, Mrs. Kelver ; horns on head and hoofs on feet, leer- 
 ing through the wood, seeking its fit mate. And a fourth 
 would wed a wholesome, homely wench, deep of bosom, 
 broad of hip ; fit mother of a sturdy brood. A fifth could 
 only be content with a true friend, a comrade wise and 
 witty, a sharer and understander of all joys and thoughts 
 and feelings. And a last, Mrs. Kelver, yearns for a 
 woman pure and sweet, clothed in love and crowned with 
 holiness. Shouldn't we be a handful, Mrs. Kelver, for 
 any one woman in an eight-roomed house ?" 
 
 But my mother was not to be discouraged. "You will 
 find the woman one day, Hal, who will be all of them to 
 you — all of them that are worth having, that is. And 
 your eight-roomed house will be a kingdom !" 
 
176 Paul Kelver \ 
 
 "A man is many, and a woman but one," answered 
 Hal. 
 
 'That is what men say who are too blind to see more 
 than one side of a woman," retorted my mother, a little 
 sharply; for the honour and credit of her own sex in all 
 things was very dear to my mother. And indeed this I 
 have learned, that the flag of Womanhood you shall ever 
 find upheld by all true women, flouted only by the false. 
 For a judge in petticoats is ever but a witness in a wig. 
 
 Hal laid aside his pipe and leant forward in his chair. 
 "Now tell us, Mrs. Kelver, for our guidance, we two 
 young bachelors, what must the lover of a young girl be ?" 
 
 Always very serious on this subject of love, my mother 
 answered gravely : *'She asks for the whole of a man, Hal, 
 not merely for a sixth, nor any other part of him. She is 
 a child asking for a lover to whom she can look up, who 
 will teach her, guide her, protect her. She is a queen de- 
 manding homage, and yet he is her king whom it is her 
 joy to serve. She asks to be his partner, his fellow- 
 worker, his playmate, and at the same time she loves to 
 think of him as her child, her big baby she must take care 
 of. Whatever he has to give she has also to respond with. 
 You need not marry six wives, Hal ; you will find your six 
 in one." 
 
 " 'As the water to the vessel, woman shapes herself to 
 man f an old heathen said that three thousand years ago, 
 and others have repeated him ; that is what you mean." 
 
 "I don't like that way of putting it," answered my 
 mother. "I mean that as you say of man, so in every true 
 woman is contained all women. But to know her com- 
 pletely you must love her with all love." 
 
 Sometimes the talk would be of religion, for my 
 mother's faith was no dead thing that must be kept ever 
 sheltered from the air, lest it crumble. 
 
 One evening ''Who are we that we should live?" cried 
 Hal. "The spider is less cruel; the very pig less greedy, 
 gluttonous and foul ; the tiger less tigerish ; our cousin ape 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 177 
 
 less monkeyish. What are we but savages, clothed and 
 ashamed, nine-tenths of us ?" 
 
 "But Sodom and Gomorrah," reminded him my mother, 
 ''would have been spared for the sake of ten just men." 
 
 "Much more sensible to have hurried the ten men out, 
 leaving the remainder to be buried with all their abomi- 
 nations under their own ashes," growled Hal. 
 
 "And we shall be purified," continued my mother, "the 
 evil in us washed away." 
 
 "Why have made us ill merely to mend us? If the 
 Almighty were so anxious for our company, why not have 
 made us decent in the beginning?" He had just come 
 away from a meeting of Poor Law Guardians, and 
 was in a state of dissatisfaction with human nature gen- 
 erally. 
 
 "It is His way," answered my mother, "The precious 
 stone hes hid in clay. He has His purpose." 
 
 "Is the stone so very precious ?" 
 
 "Would He have taken so much pains to fashion it if it 
 were not? You see it all around you, Hal, in your daily 
 practice — heroism, self-sacrifice, love stronger than death. 
 Can you think He will waste it, He who uses again even 
 the dead leaf?" 
 
 "Shall the new leaf remember the new flower?" 
 
 "Yes, if it ever knew it. Shall memory be the only 
 thing to die?" 
 
 Often of an evening I would accompany Hal upon his 
 rounds. By the savage tribe he both served and ruled he 
 had come to be regarded as medicine man and priest com- 
 bined. He was both their tyrant and their slave, work- 
 ing for them early and late, yet bullying them unmerci- 
 fully, enforcing his commands sometimes with vehement 
 tongue, and where that would not suffice with quick fists ; 
 the counsellor, helper, ruler, literally of thousands. Of 
 income he could have made barely enough to five upon; 
 but few men could have enjoyed more sense of power; 
 and that I think it was that held him to the neighbourhood. 
 
178 Paul Kelver 
 
 ''Nature laid me by and forgot me for a couple of thou- 
 sand years," was his own explanation of himself. "Born 
 in my proper period, I should have climbed to chieftainship 
 upon uplifted shields. I might have been an Attila, an 
 Alaric. Among the civilised one can only climb by crawl- 
 ing, and I am too impatient to crawl. Here I am king at 
 once by force of brain and muscle." So in Poplar he re- 
 mained, poor in fees but rich in honour. 
 
 The love of justice was a passion with him. The op- 
 pressors of the poor knew and feared him well. Injustice 
 once proved before him, vengeance followed sure. If the 
 law would not help, he never hesitated to employ lawless- 
 ness, of which he could always command a satisfactory 
 supply. Bumble might have the Board of Guardians at 
 his back, Shylock legal support for his pound of flesh ; but 
 sooner or later the dark night brought punishment, a 
 ducking in dock basin or canal, "Brutal Assault Upon a 
 Respected Resident" (according to the local papers), the 
 ''miscreants" always making and keeping good their es- 
 cape, for he was an admirable organiser. 
 
 One night it seemed to him necessary that a child should 
 go at once into the Infirmary. 
 
 "It ain't no use my taking her now," explained the 
 mother, "I'll only get bullyragged for disturbing 'em. 
 My old man was carried there three months ago when he 
 broke his leg, but they wouldn't take him in till the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Oho ! oho ! oho !" sang Hal, taking the child up in his 
 arms and putting on his hat. "You follow me ; we'll have 
 some sport. Tally ho! tally ho!" And away we went, 
 Hal heading our procession through the streets, shout- 
 ing a rollicking song, the baby staring at him open- 
 mouthed. 
 
 "Now ring," cried Hal to the mother on our reaching 
 the Workhouse gate. "Ring modestly, as becomes the 
 poor ringing at the gate of Charity." And the bell tinkled 
 faintly. 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 179 
 
 "Ring again!" cried Hal, drawing back into the 
 shadow ; and at last the wicket opened. 
 
 '*Oh, if you please, sir, my baby " 
 
 ''Blast your baby !" answered a husky voice, "what d'ye 
 mean by coming here this time of night?" 
 
 "Please, sir, Fm afraid it's dying, and the Doctor " 
 
 The man was no sentimentalist, and to do him justice 
 made no hypocritical pretence of being one. He con- 
 signed the baby and its mother and the doctor to Hell, and 
 the wicket would have closed but for the point of Hal's 
 stick. 
 
 "Open the gate!" roared Hal. It was idle pretending 
 not to hear Hal anywhere within half a mile of him when 
 he filled his lungs for a cry. "Open it quick, you black- 
 guard ! You gross vat-load of potato spirit, you " 
 
 That the Governor should speak a language familiar to 
 the governed was held by the Romans, born rulers of men, 
 essential to authority. This theory Hal also maintained. 
 His command of idiom understanded by his people was 
 one of his rods of power. In less time than it took the 
 trembling porter to loosen the bolts, Hal had presented 
 him with a word picture of himself, as seen by others, that 
 must have lessened his self-esteem. 
 
 "I didn't know as it was you. Doctor," explained the 
 man. 
 
 "No, you thought you had only to deal with some help- 
 less creature you could bully. Stir your fat carcass, you 
 ugly cur! I'm in a hurry." 
 
 The House Surgeon was away, but an attendant or two 
 were lounging about, unfortunately for themselves, for 
 Hal, being there, took it upon himself to go round the 
 ward setting crooked things straight; and a busy and 
 alarming time they had of it. Not till a couple of hours 
 later did he fling himself forth again, having enjoyed him- 
 self greatly. 
 
 A gentleman came to reside in the district, a firm be- 
 liever in the wisdom of the couplet : "A woman, a spaniel 
 
i8o Paul Kelver 
 
 and a walnut tree, The more you beat them the better they 
 be." The spaniel and the walnut tree he did not possess, 
 so his wife had the benefit of his undivided energies. 
 Whether his treatment had improved her morally, one 
 cannot say; her evident desire to do her best may have 
 been natural or may have been assisted ; but physically it 
 was injuring her. He used to beat her about the head 
 with his strap, his argument being that she always seemed 
 half asleep, and that this, for the time being, woke her up. 
 Sympathisers brought complaint to Hal, for the police in 
 that neighbourhood are to keep the streets respectable. 
 With the life in the little cells that line them they are no 
 more concerned than are the scavengers of the sewers 
 with the domestic arrangements of the rats. 
 
 "What's he like?" asked Hal. 
 
 "He's a big 'un," answered the woman who had come 
 with the tale, "and he's good with his fists — I've seen him. 
 But there's no getting at him. He's the sort to have the 
 law on you if you interfere with him, and she's the sort 
 to help him." 
 
 "Any likely time to catch him at it?" asked Hal. 
 
 "Saturdays it's as regular as early closing," answered 
 the woman, "but you might have to wait a bit." 
 
 "I'll wait in your room, granny, next Saturday," sug- 
 gested Hal. 
 
 "All right," agreed the woman, "I'll risk it, even if I 
 do get a bloody head for it." 
 
 So that week end we sat very still on two rickety chairs 
 listening to a long succession of sharp, cracking sounds 
 that, had one not known, one might have imagined pro- 
 duced by some child monotonously exploding percussion 
 caps, each one followed by an answering groan. Hal 
 never moved, but sat smoking his pipe, an ugly smile 
 about his mouth. Only once he opened his lips, and then 
 it was to murmur to himself : "And God blessed them and 
 said unto them. Be fruitful and multiply." 
 
 The horror ceased at last, and later we heard the door 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked i8i 
 
 unlock and a man's foot upon the landing above. Hal 
 beckoned to me, and swiftly we slipped out and down the 
 creaking stairs. He opened the front door, and we waited 
 in the evil-smelling little passage. The man came 
 towards us whistling. He was a powerfully built fellow, 
 rather good-looking, I remember. He stopped abruptly 
 upon catching sight of Hal, who stood crouching in the 
 shadow of the door. 
 
 "What are you doing here ?" he demanded. 
 
 "Waiting to pull your nose !" answered Hal, suiting the 
 action to the word. And then laughing he ran down the 
 street, I following. 
 
 The man gave chase, calling to us with a string of im- 
 precations to stop. But Hal only ran the faster, though 
 after a street or two he slackened, and the man gained on 
 us a little. 
 
 vSo we continued, the distance between us and our pur- 
 suer now a little more, now a little less. People turned 
 and stared at us. A few boys, scenting grim fun, fol- 
 lowed shouting for awhile ; but these we soon out-paced, 
 till at last in deserted streets, winding among warehouses 
 bordering the river, we three ran alone, between long, 
 lifeless walls. I looked into Hal's face from time to time, 
 and he was laughing; but every now and then he would 
 look over his shoulder at the man behind him still follow- 
 ing doggedly, and then his face would be twisted into a 
 comically terrified grimace. Turning into a narrow cul- 
 de-sac, Hal suddenly ducked behind a wide brick but- 
 tress, and the man, still running, passed us. And then 
 Hal stood up and called to him, and the man turned, 
 looked into Hal's eyes, and understood. 
 
 He was not a coward. Besides, even a rat when cor- 
 nered will fight for its life. He made a rush at Hal, and 
 Hal made no attempt to defend himself. He stood there 
 laughing, and the man struck him full in the face, and the 
 blood spurted out and flowed down into his mouth. The 
 man came on again, though terror was in every line of his 
 
1 82 Paul Kelver 
 
 face, all his desire being to escape. But this time Hal 
 drove him back again. They fought for awhile, if one 
 can call it fighting, till the man, mad for air, reeled against 
 the wall, stood there quivering convulsively, his mouth 
 wide open, resembling more than anything else some huge 
 dying fish. And Hal drew away and waited. 
 
 I have no desire to see again the sight I saw that quiet, 
 still evening, framed by those high, windowless walls, 
 from behind which sounded with ceaseless regularity the 
 gentle swish of the incoming tide. All sense of retribu- 
 tion was drowned in the sight of Hal's evident enjoyment 
 of his sport. The judge had disappeared, leaving the 
 work to be accomplished by a savage animal loosened for 
 the purpose. 
 
 The wretched creature flung itself again towards its 
 only door of escape, fought with the vehemence of de- 
 spair, to be flung back again, a hideous, bleeding mass of 
 broken flesh. I tried to cling to Hal's arm, but one jerk 
 of his steel muscles flung me ten feet away. 
 
 "Keep off, you fool !" he cried. *T won't kill him. I'm 
 keeping my head. I shall know when to stop." And I 
 crept away and waited. 
 
 Hal joined me a little later, wiping the blood from his 
 face. We made our way to a small public-house near the 
 river, and from there Hal sent a couple of men on whom 
 he could rely with instructions how to act. I never heard 
 any more of the matter. It was a subject on which I did 
 not care to speak to Hal. I can only hope that good came 
 of it. 
 
 There was a spot — it has been cleared away since to 
 make room for the approach to Greenwich Tunnel — it was 
 then the entrance to a grain depot in connection with the 
 Milwall Docks. A curious brick well it resembled, in the 
 centre of which a roadway wound downward, corkscrew 
 fashion, disappearing at the bottom into darkness under 
 a yawning arch. The place possessed the curious prop- 
 erty of being ever filled with a ceaseless murmur, as 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 183 
 
 though it were some aerial maelstrom, drawing Into its 
 silent vacuum all wandering waves of sound from the rest- 
 less human ocean flowing round it. No single tone could 
 one ever distinguish : it was a mingling of all voices, heard 
 there like the murmur of a sea-soaked shell. 
 
 We passed through it on our return. Its work for the 
 day was finished, its strange, weary song uninterrupted by 
 the mighty waggons thundering up and down its spiral 
 way. Hal paused, leaning against the railings that en- 
 circled its centre, and listened. 
 
 "Hark, do you not hear it, Paul ?" he asked. ''It is the 
 music of Humanity. All human notes are needful to its 
 making: the faint wail of the new-born, the cry of the 
 dying thief; the beating of the hammers, the merry trip 
 of dancers; the clatter of the teacups, the roaring of the 
 streets ; the crooning of the mother to her babe, the scream 
 of the tortured child ; the meeting kiss of lovers, the sob 
 of those that part. Listen ! prayers and curses, sighs and 
 laughter; the soft breathing of the sleeping, the fretful 
 feet of pain ; voices of pity, voices of hate ; the glad song 
 of the strong, the foolish complaining of the weak. Listen 
 to it, Paul ! Right and wrong, good and evil, hope and 
 despair, it is but one voice — a single note, drawn by the 
 sweep of the Player's hand across the quivering strings of 
 man. What is the meaning of it, Paul? Can you read 
 it? Sometimes it seems to me a note of joy, so full, so 
 endless, so complete, that I cry: 'Blessed be the Lord 
 whose hammers have beaten upon us, whose fires have 
 shaped us to His ends !' And sometimes it sounds to me 
 a dying note, so that I could curse Him who in wanton- 
 ness has wrung it from the anguish of His creatures — till 
 I would that I could fling myself, Prometheus like, be- 
 tween Him and His victims, calling: "My darkness, but 
 their light ; my agony, O God, their hope !' " 
 
 The faint light from a neighbouring gas-lamp fell upon 
 his face that an hour before I had seen the face of a wild 
 beast. The ugly mouth was quivering, tears stood in his 
 
184 Paul Kelver 
 
 great, tender eyes. Could his prayer in that moment have 
 been granted, could he have pressed against his bosom all 
 the pain of the world, he would have rejoiced. 
 
 He shook himself together with a laugh. "Come, Paul, 
 we have had a busy afternoon, and I'm thirsty. Let us 
 drink some beer, my boy, good sound beer, and plenty of 
 it." 
 
 My mother fell ill that winter. Mountain born and 
 mountain bred, the close streets had never agreed with 
 her, and scolded by all of us, she promised, "come the fine 
 weather," to put sentiment behind her, and go away from 
 them. 
 
 "I'm thinking she will," said Hal, gripping my shoulder 
 with his strong hand, "but it'll be by herself that she'll go, 
 lad. My wonder is," he continued, "that she .has held out 
 so long. If anything, it is you that have kept her alive. 
 Now that you are off her mind to a certain extent, she 
 is worrying about your father, I expect. These women, 
 they never will believe a man can take care of himself, 
 even in Heaven. She's never quite trusted the Lord with 
 him, and never will till she's there to give an eye to things 
 herself." 
 
 Hal's prophecy fell true. She left "come the fine 
 weather," as she had promised : I remember it was the first 
 day primroses were hawked in the street. But another 
 death had occurred just before; which, concerning me 
 closely as it does, I had better here dispose of; and that 
 was the death of old Mr. Stillwood, who passed away rich 
 in honour and regret, and was buried with much ostenta- 
 tion and much sincere sorrow ; for he had been to many of 
 his clients, mostly old folk, rather a friend than a mere 
 man of business, and had gained from all with whom he 
 had come in contact, respect, and from many real affection. 
 
 In conformity with the old legal fashions that in his 
 life he had so fondly clung to, his will was read aloud by 
 Mr. Gadley after the return from the funeral, and many 
 were the tears its recital called forth. Written years ago 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 185 
 
 by himself and never altered, its quaint phraseology was 
 full of kindly thought and expression. No one had been 
 forgotten. Clerks, servants, poor relations, all had been 
 treated with even-handed justice, while for those with 
 claim upon him, ample provision had been made. Few 
 wills, I think, could ever have been read less open to criti- 
 cism. 
 
 Old Gadley slipped his arm into mine as we left the 
 house. "If you've nothing to do, young 'un," he said, 
 "I'll get you to come with me to the office. I have got all 
 the keys in my pocket, and we shall be quiet. It will be 
 sad work for me, and I had rather we were alone. A 
 couple of hours will show us everything." 
 
 We lighted the wax candles — old Stillwood could never 
 tolerate gas in his own room — and opening the safe took 
 out the heavy ledgers one by one, and from them Gadley 
 dictated figures which I wrote down and added up. 
 
 "Thirty years I have kept these books for him," said 
 old Gadley, as we laid by the last of them, "thirty years 
 come Christmas next, he and I together. No other hands 
 but ours have ever touched them, and now people to whom 
 they mean nothing but so much business will fling them 
 about, drop greasy crumbs upon them — I know their 
 ways, the brutes! — scribble all over them. And he who 
 always would have everything so neat and orderly !" 
 
 We came to the end of them in less than the time old 
 Gadley had thought needful : in such perfect order had 
 everything been maintained. I was preparing to go, but 
 old Gadley had drawn a couple of small keys from his 
 pocket, and was shuffling again towards the safe. 
 
 "Only one more," he explained in answer to my look, 
 "his own private ledger. It will merely be in the nature 
 of a summary, but we'll just glance through it." 
 
 He opened an inner drawer and took from it a small 
 thick volume bound in green leather and closed with two 
 brass locks. An ancient volume, it appeared, its strong 
 binding faded and stained. Old Gadley sat down with it 
 
1 86 Paul Kelver 
 
 at the dead man's own desk, and snuffing the two shaded 
 candles, unlocked and opened it. I was standing opposite, 
 so that the book to me was upside down, but the date on 
 the first page, "1841," caught my eye, as also the small 
 neat writing now brown with age. 
 
 "So neat, so orderly he always was," murmured old 
 Gadley again, smoothing the page affectionately with his 
 hand, and I waited for his dictation. 
 
 But no glib flow of figures fell from him. His eye- 
 brows suddenly contracted, his body stiffened itself. 
 Then for the next quarter of an hour nothing sounded in 
 the quiet room but his turning of the creakling pages. 
 Once or twice he glanced round swiftly over his shoulder, 
 as though haunted by the idea of some one behind him; 
 then back to the neat, closely written folios, his little eyes, 
 now exhibiting a comical look of horror, starting out of 
 his round red face. First slowly, then quickly with 
 trembling hands he turned the pages, till the continual 
 ratling of the leaves sounded like strange, mocking 
 laughter through the silent, empty room ; almost one could 
 imagine it coming from some watching creature hidden 
 in the shadows. 
 
 The end reached, he sat staring before him, his whole 
 body quivering, great beads of sweat upon his shiny bald 
 head. 
 
 "Am I mad?" was all he could find to say. "Kelver, 
 am I mad?" 
 
 He handed me the book. It was a cynically truthful 
 record of fraud, extending over thirty years. Every client, 
 every friend, every relative that had fallen into his net 
 he had robbed : the fortunate ones of a part, the majority 
 of their all. Its very first entry debited him with the pro- 
 ceeds of his own partner's estate. Its last ran : — "Re Kel- 
 ver — various sales of stock." To his credit were his pay- 
 ments year after year of imaginary interests on imaginary 
 securities, the surplus accounted for with simple brevity : 
 ^Transferred to own account." No record could have 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 187 
 
 been more clear, more frank. Beneath each transaction 
 was written its true history ; the actual investments, some- 
 times necessary, carefully distinguished from the false. 
 In neat red ink would occur here and there a note for his 
 own guidance: ''Eldest child comes of age August, '73. 
 Be prepared for trustees desiring production." Turning 
 to "August, '73," one found that genuine investment had 
 been made, to be sold again a few months later on. From 
 beginning to end not a single false step had he com- 
 mitted. Suspicious clients had been ear-marked: the 
 trusting discriminated with gratitude, and milked again 
 and again to meet emergency. 
 
 As a piece of organisation it was magnificent. No one 
 but a financial genius could have picked a dozen steps 
 through such a network of chicanery. For half a lifetime 
 he had moved among it, dignified, respected and secure. 
 
 Whether even he could have maintained his position 
 for another month was doubtful. Suicide, though hinted 
 at, was proved to have been impossible. It seemed as 
 though with his amazing audacity he had tricked even 
 Death into becoming his accomplice. 
 
 ''But it is impossible, Kelver !" cried Gadley, "this must 
 be some dream. Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal! 
 What is the meaning of it ?" 
 
 He took the book into his hands again, then burst into 
 tears. "You never knew him," wailed the poor little man. 
 "Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal! I came here as office 
 boy fifty years ago. He was more like a friend to me 
 than " and again the sobs shook his little fat body. 
 
 I locked the books away and put him into his hat and 
 coat. But I had much difficulty in getting him out of the 
 office. 
 
 "I daren't, young 'un," he cried, drawing back. "Fifty 
 years I have walked out of this office, proud of it, proud 
 of being connected with it. I daren't face the street !" 
 
 All the way home his only idea was : Could it not be 
 hidden ? Honest, kindly little man that he was, he seemed 
 
1 88 Paul Kelver 
 
 to have no thought for the unfortunate victims. The 
 good name of his master, of his friend, gone ! Stillwood, 
 Waterhead and Royal, a by-word ! To have avoided that 
 I believe he would have been willing for yet another hun- 
 dred clients to be ruined. 
 
 I saw him to his door, then turned homeward ; and to 
 my surprise in a dark by-street heard myself laughing 
 heartily. I checked myself instantly, feeling ashamed of 
 my callousness, of my seeming indifference to the trouble 
 even of myself and my mother. Yet as there passed be- 
 fore me the remembrance of that imposing and expensive 
 funeral with its mournful following of tearful faces; the 
 hushed reading of the will with its accompaniment of 
 rustling approval; the picture of the admirably sympa- 
 thetic clergyman consoling with white hands Mrs. Still- 
 wood, inclined to hysteria, but anxious concerning her 
 two hundred pounds' worth of crape which by no possibil- 
 ity of means could now be paid for — recurred to me the 
 obituary notice in "The Chelsea Weekly Chronicle" : the 
 humour of the thing swept all else before it, and I laughed 
 again — I could not help it — loud and long. It was my 
 first introduction to the comedy of life, which is apt to be 
 more brutal than the comedy of fiction. 
 
 But nearing home, the serious side of the matter forced 
 itself uppermost. Fortunately, our supposed dividends 
 had been paid to us by Mr. Stillwood only the month be- 
 fore. Could I keep the thing from troubling my mother's 
 last days ? It would be hard work. I should have to do 
 it alone, for a perhaps foolish pride prevented my 
 taking Hal into my confidence, even made his friendship 
 a dread to me, lest he should come to learn and offer help. 
 There is a higher generosity, it is said, that can receive 
 with pleasure as well as bestow favour ; but I have never 
 felt it. Could I be sure of acting my part, of not betray- 
 ing myself to her sharp eyes, of keeping newspapers and 
 chance gossip away from her ? Good shrewd Amy I cau- 
 tioned, but I shrank from even speaking on the subject 
 
In Which Paul is Shipwrecked 189 
 
 to Hal, and my fear was lest he should blunder into the 
 subject, which for the usual nine days occupied much pub- 
 lic attention. But fortunately he appeared not even to 
 have heard of the scandal. 
 
 Possibly had the need lasted longer I might have failed, 
 but as it was, a few weeks saw the end. 
 
 "Don't leave me to-day, Paul," whispered my mother 
 to me one morning. So I stayed, and in the evening my 
 mother put her arms around my neck and I lay beside her, 
 my head upon her breast, as I used to when a little boy. 
 And when the morning came I was alone. 
 
BOOK IL 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DESCRIBES THE DESERT ISLAND TO WHICH PAUL WAS 
 DRIFTED. 
 
 "Room to let for a single gentleman." Sometimes in an 
 idle hour, impelled by foolishness, I will knock at the door. 
 It is opened after a longer or shorter interval by 
 the "slavey" — in the morning, slatternly, her arms con- 
 cealed beneath her apron ; in the afternoon, smart in dirty 
 cap and apron. How well I know her ! Unchanged, not 
 grown an inch — her round bewildered eyes, her open 
 mouth, her touzled hair, her scored red hands. With an 
 effort I refrain from muttering: "So sorry, forgot my 
 key," from pushing past her and mounting two at a time 
 the narrow stairs, carpeted to the first floor, but bare be- 
 yond. Instead, I say, "Oh, what rooms have you to let ?" 
 when, scuttling to the top of the kitchen stairs, she will 
 call over the banisters : "A gentleman to see the rooms." 
 There comes up, panting, a harassed-looking, elderly fe- 
 male, but genteel in black. She crushes past the little 
 "slavey," and approaching, eyes me critically. 
 
 "I have a very nice room on the first floor," she informs 
 me, "and one behind on the third." 
 
 I agree to see them, explaining that I am seeking them 
 for a young friend of mine. We squeeze past the hat and 
 umbrella stand: there is just room, but one must keep 
 close to the wall. The first floor is rather an imposing 
 apartment, with a marble-topped sideboard measuring 
 quite three feet by two, the doors of which will remain 
 
Describes the Desert Island 191 
 
 closed if you introduce a wad of paper between them. A 
 green table-cloth, matching the curtains, covers the loo- 
 table. The lamp is perfectly safe so long as it stands in 
 the exact centre of the table, but should not be shifted. 
 A paper fire-stove ornament in some mysterious way be- 
 stows upon the room an air of chastity. Above the man- 
 telpiece is a fly-blown mirror, between the once gilt frame 
 and glass of which can be inserted invitation cards; in- 
 deed, one or two so remain, proving that the tenants even 
 of "bed-sitting-rooms" are not excluded from social de- 
 lights. The wall opposite is adorned by an oleograph of 
 the kind Cheap Jacks sell by auction on Saturday nights 
 in the Pimlico Road, and warrant as "hand-made." Gen- 
 erally speaking, it is a Swiss landscape. There appears 
 to be more "body" in a Swiss landscape than in scenes 
 from less favoured localities. A dilapidated mill, a foam- 
 ing torrent, a mountain, a maiden and a cow can at the 
 least be relied upon. An easy chair (I disclaim all 
 responsibility for the adjective), stuffed with many coils 
 of steel wire, each possessing a "business end" in admi- 
 rable working order, and covered with horsehair, highly 
 glazed, awaits the uninitiated. There is one way of sit- 
 ting upon it, and only one : by using the extreme edge, and 
 planting your feet firmly on the floor. If you attempt to 
 lean back in it you inevitably slide out of it. When so 
 treated it seems to say to you : "Excuse me, you are very 
 heavy, and you would really be much more comfortable 
 upon the floor. Thank you so much." The bed is behind 
 the door, and the washstand behind the bed. If you sit 
 facing the window you can forget the bed. On the other 
 hand, if more than one friend come to call on you, you 
 are glad of it. As a matter of fact, experienced visitors 
 prefer it — make straight for it, refusing with firmness to 
 exchange it for the easy chair. 
 
 "And this room is ?" 
 
 "Eight shillings a week, sir — with attendance, of 
 course." 
 
192 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Any extras?'* 
 
 "The lamp, sir, is eighteenpence a week; and the 
 kitchen fire, if the gentleman wishes to dine at home, two 
 shillings/' 
 
 "And fire r 
 
 "Sixpence a scuttle, sir, I charge for coals." 
 
 "It's rather a small scuttle." 
 
 The landlady bridles a little. "The usual size, I think, 
 sir." One presumes there is a special size in coal-scuttles 
 made exclusively for lodging-house keepers. 
 
 I agree that while I am about it I may as well see the 
 other room, the third floor back. The landlady opens the 
 door for me, but remains herself on the landing. She is 
 a stout lady, and does not wish to dwarf the apartment by 
 comparison. The arrangement here does not allow of 
 your ignoring the bed. It is the life and soul of the room, 
 and it declines to efface itself. Its only possible rival is 
 the washstand, straw-coloured; with staring white basin 
 and jug, together with other appurtenances. It glares 
 defiantly from its corner. "I know I'm small," it seems 
 to say; "but I'm very useful; and I won't be ignored." 
 The remaining furniture consists of a couple of chairs — 
 there is no hypocrisy about them : they are not easy and 
 they do not pretend to be easy; a small chest of light- 
 painted drawers before the window, with white china han- 
 dles, upon which is a tiny looking-glass; and, occupying 
 the entire remaining space, after allowing three square 
 feet for the tenant, when he arrives, an attenuated four- 
 legged table apparently home-made. The only ornament 
 in the room is, suspended above the fireplace, a funeral 
 card, framed in beer corks. As the corpse introduced by 
 the ancient Egyptians into their banquets, it is hung there 
 perhaps to remind the occupant of the apartment that the 
 luxuries and allurements of life have their end ; or maybe 
 it consoles him in despondent moments with the reflection 
 that after all he might be worse off. 
 
 The rent of this room is three-and-sixpence a week, also 
 
Describes the Desert Island 193 
 
 including attendance ; lamp, as for the first floor, eighteen- 
 pence ; but kitchen fire a shilling. 
 
 "But why should kitchen fire for the first floor be two 
 shillings, and for this only one?" 
 
 "Well, as a rule, sir, the first floor wants more cooking 
 done." 
 
 You are quite right, my dear lady, I was forgetting. 
 The gentleman in the third floor back ! cooking for him is 
 not a great tax upon the kitchen fire. His breakfast, it is 
 what, madam, we call plain, I think. His lunch he takes 
 out. You may see him, walking round the quiet square, 
 up and down the narrow street that, leading to nowhere 
 in particular, is between twelve and two somewhat de- 
 serted. . He carries a paper bag, into which at intervals, 
 when he is sure nobody is looking, his mouth disappears. 
 From studying the neighbourhood one can guess what it 
 contains. Saveloys hereabouts are plentiful and only 
 twopence each. There are pie shops, where meat pies are 
 twopence and fruit pies a penny. The lady behind the^ 
 counter, using deftly a broad, flat knife, lifts the little 
 dainty with one twist clean from its tiny dish : it is marvel- 
 lous, having regard to the thinness of the pastry, that she 
 never breaks one. Roley-poley pudding, sweet and won- 
 derfully satisfying, more especially when cold, is but a 
 penny a slice. Peas pudding, though this is an awkward 
 thing to eat out of a bag, is comforting upon cold days. 
 Then with his tea he takes two eggs or a haddock, the 
 fourpenny size; maybe on rare occasions, a chop or 
 steak ; and you fry it for him, madam, though every time 
 he urges on you how much he would prefer it grilled, for 
 fried in your one frying-pan its flavour becomes some- 
 what confused. But maybe this is the better for him, 
 for, shutting his eyes and trusting only to smell and fla- 
 vour, he can imagine himself enjoying variety. He can 
 begin with herrings, pass on to liver and bacon, opening 
 his eyes again for a moment perceive that he has now ar- 
 rived at the joint, and closing them again, wind up 
 
194 P^^l Kelver 
 
 with distinct suggestion of toasted cheese, thus avoiding 
 monotony. For dinner he goes out again. Maybe he is 
 not hungry, late meals are a mistake ; or, maybe, putting 
 his hand into his pocket and making calculations beneath 
 a lamp-post, appetite may come to him. Then there are 
 places cheerful with the sound of frizzling fat, where fried 
 plaice brown and odorous may be had for three halfpence, 
 and a handful of sliced potatoes for a penny; where for 
 f ourpence succulent stewed eels may be discussed ; vinegar 
 ad lib. ; or for sevenpence — but these are red-letter even- 
 ings — half a sheep's head may be indulged in, which is a 
 supper fit for any king, who happened to be hungry. 
 
 I explain that I will discuss the matter with my young 
 friend when he arrives. The landlady says, "Certainly, 
 sir :" she is used to what she calls the "wandering Chris- 
 tian ;" and easing my conscience by slipping a shilling into 
 the "slavey's" astonished, lukewarm hand, I pass out 
 again into the long, dreary street, now echoing maybe to 
 the sad cry of "Muffins !" 
 
 Or sometimes of an evening, the lamp lighted, the rem- 
 nants of the meat tea cleared away, the flickering firelight 
 cosifying the dingy rooms, I go a-visiting. There is no 
 need for me to ring the bell, to mount the stairs. 
 Through the thin transparent walls I can see you plainly, 
 old friends of mine, fashions a little changed, that is all. 
 We wore bell-shaped trousers; eight-and-six to measure, 
 seven-and-six if from stock ; fastened our neckties in dash- 
 ing style with a horseshoe pin. I think in the matter of 
 waistcoats we had the advantage of you ; ours were gayer, 
 braver. Our cufifs and collars were of paper : sixpence- 
 halfpenny the dozen, three-halfpence the pair. On Sun- 
 day they were white and glistening; on Monday less ag- 
 gressively obvious ; on Tuesday morning decidedly dap- 
 pled. But on Tuesday evening, when with natty cane, or 
 umbrella neatly rolled in patent leather case, we took our 
 promenade down Oxford Street — fashionable hour nine 
 to ten p. m. — we could shoot our arms and cock our chins 
 
Describes the Desert Island 195 
 
 with the best. Your india-rubber Hnen has its advantages. 
 Storm does not wither it ; it braves better the heat and tur- 
 moil of the day. The passing of a sponge! and your 
 "Dicky" is itself again. We had to use bread-crumbs, 
 and so sacrifice the glaze. Yet I cannot help thinking 
 that for the first few hours, at all events, our paper was 
 more dazzling. 
 
 For the rest I see no change in you, old friends. I 
 wave you greeting from the misty street. God rest you, 
 gallant gentlemen, lonely and friendless and despised ; 
 making the best of joyless lives ; keeping yourselves gen- 
 teel on twelve, fifteen, or eighteen (ah, but you are pluto- 
 crats!) shillings a week; saving something even of that, 
 maybe, to help the old mother in the country, so proud of 
 her ''gentleman" son who has book learning and who is 
 "something in the City." May nothing you dismay. 
 Bullied, and badgered, and baited from nine to six though 
 you may be, from then till bedtime you are rorty young 
 dogs. The half-guinea topper, "as worn by the Prince 
 of Wales" (ah, how many a meal has it not cost!), 
 warmed before the fire, brushed and polished and coaxed, 
 shines resplendent. The second pair of trousers are 
 drawn from beneath the bed; in the gaslight, with well- 
 marked crease from top to toe, they wiH pass for new. 
 A pleasant evening to you! May your cheap necktie 
 make all the impression your soul can desire ! May your 
 penny cigar be mistaken for Havana ! May the barmaid 
 charm your simple heart by addressing you as "Baby!" 
 May some sweet shop-girl throw a kindly glance at you, 
 inviting you to walk with her ! May she snigger at your 
 humour; may other dogs cast envious looks at you, and 
 may no harm come of it! 
 
 You dreamers of dreams, you who while your com- 
 panions play and sleep will toil upward in the night ! You 
 have read Mr. Smiles' "Self-Help," Longfellow's "Psalm 
 of Life," and so strengthened attack with confidence 
 "French Without a Master," "Bookkeeping in Six Les- 
 
196 Paul Kelver 
 
 sons/' With a sigh to yourselves you turn aside from the 
 alluring streets, from the bright, bewitching eyes, into the 
 stuffy air of Birkbeck Institutions, Polytechnic Schools. 
 May success compensate you for your youth devoid of 
 pleasure ! May the partner's chair you seen in visions be 
 yours before the end ! May you live one day in Clapham 
 in a twelve-roomed house ! 
 
 And, after all, we have our moments, have we not? 
 The Saturday night at the play. The hours of waiting, 
 they are short. We converse with kindred souls of the 
 British Drama, its past and future : we have our views. 
 We dream of Florence This, Kate That; in a little while 
 we shall see her. Ah, could she but know how we loved 
 her! Her photo is on our mantelpiece, transforming the 
 dismal little room into a shrine. The poem we have so 
 often commenced! when it is finished we will post it to 
 her. At least she will acknowledge its receipt; we can 
 kiss the paper her hand has rested on. The great doors 
 groan, then quiver. Ah, the wild thrill of that moment ! 
 Now push for all you are worth : charge, wriggle, squirm ! 
 It is an epitome of life. We are through — collarless, 
 panting, pummelled from top to toe: but what of that? 
 Upward, still upward ; then downward with leaps at risk 
 of our neck, from bench to bench through the gloom. We 
 have gained the front row! Would we exchange sensa- 
 tions with the stallite, strolling languidly to his seat? 
 The extravagant dinner once a week ! We banquet a la 
 Frangais, in Soho, for one-and-six, including wine. 
 Does Tortoni ever give his customers a repast they enjoy 
 more? I trow not. 
 
 My first lodging was an attic in a square the other side 
 of Blackfriars Bridge. The rent of the room, if I remem- 
 ber rightly, was three shillings a week with cooking, half- 
 a-crown without. I purchased a methylated spirit stove 
 with kettle and frying-pan, and took it without. 
 
 Old Hasluck would have helped me willingly, and there 
 were others to whom I might have appealed, but a boy's 
 
Describes the Desert Island 197 
 
 pride held me back. I would make my way alone, win my 
 place in the world by myself. To Hal, knowing he would 
 sympathise with me, I confided the truth. 
 
 "Had your mother lived," he told me, "I should have 
 had something to say on the subject. Of course, I knew 
 what had happened, but as it is — well, you need not be 
 afraid, I shall not offer you help ; indeed, I should refuse 
 it were you to ask. Put your Carlyle in your pocket : he 
 is not all voices, but he is the best maker of men I know. 
 The great thing to learn of life is not to be afraid of it." 
 
 **Look me up now and then," he added, *'and we'll talk 
 about the stars, the future of Socialism, and the Woman 
 Question — anything you like except about yourself and 
 your twopenny-half-penny affairs." 
 
 From another it would have sounded brutal, but I un- 
 derstood him. And so we shook hands and parted for 
 longer than either of us at the time expected. The 
 Franco-German War broke out a few weeks later on, and 
 Hal, the love of adventure always strong within him, vol- 
 unteered his services, which were accepted. It was some 
 years before we met again. 
 
 On the door-post of a house in Farringdon Street, not 
 far from the Circus, stood in those days a small brass 
 plate, announcing that the "Ludgate News Rooms" occu- 
 pied the third and fourth floors, and that the admission to 
 the same was one penny. We were a seedy company 
 that every morning crowded into these rooms : clerks, 
 shopmen, superior artisans, travellers, warehousemen — all 
 of us out of work. Most of us were young, but with us 
 was mingled a sprinkling of elder men, and these latter 
 were always the saddest and most silent of this little whis- 
 pering army of the down-at-heel. Roughly speaking, we 
 were divided into two groups : the newcomers, cheery, 
 confident. These would flit from newspaper to newspaper 
 with buzz of pleasant anticipation, select their advertise- 
 ment as one choosing some dainty out of a rich and varied 
 menu card, and replying to it as one conferring favour. 
 
198 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Dear Sif, — In reply to your advertisement in to-day's 
 Standard, I shall be pleased to accept the post vacant in 
 your office. I am of good appearance and address. I am 
 an excellent — " It was really marvellous the quality and 
 number of our attainments. French ! we wrote and spoke 
 it fluently, a la Ahn. German! of this we possessed a 
 slighter knowledge, it was true, but sufficient for mere 
 purposes of commerce. Bookkeeping ! arithmetic ! geom- 
 etry ! we played with them. The love of work ! it was a 
 passion with us. Our moral character! it would have 
 adorned a Free Kirk Elder. "I could call on you to-mor- 
 row or Friday between eleven and one, or on Saturday 
 any time up till two. Salary required, two guineas a 
 week. An early answer will oblige. Yours truly." 
 
 The old stagers did not buzz. Hour after hour they 
 sat writing, steadily, methodically, with day by day less 
 hope and heavier fears: 
 
 "Sir,— Your advt. in to-day's D. T. I am—" of such 
 and such an age. List of qualifications less lengthy, set 
 forth with more modesty; object desired being air of ver- 
 isimilitude. — "If you decide to engage me I will endeav- 
 our to give you every satisfaction. Any time you like to 
 appoint I will call on you. I should not ask a high salary 
 to start with. Yours obediently." 
 
 Dozens of the first letter, hundreds of the second, I 
 wrote with painful care, pen carefully chosen, the one-inch 
 margin down the left hand side of the paper first portioned 
 off with dots. To three or four I received a curt reply, in- 
 structing me to call. But the shyness that had stood so 
 in my way during the earlier half of my school days had 
 now, I know not why, returned upon me, hampering me 
 at every turn. A shy child grown-up folks at all events 
 can understand and forgive ; but a shy young man is not 
 unnaturally regarded as a fool. I gave the impression 
 of being awkward, stupid, sulky. The more I strove 
 against my temperament the worse I became. My at- 
 
Describes the Desert Island 199 
 
 tempts to be at my ease, to assert myself, resulted — I could 
 see it myself — only in rudeness. 
 
 *'Well, I have got to see one or two others. We will 
 write and let you know," was the conclusion of each in- 
 terview, and the end, as far as I was concerned, of the 
 enterprise. 
 
 My few pounds, guard them how I would, were dwind- 
 ling rapidly. Looking back, it is easy enough to regard 
 one's early struggles from a humorous point of view. 
 One knows the story, it all ended happily. But at the 
 time there is no means of telling whether one's biography 
 is going to be comedy or tragedy. There were moments 
 when I felt confident it was going to be the latter. Occa- 
 sionally, when one is feeling well, it is not unpleasant to 
 contemplate with pathetic sympathy one's own death-bed. 
 One thinks of the friends and relations who at last will 
 understand and regret one, be sorry they had not be- 
 haved themselves better. But myself, there was no one to 
 regret. I felt very small, very helpless. The world was 
 big. I feared it might walk over me, trample me down, 
 never seeing me. I seemed unable to attract its attention. 
 
 One morning I found waiting for me at the Reading 
 Room another of the usual missives. It ran : "Will Mr. P. 
 Kelver call at the above address to-morrow morning be- 
 tween ten-thirty and eleven. The paper was headed : *'Lott 
 and Co., Indian Commission Agents, Aldersgate Street." 
 Without much hope I returned to my lodgings, changed 
 my clothes, donned my silk hat, took my one pair of 
 gloves, drew its silk case over my holey umbrella ; and so 
 equipped for fight with Fate made my way to Aldersgate 
 Street. For a quarter of an hour or so, being too soon, 
 I walked up and down the pavement outside the house, 
 gaziiig at the second-floor windows, behind which, so the 
 door-plate had informed me, were the offices of Lott & 
 Co. I could not recall their advertisement, nor my reply 
 to it. The firm was evidently not in a very flourishing 
 condition. I wondered idly what salary they would offer. 
 
200 Paul Kelver 
 
 For a moment I dreamt of a Cheeryble Brother asking me 
 kindly if I thought I could do with thirty shillings a week 
 as a beginning ; but the next I recalled my usual fate, and 
 considered whether it was even worth while to climb the 
 stairs, go through what to me was a painful ordeal, merely 
 to be impressed again with the sense of my own worthless- 
 ness. 
 
 A fine rain began to fall. I did not wish to unroll my 
 umbrella, yet felt nervous for my hat. It was five minutes 
 to the half hour. Listlessly I crossed the road and 
 mounted the bare stairs to the second floor. Two doors 
 faced me, one marked 'Trivate." I tapped Hghtly at the 
 second. Not hearing any response, after a second or two 
 I tapped again. A sound reached me, but it was unin- 
 telHgible. I knocked yet again, still louder. This time 
 I heard a reply in a shrill, plaintive tone : 
 
 "Oh, do come in." 
 
 The tone was one of pathetic entreaty. I turned the 
 handle and entered. It was a small room, dimly lighted 
 by a dirty window, the bottom half of which was rendered 
 opaque by tissue paper pasted to its panes. The place 
 suggested a village shop rather than an office. Pots of 
 jam, jars of pickles, bottles of wine, biscuit tins, parcels 
 of drapery, boxes of candles, bars of soap, boots, packets 
 of stationery, boxes of cigars, tinned provisions, guns, 
 cartridges — things sufficient to furnish a desert island 
 littered every available corner. At a small desk under the 
 window sat a youth with a remarkably small body and a 
 remarkably large head; so disproportionate were the two 
 I should hardly have been surprised had he put up his 
 hands and taken it off. Half in the room and half out, I 
 paused. 
 
 "Is this Lott & Co. ?" I enquired. 
 
 "No," he answered ; "it's a room." One eye was fixed 
 upon me, dull and glassy; it never bHnked, it never wa- 
 vered. With the help of the other he continued his writ- 
 ing. 
 
Describes the Desert Island 201 
 
 "I mean/' I explained, coming entirely into the room, 
 ''are these the offices of Lott & Co. ?" 
 
 "It's one of them," he replied ; "the back one. If you're 
 really anxious for a job, you can shut the door." 
 
 I complied with his suggestion, and then announced 
 that I was Mr. Kelver — Mr. Paul Kelver. 
 
 "Minikin's my name," he returned, "Sylvanus Minikin. 
 You don't happen by any chance to know what you've 
 come for, I suppose?" 
 
 Looking at his body, my inclination was to pick my way 
 among the goods that covered the floor and pull his ears 
 for him. From his grave and massive face, he might, for 
 all I knew, be the head clerk. 
 
 "I have called to see Mr. Lott," I replied, with dignity ; 
 "I have an appointment." I produced the letter from my 
 pocket, and leaning across a sewing-machine, I handed it 
 to him for his inspection. Having read it, he suddenly 
 took from its socket the eye with which he had been 
 hitherto regarding me, and proceeding to polish it upon 
 his pocket handkerchief, turned upon me his other. Hav- 
 ing satisfied himself, he handed me back my letter. 
 
 "Want my advice ?" he asked. 
 
 I thought it might be useful to me, so replied in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 "Hook it," was his curt counsel. 
 
 "Why?" I asked. "Isn't he a good employer?" 
 
 Replacing his glass eye, he turned again to his work. 
 "If employment is what you want," answered Mr. Mini- 
 kin, "you'll get it. Best employer in London. He'll keep 
 you going for twenty-four hours a day, and then offer you 
 overtime at half salary." 
 
 "I must get something to do," I confessed. 
 
 "Sit down then," suggested Mr. Minikin. "Rest while 
 you can." 
 
 I took the chair ; it was the only chair in the room, with 
 the exception of the one Minikin was sitting on. 
 
202 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Apart from his being a bit of a driver/' I asked, "what 
 sort of a man is he ? Is he pleasant ?" 
 
 "Never saw him put out but once," answered Minikin. 
 
 It sounded well. "When was that?" I asked. 
 
 "All the time I've known him." 
 
 My spirits continued to sink. Had I been left alone 
 with Minikin much longer, I might have ended by follow- 
 ing his advice, "hooking it" before Mr. Lott arrived. But 
 the next moment I heard the other door open, and some 
 one entered the private office. Then the bell rang, and 
 Minikin disappeared, leaving the communicating door 
 ajar behind him. The conversation that I overheard was 
 as follows : 
 
 "Why isn't Mr. Skeat here?" 
 
 "Because he hasn't come." 
 
 "Where are the letters?" 
 
 "Under your nose." 
 
 "How dare you answer me like that?" 
 
 "Well, it's the truth. They are under your nose." 
 
 "Did you give Thorneycrof t's man my message ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What did he answer?" 
 
 "Said you were a liar." 
 
 '^Oh, he did, did he ! What did you reply?" 
 
 "Asked him to tell me something I didn't know." 
 
 "Thought that clever, didn't you?" 
 
 "Not bad." 
 
 Whatever faults might be laid to Mr. Lott's door, he at 
 least, I concluded, possesssed the virtue of self-control. 
 
 "Anybody been here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Mr. Kelver— Mr. Paul Kelver." 
 
 "Kelver, Kelver. Who's Kelver?" 
 
 "Know what he is — a fool." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "He's come after the place." 
 
Describes the Desert Island 
 
 203 
 
 "Is he there?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What's he Hke?" 
 
 "Not bad looking; fair- 
 
 "Idiot! I mean is he smart?" 
 "Just at present — got all his Sunday clothes on." 
 "Send him in to me. Don't go, don't go." 
 "How can I send him in to you if I don't go?" 
 "Take these. Have you finished those bills of lading?'* 
 "No." 
 
 "Good God ! when will you have finished them ?" 
 "Half an hour after I have begun them." 
 "Get out, get out! Has that door been open all the 
 time?" 
 
 "Well, I don't suppose it's opened itself." 
 Minikin re-entered with papers in his hand. "In 
 you go," he said. "Heaven help you !" And I passed in 
 and closed the door behind me. 
 
 The room was a replica of the one I had just left. If 
 possible, it was more crowded, more packed with miscel- 
 laneous articles. I picked my way through these and ap- 
 proached the desk. Mr. Lott was a small, dingy-looking 
 man, with very dirty hands, and small, restless eyes. I 
 was glad that he was not imposing, or my shyness might 
 have descended upon me ; as it was, I felt better able to do 
 myself justice. At once he plunged into the business by 
 seizing and waving in front of my eyes a bulky bundle of 
 letters tied together with red tape. 
 
 "One hundred and seventeen answers to an advertise- 
 ment," he cried with evident satisfaction, "in one day! 
 That shows you the state of the labour market !" 
 I agreed it was appalling. 
 
 "Poor devils, poor devils !" murmured Mr. Lott, "what 
 will become of them? Some of them will starve. Ter- 
 rible death, starvation, Kelver; takes such a long time — • 
 especially when you're young." 
 
 Here also I found myself in accord with him. 
 
204 Paul Kelver 
 
 • "Living with your parents ?" 
 
 I explained to him my situation. 
 
 "Any friends ?" 
 
 I informed him I was entirely dependent upon my own 
 efforts. 
 
 "Any money? Anything coming in?" 
 
 I told him I had a few pounds still remaining to me, 
 but that after that was gone I should be penniless. 
 
 "And to think, Kelver, that there are hundreds, thou- 
 sands of young fellows precisely in your position ! How 
 sad, how very sad ! How long have you been looking for 
 a berth?" 
 
 "A month," I answered him. 
 
 "I thought as much. Do you know why I selected your 
 letter out of the whole batch ?" 
 
 I replied I hoped it was because he judged from it I 
 should prove satisfactory. 
 
 "Because it's the worst written of them all." He 
 pushed it across to me. "Look at it. Awful, isn't it?" 
 
 I admitted that handwriting was not my strong point. 
 
 "Nor spelling either," he added, and with truth. "Who 
 do you think will engage you if I don't?" 
 
 "Nobody," he continued, without waiting for me to re- 
 ply. "A month hence you will still be looking for a berth, 
 and a month after that. Now, I'm going to do you a 
 good turn; save you from destitution; give you a start 
 in life." 
 
 I expressed my gratitude. 
 
 He waived it aside. "That is my notion of philan- 
 thropy: help those that nobody else will help. That 
 young fellow in the other room — he isn't a bad worker, 
 he's smart, but he's impertinent." 
 
 I murmured that I had gathered so much. 
 
 "Doesn't mean to be, can't help it. Noticed his trick 
 of looking at you with his glass eye, keeping the other 
 turned away from you?" 
 
 I replied that I had. 
 
Describes the Desert Island 205 
 
 "Always does it. Used to irritate his last employer to 
 madness. Said to him one day : 'Do turn that signal lamp 
 of yours off, Minikin, and look at me with your real eye.' 
 What do you think he answered? That it was the only 
 one he'd got, and that he didn't want to expose it to 
 shocks. Wouldn't have mattered so much if it hadn't 
 been one of the ugliest men in London." 
 
 I murmured my indignation. 
 
 ''I put up with him. Nobody else would. The poor 
 fellow must live." 
 
 I expressed admiration at Mr. Lott's humanity. 
 
 *'You don't mind work? You're not one of those good- 
 for-nothings who sleep all day and wake up when it's time 
 to go home?" 
 
 I assured him that in whatever else I might fail I could 
 promise him industry. 
 
 ''With some of them," complained Mr. Lott, in a tone of 
 bitterness, "it's nothing but play, girls, gadding about 
 the streets. Work, business — oh, no. I may go bankrupt ; 
 my wife and children may go into the workhouse. No 
 thought for me, the man that keeps them, feeds them, 
 clothes them. How much salary do you want?" 
 
 I hesitated. I gathered this was not a Cheeryble 
 Brother; it would be necessary to be moderate in one's 
 demands. "Five-and- twenty shillings a week," I sug- 
 gested. 
 
 He repeated the figure in a scream. "Five-and-twenty 
 shillings for writing like that! And can't spell commis- 
 sion! Don't know anything about the business. Five- 
 and-twenty ! — Tell you what I'll do : I'll give you twelve." 
 
 "But I can't live on twelve," I explained. 
 
 "Can't live on twelve! Do you know why? Because 
 you don't know how to live. I know you all. One veal 
 and ham pie, one roley-poley, one Dutch cheese and a pint 
 of bitter." 
 
 His recital made my mouth water. 
 
 "You overload your stomachs, then you can't work. 
 
2o6 Paul Kelver 
 
 Half the diseases you young fellows suffer from are 
 brought about by overeating." 
 
 "Now, you take my advice," continued Mr. Lott; "try 
 vegetarianism. In the morning, a little oatmeal. Won- 
 derfully strengthening stuff, oatmeal : look at the Scotch. 
 For dinner, beans. Why, do you know there's more nour- 
 ishment in half a pint of lentil beans than in a pound of 
 beefsteak — more gluten. That's what you want, more 
 gluten; no corpses, no -dead bodies. Why, I've known 
 young fellows, vegetarians, who have lived like fighting 
 cocks on sevenpence a day. Seven times seven are forty- 
 nine. How much do you pay for your room?" 
 
 I told him. 
 
 "Four-and-a-penny and two-and-six makes six-and- 
 seven. That leaves you five and fivepence for mere fool- 
 ery. Good God ! what more do you want ?" 
 
 "I'll take eighteen, sir," I answered. "I can't really 
 manage on less." 
 
 "Very well, I won't beat you down," he answered. 
 "Fifteen shillings a week." 
 
 "I said eighteen," I persisted. 
 
 "Well, and I said fifteen," he retorted, somewhat in- 
 dignant at the quibbling. "That's splitting the difference, 
 isn't it ? I can't be fairer than that." 
 
 I dared not throw away the one opportunity that had 
 occurred. Anything was better than return to the Read- 
 ing Rooms, and the empty days full of despair. I ac- 
 cepted, and it was agreed that I should come the following 
 Monday morning. 
 
 "Nabbed ?" was Minikin's enquiry on my return to the 
 back office for my hat. 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "What's he wasting on you ?" 
 
 "Fifteen shillings a week," I whispered. 
 
 "Felt sure somehow that he'd take a liking to you," an- 
 swered Minikin. "Don't be ungrateful and look thin on 
 it." 
 
Describes the Desert Island 207 
 
 Outside the door I heard Mr. Lett's shrill voice de- 
 manding to know where postage stamps were to be found. 
 
 "At the Post-office," was Minikin's reply. 
 
 The hours were long — in fact, we had no office hours; 
 we got away when we could, which was rarely before 
 seven or eight — ^but my work was interesting. It con- 
 sisted of buying for unfortunate clients in India or the 
 Colonies anything they might happen to want, from a 
 stage coach to a pot of marmalade; packing it and ship- 
 ping it across to them. Our "commission" was anything 
 they could be persuaded to pay over and above the value 
 of the article. I was not much interfered with. There 
 was that to be said for Lott & Co., so long as the work 
 was done he was quite content to leave one to one's own 
 way of doing it. And hastening through the busy streets, 
 bargaining in shop or warehouse, bustling important in 
 and out the swarming docks, I often thanked my stars 
 that I was not as some poor two-pound-a-week clerk 
 chained to a dreary desk. 
 
 The fifteen shillings a week was a tight fit ; but that was 
 not my trouble. Reduce your denominator — you know 
 the quotation. I found it no philosophical cant, but a 
 practical solution of life. My food cost me on the aver- 
 age a shilling a day. If more of us limited our commis- 
 sariat bill to the same figure, there would be less dyspepsia 
 abroad. Generally I cooked my own meals in my own 
 frying-pan ; but occasionally I would indulge myself with 
 a more orthodox dinner at a cook shop, or tea with hot 
 buttered toast at a coffee-shop; and but for the greasy 
 table-cloth and the dirty-handed waiter, such would have 
 been even greater delights. The shilling a week for 
 amusements afforded me at least one, occasionally two, 
 visits to the thratre, for in those days there were Paradises 
 where for sixpence one could be a god. Fourpence a 
 week on tobacco gave me half-a-dozen cigarettes a day; 
 I have spent more on smoke and derived less satisfaction. 
 Dress was my greatest difficulty. One anxiety in life the 
 
2o8 Paul Kelver 
 
 poor man is saved: he knows not the haunting- sense of 
 debt. My tailor never dunned me. His principle was 
 half-a-crown down on receipt of order, the balance on the 
 handing over of the goods. No system is perfect; the 
 method avoided friction, it is true ; yet on the other hand 
 it was annoying to be compelled to promenade, come Sun- 
 days, in shiny elbows and frayed trousers, knowing all 
 the while that finished, waiting, was a suit in which one 
 mig'ht have made one's mark — had only one shut one's 
 eyes passing that pastry-cook's window on pay-day. 
 Surely there should be a sumptuary law compelling pas- 
 try-cooks to deal in cellars or behind drawn blinds. 
 
 Were it because of its mere material hardships that to 
 this day I think of that period of my life with a shudder, 
 I should not here confess to it. I was alone^ I knew not a 
 living soul to whom I dared to speak, who cared to speak 
 to me. For those first twelve months after my mother's 
 death I lived alone, thought alone, felt alone. In the 
 morning, during the busy day, it was possible to bear ; but 
 in the evenings the sense of desolation gripped me Hke a 
 physical pain. The summer evenings came again, bring- 
 ing with them the long, lingering light so laden with mel- 
 ancholy. I would walk into the Parks and, sitting there, 
 watch with hungry eyes the men and women, boys and 
 girls, moving all around me, talking, laughing, interested 
 in one another ; feeling myself some speechless ghost, see- 
 ing but not seen, crying to the living with a voice they 
 heard not. Sometimes a solitary figure would pass by and 
 glance back at me; some lonely creature like myself 
 longing for human sympathy. In the teeming city must 
 have been thousands such — young men and women to 
 whom a friendly ear, a kindly voice, would have been as 
 the water of life. Each imprisoned in his solitary cell of 
 shyness, we looked at one another through the grating 
 with condoling eyes ; further than that was forbidden to 
 us. Once, in Kensington Gardens, a woman turned, then 
 slowly retracing her steps, sat down beside me on the 
 
Describes the Desert Island 209 
 
 bench. Neither of us spoke; had I done so she would 
 have risen and moved away ; yet there was understanding 
 between us. To each of us it was some comfort to sit 
 thus for a little while beside the other. Had she poured 
 out her heart to me, she could have told me nothing more 
 than I knew: "I, too, am lonely, friendless; I, too, long 
 for the sound of a voice, the touch of a hand. It is hard 
 for you, it is harder still for me, a girl ; shut out from the 
 bright world that laughs around me; denied the right of 
 youth to joy and pleasure ; denied the right of womanhood 
 to love and tenderness." 
 
 The footsteps to and fro grew fewer. She moved to 
 rise. Stirred by an impulse, I stretched out my hand, 
 then seeing the flush upon her face, drew it back hastily. 
 But the next moment, changing her mind, she held hers 
 out to me, and I took it. It was the first clasp of a hand 
 I had felt since six months before I had said good-bye to 
 Hal. She turned and walked quickly away. I stood 
 watching her; she never looked round, and I never saw 
 her again. 
 
 I take no credit to myself for keeping straight, as it is 
 termed, during these days. For good or evil, my shyness 
 prevented my taking part in the flirtations of the streets. 
 Whether inviting eyes were ever thrown to me as to 
 others, I cannot say. Sometimes, fancying so — hoping 
 so, I would follow. Yet never could I summon up suffi- 
 cient resolution to face the possible rebuff before some 
 less timid swain would swoop down upon the quarry. 
 Then I would hurry on, cursing myself for the poorness 
 of my spirit, fancying mocking contempt in the laughter 
 that followed me. 
 
 On a Sunday I would rise early and take long solitary 
 walks into the country. One winter's day — I remember 
 it was on the road between Edgware and Stanmore — 
 there issued from a by-road a little ahead of me a party 
 of boys and girls, young people about my own age, bound 
 evidently on a skating expedition. I could hear the musi- 
 
2IO Paul Kelver 
 
 cal ring of their blades, clattering as they walked, and 
 the sound of their merry laughter so clear and bell-like 
 through the frosty air. And an aching anguish fell upon 
 me. I felt a mad desire to run after them, to plead with 
 them to let me walk with them a little way, to let me laugh 
 and talk with them. Every now and then they would 
 pirouette to cry some jest to one another. I could see 
 their faces : the girls' so sweetly alluring, framed by their 
 dainty hats and furs, the bright colour in their cheeks, 
 the light in their teasing eyes. A little further on they 
 turned aside into a by-lane, and I stood at the corner 
 listening till the last echo of their joyous voices died away, 
 and on a stone that still remains standing there I sat down 
 and sobbed. 
 
 I would walk about the streets always till very late. I 
 dreaded the echoing clang of the little front door when I 
 closed it behind me, the climbing of the silent stairs, the 
 solitude that waited for me in my empty room. It would 
 rise and come towards me like some living thing, kissing 
 me with cold lips. Often, unable to bear the closeness 
 of its presence, I would creep out into the streets. 
 There, even though it followed me, I was not alone 
 with it. Sometimes I would pace them the whole 
 night, sharing them with the other outcasts while the 
 city slept. 
 
 Occasionally, during these nightly wanderings would 
 come to me moments of exaltation when fear fell from me 
 and my blood would leap with joy at prospect of the fierce 
 struggle opening out before me. Then it was the ghostly 
 city sighing round me that seemed dead, I the only living 
 thing real among a world of shadows. In long, echoing 
 streets I would laugh and shout. Misunderstanding po- 
 licemen would turn their bull's-eyes on me, gruffly give 
 me practical advice : they knew not who I was ! I stood 
 the centre of a vast galanty-show : the phantom houses 
 came and went ; from some there shone bright lights ; the 
 doors were open, and little figures flitted in and out, the 
 
Describes the Desert Island 211 
 
 tiny coaches glided to and fro, manikins grotesque but 
 pitiful crept across the star-lit curtain. 
 
 Then the mood would change. The city, grim and 
 vast, stretched round me endless. I crawled, a mere atom, 
 within its folds, helpless, insignificant, absurd. The 
 houseless forms that shared my vigil were my fellows. 
 What were we? Animalcule upon its bosom, that it saw 
 not, heeded not. For company I would mingle with 
 them : ragged men, frowsy women, ageless youths, gath- 
 ered round the red glow of some coffee stall. 
 
 Rarely would we speak to one another. More like ani- 
 mals we browsed there, sipping the halfpenny cup of hot 
 water coloured with coffee grounds (at least it was 
 warm), munching the moist slab of coarse cake; looking 
 with dull, indifferent eyes each upon the wretchedness of 
 the others. Perhaps some two would whisper to each 
 other in listless, monotonous tone, broken here and there 
 by a short, mirthless laugh ; some shivering creature, not 
 yet case-hardened to despair, seek, perhaps, the relief of 
 curses that none heeded. Later, a faint chill breeze would 
 shake the shadows loose, a thin, wan light streak the dark 
 air with shade, and silently, stealthily, we would fade 
 away and disappear. 
 
AFTER II. 
 
 PAUL^ ESCAPING FROM HIS SOLITUDE, FALLS INTO STRANGE 
 COMPANY. AND BECOMES CAPTIVE TO ONE OF 
 HAUGHTY MIEN. 
 
 All things pass, even the self-inflicted sufferings of shy- 
 young men, condemned by temperament to soHtude. 
 Came the winter evenings, I took to work : in it one may 
 drown much sorrow for oneself. With its handful of fire, 
 its two candles lighted, my "apartment" was more invit- 
 ing. I bought myself paper, pens and ink. Great or 
 small, what more can a writer do ? He is but the would- 
 be medium: will the spirit voices employ him or reject 
 him? 
 
 London, with its million characters, grave and gay ; its 
 ten thousand romances, its mysteries, its pathos, and its 
 humour, lay to my hand. It stretched before me, asking 
 only intelligent observation, more or less truthful report. 
 But that I could make a story out of the things I really 
 knew never occurred to me. My tales were of cottage^ 
 maidens, of bucolic yeomen. My scenes were laid in 
 windmills, among mountains, or in moated granges. I 
 fancy this phase of folly is common to most youthful fic- 
 tionists. 
 
 A trail of gentle melancholy lay over them. Sentiment 
 was more popular then than it is now, and, as do all be- 
 ginners, I scrupulously followed fashion. Generally 
 speaking, to be a heroine of mine was fatal. However 
 naturally her hair might curl — and curly hair, I believe, 
 is the hall-mark of vitality ; whatever other indications of 
 vigorous health she might exhibit in the first chapter, such 
 as "dancing eyes," "colour that came and went," "ringing 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 213 
 
 laughter," "fawn-like agility," she was tolerably certain, 
 poor girl, to end in an untimely grave. Snowdrops and 
 early primroses (my botany I worked up from a useful 
 little volume, "Our Garden Favourites, Illustrated") grew 
 there as in a forcing house ; and if in the neighbourhood of 
 the coast, the sea-breezes would choose that particular 
 churchyard, somewhat irreverently, for their favourite 
 playground. Years later a white-haired man would come 
 there leading little children by the hand, and to them he 
 would tell the tale anew, which must have been a dismal 
 entertainment for them. 
 
 Now and then, by way of change, it would be the gen- 
 tleman who would fall a victim of the deadly atmosphere 
 of my literature. It was of no particular consequence, 
 so he himself would conclude in his last soliloquy ; "it was 
 better so." Snowdrops and primroses, for whatever con- 
 solation they might have been to him, it was hopeless for 
 him to expect; his grave, marked by a rude cross, being 
 as a rule situate in an exceptionally unfrequented portion 
 of the African veldt or amid burning sands. For de- 
 scription of final scenery on these occasions a visit to the 
 British Museum reading-room would be necessary. 
 
 Dismal little fledgelings ! And again and again would I 
 drive them from the nest ; again and again they fluttered 
 back to me, soiled, crumpled, physically damaged. Yet 
 one person had admired them, cried over them — myself. 
 
 All methods I tried. Sometimes I would send them 
 forth accompanied by a curt business note of the take-it- 
 or-leave-it order. At other times I would attach to it pa- 
 thetic appeals for its consideration. Sometimes I would 
 give value to it, stating that the price was five guineas and 
 requesting that the cheque should be crossed; at other 
 times seek to tickle editorial cupidity by offering this, my 
 first contribution to their pages, for nothing — my sample 
 packet, so to speak, sent gratis, one trial surely sufficient. 
 Now I would write sarcastically, enclosing together with 
 the stamped envelope for return a brutally penned note 
 
214 P^^l Kelver 
 
 of rejection. Or I would write frankly, explaining elab- 
 orately that I was a beginner, and asking to be told my 
 faults — if any. 
 
 Not one found a resting place for its feet. A month, 
 a week, a couple of days, they would remain away from 
 me, then return. I never lost a single one. I wished I 
 had. It would have varied the monotony. 
 
 I hated the poor little slavey who, bursting joyously 
 into the room, would hold them out to me from between 
 her apron-hidden thumb and finger; her chronic sniff I 
 translated into contempt. If flying down the stairs at the 
 sound of the postman's knock I secured it from his hands, 
 it seemed to me he smiled. Tearing them from their en- 
 velopes, I would curse them, abuse them, fling them into 
 the fire sometimes; but before they were more than 
 scorched I would snatch them out, smooth them, reread 
 them. The editor himself could never have seen them ; it 
 was impossible; some jealous underling had done this 
 thing. I had sent them to the wrong paper. They had ar- 
 rived at the inopportune moment. Their triumph would 
 come. Rewriting the first and last sheets, I would send 
 them forth again with fresh hope. 
 
 Meanwhile, understanding that the would-be happy 
 warrior must shine in camp as well as field, I sought to 
 fit myself also for the social side of Hfe. Smoking and 
 drinking were the twin sins I found most difficulty in ac- 
 quiring. I am not claiming a mental excellence so 
 much as confessing a bodily infirmity. The spirit had 
 always been willing, but my flesh was weak. Fired by 
 emulation, I had at school occasionally essayed a cigarette. 
 The result had been distinctly unsatisfactory, and after 
 some two or three attempts, I had abandoned, for the time 
 being, all further endeavour; excusing my faint-hearted- 
 ness by telling myself with sanctimonious air that smok- 
 ing was bad for growing boys ; attempting to delude my- 
 self by assuming, in presence of contemporaries of 
 stronger stomach, fine pose of disapproval; yet in my 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 215 
 
 heart knowing myself a young hypocrite, disguising phys- 
 ical cowardice in the robes of moral courage : a self-decep- 
 tion to which human nature is prone. 
 
 So likewise now and again I had tasted the wine that 
 was red, and that stood year in, year out, decanted on our 
 sideboard. The true inwardness of St. Paul's prescription 
 had been revealed to me ; the attitude — sometimes sneered 
 at — of those who drink it under doctor's orders, regard- 
 ing it purely as a medicine, appeared to me reasonable. 
 I had noticed also that others, some of them grown men 
 even, making wry faces, when drinking my mother's 
 claret, and had concluded therefrom that taste for strong 
 liquor was an accomplishment less easily acquired than is 
 generally supposed. The lack of it in a young man could 
 be no disgrace, and accordingly effort in that direction 
 also had I weakly postponed. 
 
 But now, a gentleman at large, my education could no 
 longer be delayed. To the artist in particular was train- 
 ing — and severe training — an absolute necessity. Re- 
 cently fashion has changed somewhat, but a quarter of a 
 century ago a genius who did not smoke and drink — and 
 that more than was good for him — would have been dis- 
 missed without further evidence as an impostor. About 
 the genius I was hopeful, but at no time positively certain. 
 As regarded the smoking and drinking, so much at least 
 I could make sure of. I set to work methodically, con- 
 scientiously. Smoking, experience taught me, was better 
 practised on Saturday nights, Sunday affording me the 
 opportunity of walking off the effects. Patience and de- 
 termination were eventually crowned with success: I 
 learned to smoke a cigarette to all appearance as though I 
 were enjoying it. Young men of less character might 
 here have rested content, but attainment of the highest has 
 always been with me a motive force. The cigarette con- 
 quered, I next proceeded to attack the cigar. My first 
 one I remember well : most men do. It was at a 
 smoking concert held in the Islington Drill Hall, to which 
 
2i6 Paul Kelver 
 
 Minikin had invited me. Not feeling sure whether my 
 growing dizziness were due solely to the cigar, or in part 
 to the hot, over-crowded room, I made my excuses and 
 slipped out. I found myself in a small courtyard, divided 
 from a neighbouring garden by a low wall. The cause of 
 my trouble was clearly the cigar. My inclination was to 
 take it from my mouth and see how far I could throw it. 
 Conscience, on the other hand, urged me to persevere. It 
 occurred to me that if climbing on to the wall I could walk 
 along it from end to end, there would be no excuse for my 
 not heeding the counsels of perfection. If, on the con- 
 trary, try as I might, the wall proved not wide enough for 
 my footsteps, then I should be entitled to lose the beastly 
 thing, and, as best I could, make my way home to bed. I 
 attained the wall with some difficulty and commenced my 
 self-inflicted ordeal. Two yards further I found myself 
 lying across the wall, my legs hanging down one side, my 
 head overhanging the other. The position proving suit- 
 able to my requirements, I maintained it. Inclination, 
 again seizing its opportunity, urged me then and there 
 to take a solemn vow never to smoke again. I am proud 
 to write that through that hour of temptation I remained 
 firm, strengthening myself by whispering to myself: 
 "Never despair. What others can do, so can you. Is not 
 all victory won through suffering?" 
 
 A liking for drink I had found, if possible, even yet 
 more difficult of achievement. Spirits I almost despaired 
 of. Once, confusing bottles, I drank some hair oil in mis- 
 take for whiskey, and found it decidedly less nauseous. 
 But twice a week I would force myself to swallow a glass 
 of beer, standing over myself insisting on my draining it 
 to the bitter dregs. As reward afterwards, to take the 
 taste out of my mouth, I would treat m.yself to chocolates ; 
 at the same time comforting myself by assuring myself 
 that it was for my good, that there would come a day 
 when I should really like it, and be grateful to myself for 
 having been severe with myself. 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 217 
 
 In other and more sensible directions I sought also to 
 progress. Gradually I was overcoming my shyness. It 
 was a slow process. I found the best plan was not to 
 mind being shy, to accept it as part of my temperament, 
 and with others laugh at it. The coldness of an indiffer- 
 ent world is of service in hardening a too sensitive skin. 
 The gradual rubbings of existence were rounding off my 
 many corners. I became possible to my fellow creatures, 
 and they to me. I began to take pleasure in their com- 
 pany. 
 
 By directing me to this particular house in Nelson 
 Square, Fate had done to me a kindness. I flatter myself 
 we were an interesting menagerie gathered together un- 
 der its leaky roof. Mrs. Peedles, our landlady, who slept 
 in the basement with the slavey, had been an actress in 
 Charles Keane's company at the old Princess's. There, 
 it is true, she had played only insignificant parts. Lon- 
 don, as she would explain to us, was even then but a poor 
 judge of art, with prejudices. Besides, an actor-man- 
 ager, hampered by a wife — we understood. But pre- 
 viously in the Provinces there had been a career of glory : 
 Juliet, Amy Robsart, Mrs. Haller in "The Stranger" — 
 almost the entire roll of the "Legitimates." Showed we 
 any signs of disbelief, proof was forthcoming : handbills 
 a yard long, rich in notes of exclamation : "On Tuesday 
 Evening ! By Special Desire ! ! ! Blessington's Theatre ! 
 In the Meadow, adjoining the Falcon Arms !" — "On Sat- 
 urday ! Under the Patronage of Col. Sir William and the 
 Officers of the 74th ! ! ! ! In the Corn Exchange !" 
 Maybe it would convince us further were she to run 
 through a passage here and there, say Lady Macbeth's 
 sleep-walking scene, or from Ophelia's entrance in the 
 fourth act ? It would be no trouble ; her memory was ex- 
 cellent. We would hasten to assure her of our perfect 
 faith. 
 
 Listening to her, it was difficult, as she herself would 
 frankly admit, to imagine her the once "arch Miss 
 
21 8 Paul Kelver 
 
 Lucretia Barry;" looking at her, to remember there had 
 been an evening when she had been "the cynosure of 
 every eye." One found it necessary to fortify oneself 
 with perusal of underlined extracts from ancient journals, 
 much thumbed and creased, thoughtfully lent to one for 
 the purpose. Since those days Fate had woven round her 
 a mantle of depression. She was now a faded, watery- 
 eyed little woman, prone on the slightest provocation to 
 sit down suddenly on the nearest chair and at once com- 
 mence a history of her troubles. Quite unconscious of 
 this failing, it was an idea of hers that she was an excep- 
 tionally cheerful person. 
 
 *'But there, fretting's no good. We must grin and 
 bear things in this world," she would conclude, wiping 
 her eyes upon her apron. "It's better to laugh than to 
 cry, I always say." And to prove that this was no mere 
 idle sentiment, she would laugh then and there upon the 
 spot. 
 
 Much stair-climbing had bestowed upon her a shortness 
 of breath, which no amount of panting in her resting mo- 
 ments was able to make good. 
 
 "You don't know 'ow to breathe," explained our second 
 floor front to her on one occasion, a kindly young man; 
 "you don't swallow it, you only gargle with it. Take a 
 good draught and shut your mouth ; don't be frightened 
 of it ; don't let it out again till it's done something : that's 
 what it's 'ere for." 
 
 He stood over her with his handkerchief pressed against 
 her mouth to assist her ; but it was of no use. 
 
 "There don't seem any room for it inside me," she ex- 
 plained. 
 
 Bells had become to her the business of life ; she lived 
 listening for them. Converse to her was a filling in of 
 time while waiting for interruptions. 
 
 A bottle of whiskey fell into my hands that Christmas 
 time, a present from a commercial traveller in the way of 
 business. Not liking whiskey myself, it was no sacrifice 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 219 
 
 for me to reserve it for the occasional comfort of Mrs. 
 Peedles, when, breathless, with her hands to her side, she 
 would sink upon the chair nearest to my door. Her poor, 
 washed-out face would lighten at the suggestion. 
 
 ''Ah, well," she would reply, "I don't mind if I do. It's 
 a poor heart that never rejoices." 
 
 And then, her tongue unloosened, she would sit there 
 and tell me stories of my predecessors, young men lodg- 
 ers who like myself had taken her bed-sitting-rooms, and 
 of the woes and misfortunes that had overtaken them. I 
 gathered that a more unlucky house I could not have se- 
 lected. A former tenant of my own room, of whom I 
 strangely reminded her, had written poetry on my very 
 table. He was now in Portland doing five years for forg- 
 ery. Mrs. Peedles appeared to regard the two accom- 
 pHshments as merely different expressions of the same art. 
 Another of her young men, as she affectionately called 
 us, had been of studious ambition. His career up to a 
 point appeared to have been brilliant. "What he mightn't 
 have been," according to Mrs. Peedles, there was practi- 
 cally no saying ; what he happened to be at the moment of 
 conversation was an unpromising inmate of the Hanwell 
 lunatic asylum. 
 
 ''I've always noticed it," Mrs. Peedles would explain; 
 ''it's always the most deserving, those that try hardest, 
 to whom trouble comes. I'm sure I don't know why." 
 
 I was glad on the whole when that bottle of whiskey 
 was finished. A second might have driven me to suicide. 
 
 There was no Mr. Peedles — at least, not for Mrs. 
 Peedles, though as an individual he continued to exist. 
 He had been "general utility" at the Princess's — the old 
 terms were still in vogue at that time — a fine figure of a 
 man in his day, so I was given to understand, but one 
 easily led away, especially by minxes. Mrs. Peedles 
 spoke bitterly of general utilities as people of not much 
 use. 
 
 For working days Mrs. Peedle? had one dress and one 
 
220 Paul Kelver 
 
 cap, both black and void of ostentation ; but on Sundays 
 and holidays she would appear metamorphosed. She had 
 carefully preserved the bulk of her stage wardrobe, even 
 to the paste-decked shoes and tinsel jewelry. Shapeless 
 in classic garb as Hermia, or bulgy in brocade and velvet 
 as Lady Teazle, she would receive her few visitors on 
 Sunday evenings, discarded puppets like herself, with 
 whom the conversation was of gayer nights before their 
 wires had been cut ; or, her glory hid from the ribald street 
 beneath a mackintosh, pay her few calls. Maybe it was 
 the unusual excitement that then brought colour into her 
 furrowed cheeks, that straightened and darkened her eye- 
 brows, at other times so singularly unobtrusive. Be this 
 how it may, the change was remarkable, only the thin grey 
 hair and the work-worn hands remaining for purposes of 
 identification. Nor was the transformation merely one 
 of surface. Mrs. Peedles hung on her hook behind the 
 kitchen door, dingy, limp, discarded ; out of the wardrobe 
 with the silks and satins was lifted down to be put on as 
 an undergarment Miss Lucretia Barry, like her costumes 
 somewhat aged, somewhat withered, but still distinctly 
 "arch." 
 
 In the room next to me lived a law-writer and his wife. 
 They were very old and miserably poor. The fault was 
 none of theirs. Despite copy-books maxims, there is in 
 this world such a thing as ill-luck — persistent, monoto- 
 nous, that gradually wears away all power of resistance. 
 I learned from them their history : it was hopelessly simple, 
 hopelessly uninstructive. He had been a schoolmaster, 
 she a pupil teacher; they had married young, and for a 
 while the world had smiled upon them. Then came ill- 
 ness, attacking them both : nothing out of which any 
 moral could be deduced, a mere case of bad drains result- 
 ing in typhoid fever. They had started again, saddled by 
 debt, and after years of effort had succeeded in clearing 
 themselves, only to fall again, this time in helping a friend. 
 Nor was it even a case of folly : a poor man who had 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 221 
 
 helped them in their trouble, hardly could they have done 
 otherwise without proving themselves ungrateful. And 
 so on, a tedious tale, commonplace, trivial. Now listless, 
 patient, hard working, they had arrived at an animal-like 
 indifference to their fate, content so long as they could ob- 
 tain the bare necessities of existence, passive when these 
 were not forthcoming, their interest in life limited to the 
 one luxury of the poor — an occasional glass of beer or 
 spirits. Often days .would go by without his obtaining 
 any work, and then they would more or less starve. Law 
 documents are generally given out to such men in the 
 evening, to be returned finished the next morning. Wak- 
 ing in the night, I would hear through the thin wooden 
 partition that divided our rooms the even scratching of his 
 pen. 
 
 Thus cheek by jowl we worked, I my side of the screen, 
 he his : youth and age, hope and realisation. 
 
 Out of him my fears fashioned a vision of the future. 
 Past his door I would slink on tiptoe, dread meeting him 
 upon the stairs. Once had not he said to himself : "The 
 world's mine oyster?" May not the voices of the night 
 have proclaimed him also king? Might I not be but an 
 idle dreamer, mistaking desire for power? Would not 
 the world prove stronger than I ? At such times I would 
 see my life before me : the clerkship at thirty shillings a 
 week rising by slow instalments, it may be, to one hundred 
 and fifty a year; the four-roomed house at Brixton; the 
 girl wife, pretty, perhaps, but sinking so soon into the 
 slatternly woman; the squalling children. How could I, 
 unaided, expect to raise myself from the ruck? Was not 
 this the more likely picture? 
 
 Our second floor front was a young fellow in the com- 
 mercial line. Jarman was Young London personified — 
 blatant yet kind-hearted ; aggressively self-assertive, gen- 
 erous to a fault; cunning, yet at the same time frank; 
 shrewd, cheery, and full of pluck. "Never say die" was 
 his motto, and anything less dead it would be difficult to 
 
222 Paul Kelver 
 
 imagine. All day long he was noisy, and all night long 
 he snored. He woke with a start, bathed like a porpoise, 
 sang while dressing, roared for his boots, and whistled 
 during his breakfast. His entrance and exit were always 
 to an orchestration of banging doors, directions concern- 
 ing his meals shouted at the top of his voice as he plunged 
 up or down the stairs, the clattering and rattling of 
 brooms and pails flying before his feet. His departure 
 always left behind it the suggestion that the house was 
 now to let; it came almost as a shock to meet a human 
 being on the landing. He would have conveyed an at- 
 mosphere of bustle to the Egyptian pyramids. 
 
 Sometimes carrying his own supper-tray, arranged for 
 two, he would march into my room. At first, resenting 
 his familiarity, I would hint at my desire to be alone, 
 would explain that I was busy. 
 
 **You fire away, Shakespeare Redivivus," he would re- 
 ply. ''Don't delay the tragedy. Why should London 
 wait? I'll keep quiet." 
 
 But his notion of keeping quiet was to retire into a 
 corner and there amuse himself by enacting a tragedy of 
 his own in a hoarse whisper, accompanied by appropriate 
 gesture. 
 
 "Ah, ah!" I would hear him muttering to himself, "I 
 'ave killed 'er good old father; I 'ave falsely accused 'er 
 young man of all the crimes that I 'ave myself committed ; 
 I 'ave robbed 'er of 'er ancestral estates. Yet she loves 
 me not ! It is streeange !" Then changing his bass to a 
 shrill falsetto : "It is a cold and dismal night : the snow 
 falls fast. I will leave me 'at and umbrella be'ind the 
 door and go out for a walk with the chee-ild. Aha ! who 
 is this? 'E also 'as forgotten 'is umbrella. Ah, now I 
 know 'im in the pitch dark by 'is cigarette ! Villain, mur- 
 derer, silly josser ! it is you !" Then with lightning 
 change of voice and gesture: "Mary, I love yer!" "Sir 
 Jasper Murgatroyd, let me avail myself of this opportu- 
 nity to tell you what I think of you — " "No, no; the 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 223 
 
 'ouses close in 'alf an hour ; there is not tee-ime. Fly with 
 me instead!" "Never! Un'and me!" "'Ear me! Ah, 
 what 'ave I done? I 'ave slipped upon a piece of orange 
 peel and broke me 'ead! If you will kindly ask them to 
 turn off the snow and give me a little moonlight, I will 
 confess all." 
 
 Finding it (much to Jarman's surprise) impossible to 
 renew the thread of my work, I would abandon my at- 
 tempts at literature, and instead listen to his talk, which 
 was always interesting. His conversation was, it is true, 
 generally about himself, but it was none the less attractive 
 on that account. His love affairs, which appeared to be 
 numerous, formed his chief topic. There was no reserve 
 about Jarman: his life contained no secret chambers. 
 What he "told her straight," what she "up and said to 
 him" in reply was for all the world that cared to hear. 
 So far his search after the ideal had met with but ill suc- 
 cess. 
 
 "Girls," he would say, "they're all alike, till you know 
 'em. So long as they're trying to palm themselves off on 
 yer, they'll persuade you there isn't such another article 
 in all the market. When they've got yer order — ah, then 
 yer find out what they're really made of. And you take it 
 from me, 'Omer Junior, most of 'em are put together 
 cheap. Bah! it sickens me sometimes to read the way 
 you paper-stainers talk about 'em — angels, goddesses, 
 fairies! They've just been getting at yer. You're giv- 
 ing 'em just the price they're asking without examining 
 the article. Girls ain't a special make, like what you 
 seem to think 'em. We're all turned out of the same old 
 slop shop." 
 
 "Not that I say, mind yer," he would continue, "that 
 there are none of the right sort. They're to be 'ad — real 
 good 'uns. All I say is, taking 'em at their own valuation 
 ain't the way to do business with 'emx." 
 
 What he was on the look out for — to quote his own 
 description^ — was a really first class article, not something 
 
224 Paul Kelver 
 
 from which the paint would come off almost before you 
 got it home. 
 
 "They're to be found," he would cheerfully affirm, "but 
 you've got to look for 'em. They're not the sort that 
 advertises." 
 
 Behind Jarman in the second floor back resided one 
 whom Jarman had nicknamed "The Lady 'Ortensia." I 
 believe before my arrival there had been love passages 
 between the two ; but neither of them, so I gathered, had 
 upon closer inspection satisfied the other's standard. 
 Their present attitude towards each other was that of 
 insult thinly veiled under exaggerated politeness. Miss 
 Rosina Sellars was, in her own language, a "lady assist- 
 ant," in common parlance, a barmaid at the Ludgate Hill 
 Station refreshment room. She was a large, flabby 
 young woman. With less powder, her complexion might 
 by admirers have been termed creamy; as it was, it pre- 
 sented the appearance rather of underdone pastry. To be 
 on all occasions "quite the lady" was her pride. There 
 were those who held the angle of her dignity to be ex- 
 aggerated. Jarman would beg her for her own sake to be 
 more careful lest one day she should fall down backwards 
 and hurt herself. On the other hand, her bearing was 
 certainly calculated to check familiarity. Even stock- 
 brokers' clerks — young men as a class with the bump of 
 reverence but poorly developed — would in her presence 
 falter and grow hesitating. She had cultivated the art of 
 not noticing to something approaching perfection. She 
 could draw the noisiest customer a glass of beer, which he 
 had never ordered; exchange it for three of whiskey, 
 which he had ; take his money and return him his change 
 without ever seeing him, hearing him, or knowing he was 
 there. It shattered the self-assertion of the youngest of 
 commercial travellers. Her tone and manner, outside rare 
 moments of excitement, were suggestive of an offended 
 but forgiving iceberg. Jarman invariably passed her with 
 his coat collar turned up to his ears, and even thus pro- 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 225 
 
 tected might have been observed to shiver. Her stare, in 
 conjunction with her "I beg your pardon!" was* a moral 
 douche that would have rendered apologetic and explana- 
 tory Don Juan himself. 
 
 To me she was always gracious, which by contrast to 
 her general attitude towards my sex of studied disdain, 
 I confess flattered me. She was good enough to observe 
 to Mrs. Peedles, who repeated it to me, that I was the only 
 gentleman in the house who knew how to behave himself. 
 
 The entire first floor was occupied by an Irishman and 
 — they never minced the matter themselves, so hardly is 
 there need for me to do so. She was a charming little 
 dark-eyed woman, an ex-tight-rope dancer, and always 
 greatly offended Mrs. Peedles by claiming Miss Lucretia 
 Barry as a sister artiste. 
 
 "Of course I don't know how it may be now," would 
 reply Mrs. Peedles, with some slight asperity; "but in 
 my time we ladies of the legitimate stage used to look 
 down upon dancers and such sort. Of course, no offence 
 to you, Mrs. O'Kelly." 
 
 Neither of them was in the least offended. 
 
 "Sure, Mrs. Peedles, ye could never have looked down 
 upon the Signora," the O'Kelly would answer laughing. 
 "Ye had to lie back and look up to her. Why, I've got 
 the crick in me neck to this day !" 
 
 "Ah! my dear, and you don't know how nervous I 
 was when glancing down I'd see his handsome face just 
 underneath me, thinking that with one false step I might 
 spoil it for ever," would reply the Signora. 
 
 "Me darling! I'd have died happy, just smothered in 
 loveliness !" would return the O'Kelly ; and he and the 
 Signora would rush into each other's arms, and the sound 
 of their kisses would quite excite the little slavey sweep- 
 ing down the stairs outside. 
 
 He was a barrister attached in theory to the Western 
 Circuit ; in practice, somewhat indifferent to it, much more 
 attached to the lower strata of Bohemia and the Signora. 
 
2 26 Paul Kelver 
 
 At the present he was earning all sufficient for the 
 simple needs of himself and the Signora as a teacher of 
 music and singing. His method was simple and suited 
 admirably the locality. Unless specially requested, he 
 never troubled his pupils with such tiresome things as 
 scales and exercises. His plan was to discover the song 
 the young man fancied himself singing, the particular 
 jingle the young lady yearned to knock out of the piano, 
 and to teach it to them. Was it *'Tom Bowling?" Well 
 and good. Come on; follow your leader. The O'Kelly 
 would sing the first line. 
 
 "Now then, try that. Don't be afraid. Just open yer 
 mouth and gave it tongue. That's all right. Everything 
 has a beginning. Sure, later on, we'll get the time and 
 tune, maybe a little expression." 
 
 Whether the system had any merit in it, I cannot an- 
 swer. Certain it was that as often as not it achieved suc- 
 cess. Gradually — say, by the end of twelve eighteen- 
 penny lessons — out of storm and chaos *'Tom Bowling" 
 would emerge, recognisable for all men to hear. Had the 
 pupil any voice to start with, the O'Kelly improved it; 
 had he none, the O'Kelly would help him to disguise the 
 fact. 
 
 "Take it easy, now ; take it easy," the O'Kelly would 
 counsel. "Sure, it's a delicate organ, yer voice. Don't 
 ye strain it now. Ye're at yer best when ye're just low 
 and sweet." 
 
 So also with the blushing pianiste. At the end of a 
 month a tune was distinctly discernible ; she could hear it 
 herself, and was happy. His repute spread. 
 
 Twice already had he eloped with the Signora (and 
 twice again was he to repeat the operation, before I finally 
 lost sight of him : to break oneself of habit is always dif- 
 ficult) and once by well-meaning friends had he been in- 
 duced to return to home, if not to beauty. His wife, who 
 was considerably older than himself, possessed, so he 
 would inform me with tears in his eyes, every moral ex- 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 227 
 
 cellence that should attract mankind. Upon her good- 
 ness and virtue, her piety and conscientiousness he would 
 descant to me by the half hour. His sincerity it was im- 
 possible to question. It was beyond doubt that he re- 
 spected her, admired her, honoured her. She was a saint, 
 an angel — a wretch, a villain such as he, was not fit to 
 breathe the same pure air. To do him justice, it must be 
 admitted he showed no particular desire to do so. As an 
 aunt or grandmother, I believe he would have suffered 
 her gladly. He had nothing to say against her, except 
 that he found himself unable to live with her. 
 
 That she must have been a lady of exceptional merit one 
 felt convinced. The Signora, who had met her only once, 
 and then under somewhat trying conditions, spoke her 
 praises with equal enthusiasm. Had she, the Signora, 
 enjoyed the advantage of meeting such a model earlier, 
 she, the Signora, might have been a better woman. It 
 seemed a pity the introduction could not have taken place 
 sooner and under different circumstances. Could they 
 both have adopted her as a sort of mutual mother-in-law, 
 it would have given them, I am positive, the greatest satis- 
 faction. On her occasional visits they would have vied 
 with each other in showing her affectionate attention. 
 For the deserted lady I tried to feel sorry, but could not 
 avoid the reflection that it would have been better for all 
 parties had she been less patient and forgiving. Her hus- 
 band was evidently much more suited to the Signora. 
 
 Indeed, the relationship between these two was more a 
 true marriage than one generally meets with. No pair of 
 love-birds could have been more snug together. In their 
 virtues and failings alike they fitted each other. When 
 sober the immorality of their behaviour never troubled 
 them; in fact, when sober nothing ever troubled them. 
 They laughed, joked, played through life, two happy chil- 
 dren. To be shocked at them was impossible. I tried it 
 and failed. 
 
 But now and again there came an evening when they 
 
228 Paul Kelver 
 
 were not sober. It happened when funds were high. On 
 such occasion the O'Kelly would return laden with bottles 
 of a certain sweet champagne, of which they were both ex- 
 tremely fond ; and a friend or two would be invited to 
 share in the festivity. Whether any exceptional quality re- 
 sided in this particular brand of champagne I am not pre- 
 pared to argue; my own personal experience of it has 
 prompted me to avoid it for the rest of my life. Its ef- 
 fect upon them was certainly unique. Instead of intoxi- 
 cating them, it sobered them: there is no other way of 
 explaining it. With the third or fourth glass they began 
 to take serious views of life. Before the end of the sec- 
 ond bottle they would be staring at each other, appalled 
 at contemplation of their own transgression. The Sign- 
 ora, the tears streaming down h'er pretty face, would 
 declare herself a wicked, wicked woman ; she had dragged 
 down into shame the most blameless, the most virtuous of 
 men. Emptying her glass, she would bury her face in her 
 hands, and with her elbows on her knees, in an agony of 
 remorse, sit rocking to and fro. The O'Kelly, throwing 
 himself at her feet, would passionately abjure her to ''look 
 up." She had, it appeared, got hold of the thing at the 
 wrong end ; it was he who had dragged her down. 
 
 At this point metaphor would become confused. Each 
 had been dragged down by the other one and ruined ; also 
 each one was the other one's good angel. All that was 
 commendable in the Signora, she owed to the O'Kelly. 
 Whatever was not discreditable about the O'Kelly was in 
 the nature of a loan from the Signora. With the help 
 of more champagne the right course would grow plain to 
 them. She would go back broken-hearted but repentant 
 to the tight-rope ; he would return a better but a blighted 
 man to Mrs. O'Kelly and the Western Circuit. This 
 would be their last evening together on earth. A fresh 
 bottle would be broached, and the guest or guests called 
 upon to assist in the ceremony of renunciation; glasses 
 full to the brim this time. 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 229 
 
 So much tragedy did they continue to instil into the 
 scene that on the first occasion of my witnessing it I was 
 unable to refrain from mingling my tears with theirs. 
 As, however, the next morning they had forgotten all 
 about it, and as nothing came of it, nor of several subse- 
 quent repetitions, I should have believed a separation be- 
 tween them impossible but that even while I was an in- 
 mate of the house the thing actually happened. 
 
 It came about in this wise. His friends, having dis- 
 covered him, had pointed out to him again his duty. The 
 Signora — a really excellent little woman so far as inten- 
 tion was concerned — had seconded their endeavours, with 
 the result that on a certain evening in autumn we of the 
 house assembled all of us on the first floor to support 
 them on the occasion of their final — so we all deemed it 
 then — leave-taking. For eleven o'clock two four-wheeled 
 cabs had been ordered, one to transport the O'Kelly with 
 his belongings to Hampstead and respectability; in the 
 other the Signora would journey sorrowfully to the 
 Tower Basin, there to join a circus company sailing for 
 the Continent. 
 
 I knocked at the door some quarter of an hour before 
 the appointed hour of the party. I fancy the idea had 
 originated with the Signora. 
 
 "Dear Willie has something to say to you," she had in- 
 formed me that morning on the stairs. *'He has taken a 
 sincere liking to you, and it is something very important." 
 
 They were sitting one each side the fireplace, looking 
 very serious; a bottle of the sobering champagne stood 
 upon the table. The Signora rose and kissed me gravely 
 on the brow ; the O'Kelly laid both hands upon my should- 
 ers, and sat me down on a chair between them. 
 
 ''Mr. Kelver," said the Signora, "you are very young." 
 
 I hinted — it was one of those rare occasions upon which 
 gallantry can be combined with truth — that I found my- 
 self in company. 
 
 The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head. 
 
230 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Age," said the O'Kelly, *'is a matter of feeling. Kel- 
 ver, may ye never be as old as I am feeling now." 
 
 "As we are feeling," corrected the Signora. 
 
 "Kelver," said the O'Kelly, pouring out a third glass 
 of champagne, "we want ye to promise us something." 
 
 "It will make us both happier," added the Signora. 
 
 "That ye will take warning," continued the O'Kelly, 
 "by our wretched example. Paul, in this world there is 
 only one path to possible happiness. The path of 
 strict — " he paused. 
 
 "Propriety," suggested the Signora. 
 
 "Of strict propriety," agreed the O'Kelly. "Deviate 
 from it," continued the O'Kelly, impressively, "and what 
 is the result?" 
 
 "Unutterable misery," supplied the Signora. 
 
 "Ye think we two have been happy here together," said 
 the O'Kelly. 
 
 I replied that such was the conclusion to which obser- 
 vation had directed me. 
 
 "We tried to appear so," explained the Signora ; "it was 
 merely on the outside. In reality all the time we hated 
 each other. Tell him, Willie, dear, how we have hated 
 each other." 
 
 "It is impossible," said the O'Kelly, finishing and put- 
 ting down his glass, "to give ye any idea, Kelver, how we 
 have hated each other." 
 
 "How we have quarrelled!" said the Signora. "Tell 
 him, dear, how^ we have quarrelled." 
 
 "All day long and half the night," concluded the 
 O'Kelly. 
 
 "Fought," added the Signora. "You see, Mr. Kelver, 
 people in — in our position always do. If it had been 
 otherwise, if — if everything had been proper, then of 
 course we should have loved each other. As it is, it 
 has been a cat and dog existence. Hasn't it been a cat 
 and dog existence, WiUie ?" 
 
 "It'3 been just hell upon earth," murmured the O'Kelly, 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 231 
 
 with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the fire-stove ornament. 
 
 Deadly in earnest though they both were, I could not 
 repress a laugh, their excellent intention was so obvious. 
 The Signora burst into tears. 
 
 *'He doesn't believe us," she wailed. 
 
 "Me dear," replied the O'Kelly, throwing up his part 
 with promptness and satisfaction, ''how could ye expect 
 it ? How could he believe that any man could look at ye 
 and hate ye?" 
 
 ''It's all my fault," cried the little woman ; "I am such a 
 wicked creature. I cannot even be miserable when I am 
 doing wrong. A decent woman in my place would have 
 been wretched and unhappy, and made everybody about 
 her wretched and unhappy, and so have set a good ex- 
 ample and have been a warning. I don't seem to have 
 any conscience, and I do try." The poor little lady was 
 sobbing her heart out. 
 
 When not shy I could be sensible, and of the O'Kelly 
 and the Signora one could be no more shy than of a pair 
 of robin redbreasts. Besides, I was really fond of them ; 
 they had been very good to me. 
 
 "Dear Miss Beltoni," I answered, "I am going to take 
 warning by you both." 
 
 She pressed my hand. "Oh, do, please do," she mur- 
 mured. "We really have been miserable — now and then." 
 
 "I am never going to be content," I assured her, "until 
 I find a lady as charming and as amiable as you, and if 
 ever I get her I'll take good care never to run any risk of 
 losing her." 
 
 It sounded well and pleased us all. The O'Kelly shook 
 me warmly by the hand, and this time spoke his real feel- 
 ings. 
 
 "Me boy," he said, "all women are good — for some- 
 body. But the woman that is good for yerself is better 
 for ye than a better woman who's the best for somebody 
 else. Ye understand?'* 
 
 I said I did. 
 
232 Paul Kelver 
 
 At eight o'clock precisely Mrs. Peedles arrived — as 
 Flora MacDonald, in green velvet jacket and twelve to 
 fifteen inches of plaid stocking. As a topic fitting the 
 occasion we discussed the absent Mr. Peedles and the sub- 
 ject of deserted wives in general. 
 
 "A fine-looking man," allowed Mrs. Peedles, ''but weak 
 — weak as water." 
 
 The Signora agreed that unfortunately there did exist 
 such men : 'twas pitiful but true. 
 
 • "My dear," continued Mrs. Peedles, "she wasn't even 
 a lady." 
 
 The Signora expressed astonishment at the deteriora- 
 tion in Mr. Peedles' taste thus implied. 
 
 'T won't go so far as to say we never had a difference," 
 continued Mrs. Peedles, whose object appeared to be an 
 impartial statement of the whole case. "There may have 
 been incompatability of temperament, as they say. My- 
 self, I have always been of a playful disposition — frivol- 
 ous, some might call me." 
 
 The Signora protested; the O'Kelly declined to listen 
 to such aspersion on her character even from Mrs. Peedles 
 herself. 
 
 Mrs. Peedles, thus corrected, allowed that maybe frivol- 
 ous was too sweeping an accusation : say sportive. 
 
 "But a good wife to him I always was," asserted Mrs. 
 Peedles, with a fine sense of justice; "never flighty, like 
 some of them. I challenge any one to accuse me of hav- 
 ing been flighty." 
 
 We felt we should not believe any one who did, and told 
 her so. 
 
 Mrs. Peedles, drawing her chair closer to the Signora, 
 assumed a confidential attitude. "If they want to go, let 
 'em go, I always say," she whispered loudly into the Sign- 
 ora's ear. "Ten to one they'll find they've only jumped 
 out of the frying-pan into the fire. One can always com- 
 fort oneself with that." 
 
 There seemed to be confusion in the mind of Mrs. 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 233 
 
 Peedles. Her virtuous sympathies, I gathered, were with 
 the Signora. Mr. O'Kelly's return to Mrs. O'Kelly evi- 
 dently manifested itself in the Hght of a shameful deser- 
 tion. Having regard to the fact, patent to all who knew 
 him, that the poor fellow was sacrificing every inclination 
 to stern sense of duty, such view of the matter was rough 
 on him. But philosophers from all ages have agreed that 
 our good deeds are the whips with which Fate punishes 
 us for our bad. 
 
 ''My dear," continued Mrs. Peedles, ''when Mr. Peedles 
 left me I thought that I should never smile again. Yet 
 here you see me laughing away through life, just as ever. 
 You'll get over it all right." And Mrs. Peedles wiped 
 away her tears and smiled upon the Signora; upon which 
 the Signora commenced to cry again. 
 
 Happily, timely diversion was made at this point by the 
 bursting into the room of Jarman, who upon perceiving 
 Mrs. Peedles, at once gave vent to a hoot, supposed to be 
 expressive of Scottish joy, and without a moment's hesi- 
 tation commenced to dance a reel. 
 
 My neighbours of the first floor knocked at the door a 
 little while afterwards; and genteelly late arrived Miss 
 Rosina Sellars, coldly gleaming in a decollete but awe- 
 inspiring costume of mingled black and scarlet, out of 
 which her fair, if fleshy, neck and arms shone luxuriant. 
 
 We did not go into supper; instead, supper came into 
 us from the restaurant at the corner of the Blackfriars 
 Road. I cannot say that at first it was a festive meal. The 
 O'Kelly and the Signora made effort, as in duty bound, 
 to be cheerful, but for awhile were somewhat unsuccess- 
 ful. The third floor front wasted no time in speech, but 
 ate and drank copiously. Miss Sellars, retaining her 
 gloves — which was perhaps wise, her hands being her 
 weak point — signalled me out, much to my embarrass- 
 ment, as the recipient of her most polite conversation. 
 Mrs. Peedles became reminiscent of parties generally. 
 Seeing that most of Mrs. Peedles' former friends and ac- 
 
234 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 quaintances were either dead or in more or less trouble^ 
 her efforts did not tend to enHven the table. One gather- 
 ing, of which the present strangely reminded her, was a 
 funeral, chiefly remarkable from discovery of the romantic 
 fact, late in the proceedings, that the gentleman in whose 
 honour the whole affair had been organised was not 
 dead at all ; but instead, having taken advantage of an er- 
 ror arising out of a railway accident, was at the moment 
 eloping with the wife of his own chief mourner. As Mrs. 
 Peedles explained, and as one could well credit, it had 
 been an awkward position for all present. Nobody had 
 quite known whether to feel glad or sorry — with the ex- 
 ception of the chief mourner, upon whose personal under- 
 taking that the company might regard the ceremony as 
 merely postponed, festivities came to an end. 
 
 Our prop and stay from a convivial point of view was 
 Jarman. As a delicate attention to Mrs. Peedles and her 
 costume he sunk his nationality and became for the even- 
 ing, according to his own declaration, "a braw laddie." 
 With her — his "sonsie lassie," so he termed her — he 
 flirted in the broadest, if not purest, Scotch. The O'Kelly 
 for him became "the Laird ;" the third floor "Jamie o' the 
 Ilk;" Miss Sellars, "the bonnie wee rose;" myself, "the 
 chiel." Periods of silence were dispersed by suggestions 
 that we should "hoot awa'," Jarman himself setting us the 
 example. 
 
 With the clearance away of the eatables, making room 
 for the production of a more varied supply of bottles, 
 matters began to mend. Mrs. Peedles became more arch, 
 Jarman's Scotch more striking and extensive, the Lady 
 'Ortensia's remarks less depressingly genteel, her aitchcs 
 less accentuated. 
 
 Jarman rose to propose the health of the O'Kelly, 
 coupled with that of the Signora. To the O'Kelly, in a 
 burst of generosity, Jarman promised our united patron- 
 age. To Jarman it appeared that by employing the 
 O'Kelly to defend us whenever we got into trouble with 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 235 
 
 the police, and by recommending him to our friends, a 
 steady income should be assured to him. 
 
 The O'Kelly replied feelingly to the effect that Nelson 
 Square, Blackfriars, would ever remain engraved upon 
 his memory as the fairest and brightest spot on earth. 
 Personally, nothing would have given him greater pleas- 
 ure than to die among the dear friends who now sur- 
 rounded him. But there was such a thing as duty, and 
 he and the Signora had come to the conclusion that true 
 happiness could only be obtained by acting according to 
 one's conscience, even if it made one miserable. 
 
 Jarman, warming to his work, then proposed the health 
 of Mrs. Peedles, as true-hearted and hard-breathing a 
 lady as ever it had been his privilege to know. Her talent 
 for cheery conversation was familiar to us all, upon it he 
 need not enlarge; all he would say was that personally 
 never did she go out of his room without leaving him 
 more cheerful than when she entered it. 
 
 After that — I forget in what — we drank the health of 
 the Lady 'Ortensia. Persons there were — ^Jarman would 
 not attempt to disguise the fact — who complained that 
 the Lady 'Ortensia was too distant, ''too stand-offish." 
 With such complaint he himself had no sympathy; but 
 tastes differed. If the Lady 'Ortensia were inclined to be 
 exclusive, who should blame her ? Everybody knew their 
 own business best. For use in a second floor front he 
 could not honestly recommend the Lady 'Ortensia; it 
 would not be giving her a fair chance, and it would not 
 be giving the second floor a fair chance. But for any 
 gentleman fitting up marble halls, for any one on the look- 
 out for a really "toney article," Jarman would say: In- 
 quire for Miss Rosina Sellars, and see that you get her. 
 
 There followed my turn. There had been literary 
 chaps in the past, Jarman admitted so much. Against 
 them he had nothing to say. They had no doubt done 
 their best. But the gentleman whose health Jarman 
 wished the company now to drink had this advantage over 
 
236 Paul Kelver 
 
 them : that they were dead, and he wasn't. Some of this 
 gentleman's work Jarman had read — in manuscript; but 
 that was a distinction purely temporary. He, Jarman, 
 claimed to be no judge of literature, but this he could and 
 would say, it took a good deal to make him miserable, 
 yet this the literary efforts of Mr. Kelver invariably ac- 
 complished. 
 
 Mrs. Peedles, speaking without rising, from personal 
 observation in the daytime — which she hoped would not 
 be deemed a liberty ; literature, even in manuscript, being, 
 so to speak, public property — found herself in a position 
 to confirm all that Mr. Jarman had remarked. Speaking 
 as one not entirely without authority on the subject of 
 literature and the drama, Mrs. Peedles could say that pas- 
 sages she had read had struck her as distinctly not half 
 bad. Some of the love-scenes, in particular, had made her 
 to feel quite a girl again. How he had acquired such 
 knowledge was not for her to say. Cries of "Naughty !" 
 from Jarman, and *'0h, Mr. Kelver, I shall be quite afraid 
 of you," roguishly from Miss Sellars. 
 
 The O'Kelly, who, having abandoned his favourite 
 champagne for less sobering liquor, had since supper-time 
 become rapidly more cheerful, felt sure there was a future 
 before me. That he had not seen any of my work, so he 
 assured me, in no way lessened his opinion of it. One 
 thing only would he impress upon me : that the best work 
 was the result of strict attention to virtue. His advice to 
 me was to marry young and be happy. 
 
 My persevering efforts of the last few months towards 
 the acquisition of convivial habits appeared this evening 
 to be receiving their reward. The O'Kelly's sweet cham- 
 pagne I had drunk with less dislike than hitherto ; a white, 
 syrupy sort of stuff, out of a fat and artistic-looking bot- 
 tle, I had found distinctly grateful to the palate. Dimly 
 the quotation about taking things at the flood, and so get- 
 ting on quickly, floated through my brain, coupled with 
 another one about fortune favouring the bold. It had 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 237 
 
 seemed to me a good occasion to try for the second time 
 in my life a full flavoured cigar. I had selected with the 
 caution of a connoisseur one of mottled green com- 
 plexion from the O'Kelly's largest box. And so far all 
 had gone well. An easy self-confidence, delightful by 
 reason of its novelty, had replaced my customary shyness ; 
 a sense of lightness — of positive airiness, emanating from 
 myself, pervaded all things. Tossing off another glass 
 of the champagne, I rose to reply. 
 
 Modesty in my present mood would have been affecta- 
 tion. To such dear and well-beloved friends I had no hesi- 
 tation in admitting the truth, that I was a clever fellow — 
 a damned clever fellow. I knew it, they knew it, in a 
 short time everybody would know it. But they need not 
 fear that in the hour of my pride, when it arrived, I should 
 prove ungrateful. Never should I forget their kindness 
 to me, a lonely young man, alone in a lonely — 
 
 Here the pathos of my own situation overcame me; 
 words seemed weak. "Jarman — " I meant, putting my 
 hand upon his head, to have blessed him for his goodness 
 to me ; but he being not exactly where he looked to be, I 
 just missed him, and sat down on the edge of my chair, 
 which was a hard one. I had not intended this to be the 
 end of my speech, by a long one ; but Jarman, whispering 
 to me: "Ended at exactly the right moment; shows the 
 born orator," strong inclination to remain seated, now that 
 I was down seconding his counsel, and the company being 
 clearly satisfied, I decided to leave things where they were. 
 
 A delightful dreaminess was stealing over me. Every- 
 thing and everybody appeared to be a long way off, but, 
 whether because of this or in spite of it, exceedingly at- 
 tractive. Never had I noticed the Signora so bewitching ; 
 in a motherly sort of way even the third floor front was 
 good to look upon ; Mrs. Peedles I could almost have be- 
 lieved to be the real Flora MacDonald sitting in front of 
 me. But the vision of Miss Rosina Sellars made literally 
 my head to swim. Never before had I dared to cast upon 
 
238 Paul Kelver 
 
 female loveliness the satisfying gaze with which I now 
 boldly regarded her every movement. Evidently she 
 noticed it, for she turned away her eyes. I had heard 
 that exceptionally strong-minded people merely by con- 
 centrating their will could make other, ordinary people, 
 do just whatever they, the exceptionally strong-minded 
 people, wished. I willed that Miss Rosina Sellars should 
 turn her eyes again towards me. Victory crowned my 
 efforts. Evidently I was one of these exceptionally 
 strong-minded persons. Slowly her eyes came round and 
 met mine with a smile — a helpless, pathetic smile that 
 said, so I read it : "You know no woman can resist you : 
 be merciful !" 
 
 Inflamed by the brutal lust of conquest, I suppose I 
 must have willed still further, for the next thing I remem- 
 ber is sitting with Miss Sellars on the sofa, holding her 
 hand, the while the O'Kelly sang a sentimental ballad, only 
 one line of which comes back to me : "For the angels must 
 have told him, and he knows I love him now," much stress 
 upon the "now." The others had their backs towards 
 us. Miss Sellars, with a look that pierced my heart, 
 dropped her somewhat large head upon my shoulder, 
 leaving, as I observed the next day, a patch of powder on 
 my coat. 
 
 Miss Sellars observed that one of the saddest things in 
 the world was unrequited love. 
 
 I replied gallantly, "Whateryou know about it?" 
 
 "Ah, you men, you men," murmured Miss Sellars ; 
 "you're all alike." 
 
 This suggested a personal aspersion on my character. 
 "Not alius," I murmured. 
 
 "You don't know what love is," said Miss Sellars. 
 "You're not old enough." 
 
 The O'Kelly had passed on to Sullivan's "Sweet- 
 hearts," then in its first popularity. 
 
 " Oh, love for a year — a week — a day ! 
 But oh for the love that loves al-wa-ay !"' 
 
Paul Falls into Strange Company 239 
 
 Miss Sellars' languishing eyes were fixed upon me; 
 Miss Sellars' red lips pouted and twitched ; Miss Sellars' 
 white bosom rose and fell. Never, so it seemed to me, 
 had so large an amount of beauty been concentrated in 
 one being. 
 
 "Yeserdo," I said. "I love you." 
 
 I stooped to kiss the red lips, but something was in my 
 way. It turned out to be a cold cigar. Miss Sellars 
 thoughtfully removed it, and threw it away. Our lips 
 met. Her large arms closed about my neck and held me 
 tight. 
 
 "Well, I'm sure!" came the voice of Mrs. Peedles, as 
 from afar. ''Nice goings on !" 
 
 I have vague remembrance of a somewhat heated dis- 
 cussion, in which everybody but myself appeared to be 
 taking extreme interest — of Miss Sellars in her most lady- 
 like and chilling tones defending me against the charge 
 of ''being no gentleman," which Mrs. Peedles was ex- 
 plaining nobody had said I wasn't. The argument 
 seemed to be of the circular order. No gentleman had 
 ever kissed Miss Sellars who had not every right to do 
 so, nor ever would. To kiss Miss Sellars without such 
 right was to declare oneself no gentleman. Miss Sellars 
 appealed to me to clear my character from the aspersion 
 of being no gentleman. I was trying to understand the 
 situation, when Jarman, seizing me somewhat roughly by 
 the arm, suggested my going to bed. Miss Sellars, seiz- 
 ing my other arm, suggested my refusing to go to bed. 
 So far I was with Miss Sellars : I didn't want to go to bed, 
 and said so. My desire to sit up longer was proof posi- 
 tive to Miss Sellars that I was a gentleman, but to no one 
 else. The argument shifted, the question being now as 
 to whether Miss Sellars were a lady. To prove the point 
 it was, according to Miss Sellars, necessary that I should 
 repeat I loved her. I did repeat it, adding, with faint 
 remembrance of my own fiction, that if a life's devotion 
 was likely to be of the slightest further proof, my heart's 
 
240 Paul Kelver 
 
 blood was at her service. This cleared the air, Mrs. 
 Peedles observing that under such circumstances it only 
 remained for her to withdraw everything she had said; 
 to which Miss Sellars replied graciously that she had 
 always known Mrs. Peedles to be a good sort at the 
 bottom. 
 
 Nevertheless, gaiety was gone from among us, and for 
 this, in some way I could not understand, I appeared to 
 be responsible. Jarman was distinctly sulky. The 
 O'Kelly, suddenly thinking of the time, went to the door 
 and discovered that the two cabs were waiting. The 
 third floor recollected that work had to be finished. I 
 myself felt sleepy. 
 
 Our host and hostess departed ; Jarman again suggested 
 bed, and this time I agreed with him. After a slight mis- 
 understanding with the door, I found myself upon the 
 stairs. I had never noticed before that they were quite 
 perpendicular. Adapting myself to the changed condi- 
 tions, I climbed them with the help of my hands. I ac- 
 complished the last flight somewhat quickly, and feeling 
 tired, sat down the moment I was within my own room. 
 Jarman knocked at the door. I told him to come in ; but 
 he didn't. It occurred to me that the reason was I was 
 sitting on the floor with my back against the door. The 
 discovery amused me exceedingly and I laughed; and 
 Jarman, baffled, descended to his own floor. I found get- 
 ting into bed a difficulty, owing to the strange behaviour 
 of the room. It spun round and round. Now the bed 
 was just in front of me, now it was behind me. I man- 
 aged at last to catch it before it could get past me, and 
 holding on by the ironwork, frustrated its efforts to 
 throw me out again on to the floor. 
 
 But it was some time before I went to sleep, and over 
 my intervening experiences I draw a veiL 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 GOOD FRIENDS SHOW PAUL THE ROAD TO FREEDOM. BUT 
 BEFORE SETTING OUT, HE WILL GO A-VISITING. 
 
 The Sim was streaming into my window when I woke 
 in the morning. I sat up and Hstened. The roar of the 
 streets told me plainly that the day had begun without 
 me. I reached out my hand for my watch ; it was not in 
 its usual place upon the rickety dressing-table. I raised 
 myself still higher and looked about me. My clothes lay 
 scattered on the floor. One boot, in solitary state, occu- 
 pied the chair by the fireplace; the other I could not see 
 anywhere. 
 
 During the night my head appeared to have grown 
 considerably. I wondered idly for the moment whether 
 I had not made a mistake and put on Minikin's; if so, 
 I should be glad to exchange back for my own. This 
 thing I had got was a top-heavy affair, and was aching 
 most confoundedly. 
 
 Suddenly the recollection of the previous night rushed 
 at me and shook me awake. From a neighbouring stee- 
 ple rang chimes : I counted with care. Eleven o'clock. 
 I sprang out of bed, and at once sat down upon the floor. 
 I remembered how, holding on to the bed, I had felt the 
 room waltzing wildly round and round. It had not quite 
 steadied itself even yet. It was still rotating, not whirl- 
 ing now, but staggering feebly, as though worn out by 
 its all-night orgie. Creeping to the wash-stand, I suc- 
 ceeded, after one or two false plunges, in getting my head 
 inside the basin. Then, drawing on my trousers with 
 difficulty and reaching the easy-chair, I sat down and 
 
242 Paul Kelver 
 
 reviewed matters so far as I was able, commencing from 
 the present and working back towards the past. 
 
 I was feeling very ill. That was quite clear. Some- 
 thing had disagreed with me. 
 
 "That strong cigar," I whispered feebly to myself; "I 
 ought never to have ventured upon it. And then the lit- 
 tle room with all those people in it. Besides, I have been 
 working very hard. I must really take more exercise." 
 
 It gave me some satisfaction to observe that, shuffling 
 and cowardly though I might be, I was not a person easily 
 bamboozled. 
 
 "Nonsense," I told myself brutally; "don't try to de- 
 ceive me. You were drunk." 
 
 "Not drunk," I pleaded; "don't say drunk; it is such 
 a coarse expression. Some people cannot stand sweet 
 champagne, so I have heard. It affected my liver. Do 
 please make it a question of liver." 
 
 "Drunk," I persisted unrelentingly, "hopelessly, vul- 
 garly drunk — drunk as any 'Arry after a Bank Holiday." 
 
 "It is the first time," I murmured. 
 
 "It was your first opportunity," I replied. 
 
 "Never again," I promised. 
 
 "The stock phrase," I returned. 
 
 "How old are you?" 
 
 "Nineteen." 
 
 "So you have not even the excuse of youth. How do 
 you know that it will not grow upon you; that, having 
 thus commenced a downward career, you will not sink 
 lower and lower, and so end by becoming a confirmed 
 sot?" 
 
 My heavy head dropped into my hands, and I groaned. 
 Many a temperance tale perused on Sunday afternoons 
 came back to me. Imaginative in all directions, I watched 
 myself hastening toward a drunkard's grave, now heroic- 
 ally struggling against temptation, now weakly yielding, 
 the craving growing upon me. In the misty air about me 
 I saw my father's white face, my mother's sad eyes. I 
 
The Road to Freedom 243 
 
 thought of Barbara, of the scorn that could quiver round 
 that bewitching mouth ; of Hal, with his tremendous con- 
 tempt for all forms of weakness. Shame of the present 
 and terror of the future between them racked my mind. 
 
 "It shall be never again !" I cried aloud. *'By God, it 
 shall!" (At nineteen one is apt to be vehement.) "I 
 will leave this house at once," I continued to myself 
 aloud; "I will get away from its unwholesome atmos- 
 phere. I will wipe it out of my mind, and all connected 
 with it. I will make a fresh start. I will " 
 
 Something I had been dimly conscious of at the back 
 of my brain came forward and stood before me: the 
 flabby figure of Miss Rosina Sellars. What was she do- 
 ing here? What right had she to step between me and 
 my regeneration? 
 
 "The right of your affianced bride," my other half ex- 
 plained, with a grim smile to myself. 
 
 "Did I really go so far as that?" 
 
 "We will not go into details," I replied ; "I do not wish 
 to dwell upon them. That was the result." 
 
 "I was — I was not quite myself at the time. I did not 
 know what I was doing." 
 
 "As a rule, we don't when we do foolish things; but 
 we have to abide by the consequences, all the same. Un- 
 fortunately, it happened to be in the presence of wit- 
 nesses, and she is not the sort of lady to be easily got rid 
 of. You will marry her and settle down with her in two 
 small rooms. Her people will be your people. You will 
 come to know them better before many days are passed. 
 Among them she is regarded as 'the lady,' from which 
 you can judge of them. A nice commencement of your 
 career, is it not, my ambitious young friend? A nice 
 mess you have made of it!" 
 
 "What am I to do?" I asked. 
 
 "Upon my word, I don't know," I answered. 
 
 I passed a wretched day. Ashamed to face Mrs. Pee- 
 dles or even the slavey, I kept to my room, with 
 
244 P^^l Kelver 
 
 the door locked. At dusk, feeling a little better — or, 
 rather, less bad, I stole out and indulged in a simple meal, 
 consisting of tea without sugar and a kippered herring, 
 at a neighbouring coffee-house. Another gentleman, tak- 
 ing his seat opposite to me and ordering hot buttered 
 toast, I left hastily. 
 
 At eight o'clock in the evening Minikin called round 
 from the office to know what had happened. Seeking 
 help from shame, I confessed to him the truth. 
 
 ''Thought as much," he answered. "Seems to have 
 been an Ai from the look of you." 
 
 'T am glad it has happened, now it is over," I said to 
 him. 'Tt will be a lesson I shall never forget." 
 
 'T know," said Minikin. "Nothing like a fair and 
 square drunk for making you feel real good ; better than 
 a sermon." 
 
 In my trouble I felt the need of advice; and Minikin, 
 though my junior, was, I knew, far more experienced in 
 worldly affairs than I was. 
 
 "That's not the worst," I confided to him. "What do 
 you think I've done?" 
 
 "Killed a policeman?" suggested Minikin. 
 
 "Got myself engaged." 
 
 "No one like you quiet fellows for going it when you 
 do begin," commented Minikin. "Nice girl?" 
 
 "I don't know," I answered. "I only know I don't 
 want her. How can I get out of it?" 
 
 Minikin removed his left eye and commenced to polish 
 it upon his handkerchief, a habit he had when in doubt. 
 From looking into it he appeared to derive inspiration. 
 
 "Take-her-own-part sort of a girl?" 
 
 I intimated that he had diagnosed Miss Rosina Sellars 
 correctly. 
 
 "Know how much you're earning?" 
 
 "She knows I live up here in this attic and do my own 
 cooking," I answered. 
 
The Road to Freedom 245 
 
 Minikin glanced round the room. "Must be fond of 
 you." 
 
 "She thinks I'm clever," I explained, "and that I shall 
 make my way." 
 
 "And she's willing to wait ?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "Well, I should let her wait," replied Minikin, replac- 
 ing his eye. "There's plenty of time before you." 
 
 "But she's a barmaid, and she'll expect me to walk 
 with her, to take her out on Sundays, to go and see her 
 friends. I can't do it. Besides, she's right: I mean to 
 get on. Then she'll stick to me. It's awful !" 
 
 "How did it happen ?" asked Minikin. 
 
 "I don't know," I replied. "I didn't know I had done 
 it till it was over." 
 
 "Anybody present ?" 
 
 "Half-a-dozen of them," I groaned. 
 
 The door opened, and Jarman entered; he never trou- 
 bled to knock anywhere. In place of his usual noisy 
 greeting, he crossed in silence and shook me gravely 
 by the hand. 
 
 "Friend of yours?" he asked, indicating Minikin. 
 
 I introduced them to each other. 
 
 "Proud to meet you," said Jarman. 
 
 "Glad to hear it," said Minikin. "Don't look as if 
 you'd got much else to be stuck up about." 
 
 "Don't mind him," I explained to Jarman. "He was 
 born like it." 
 
 "Wonderful gift," replied Jarman. "D'ye know what 
 I should do if I 'ad it?" He did not wait for Minikin's 
 reply. " 'Ire myself out to break up evening parties. 
 Ever thought of it seriously?" 
 
 Minikin replied that he would give the idea consider- 
 ation. 
 
 "Make your fortune going round the suburbs," assured 
 him Jarman. "Pity you weren't 'ere last night," he con- 
 
246 Paul Kelver 
 
 tinned; "might 'ave saved our young friend 'ere a deal 
 of trouble. Has 'e told you the news ?" 
 
 I explained that I had already put Minikin in posses- 
 sion of all the facts. 
 
 "Now you've got a good, steady eye," said Jarman, 
 upon whom Minikin, according to his manner, had fixed 
 his glass orb ; " 'ow d'ye think 'e is looking ?" 
 
 "As well as can be expected under the circumstances, 
 don't you think ?" answered Minikin. 
 
 "Does 'e know the circumstances? Has 'e seen the 
 girl?" asked Jarman. 
 
 I replied he had not as yet enjoyed that privilege. 
 
 "Then 'e don't know the worst," said Jarman. "A 
 hundred and sixty pounds of 'er, and still growing! Bit 
 of a load for 'im, ain't it?" 
 
 "Some of 'em do have luck," was Minikin's rejoinder. 
 
 Jarman leant forward and took further stock for a few 
 seconds of his new acquaintance. 
 
 "That's a fine 'ead of yours," he remarked; "all your 
 own? No offence," continued Jarman, without giving 
 Minikin time for repartee. "I was merely thinking there 
 must be room for a lot of sense in it. Now, what do you, 
 as a practical man, advise 'im : dose of poison, or Waterloo 
 Bridge and a brick?" 
 
 "I suppose there's no doubt," I interjected, "that we 
 are actually engaged?" 
 
 "Not a blooming shadow," assured me Jarman, cheer- 
 fully, "so far as she's concerned." 
 
 "I shall tell her plainly," I explained, "that I was drunk 
 at the time." 
 
 "And 'ow are you going to convince 'er of it?" asked 
 Jarman. "You think your telling 'er you loved 'er proves 
 it. So it would to anybody else, but not to 'er. You 
 can't expect it. Besides, if every girl is going to give 
 up 'er catch just because the fellow 'adn't all 'is wits 
 about 'im at the time — well, what do you think ?" He ap- 
 pealed to Minikin. 
 
The Road to Freedom 247 
 
 To Minikin it appeared that if such contention were 
 allowed girls might as well shut up shop. 
 
 Jarman, who now that he had "got even" with Minikin, 
 was more friendly disposed towards that young man, drew 
 his chair closer to him and entered upon a private 
 and confidential argument, from which I appeared to be 
 entirely excluded. 
 
 "You see," explained Jarman, "this ain't an ordinary 
 case. This chap's going to be the future Poet Laureate. 
 Now, when the Prince of Wales invites him to dine at 
 Marlborough 'Ouse, 'e don't want to go there tacked on 
 to a girl that carries aitches with her in a bag, and don't 
 know which end of the spoon out of which to drink 'er 
 soup." 
 
 "It makes a difference, of course," agreed Minikin. 
 
 "What we've got to do," said Jarman, "is to get 'im 
 out of it. And upon my sivvy, blessed if I see 'ow to 
 doit!" 
 
 "She fancies him?" asked Minikin. 
 
 "What she fancies," explained Jarman, "is that nature 
 intended 'er to be a lady. And it's no good pointing ont 
 to 'er the mistake she's making, because she ain't g t 
 sense enough to see it." 
 
 "No good talking straight to her," suggested Mini- 
 kin, "telling her that it can never be ?" 
 
 "That's our difficulty," repHed Jarman; "it can be. 
 This chap" — I listened as might a prisoner in the dock 
 to the argument of counsel, interested but impotent — 
 "don't know enough to come in out of the rain, as the 
 saying is. 'E's just the sort of chap this sort of thing 
 does 'appen to." 
 
 "But he don't want her," urged Minikin. "He says 
 he don't want her." 
 
 "Yes, to you and me," answered Jarman; "and of 
 course 'e don't. I'm not saying 'e's a natural born idiot. 
 But let 'er come along and do a snivel — tell 'im that 'e's 
 breaking 'er 'eart, and appeal to 'im to be'ave as a gen- 
 
248 Paul Kelver 
 
 tleman, and all that sort of thing, and what do you think 
 will be the result?" 
 
 Minikin agreed that the problem presented difficul- 
 ties. 
 
 "Of course, if 'twas you or me, we should just tell 'er 
 to put 'erself away somewhere where the moth couldn't 
 get at 'er and wait till we sent round for 'er ; and there'd 
 be an end of the matter. But with 'im it's different." 
 
 *'He is a bit of a soft," agreed Minikin. 
 
 "'Tain't 'is fault," explained Jarman ; "'twas the way 'e 
 was brought up. 'E fancies girls are the sort of things 
 one sees in plays, going about saying 'Un'and me !' 'Let 
 me pass!' Maybe some of 'em are, but this ain't one 
 of 'em." 
 
 "How did it happen?" asked Minikin. 
 
 " 'Ow does it 'appen nine times out of ten ?" returned 
 Jarman. " 'E was a bit misty, and she was wide awake. 
 'E gets a bit spoony, and — well, you know." 
 
 "Artful things, girls," commented Minikin. 
 
 "Can't blame 'em," returned Jarman, with generosity; 
 "it's their business. Got to dispose of themselves some- 
 how. Oughtn't to be binding without a written order 
 dated the next morning ; that'd make it all right." 
 
 "Couldn't prove a prior engagement?" suggested Min- 
 ikin. 
 
 "She'd want to see the girl first before she'd believe it 
 — only natural," returned Jarman. 
 
 "Couldn't get a girl?" urged Minikin. 
 
 "Who could you trust?" asked the cautious Jarman. 
 "Besides, there ain't time. She's letting 'im rest to-day ; 
 to-morrow evening she'll be down on 'im." 
 
 "Don't see anything for it," said Minikin, "but for him 
 to do a bunk." 
 
 "Not a bad idea that," mused Jarman; "only where's 
 'e to bunk to?" 
 
 "Needn't go far," said Minikin. 
 
 "She'd find 'im out and follow 'im," said Jarman. "She 
 
The Road to Freedom 249 
 
 can look after herself, mind you. Don't you go doing 
 'er any injustice." 
 
 "He could change his name," suggested Minikin. 
 
 " 'Ow could 'e get a crib ?" asked Jarman ; "no charac- 
 ter, no references." 
 
 "I've got it," cried Jarman, starting up; "the stage!" 
 
 "Can he act?" asked Minikin. 
 
 "Can do anything," retorted my supporter, "that don't 
 want too much sense. That's 'is sanctuary, the stage. 
 No questions asked, no character wanted. Lord! why 
 didn't I think of it before?" 
 
 "Wants a bit of getting on to, doesn't it?" suggested 
 Minikin. 
 
 "Depends upon where you want to get," replied Jar- 
 man. For the first time since the commencement of the 
 discussion he turned to me. "Can you sing?" he asked 
 me. 
 
 I replied that I could a little, though I had never done 
 so in public. 
 
 "Sing something now," demanded Jarman; "let's 'ear 
 you. Wait a minute!" he cried. 
 
 He slipped out of the room. I heard him pause upon 
 the landing below and knock at the door of the fair 
 Rosina's room. The next minute he returned. 
 
 "It's all right," he explained; "she's not in yet. Now, 
 sing for all you're worth. Remember, it's for life and 
 freedom." 
 
 I sang "Sally in Our Alley," not with much spirit, I am 
 inclined to think. With every mention of the lady's 
 name there rose before me the abundant form and fea- 
 tures of my fiancee, which checked the feeling that should 
 have trembled through my voice. But Jarman, though 
 not enthusiastic, was content. 
 
 "It isn't what I call a grand opera voice," he com- 
 mented, "but it ought to do all right for a chorus where 
 economy is the chief point to be considered. Now, I'll 
 tell you what to do. You go to-morrow straight to 
 
250 Paul Kelver 
 
 the O 'Kelly, and put the whole thing before 'im. 'E's a 
 good sort; 'e'll touch you up a bit, and maybe give you 
 a few introductions. Lucky for you, this is just the 
 right time. There's one or two things comin' on, and 
 if Fate ain't dead against you, you'll lose your amorita, 
 or whatever it's called, and not find 'er again till it's too 
 late." 
 
 I was not in the mood that evening to feel hopeful about 
 anything ; but I thanked both of them for their kind inten- 
 tions and promised to think the suggestion over on the 
 morrow, when, as it was generally agreed, I should be in 
 a more fitting state to bring cool judgment to bear upon 
 the subject ; and they rose to take their departure. 
 
 Leaving Minikin to descend alone, Jarman returned 
 the next minute. "Consols are down a bit this week," he 
 whispered, with the door in his hand. 'If you want a 
 little of the ready to carry you through, don't go sellin' 
 out. I can manage a few pounds. Suck a couple of lem- 
 ons and you'll be all right in the morning. So long." 
 
 I followed his advice regarding the lemons, and finding 
 it correct, went to the office next morning as usual. Lott 
 & Co., in consideration of my agreeing to a deduction of 
 two shillings on the week's salary, allowed himself to 
 overlook the matter. I had intended acting on Jarman's 
 advice, to call upon the O'Kelly at his address of re- 
 spectability in Hampstead that evening, and had posted 
 him a note saying I was coming. Before leaving the 
 office, however, I received a reply to the effect that he 
 would be out that evening, and asking me to make it the 
 following Friday instead. Disappointed, I returned to 
 my lodgings in a depressed state of mind. Jarman's 
 scheme, which had appeared hopeful and even attractive 
 during the daytime, now loomed shadowy and impossible 
 before me. The emptiness of the first floor parlour as I 
 passed its open door struck a chill upon me, reminding 
 me of the disappearance of a friend to whom, in spite of 
 moral disapproval, I had during these last few months 
 
The Road to Freedom 
 
 251 
 
 become attached. Unable to work, the old pain of lone- 
 liness returned upon me. I sat for awhile in the dark- 
 ness, listening to the scratching of the pen of my neigh- 
 bour, the old law-writer, and the sense of despair that its 
 sound always communicated to me encompassed me about 
 this evening with heavier weight than usual. 
 
 After all, was not the sympathy of the Lady 'Ortensia, 
 stimulated for personal purposes though it might be, bet- 
 ter than nothing? At least, here was some living crea- 
 ture to whom I belonged, to whom my existence or non- 
 existence was of interest, who, if only for her own sake, 
 was bound to share my hopes, my fears. 
 
 It was in this mood that I heard a slight tap at the door. 
 In the dim passage stood the small slavey, holding out a 
 note. I took it, and returning, lighted my candle. The 
 envelope was pink and scented. It was addressed, in 
 handwriting not so bad as I had expected, to *Taul Kel- 
 ver, Esquire." I opened it and read : 
 
 "Dr mr. Paul — I herd as how you was took hill hafter 
 the party. I feer you are not strong. You must not 
 work so hard or you will be hill and then I shall be very 
 cros with you. I hop you are well now. If so I am go- 
 ing for a wark and you, may come with me if you are 
 good. With much love. From your affechonat 
 
 RosiE." 
 
 In spite of the spelling, a curious, tingling sensation 
 stole over me as I read this my first love-letter. A faint 
 mist swam before my eyes. Through it, glorified and 
 softened, I saw the face of my betrothed, pasty yet allur- 
 ing, her large white fleshy arms stretched out invitingly 
 toward me. Moved by a sudden hot haste that seized 
 me, I dressed myself with trembling hands ; I appeared to 
 be anxious to act without giving myself time for thought. 
 Complete, with a colour in my cheeks unusual to them. 
 
252 Paul Kelver 
 
 and a burning in my eyes, I descended and knocked with 
 a nervous hand at the door of the second floor back. 
 
 ** Who's that?" came in answer Miss Sellars' sharp 
 tones. 
 
 "It is I— Paul." 
 
 "Oh, wait a minute, dear." The tone was sweeter. 
 There followed the sound of scurried footsteps, a rustling 
 of clothes, a banging of drawers, a few moments' dead 
 silence, and then : 
 
 "You can come in now, dear." 
 
 I entered. It was a small, untidy room, smelling of 
 smoky lamp ; but all I saw distinctly at the moment was 
 Miss Sellars with her arms above her head, pinning her 
 hat upon her straw-coloured hair. 
 
 With the sight of her before me in the flesh, my feel- 
 ings underwent a sudden revulsion. During the few min- 
 utes she had kept me waiting outside the door I had suf- 
 fered from an almost uncontrollable desire to turn the 
 handle and rush in. Now, had I acted on impulse, I 
 should have run out. Not that she was an unpleasant- 
 looking girl by any means; it was the atmosphere of 
 coarseness, of commonness, around her that repelled me. 
 The fastidiousness — finikinness, if you will — that would 
 so often spoil my rare chop, put before me by a waitress 
 with dirty finger-nails, forced rrie to disregard the ample 
 charms she no doubt did possess, to fasten my eyes ex- 
 clusively upon her red, rough hands and the one or two 
 warts that grew thereon. 
 
 "You're a very naughty boy," told me Miss Sellars, fin- 
 ishing the fastening of her hat. "Why didn't you come 
 in and see me in the dinner-/jour ? I've a great mind not 
 to kiss you." 
 
 The powder she had evidently dabbed on hastily was 
 plainly visible upon her face ; the round, soft arms were 
 hidden beneath ill-fitting sleeves of some crapey material, 
 the thought of which put my teeth on edge. I wished her 
 intention had been stronger. Instead, relenting, she 
 
The Road to Freedom 253 
 
 offered me her flowery cheek, which I saluted gingerly, 
 the taste of it reminding me of certain pale, thin dough- 
 cakes manufactured by the wife of our school porter and 
 sold to us in playtime at four a penny, and which, having 
 regard to their satisfying quality, had been popular with 
 me in those days. 
 
 At the top of the kitchen stairs Miss Sellars paused 
 and called down shrilly to Mrs. Peedles, who in course of 
 time appeared, panting. 
 
 **Oh, me and Mr. Kelver are going out for a short 
 walk, Mrs. Peedles. I shan't want any supper. Good 
 night." 
 
 "Oh, good night, my dear," replied Mrs. Peedles. 
 "Hope you'll enjoy yourselves. Is Mr. Kelver there?" 
 
 "He's round the corner," I heard Miss Sellars explain 
 in a lower voice; and there followed a snigger. 
 
 "tie's a bit shy, ain't he?" suggested Mrs. Peedles in 
 a whisper. 
 
 "I've had enough of the other sort," was Miss Sellars' 
 answer in low tones. 
 
 "Ah, well ; it's the shy ones that come out the strongest 
 after a bit — leastways, that's been my experience." 
 
 "He'll do all right. So long." 
 
 Miss Sellars, buttoning a burst glove, rejoined me. 
 
 "I suppose you've never had a sweetheart before?" 
 asked Miss Sellars, as we turned into the Blackfriars 
 Road. 
 
 I admitted that this was my first experience. 
 
 "I can't a-bear a flirty man," explained Miss Sellars. 
 "That's why I took to you from the beginning. You 
 was so quiet." 
 
 I began to wish that nature had bestowed upon me a 
 noisier temperament. 
 
 "Anybody could see you was a gentleman," continued 
 Miss Sellars. "Heaps and heaps of hoffers I've had — 
 /hundreds you might almost say. But what I've always 
 told 'em is, 'I like you very much indeed as a friend, but 
 
254 P^^l Kelver 
 
 Vm not going to marry any one but a gentleman/ Don*t 
 you think I was right ?" 
 
 I murmured it was only what I should have expected 
 of her. 
 
 "You may take my harm, if you like," suggested Miss 
 Sellars, as we crossed St. George's Circus ; and linked, we 
 pursued our way along the Kennington Park Road. 
 
 Fortunately, there was not much need for me to talk. 
 Miss Sellars was content to supply most of the conversa- 
 tion herself, and all of it was about herself. 
 
 I learned that her instincts since childhood had been 
 toward gentility. Nor was this to be wondered at, see- 
 ing that her family — on her mother's side, at all events, 
 — were connected distinctly with "the highest in the land." 
 Mesalliances, however, are common in all communities, 
 and one of them, a particularly flagrant specimen — her 
 "Mar" had, alas! contracted, having married — what did 
 I think ? I should never guess — a waiter ! Miss Sellars, 
 stopping in the act of crossing Newington Butts to shud- 
 der at the recollection of her female parent's shame, was 
 nearly run down by a tramcar. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Sellars did not appear to have "hit it off" 
 together. Could one wonder : Mrs. Sellars with an uncle 
 on the Stock Exchange, and Mr. Sellars with one on Peck- 
 ham Rye? I gathered his calling to have been, chiefly, 
 "three shies a penny." Mrs. Sellars was now, however, 
 happily dead ; and if no other good thing had come out of 
 the catastrophe, it had determined Miss Sellars to take 
 warning by her mother's error and avoid connection 
 with the lowly born. She it was who, with my help, 
 would lift the family back again to its proper position in 
 society. 
 
 "It used to be a joke against me," explained Miss 
 Sellars, "heven when I was quite a child. I never could 
 tolerate anything low. Why, one day when I was only 
 seven years old, what do you think happened ?" 
 
 I confessed my inability to guess. 
 
The Road to Freedom 255 
 
 "Well, ril tell you," said Miss Sellars ; "it'll just show 
 you. Uncle Joseph — that was father's uncle, you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 I assured Miss Sellars that the point was fixed in my 
 mind. 
 
 "Well, one day when he came to see us he takes a cocoa- 
 nut out of his pocket and offers it to me. 'Thank you,' 
 I says ; 'I don't heat cocoanuts that have been shied at by 
 just anybody and missed !' It made him so wild. After 
 that," explained Miss Sellars, "they used to call me at 
 home the Princess of Wales." 
 
 I murmured it was a pretty fancy. 
 
 "Some people," replied Miss Sellars, with a giggle, 
 "says it fits me; but, of course, that's only their non- 
 sense." 
 
 Not knowing what to reply, I remained silent, which 
 appeared to somewhat disappoint Miss Sellars. 
 
 Out of the Clapham Road we turned into a by-street 
 of two-storeyed houses. 
 
 "You'll come in and have a bit of supper?" suggested 
 Miss Sellars. "Mar's quite hanxious to see you." 
 
 I found sufficient courage to say I was not feeling well, 
 and would much rather return home. 
 
 "Oh, but you must just come in for five minutes, dear. 
 It'll look so funny if you don't. I told 'em we was com- 
 ing." 
 
 "I would really rather not," I urged ; "some other even- 
 ing." I felt a presentiment, I confided to her, that on this 
 particular evening I should not shine to advantage. 
 
 "Oh, you mustn't be so shy," said Miss Sellars. "I 
 don't like shy fellows — not too shy. That's silly." And 
 Miss Sellars took my arm with a decided grip, making it 
 clear to me that escape could be obtained only by an un- 
 seemly struggle in the street; not being prepared for 
 which, I meekly yielded. 
 
 We knocked at the door of one of the small houses. Miss 
 Sellars retaining her hold upon me until it had been 
 
256 Paul Kelver 
 
 opened to us by a lank young man in his shirt-sleeves and 
 closed behind us. 
 
 "Don't gentlemen wear coats of a hevening nowadays ?" 
 asked Miss Sellars, tartly, of the lank young man. "New 
 fashion just come in?" 
 
 "1 don't know what gentlemen wear in the evening or 
 what they don't," retorted the lank young man, who ap- 
 peared to be in an aggressive mood. "If I can find one 
 in this street, I'll ast him and let you know." 
 
 "Mother in the droaring-room ?" enquired Miss Sellars, 
 ignoring the retort. 
 
 "They're all of 'em in the parlour, if that's what you 
 mean," returned the lank young man, "the whole bloom- 
 ing shoot. If you stand up against the wall and don't 
 breathe, there'll just be room for you." 
 
 Sweeping by the lank young man. Miss Sellars opened 
 the parlour door, and towing me in behind her, shut it. 
 
 "Well, Mar, here we are," announced Miss Sellars. 
 
 An enormously stout lady, ornamented with a cap that 
 appeared to have been made out of a bandanna handker- 
 chief, rose to greet us, thus revealing the fact that she had 
 been sitting upon an extremely small horsehair-covered 
 easy-chair, the disproportion between the lady and her 
 support being quite pathetic. 
 
 "I am charmed, Mr. " 
 
 "Kelver," supplied Miss Sellars. 
 
 "Kelver, to make your ac-quain-tance," recited Mrs. 
 Sellars in the tone of one repeating a lesson. 
 
 I bowed, and murmured that the honour was entirely 
 mine. 
 
 "Don't mention it," replied Mrs. Sellars. "Pray be 
 seated." 
 
 Mrs. Sellars herself set the example by suddenly giving 
 way and dropping down into her chair, which thus again 
 became invisible. It received her with an agonised groan. 
 
 Indeed, the insistence with which this article cf furni- 
 ture throughout the evening ca^.kd attention to its suf- 
 
The Road to Freedom 257 
 
 ferings was really quite distracting. With every breath 
 that Mrs. Sellars took it moaned wearily. There were 
 moments when it literally shrieked. I could not have ac- 
 cepted Mrs. Sellars' offer had I wished, there being no 
 chair vacant and no room for another. A young man 
 with watery eyes, sitting just behind me between a fat 
 young lady and a lean one, rose and suggested my taking 
 his place. Miss Sellars introduced me to him as her 
 cousin Joseph something or other, and we shook 
 hands. 
 
 The watery-eyed Joseph remarked that it had been a 
 fine day between the showers, and hoped that the morrow 
 would be either wet or dry; upon which the lean young 
 lady, having slapped him, asked admiringly of the fat 
 young lady if he wasn't a "silly fool;" to which the fat 
 young lady replied, with somewhat unnecessary severity, 
 I thought, that no one could help being what they were 
 born. To this the lean young lady retorted that it was 
 with precisely similar reflection that she herself controlled 
 her own feelings when tempted to resent the fat young 
 lady's "nasty jealous temper." 
 
 The threatened quarrel was nipped in the bud by the 
 discretion of Miss Sellars, who took the opportunity of 
 the fat young lady's momentary speechlessness to intro- 
 duce me promptly to both of them. They also, I learned, 
 were cousins. The lean girl said she had " erd on me," 
 and immediately fell into an uncontrollable fit of giggles ; 
 of which the watery-eyed Joseph requested me to take no 
 notice, explaining that she always went off like that at 
 exactly three-quarters to the half-hour every evening, 
 Sundays and holidays excepted ; that she had taken every- 
 thing possible for it without effect, and that what he him- 
 self advised was that she should have it off. 
 
 The fat girl, seizing the chance afforded her, remarked 
 genteelly that she too had "heard hof me," with emphasis 
 upon the "hof." She also remarked it was a long walk 
 from Blackfriars Bridge. 
 
258 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 "All depends upon the company, eh? Bet they didn't 
 find it too long." 
 
 This came from a loud-voiced, red-faced man sitting on 
 the sofa beside a somewhat melancholy-looking female 
 dressed in bright green. These twain I discovered to 
 be Uncle and Aunt Gutton. From an observation dropped 
 later in the evening concerning government restrictions 
 on the sale of methylated spirit, and hastily smothered, I 
 gathered that their Hne was oil and colour. 
 
 Mr. Gutton's forte appeared to be badinage. He it 
 was who, on my explaining my heightened colour as due 
 to the closeness of the evening, congratulated his niece on 
 having secured so warm a partner. 
 
 "Will be jolly handy," shouted Uncle Gutton, "for 
 Rosina, seeing she's always complaining of her cold feet." 
 
 Here the lank young man attempted to squeeze himself 
 into the room, but found his entrance barred by the 
 square, squat figure of the watery-eyed young man. 
 
 "Don't push," advised the watery-eyed young man. 
 "Walk over me quietly." 
 
 "Well, why don't yer get out of the way," growled the 
 lank young man, now coated, but still aggressive. 
 
 "Where am I to get to?" asked the watery-eyed young 
 man, with some reason. "Say the word and I'll 'ang my- 
 self up to the gas bracket." 
 
 "In my courting days," roared Uncle Gutton, "the girls 
 used to be able to find seats, even if there wasn't enough 
 chairs to go all round." 
 
 The sentiment was received with varying degrees of 
 approbation. The watery-eyed young man, sitting down, 
 put the lean young lady on his knee, and in spite of her 
 struggles and sounding slaps, heroically retained her 
 there. 
 
 "Now, then, Rosie," shouted Uncle Gutton, who ap- 
 peared to have constituted himself master of the ceremo- 
 nies, "don't stand about, my girl ; you'll get tired." 
 
 Left to herself, I am inclined to think my fiancee would 
 
The Road to Freedom 259 
 
 have spared me ; but Uncle Gutton, having been Invited to 
 a love comedy, was not to be cheated of any part of the 
 performance, and the audience clearly being with him, 
 there was nothing for it but compliance. I seated myself, 
 and amid plaudits accommodated the ample and heavy 
 Rosina upon my knee. 
 
 "Good-bye," called out to me the watery-eyed young 
 man, as behind the fair Rosina I disappeared from his 
 view. "See you again later on." 
 
 "I used to be a plump girl myself before I married," 
 observed Aunt Gutton. "Plump as butter I was at one 
 time." 
 
 "It isn't what one eats," said the maternal Sellars. "I 
 myself don't eat enough to keep a fly, and my legs " 
 
 "That'll do. Mar," interrupted the filial Sellars, tartly. 
 
 "I was only going to say, my dear " 
 
 "We all know what you was going to say, Mar," re- 
 torted Miss Sellars. "We've heard it before, and it isn't 
 interesting." 
 
 Mrs. Sellars relapsed into silence. 
 
 " 'Ard work and plenty of it keeps you thin enough, / 
 notice," remarked the lank young man, with bitterness. 
 To him I was now introduced, he being Mr. George 
 Sellars. "Seen 'im before," was his curt greeting. 
 
 At supper — referred to by Mrs. Sellars again in the 
 tone of one remembering a lesson, as a cold col-la-tion, 
 with the accent on the "tion" — I sat between Miss Sellars 
 and the lean young lady, with Aunt and Uncle Gutton 
 opposite to us. It was remarked with approval that I 
 did not appear to be hungry. 
 
 "Had too many kisses afore he started," suggested 
 Uncle Gutton, with his mouth full of cold roast pork and 
 pickles. "Wonderfully nourishing thing, kisses, eh? 
 Look at mother and me. That's all we live on." 
 
 Aunt Gutton sighed, and observed that she had always 
 been a poor feeder. 
 
 The watery-eyed young man, observing he had never 
 
26o Paul Kelver 
 
 tasted them himself — at which sally there was much 
 laughter — said he would not mind trying a sample if the 
 lean young lady would kindly pass him one. 
 
 The lean young lady opined that, not being used to high 
 living, it might disagree with him. 
 
 "Just one," pleaded the watery-eyed young man, "to go 
 with this bit of cracklin'." 
 
 The lean young lady, amid renewed applause, first 
 thoughtfully wiping her mouth, acceded to his request. 
 
 The watery-eyed young man turned it over with the air 
 of a gounnet. 
 
 "Not bad," was his verdict. "Reminds me of onions." 
 At this there was another burst of laughter. 
 
 "Now then, ain't Paul goin' to have one?" shouted Un- 
 cle Gutton, when the laughter had subsided. 
 
 Amid silence, feeling as wretched as perhaps I have 
 ever felt in my life before or since, I received one from 
 the gracious Miss Sellars, wet and sounding. 
 
 "Looks better for it already," commented the delighted 
 Uncle Gutton. "He'll soon get fat on 'em." 
 
 "Not too many at first," advised the watery-eyed young 
 man. "Looks to me as if he's got a weak stomach." 
 
 I think, had the meal lasted much longer, I should have 
 made a dash for the street ; the contemplation of such step 
 was forming in my mind. But Miss Sellars, looking at 
 her watch, declared we must be getting home at once, 
 for the which I could have kissed her voluntarily; and, 
 being a young lady of decision, at once rose and com- 
 menced leave-taking. Polite protests were attempted, but 
 these, with enthusiastic assistance from myself, she swept 
 aside. 
 
 "Don't want any one to walk home with you?" sug- 
 gested Uncle Gutton. "Sure you won't feel lonely by 
 yourselves, eh?" 
 
 "We shan't come to no harm," assured him Miss Sel- 
 lars. 
 
 "P'raps you're right," agreed Uncle Gutton. "There 
 
The Road to Freedom 261 
 
 don't seem to be much of the fiery and untamed about 
 him, so far as I can see." 
 
 " 'Slow waters run deep/ " reminded us Aunt Gutton, 
 with a waggish shake of her head. 
 
 *'No question about the slow," assented Uncle Gutton. 
 
 *'If you don't like him — " observed Miss Sellars, speak- 
 ing with dignity. 
 
 'To be quite candid with you, my girl, I don't," an- 
 swered Uncle Gutton, whose temper, maybe as the result 
 of too much cold pork and whiskey, seemed to have sud- 
 denly changed. 
 
 "Well, he happens to be good enough for me," re- 
 commenced Miss Sellars. 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear a niece of mine say so," interrupted 
 Uncle Gutton. "If you want my opinion of him " 
 
 "If ever I do I'll call round some time when you're so- 
 ber and ast you for it," returned Miss Sellars. "And as 
 for being your niece, you was here when I came, and I 
 don't see very well as how I could have got out of it. You 
 needn't throw that in my teeth." 
 
 The gust was dispersed by the practical remark of 
 brother George to the effect that the last tram for Wal- 
 worth left the Oval at eleven-thirty; to which he further 
 added the suggestion that the Clapham Road was wide 
 and well adapted to a row. 
 
 "There ain't going to be no rows," replied Uncle Gut- 
 ton, returning to amiability as suddenly as he had de- 
 parted from it. "We understand each other, don't we, 
 my girl?" 
 
 "That's all right, uncle. I know what you mean," re- 
 turned Miss Sellars, with equal handsomeness. 
 
 "Bring him round again when he's feeling better," 
 added Uncle Gutton, "and we'll have another look at 
 him." 
 
 "What you want," advised the watery-eyed young man 
 on shaking hands with me, "is complete rest and a tomb- 
 stone." 
 
262 Paul Kelver 
 
 I wished at the time I could have followed his prescrip- 
 tion. 
 
 The maternal Sellars waddled after us into the passage, 
 which she completely blocked. She told me she was de- 
 light-ted to have met me, and that she was always at 
 home on Sundays. 
 
 I said I would remember it, and thanked her warmly for 
 a pleasant evening, at Miss Sellars' request calling her 
 Ma. 
 
 Outside, Miss Sellars agreed that my presentiment had 
 proved correct — ^that I had not shone to advantage. Our 
 journey home on a tramcar was a somewhat silent pro- 
 ceeding. At the door of her room she forgave me, and 
 kissed me good night. Had I been frank with her, I 
 should have thanked her for that evening's experience. 
 It had made my course plain to me. 
 
 The next day, which was Thursday, I wandered about 
 the streets till two o'clock in the morning, when I slipped 
 in quietly, passing Miss Sellars' door with my boots in 
 my hand. 
 
 After Mr. Lott's departure on Friday, which, fortu- 
 nately, was pay-day, I set my desk in order and confided 
 to Minikin written instructions concerning all matters un- 
 finished. 
 
 "I shall not be here to-morrow," I told him. "Going to 
 follow your advice." 
 
 "Found anything to do?" he asked. 
 
 "Not yet," I answered. 
 
 "Suppose you can't get anything?" 
 
 "If the worst comes to the worst," I replied, "I can 
 hang myself." 
 
 "Well, you know the girl. Maybe you are right," he 
 agreed. 
 
 "Hope it won't throw much extra work on you," I 
 said. 
 
 "Well, I shan't be catching it if it does," was his an- 
 swer, "That's all right." 
 
The Road to Freedom 263 
 
 He walked with me to the "Angel," and there we 
 parted. 
 
 "If you do get on to the stage," he said, "and it's any- 
 thing worth seeing, and you send me an order, and I can 
 find the time, maybe I'll come and see you." 
 
 I thanked him for his promised support and jumped 
 upon the tram. 
 
 The O'Kelly's address was in Belsize Square. I was 
 about to ring and knock, as requested by a highly-polished 
 brass plate, when I became aware of pieces of small coal 
 falling about me on the doorstep. Looking up, I per- 
 ceived the O'Kelly leaning out of an attic window. From 
 signs I gathered I was to retire from the doorstep and 
 wait. In a few minutes the door opened and his hand 
 beckoned me to enter. 
 
 "Walk quietly," he whispered; and on tip-toe we 
 climbed up to the attic from where had fallen the coal. 
 "I've been waiting for ye," explained the O'Kelly, speak- 
 ing low. "Me wife — a good woman, Paul ; sure, a better 
 woman never lived ; ye'll like her when ye know her, later 
 on — she might not care about ye're calling. She'd want 
 to know where I met ye, and — ye understand ? Besides," 
 added the O'Kelly, "we can smoke up here;" and seat- 
 ing himself where he could keep an eye upon the 
 door, near to a small cupboard out of which he pro- 
 duced a pipe still alight, the O'Kelly prepared himself to 
 listen. 
 
 I told him briefly the reason of my visit. 
 
 "It was my fault, Paul," he was good enough to say; 
 "my fault entirely. Between ourselves, it was a damned 
 silly idea, that party, the whole thing altogether. Don't 
 ye think so?" 
 
 I replied that I was naturally prejudiced against it my- 
 self. 
 
 "Most unfortunate for me," continued the O'Kelly ; "I 
 know that. Me cabman took me to Hammersmith in- 
 stead of Hampstead ; said I told him Hammersmith. 
 
264 Paul Kelver 
 
 Didn't get home here till three o'clock in the morning. 
 Most unfortunate — under the circumstances." 
 
 I could quite imagine it. 
 
 "But I'm glad ye've come," said the O'Kelly. "I had a 
 notion ye did something foolish that evening, but I 
 couldn't remember precisely what. It's been worrying 
 me. 
 
 "It's been worrying me also, I can assure you," I told 
 him ; and I gave him an account of my Wednesday even- 
 ing's experience. 
 
 "I'll go round to-morrow morning," he said, "and see 
 one or two people. It's not a bad idea, that of Jarman's. 
 I think I may be able to arrange something for ye." 
 
 He fixed a time for me to call again upon him the next 
 day, when Mrs. O'Kelly would be away from home. He 
 instructed me to walk quietly up and down on the oppo- 
 site side of the road with my eye on the attic window, and 
 not to come across unless he waved a handkerchief. 
 
 Rising to go, I thanked him for his kindness. "Don't 
 put it that way, me dear Paul," he answered. "If I don't 
 get ye out of this scrape I shall never forgive me- 
 self. If we damned silly fools don't help one another," 
 he added, with his pleasant laugh, "who is to help us ?" 
 
 We crept downstairs as we had crept up. As we 
 reached the first floor, the drawing-room door suddenly 
 opened. 
 
 "William !" cried a sharp voice. 
 
 "Me dear," answered the O'Kelly, snatching his pipe 
 from his mouth and thrusting it, still alight, into his 
 trousers pocket. I made the rest of the descent by my- 
 self, and slipping out, closed the door behind me as noise- 
 lessly as possible. 
 
 Again I did not return to Nelson Square until the early 
 hours, and the next morning did not venture out until I 
 had heard Miss Sellars, who appeared to be in a bad tem- 
 per, leave the house. Then running to the top of the 
 kitchen stairs, I called for Mrs. Peedles. I told her I 
 
The Road to Freedom 265 
 
 was going to leave her, and, judging the truth to be the 
 simplest explanation, I told her the reason why. 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Peedles, "I am only too glad to 
 hear it. It. wasn't for me to interfere, but I couldn't help 
 seeing you were making a fool of yourself. I only hope 
 you'll get clear off, and you may depend upon me to do all 
 I can to help you." 
 
 ''You don't think I'm acting dishonourably, do you, 
 Mrs. Peedles ?" I asked. 
 
 "My dear," replied Mrs. Peedles, "it's a difficult world 
 to live in — leastways, that's been my experience of it." 
 
 I had just completed my packing — it had not taken me 
 long — when I heard upon the stairs the heavy panting 
 that always announced to me the up-coming of Mrs. 
 Peedles. She entered with a bundle of old manuscripts 
 under her arm, torn and tumbled booklets of various 
 shapes and sizes. These she plumped down upon the 
 rickety table, and herself upon the nearest chair. 
 
 "Put them in your box, my dear," said Mrs. Peedles. 
 "They'll come in useful to you later on." 
 
 I glanced at the bundle. I saw it was a collection of 
 old plays in manuscript — prompt copies, scored, cut and 
 interlined. The top one I noticed was "The Bloodspot: 
 Or the Maiden, the Miser and the Murderer ;" the second, 
 "The Female Highwayman." 
 
 "Everybody's forgotten 'em," explained Mrs. Peedles, 
 "but there's some good stuff in all of them." 
 
 "But what am I to do with them ?" I enquired. 
 
 "Just whatever you like, my dear," explained Mrs. Pee- 
 dles. "It's quite safe. They're all of 'em dead, the 
 authors of 'em. I've picked 'em out most carefully. You 
 just take a scene from one and a scene from the other. 
 With judgment and your talent you'll make a dozen good 
 plays out of that little lot when your time comes." 
 
 "But they wouldn't be my plays, Mrs. Peedles," I sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "They will if I give them to you," answered Mrs. Pee- 
 
266 Paul Kelver 
 
 dies. "You put 'em in your box. And never mind the 
 bit of rent," added Mrs. Peedles; "you can pay me that 
 later on." 
 
 I kissed the kind old soul good-bye and took her gift 
 with me to my new lodgings in Camden Town. Many 
 a time have I been hard put to it for plot or scene, and 
 more than once in weak mood have I turned with guilty 
 intent the torn and crumpled pages of Mrs. Peedles's do- 
 nation to my literary equipment. It is pleasant to be able 
 to put my hand upon my heart and reflect that never yet 
 have I yielded to the temptation. Always have I laid them 
 back within their drawer, saying to myself, with stern re- 
 proof : 
 
 "No, no, Paul. Stand or fall by your own merits. 
 Never plagiarise — in any case, not from this 'little lot.' " 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LEADS TO A MEETING. 
 
 "Don't be nervous," said the O'Kelly, "and don't try 
 to do too much. You have a very fair voice, but it's not 
 powerful. Keep cool and open your mouth." 
 
 It was eleven o'clock in the morning. We were stand- 
 ing at the entrance of the narrow court leading to the 
 stage door. For a fortnight past the O'Kelly had been 
 coaching me. It had been nervous work for both of us, 
 but especially for the O'Kelly. Mrs. O'Kelly, a thin, 
 acid-looking lady, of whom I once or twice had caught a 
 glimpse while promenading Belsize Square awaiting the 
 O'Kelly's signal, was a serious-minded lady, with a con- 
 scientious objection to all music not of a sacred character. 
 With the hope of winning the O'Kelly from one at least 
 of his sinful tendencies, the piano had been got rid of, and 
 its place in the drawing-room filled by an American or- 
 gan of exceptionally lugubrious tone. With this we had 
 had to make shift, and though the O'Kelly — a veritable 
 musical genius — had succeeded in evolving from it an 
 accompaniment to "Sally in Our Alley" less misleading 
 and confusing than might otherwise have been the case, 
 the result had not been to lighten our labours. My ren- 
 dering of the famous ballad had, in consequence, acquired 
 a dolefulness not intended by the composer. Sung as I 
 sang it, the theme became, to employ a definition since 
 grown hackneyed as applied to Art, a problem ballad. In- 
 voluntarily one wondered whether the marriage would 
 turn out as satisfactorily as the young man appeared to 
 anticipate. Was there not, when one came to think of it, 
 a melancholy, a pessimism ingrained within the tempera- 
 ment of the complainful hero that would ill assort with 
 
268 Paul Kelver 
 
 those instincts toward frivolity the careful observer could 
 not avoid discerning in the charming yet nevertheless 
 somewhat shallow character of Sally. 
 
 ''Lighter, lighter. Not so soulful," would demand the 
 O'Kelly, as the solemn notes rolled jerkily from the groan- 
 ing instrument beneath his hands. 
 
 Once we were nearly caught, Mrs. O'Kelly returning 
 from a district visitors' committee meeting earlier than 
 was expected. Hastily I was hidden in a small conserva- 
 tory ad jutting from the first floor landing, where, crouch- 
 ing behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling 
 to the severe cross-examination of the O'Kelly. 
 
 "William, do not prevaricate. It was not a hymn." 
 
 "Me dear, so much depends upon the time. Let me 
 give ye an example of what I mean." 
 
 "William, pray in my presence not to play tricks with 
 sacred melodies. 'If you have no respect for religion, 
 please remember that I have. Besides, why should you be 
 playing hymns in any time at ten o'clock in the morning? 
 It is not like you, William, and I do not credit your ex- 
 planation. And you were singing. I distinctly heard the 
 word 'Sally' as I opened the door." 
 
 "Salvation, me dear," corrected the O'Kelly. 
 
 "Your enunciation, William, is not usually so much at 
 fault." 
 
 "A little hoarseness, me dear," explained the O'Kelly. 
 
 "Your voice did not sound hoarse. Perhaps it will be 
 better if we do not pursue the subject further." 
 
 With this the O'Kelly appeared to agree. 
 
 "A lady a little difficult to get on with when ye're feel- 
 ing well and strong," so the O'Kelly would explain 
 her; "but if ye happen to be ill, one of the kindest, most 
 devoted of women. When I was down with typhoid three 
 years ago, a tenderer nurse no man could have had. I 
 shall never forget it. And so she would be again to-mor- 
 row, if there was anything serious the matter with me." 
 
 I murmured the well-known quotation. 
 
Leads to a Meeting 269 
 
 "Mrs. O'Kelly to a T," concurred the O'Kelly. "I 
 sometimes wonder if Lady Scott may not have been the 
 same sort of woman." 
 
 "The unfortunate part of it is," continued the O'Kelly, 
 "that I'm such a healthy beggar; it don't give her a 
 chance. If I were only a chronic invalid, now, there's 
 nothing that woman would not do to make me happy. 
 As it is — " The O'Kelly struck a chord. We resumed 
 our studies. 
 
 But to return to our conversation at the stage door. 
 
 "Meet me at the Cheshire Cheese at one o'clock," said 
 the O'Kelly, shaking hands. "If ye don't get on here, 
 we'll try something else ; but I've spoken to Hodgson, and 
 I think ye will. Good luck to ye !" 
 
 He went his way and I mine. In a glass box just be- 
 hind the door a cUrved-nose, round-eyed little man, look- 
 ing like an angry bird in a cage, demanded of me my 
 business. I showed him my letter of appointment. 
 
 "Up the passage, across the stage, along the corridor, 
 first floor, second door on the right," he instructed me in 
 one breath, and shut the window with a snap. 
 
 I proceeded up the passage. It somewhat surprised 
 me to discover that I was not in the least excited at the 
 thought of this, my first introduction to "behind the 
 scenes." 
 
 I recall my father's asking a young soldier on his return 
 from the Crimea what had been his sensations at the 
 commencement of his first charge. 
 
 "Well," replied the young fellow, "I was worrying all 
 the time, remembering I had rushed out leaving the beer 
 tap running in the canteen, and I could not forget it." 
 
 So far as the stage I found my way in safety. Pausing 
 for a moment and glancing round, my impression was not 
 so much disillusionment concerning all things theatrical 
 as realisation of my worst forebodings. In that one mo- 
 ment all glamour connected with the stage fell from me, 
 nor has it since ever returned to me. From the tawdry 
 
270 Paul Kelver 
 
 decorations of the auditorium to the childish make-belief 
 littered around on the stage, I saw the Theatre a painted 
 thing of shreds and patches — the grown child's doll's- 
 house. The Drama may improve us, elevate us, interest 
 and teach us. I am sure it does; long may it flourish! 
 But so likewise does the dressing and undressing of dolls, 
 the opening of the front of the house, and the tenderly 
 putting of them away to bed in rooms they completely 
 fill, train our little dears to the duties and the joys of 
 motherhood. Toys ! what wise child despises them ? Art, 
 fiction, the musical glasses : are they not preparing us for 
 the time, however distant, when we shall at last be grown 
 up? 
 
 In a maze of ways beyond the stage I lost myself, but 
 eventually, guided by voices, came to a large room fur- 
 nished barely with many chairs and worn settees, and here 
 I found some twenty to thirty ladies and gentlemen al- 
 ready seated. They were of varying ages, sizes and ap- 
 pearance, but all of them alike in having about them that 
 impossible-to-define but impossible-to-mistake suggestion 
 of theatricality. The men were chiefly remarkable for 
 having no hair on their faces, but a good deal upon their 
 heads ; the ladies, one and all, were blessed with remark- 
 ably pink and white complexions and exceptionally bright 
 eyes. The conversation, carried on in subdued but pene- 
 trating voices, was chiefly of "him" and "her." Every- 
 body appeared to be on an affectionate footing with every- 
 body else, the terms of address being "My dear," "My 
 love," "Old girl," "Old chappie," Christian names — when 
 name of any sort was needful — alone being employed. I 
 hesitated for a minute with the door in my hand, fearing 
 I had stumbled upon a family gathering. As, however, 
 nobody seemed disconcerted at my entry, I ventured to 
 take a vacant seat next to an extremely small and boyish- 
 looking gentleman and to ask him if this was the room 
 in which I, an applicant for a place in the chorus of the 
 forthcoming comic opera, ought to be waiting. 
 
Leads to a Meeting 271 
 
 He had large, fishy eyes, with which he looked me up 
 and down. For such a length of time he remained thus re- 
 garding me in silence that a massive gentleman sitting 
 near, who had overheard, took it upon himself to reply 
 in the affirmative, adding that from what he knew of But- 
 terworth we would all of us be waiting here a damned 
 sight longer than any gentleman should keep other ladies 
 and gentlemen waiting for no reason at all. 
 
 "I think it exceedingly bad form," observed the fishy- 
 eyed gentleman, in deep contralto tones, **for any gentle- 
 man to take it upon himself to reply to a remark addressed 
 to quite another gentleman." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," retorted the large gentleman. "I 
 thought you were asleep." 
 
 ''I think it very ill manners," remarked the small gen- 
 tlemen in the same slow and impressive tones, "for any 
 gentleman to tell another gentleman, who happens to be 
 wide awake, that he thought he was asleep." 
 
 "Sir," returned the massive gentleman, assuming with 
 the help of a large umbrella a quite Johnsonian attitude, 
 "I decline to alter my manners to suit your taste." 
 
 "If you are satisfied with them," replied the small gen- 
 tleman, "I cannot help it. But I think you are making 
 a mistake." 
 
 "Does anybody know what the opera is about?" asked 
 a bright little woman at the other end of the room. 
 
 "Does anybody ever know what a comic opera is 
 about?" asked another lady, whose appearance suggested 
 experience. 
 
 "I once asked the author," observed a weary-looking 
 gentleman, speaking from a corner. "His reply was : 
 'Well, if you had asked me at the beginning of the re- 
 hearsals I might have been able to tell you, but damned 
 if I could now !" 
 
 "It wouldn't surprise me," observed a good-looking 
 gentleman in a velvet coat, "if there occurred somewhere 
 in the proceedings a drinking chorus for male voices." 
 
2/2 Paul Kelver 
 
 'Tossibly, if we are good," added a thin lady with 
 golden hair, "the heroine will confide to us her love trou- 
 bles, which will interest us and excite us." 
 
 The door at the further end of the room opened and 
 a name was caled. An elderly lady rose and went 
 out. 
 
 "Poor old Gertie!" remarked sympathetically the thin 
 lady with the golden hair. "Fm told that she really had 
 a voice once." 
 
 "When poor young Bond first came to London," said 
 the massive gentleman who was sitting on my left, "I re- 
 member his telling me he applied to Lord Barrymore's 
 'tiger,' Alexander Lee, I mean, of course, who was then 
 running the Strand Theatre, 'for a place in the chorus. 
 Lee heard him sing two lines, and then jumped up. 
 'Thanks, that'll do; good morning,' says Lee. Bond 
 knew he had got a good voice, so he asked Lee what was 
 wrong. 'What's wrong?' shouts Lee. 'Do you think I 
 hire a chorus to show up my principals ?' " 
 
 "Having regard to the company present," commented 
 the fishy-eyed gentleman, "I consider that anecdote as dis- 
 tinctly lacking in tact." 
 
 The feeling of the company appeared to be with the 
 fish-eyed young man. 
 
 For the next half hour the door at the further end of 
 the room continued to open and close, devouring, ogre- 
 fashion, each time some dainty human morsel, now chorus 
 gentleman, now chorus lady. Conversation among our 
 thinning ranks became more fitful, a growing anxiety 
 making for silence. 
 
 At length, "Mr. Horace Moncrieff" called the voice of 
 the unseen Charon. In common with the rest, I glanced 
 round languidly to see what sort of man "Mr. Horace 
 Moncrieff" might be. The door was pushed open fur- 
 ther. Charon, now revealed as a pale-faced young man 
 with a drooping moustache, put his head into the room 
 and repeated impatiently his invitation to the apparently 
 
Leads to a Meeting 273 
 
 coy Moncrieff. It suddenly occurred to me that I was 
 Mr. Horace Moncrieff. 
 
 /'So glad you've found yourself," said the pale-faced 
 young man, as I joined him at the door. *Tlease don't 
 lose yourself again ; we're rather pressed for time." 
 
 I crossed with him through a deserted refreshment 
 bar — one of the saddest of sights — into a room beyond. 
 A melancholy-looking gentleman was seated at the piano. 
 Beside him stood a tall, handsome man, who was opening 
 and reading rapidly from a bundle of letters he held in his 
 hand. A big, burly, bored-looking gentleman was mak- 
 ing desperate efforts to be amused at the staccato conver- 
 sation of a sharp-faced, restless-eyed gentleman, whose 
 peculiarity was that he never by any chance looked at 
 the person to whom he was talking, but always at some- 
 thing or somebody else. 
 
 ''Moncrieff?" enquired the tall, handsome man — whom 
 I later discovered to be Mr. Hodgson, the manager — 
 without raising his eyes from his letters. 
 
 The pale-faced gentleman responded for me. 
 
 "Fire away," said Mr. Hodgson. 
 
 "What is it ?" asked of me wearily the melancholy gen- 
 tleman at the piano. 
 
 " 'Sally in Our Alley,' " I replied. 
 
 "What are you?" interrupted Mr. Hodgson. He had 
 never once looked at me, and did not now. 
 
 "A tenor," I replied. "Not a full tenor," I added, re- 
 membering the O'Kelly's instructions. 
 
 "Utterly impossible to fill a tenor," remarked the rest- 
 less-eyed gentleman, looking at me and speaking to the 
 worried-looking gentleman. "Ever tried?" 
 
 Everybody laughed, with the exception of the melan- 
 choly gentleman at the piano, Mr. Hodgson throwing in 
 his contribution without raising his eyes from his letters. 
 Throughout the proceedings the restless-eyed gentleman 
 continued to make humorous observations of this nature, 
 at which everybody laughed, excepting always the mel- 
 
274 P^^l Kelver 
 
 ancholy pianist — a short, sharp, mechanical laugh, devoid 
 of the least suggestion of amusement. The restless-eyed 
 gentleman, it appeared, was the leading low comedian of 
 the theatre. 
 
 "Go on," said the melancholy gentleman, and com- 
 menced the accompaniment. 
 
 "Tell me when he's going to begin," remarked Mr. 
 Hodgson at the conclusion of the first verse. 
 
 "He has a fair voice," said my accompanist. "He's evi- 
 dently nervous." 
 
 "There is a prejudice throughout theatrical audiences," 
 observed Mr. Hodgson, "in favour of a voice they can 
 hear. That is all I am trying to impress upon him." 
 
 The second verse, so I imagined, I sang in the voice of 
 a trumpet. The burly gentleman — the translator of the 
 French libretto, as he turned out to be ; the author of the 
 English version, as he preferred to be called — acknowl- 
 edged to having distinctly detected a sound. The rest- 
 less-eyed comedian suggested an announcement from the 
 stage requesting strict silence during my part of the per- 
 formance. 
 
 The sickness of fear was stealing over me. My voice, 
 so it seemed to me, disappointed at the effect it had pro- 
 duced, had retired, sulky, into my boots, whence it re- 
 fused to emerge. 
 
 "Your voice is all right — very good," whispered the 
 musical conductor. "They want to hear the best you can 
 do, that's all." 
 
 At this my voice ran up my legs and out of my mouth. 
 
 "Thirty shillings a week, half salary for rehearsals. If 
 that's all right, Mr. Catchpole will give you your agree- 
 ment. If not, very much obliged. Good morning," said 
 Mr. Hodgson, still absorbed in his correspondence. 
 
 With the pale-faced young man I retired to a desk in 
 the corner, where a few seconds sufficed for the comple- 
 tion of the business. Leaving, I sought to catch the eye 
 of my melancholy friend, but he appeared too sunk in 
 
Leads to a Meeting 275 
 
 dejection to notice anything. The restless-eyed comedian, 
 looking at the author of the English version and address- 
 ing me as Boanerges, wished me good morning, at which 
 the everybody laughed; and, informed as to the way out 
 by the pale-faced Mr. Catchpole, I left. 
 
 The first "call" was for the following Monday at two 
 o'clock. I found the theatre full of life and bustle. The 
 principals, who had just finished their own rehearsal, were 
 talking together in a group. We ladies and gentlemen 
 of the chorus filled the centre of the stage. I noticed the 
 lady I had heard referred to as Gertie; as also the thin 
 lady with the golden hair. The massive gentleman and 
 the fishy-eyed young man were again in close proximity ; 
 so long as I knew them they always were together, pos- 
 sessed, apparently, of a sympathetic antipathy for each 
 other. The fishy-eyed young gentleman was explaining 
 the age at which he thought decayed chorus singers ought, 
 in justice to themselves and the public, to retire from the 
 profession; the massive gentleman, the age and size at 
 which he thought parcels of boys ought to be learning 
 manners across their mother's knee. 
 
 Mr. Hodgson, still reading letters exactly as I had left 
 him four days ago, stood close to the footlights. My 
 friend, the musical director, armed with a violin and sup- 
 ported by about a dozen other musicians, occupied the or- 
 chestra. The adapter and the stage manager — a French- 
 man whom I found it good policy to mistake for a born 
 Englishman — sat deep in confabulation at a small table 
 underneath a temporary gas jet. Quarter of an hour or 
 so passed by, and then the stage manager, becoming sud- 
 denly in a hurry, rang a small bell furiously. 
 
 "Clear, please ; all clear," shouted a small boy, with im- 
 portant air suggestive of a fox terrier ; and, following the 
 others, I retreated to the wings. 
 
 The comedian and the leading lady — whom I knew well 
 from the front, but whom I should never have recognised 
 — severed themselves from their companions and joined 
 
276 Paul Kelver 
 
 Mr. Hodgson by the footlights. As a preliminary we 
 were sorted out, according to our sizes, into loving cou- 
 ples. 
 
 "Ah," said the stage manager, casting an admiring gaze 
 upon the fishy-eyed young man, whose height might have 
 been a little over five feet two, ''I have the very girl for 
 you — a beauty !" Darting into the group of ladies, he re- 
 turned with quite the biggest specimen, a lady of mag- 
 nificent proportions, whom, with the air of the virtuous 
 uncle of melodrama, he bestowed upon the fishy-eyed 
 young man. To the massive gentleman was given a 
 sharp-faced little lady, who at a distance appeared quite 
 girlish. Myself I found mated to the thin lady with the 
 golden hair. 
 
 At last complete, we took our places in the then ap- 
 proved semi-circle, and the attenuated orchestra struck up 
 the opening chorus. My music, which had been sent me 
 by post, I had gone over with the O'Kelly, and about that 
 I felt confident ; but for the rest, ill at ease. 
 
 "I am afraid," said the thin lady, *T must ask you to 
 put your arm round my waist. It's very shocking, I 
 know, but, you see, our salary depends upon it. Do you 
 think you could manage it?" 
 
 I glanced into her face. A whimsical expression of 
 fun replied to me and drove away my shyness. I carried 
 out her instructions to the best of my ability. 
 
 The indefatigable stage manager ran in and out among 
 us while we sang, driving this couple back a foot or so, 
 this other forward, herding this group closer together, 
 throughout another making space, suggesting the idea 
 of a sheep-dog at work. 
 
 "Very good, very good indeed," commented Mr. Hodg- 
 son at the conclusion. "We will go over it once more, 
 and this time in tune." 
 
 "And we will make love," added the stage manager; 
 "not like marionettes, but like ladies and gentlemen all 
 alive." Seizing the lady nearest to him, he explained to 
 
Leads to a Meeting 277 
 
 us by object lesson how the real peasant invariably be- 
 haves when under influence of the grand passion, stand- 
 ing gracefully with hands clasped upon heart, head in- 
 clined at an angle of forty-five, his whole countenance 
 eloquent with tender adoration. 
 
 "If he expects," remarked the massive gentleman sotto 
 voce to an experienced-looking young lady, "a perform- 
 ance of Romeo thrown in, I, for one, shall want an extra 
 ten shillings a week." 
 
 Casting the lady aside and seizing upon a gentleman, 
 our stage manager then proceeded to show the ladies how 
 a village maiden should receive affectionate advances : one 
 shoulder a trifle higher than the other, body from the 
 waist upward gently waggling, roguish expression in left 
 eye. 
 
 "Ah, he's a bit new to it," replied the experienced young 
 lady. "He'll get over all that." 
 
 Again we started. Whether others attempted to fol- 
 low the stage manager's directions I cannot say, my whole 
 attention being centred upon the fishy-eyed young man, 
 who did, implicitly. Soon it became apparent that the 
 whole of us were watching the fishy-eyed young man to 
 the utter neglect of our own business. Mr. Hodgson 
 even looked up from his letters; the orchestra was play- 
 ing out of time ; the author of the English version and the 
 leading lady exchanged glances. Three people only ap- 
 peared not to be enjoying themselves : the chief comedian, 
 the stage manager and the fishy-eyed young gentleman 
 himself, who pursued his labours methodically and con- 
 scientiously. There was a whispered confabulation be- 
 tween the leading low comedian, Mr. Hodgson and the 
 stage manager. As a result, the music ceased and the 
 fishy-eyed young gentleman was requested to explain 
 what he was doing. 
 
 "Only making love," replied the fishy-eyed young gen- 
 tleman. 
 
2/8 Paul Kelver 
 
 "You were playing the fool, sir," retorted the leading 
 low comedian, severely. 
 
 "That is a very unkind remark," replied the fishy-eyed 
 young gentleman, evidently hurt, "to make to a gentle- 
 man who is doing his best." 
 
 Mr. Hodgson behind his letters was laughing. "Poor 
 fellow," he murmured; "I suppose he can't help it. Go 
 on." 
 
 "We are not producing a pantomime, you know," urged 
 our comedian. 
 
 "I want to give him a chance, poor devil," explained 
 Mr. Hodgson in a lower voice. "Only support of a wid- 
 owed mother." 
 
 Our comedian appeared inclined to argue; but at this 
 point Mr. Hodgson's correspondence became absorbing. 
 
 For the chorus the second act was a busy one. We 
 opened as soldiers and vivandieres, every warrior in this 
 way possessing his own private travelling bar. Our stage 
 manager again explained to us by example how a sol- 
 dier behaves, first under stress of patriotic emotion, and 
 secondly under stress of cheap cognac, the difference be- 
 ing somewhat subtle : patriotism displaying itself by slaps 
 upon the chest, and cheap cognac by slaps upon the fore- 
 head. A little later we were conspirators ; our stage man- 
 ager, with the help of a tablecloth, showed us how to 
 conspire. Next we were a mob, led by the sentimental 
 baritone ; our stage manager, ruffling his hair, expounded 
 to us how a mob led by a sentimental baritone would nat- 
 urally behave itself. The act wound up with a fight. 
 Our stage manager, minus his coat, demonstrated to us 
 how to fight and die, the dying being a painful and dusty 
 performance, necessitating, as it did, much rolling about 
 on the stage. The fishy-eyed young gentleman through- 
 out the whole of it was again the centre of attraction. 
 Whether he were solemnly slapping his chest and sing- 
 ing about glory, or solemnly patting his head and singing 
 about grapes, was immaterial : he was the soldier for us. 
 
Leads to a Meeting 279 
 
 What the plot was about did not matter, so long as he 
 was in it. Who led the mob one did not care; one's de- 
 sire was to see him lead. How others fought and died 
 was matter of no moment; to see him slaughtered was 
 sufficient. Whether his unconsciousness was assumed or 
 natural I cannot say ; in either case it was admirable. An 
 earnest young man, over-anxious, if anything, to do his 
 duty by his employers, was the extent of the charge that 
 could be brought against him. Our chief comedian 
 frowned and fumed; our stage manager was in despair. 
 Mr. Hodgson and the author of the English version, on 
 the contrary, appeared kindly disposed towards the gen- 
 tleman. In addition to the widowed mother, Mr. Hodgson 
 had invented for him five younger brothers r»nd sisters 
 utterly destitute but for his earnings. To deprive so ex- 
 emplary a son and brother of the means of earning a live- 
 lihood for dear ones dependent upon him was not in Mr. 
 Hodgson's heart. Our chief comedian dissociated him- 
 self from all uncharitable feelings — would subscribe to- 
 wards the subsistence of the young man out of his own 
 pocket, his only concern being the success of the opera. 
 The author of the English version was convinced the 
 young man would not accept a charity; had known him 
 for years — was a most sensitive creature. 
 
 The rehearsal proceeded. In the last act it became nec- 
 essary for me to kiss the thin lady. 
 
 "I am very sorry," said the thin lady, "but duty is duty. 
 It has to be done." 
 
 Again I followed directions. The thin lady was good 
 enough to congratulate me on my performance. 
 
 The last three or four rehearsals we performed in com- 
 pany with the principals. Divided counsels rendered them 
 decidedly harassing. Our chief comedian had his views, 
 and they were decided ; the leading lady had hers, and was 
 generous with them. The author of the English version 
 possessed his also, but of these nobody took much notice. 
 Once every twenty minutes the stage manager washed his 
 
28o Paul Kelver 
 
 hands of the whole affair and left the theatre in despair, 
 and anybody's hat that happened to be handy, to return 
 a few minutes later full of renewed hope. The senti- 
 mental baritone was sarcastic, the tenor distinctly rude to 
 everybody. Mr. Hodgson's method was to agree with all 
 and listen to none. The smaller fry of the company, to- 
 gether with the more pushing of the chorus, supported 
 each in turn, when the others were not looking. Up 
 to the dress rehearsal it was anybody's opera. 
 
 About one thing, and about one thing, only, had the 
 principals fallen into perfect agreement, and that was 
 that the fishy-eyed young gentleman was out of place in a 
 romantic opera. The tenor would be making impassioned 
 love to the leading lady. Perception would come to both 
 of them that, though they might be occupying geograph- 
 ically the centre of the stage, dramatically they were not. 
 Without a shred of evidence, yet with perfect justice, they 
 would unhesitatingly blame for this the fishy-eyed young 
 man. 
 
 "I wasn't doing anything," he would explain meekly. 
 'T was only looking." It was perfectly true ; that was all 
 he was doing. 
 
 "Then don't look," would comment the tenor. 
 
 The fishy-eyed young gentleman obediently would turn 
 his face away from them ; and in some mysterious manner 
 the situation would thereupon become even yet more hope- 
 lessly ridiculous. 
 
 "My scene, I think, sir !" would thunder our chief come- 
 dian, a little later on. 
 
 "I am only doing what I was told to do," answered the 
 fishy-eyed young gentleman; and nobody could say that 
 he was not. 
 
 "Take a circus, and run him as a side-show," counselled 
 our comedian. 
 
 "I am afraid he would never be any good as a 
 side-show," replied Mr. Hodgson, who was reading 
 letters. 
 
Leads to a Meeting 281 
 
 On the first night, passing the gallery entrance on my 
 way to the stage door, the sight of the huge crowd as- 
 sembled there waiting gave me my first taste of artistic 
 joy. I was a part of what they had come to see, to praise 
 or to condemn, to listen to, to watch. Within the theatre 
 there was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement, 
 amounting almost to hysteria. The bird-like gentleman 
 in his glass cage was fluttering, agitated. The hands of 
 the stage carpenters putting the finishing touches to the 
 scenery were trembling, their voices passionate with anx- 
 iety; the fox-terrier-like call-boy was pale with sense of 
 responsibility. 
 
 I made my way to the dressing-room — a long, low, 
 wooden corridor, furnished from end to end with a wide 
 shelf that served as common dressing-table, lighted by a 
 dozen flaring gas-jets, wire-shielded. Here awaited us 
 gentlemen of the chorus the wigmaker's assistant, whose 
 duty it was to make us up. From one to another he ran, 
 armed with his hare's foot, his box of paints and his bun- 
 dle of crepe hair. My turn arriving, he seized me by the 
 head, jabbed a wig upon me, and in less than a couple of 
 minutes I left his hands the orthodox peasant of the 
 stage, white of forehead and pink of cheek, with curly 
 moustache and lips of coral. Glancing into the glass, I 
 could not help feeling pleased with myself; a moustache, 
 without doubt, suited me. 
 
 The chorus ladies, when I met them on the stage, were a 
 revelation to me. Paint and powder though I knew their 
 appearance to consist of chiefly, yet in that hot atmosphere 
 of the theatre, under that artificial glare, it seemed fit and 
 fascinating. The close approximation to so much bare 
 flesh, its curious, subtle odour was almost intoxicating. 
 Dr. Johnson's excuse to Garrick for the rarity of his vis- 
 its to the theatre recurred to me with understanding. 
 
 ''How do you Hke my costume?" asked the thin lady 
 with the golden hair. 
 
 "I think you — " We were standing apart behind a 
 
282 Paul Kelver 
 
 piece of projecting scenery. She laid her hand upon my 
 mouth, laughing. 
 
 "How old are you ?" she asked me. 
 
 "Isn't that a rude question ?" I answered. "I don't ask 
 your age." 
 
 "Mine," she replied, "entitles me to talk to you as I 
 should to a boy of my own — I had one once. Get out of 
 this life if you can. It's bad for a woman ; it's worse still 
 for a man. To you especially it will be harmful." 
 
 "Why to me in particular?" 
 
 "Because you are an exceedingly fooHsh little boy," she 
 answered, with another laugh, "and are rather nice." 
 
 She slipped away and joined the others. The chorus was 
 now entirely assembled on the stage. The sound of the 
 rapidly-filling house reached us, softened through the thick 
 baize curtain, a dull, continuous droning, as of water 
 pouring into some huge cistern. Suddenly there fell upon 
 our ears a startling crash; the overture had commenced. 
 The stage manager — more suggestive of a sheep-dog than 
 ever, but lacking the calm dignity, the self-possession 
 born of conscious capability distinctive of his prototype; 
 a fussy, argumentative sheep-dog — rushed into the midst 
 of us and worried us into our positions, where the more 
 experienced continued to converse in whispers, the rest 
 of us waiting nervously, trying to remember our words. 
 The chorus master, taking his stand with his back to the 
 proscenium, held his white-gloved hand in readiness. The 
 curtain rushed up, the house, a nightmare of white faces, 
 appearing to run towards us. The chorus-master's white- 
 gloved hand flung upward. A roar of voices struck 
 upon my ear, but whether my own were of them I could 
 not say ; if I were singing at all it was unconsciously, me- 
 chanically. Later, I found myself standing in the wings 
 beside the thin lady; the stage was in the occupation of 
 the principals. On my next entrance my senses were 
 more with me; I was able to look about me. Here and 
 there a strongly-marked face among the audience stood 
 
Leads to a Meeting 283 
 
 out, but the majority were as indistinguishable as so 
 many blades of grass. Looked at from the stage, the 
 house seemed no more real than from the front do the 
 painted faces upon a black cloth. 
 
 The curtain fell amid the usual applause, sounding to 
 us behind it like the rattle of tiny stones against a win- 
 dow-pane. Three times it rose and fell, like the opening 
 and shutting of a door ; and then followed a scamper for 
 the dressing-rooms, the long corridors being filled with 
 the rustling of skirts and the scurrying of feet. 
 
 It was in the second act that the fishy-eyed young gen- 
 tleman came into his own. The chorus had lingered till 
 it was quite apparent that the tenor and the leading lady 
 were in love with each other; then, with the exquisite 
 delicacy so characteristic of a chorus, foreseeing that its 
 further presence might be embarrassing, it turned to go, 
 half to the east, the other half to the west. The fishy- 
 eyed young man, starting from the centre, was the last 
 to leave the stage. In another moment he would have 
 disappeared from view. There came a voice from the 
 gallery, clear, distinct, pathetic with entreaty: 
 
 ''Don't go. Get behind a tree." 
 
 The request was instantly seconded by a roar of ap- 
 plause from every part of the house, followed by laugh- 
 ter. From that point onward the house was chiefly con- 
 cerned with the fortunes of the fishy-eyed young gentle- 
 man. At his next entrance, disguised as a conspirator, 
 he was welcomed with enthusiasm, his passing away re- 
 gretted loudly. At the fall of the curtain, the tenor, 
 furious, rushed up to him, and, shaking a fist in his face, 
 demanded what he meant by it. 
 
 "I wasn't doing anything," explained the fishy-eyed 
 young man. 
 
 "You went off sideways !" roared the tenor. 
 
 "Well, you told me not to look at you," explained 
 meekly the fishy-eyed young gentleman. "I must go off 
 somehow. I regard you as a very difficult man to please." 
 
284 Paul Kelver 
 
 At the final fall of the curtain the house appeared di- 
 vided as regarded the merits of the opera ; but for ''Gog- 
 gles" there was a unanimous and enthusiastic call, and 
 the while we were dressing a message came for ''Gog- 
 gles" that Mr. Hodgson wished to see him in his private 
 room. 
 
 "He can make a funny face, no doubt about it," com- 
 mented one gentleman, as "Goggles" left the room. 
 
 "I defy him to make a funnier one than God Almighty's 
 made for him," responded the massive gentleman. 
 
 "There's a deal in luck," observed, with a sigh, another, 
 a tall, handsome young gentleman possessed of a rich bass 
 voice. 
 
 Leaving the stage door, I encountered a group of gen- 
 tlemen waiting upon the pavement outside. Not inter- 
 ested in them myself, I was hurrying past, when one laid 
 a hand upon my shoulder. I turned. He was a big, 
 broad-shouldered fellow, with a dark Vandyke beard and 
 soft, dreamy eyes. 
 
 "Dan!" I cried. 
 
 "I thought it was you, young 'un, in the first act," he 
 answered. "In the second, when you came on without a 
 moustache, I knew it. Are you in a hurry ?" 
 
 "Not at all," I answered. "Are you ?" 
 
 "No," he replied ; "we don't go to press till Thursday, 
 so I can write my notice to-morrow. Come and have sup- 
 per with me at the Albion and we will talk. You look 
 tired, young 'un," 
 
 "No," I assured him, "only excited — partly at meeting 
 you." 
 
 He laughed, and drew my arm through his. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 HOW ON A SWEET GREY MORNING THE FUTURE CAME TO 
 
 PAUL. 
 
 Over our supper Dan and I exchanged histories. They 
 revealed points of similarity. Leaving school some con- 
 siderable time earlier than myself, Dan had gone to Cam- 
 bridge ; but two years later, in consequence of the death 
 of his father, of a wound contracted in the Indian Mutiny 
 and never cured, had been compelled to bring his college 
 career to an untimely termination. 
 
 ''You might not have expected that to grieve me," said 
 Dan, with a smile, "but, as a matter of fact, it was a severe 
 blow to me. At Cambridge I discovered that I was by 
 temperament a scholar. The reason why at school I took 
 no interest in learning was because learning was, of set 
 purpose, made as uninteresting as possible. Like a Cook's 
 tourist party through a picture gallery, we were rushed 
 through education ; the object being not that we should 
 see and understand, but that we should be able to say that 
 we had done it. At college I chose my own subjects, 
 studied them in my own way. I fed on knowledge, was 
 not stuffed with it like a Strassburg goose." 
 
 Returning to London, he had taken a situation in a bank, 
 the chairman of which had been an old friend of his 
 father. The advantage was that while earning a small 
 income he had time to continue his studies ; but the deadly 
 monotony of the work had appalled him, and upon the 
 death of his mother he had shaken the cloying dust of the 
 City from his brain and joined a small "fit-up" theatrical 
 company. On the stage he had remained for another 
 eighteen months: had played all roles, from "Romeo" to 
 "Paul Pry," had helped to paint the scenery, had assisted 
 
286 Paul Kelver 
 
 in the bill-posting. The latter, so he told me, he had 
 found one of the most difficult of accomplishments, the 
 paste-laden poster having an innate tendency to recoil 
 upon the amateur's own head, and to stick there. Weary- 
 ing of the stage proper, he had joined a circus company, 
 had been "Signor Ricardo, the daring bare-back rider," 
 also one of the "Brothers Roscius in their marvellous 
 trapeze act;" inclining again towards respectability, had 
 been a waiter for three months at Ostend; from that, a 
 footman. 
 
 "One never knows," remarked Dan. "I may come to be 
 a society novelist; if so, inside knowledge of the aris- 
 tocracy will give me decided advantage over the majority 
 of my competitors." 
 
 Other callings he had sampled : had tramped through 
 Ireland with a fiddle ; through Scotland with a lecture on 
 Palestine, assisted by dissolving views; had been a 
 billiard-marker ; next a schoolmaster. For the last three 
 months he had been a journalist, dramatic and musical 
 critic to a Sunday newspaper. Often had I dreamt of 
 such a position for myself. 
 
 "How did you obtain it ?" I asked. 
 
 "The idea occurred to me," replied Dan, "late one after- 
 noon, sauntering down the Strand, wondering what I 
 should do next. I was on my beam ends, with only a few 
 shillings in my pocket ; but luck has always been with me. 
 I entered the first newspaper office I came to, walked up- 
 stairs to the first floor, and opening the first door without 
 knocking, passed through a small, empty room into a 
 largef one, littered with books and papers. It was grow- 
 ing dark. A gentleman of extremely youthful figure was 
 running round and round, cursing to himself because of 
 three things : he had upset the ink, could not find the 
 matches, and had broken the bell-pull. In the gloom, as- 
 suming him to be the office boy, I thought it would be 
 fun to mistake him for the editor. As a matter of fact, 
 he turned out to be the editor. I lit the gas for him, and 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 287 
 
 found him another ink-pot. He was a slim young man 
 with the voice and manner of a schoolboy. I don't sup- 
 pose he is any more than five or six-and-twenty. He 
 owes his position to the fact of his aunt's being the pro- 
 prietress. He asked me if he knew me. Before I could 
 tell him that he didn't, he went on talking. He appeared 
 to be labouring under a general sense of injury. 
 
 " 'People come into this office/ he said ; 'they seem to 
 look upon it as a shelter from the rain — people I don't 
 know from Adam. And that damned fool downstairs lets 
 them march straight up — anybody, men with articles on 
 safety valves, people who have merely come to kick up a 
 row about something or another. Half my work I have 
 to do on the stairs.' 
 
 "I recommended to him that he should insist upon 
 strangers writing their business upon a slip of paper. 
 He thought it a good idea. 
 
 " 'For the last three-quarters of an hour,' he said, 'have 
 I been trying to finish this one column, and four times 
 have I been interrupted.' 
 
 "At that precise moment there came another knock at 
 the door. 
 
 " 'I won't see him !' he cried. 'I don't care who he is ; 
 I won't see him. Send him away! Send everybody 
 away !' 
 
 "I went to the door. He was an elderly gentleman. 
 He made to sweep by me; but I barred his way, and 
 closed the editorial door behind me. He seemed sur- 
 prised ; but I told him it was impossible for him to see the 
 editor that afternoon, and suggested his writing his busi- 
 ness on a sheet of paper, which I handed to him for the 
 purpose. I remained in that ante-room for half an hour, 
 and during that time I suppose I must have sent away 
 about ten or a dozen people. I don't think their business 
 could have been important, or I should have heard about 
 it afterwards. The last to come was a tired-looking 
 gentkman, smoking a cigarette. I asked him his name. 
 
288 Paul Kelver 
 
 "He looked at me in surprise, and then answered, 
 ^Idiot!' 
 
 "I remained firm, however, and refused to let him pass. 
 
 " 'It's a bit awkward,' he retorted. 'Don't you think 
 you could make an exception in favour of the sub-editor 
 on press night?' 
 
 "I replied that such would be contrary to my instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 " 'Oh, all right,' he answered. 'I'd like to know who's 
 going to the Royalty to-night, that's all. It's seven o'clock 
 already.' 
 
 "An idea occurred to me. If the sub-editor of a paper 
 doesn't know whom to send to a theatre, it must mean that 
 the post of dramatic critic on that paper is for some reason 
 or another vacant. 
 
 " 'Oh, that's all right,' I told him. 'I shall be in time 
 enough.' 
 
 "He appeared neither pleased nor displeased. 'Have 
 you arranged with the Guv'nor?' he asked me. 
 
 " 'I'm just waiting to see him again for a few minutes,' 
 I returned. 'It'll be all right. Have you got the ticket?' 
 
 " 'Haven't seen it,' he replied. 
 
 " 'About a column ?' I suggested. 
 
 " Three-quarters,' he preferred, and went. 
 
 "The moment he was gone, I slipped downstairs and 
 met a printer's boy coming up. 
 
 " 'What's the name of your sub ?' I asked him. *Tall 
 man with a black moustache, looks tired.' 
 
 " 'Oh, you mean Penton,' explained the boy. 
 
 " That's the name,' I answered ; 'couldn't think of it.' 
 
 "I walked straight into the editor ; he was still irritable. 
 'What is it? What is it now?' he snapped out. 
 
 " 'I only want the ticket for the Royalty Theatre,' I 
 answered. 'Penton says you've got it.' 
 
 " 'I don't know where it is,' he growled. 
 
 "I found it after some little search upon his desk. 
 
 " 'Who's going?' he asked. 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 289 
 
 " 'I am,' I said. And I went. 
 
 "They have never discovered to this day that I appoint- 
 ed myself. Penton thinks I am some relation of the pro- 
 prietress, and in consequence everybody treats me with 
 marked respect. Mrs. Wallace herself, the proprietress, 
 thinks I am the discovery of Penton, in whose judgment 
 she has great faith; and with her I get on admirably. 
 The paper I don't think is doing too well, and the salary 
 is small, but sufficient. Journalism suits my tempera- 
 ment, and I dare say I shall keep to it." 
 
 "You've been somewhat of a rolling stone hitherto," I 
 commented. 
 
 He laughed. "From the stone's point of view," he 
 answered, "I never could see the advantage of being 
 smothered in moss. I should always prefer remaining the 
 stone, unhidden, able to move and see about me. But 
 now, to speak of other matters, what are your plans for 
 the immediate future ? Your opera, thanks to the gentle- 
 men, the gods have dubbed 'Goggles,' will, I fancy, run 
 through the winter. Are you getting any salary ?" 
 
 "Thirty shillings a week," I explained to him, "with 
 full salary for matinees." 
 
 "Say two pounds," he replied. "With my three we 
 could set up an establishment of our own. I have an idea 
 that is original. Shall we work it out together ?" 
 
 I assured him with fervour that nothing would please 
 me better. 
 
 "There are four delightful rooms in Queen's Square," 
 he continued. "They are charmingly furnished : a fine 
 sitting-room in the front, with two bedrooms and a 
 kitchen behind. Their last tenant was a Polish Revolu- 
 tionary, who, three months ago, poor fellow, was foolish 
 enough to venture back to Russia, and who is now living 
 rent free. The landlord of the house is an original old 
 fellow, Deleglise the engraver. He occupies the rest of 
 the house himself. He has told me I can have the rooms 
 for anything I like to offer, and I should suggest thirty 
 
290 Paul Kelver 
 
 shillings a week, though under ordinary circumstances 
 they would be worth three or four pounds. But he will 
 only let us have them on the understanding that we Mo 
 for' ourselves. He is quite an oddity. He hates petti- 
 coats, especially elderly petticoats. He has one servant, 
 an old Frenchwoman, who, I believe, was housekeeper to 
 his mother, and he and she do the housework together, 
 most of their time quarrelling over it. Nothing else of 
 the genus domestic female will he allow inside the door ; 
 not even an occasional charwoman would be permitted to 
 us. On the other hand^ it is a beautiful old Georgian 
 house, with Adams mantelpieces, a stone staircase, and 
 oak-panelled rooms ; and our portion would be the entire 
 second floor : no pianos and no landlady. He is a widower 
 with one child, a girl of about fourteen or maybe a little 
 older. Now, what do you say ? I am a very fair cook ; 
 will you be house-and-parlour-maid ?" 
 
 I needed no pressing. A week later we were installed 
 there, and for nearly two years we lived there. At the 
 risk of offending an adorable but somewhat touchy sex, 
 convinced that man, left to himself, is capable of little 
 more than putting himself to bed, and that only in a rough- 
 and-ready fashion, truth compels me to record the fact that 
 without female assistance or supervision of any kind we 
 passed through those two years, and yet exist to tell the 
 tale. Dan had not idly boasted. Better plain cooking I 
 never want to taste ; so good a cup of coffee, omelette, or 
 devilled kidney I rarely have tasted. Had he always con- 
 fined his efforts within the boundaries of his abilities, there 
 would be little to record beyond continuous and monoto- 
 nous success. But stirred into dangerous ambition at the 
 call of an occasional tea or supper party, lured out of his 
 depths by the example of old Deleglise, our landlord — a 
 man who for twenty years had made cooking his hobby — 
 Dan would at intervals venture upon experiment. Pastry, 
 it became evident, was a thing he should never have 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 291 
 
 touched : his hand was heavy and his temperament too 
 serious. There was a thing called lemon sponge, necessi- 
 tating much beating of eggs. In the cookery-book — a re- 
 markably fat volume, luscious with illustrations of high- 
 ly-coloured food — it appeared an airy and graceful struc- 
 ture of dazzling whiteness. Served as Dan sent it to 
 table, it suggested rather in form and colour a miniature 
 earthquake. Spongy it undoubtedly was. One forced 
 it apart with the assistance of one's spoon and fork ; it 
 yielded with a gentle tearing sound. Another favourite 
 dainty of his was manna-cake. Concerning it I would 
 merely remark that if it in any way resembled anything 
 the Children of Israel were compelled to eat, then there is 
 explanation for that fretfulness and discontent for which 
 they have been, perhaps, unjustly blamed — some excuse 
 even for their backward-flung desires in the direction of 
 the Egyptian fleshpots. Moses himself may have been 
 blessed with exceptional digestion. It was substantial, 
 one must say that for it. One slice of it — solid, firm, 
 crusty on the outside, towards the centre marshy — satis- 
 fied most people to a sense of repletion. For supper parties 
 Dan would essay trifles — ^by no means open to the criti- 
 cism of being light as air — souffles that guests, in spite of 
 my admonishing kicks, would persist in alluding to as 
 pudding ; and in winter-time, pancakes. Later, as regards 
 these latter, he acquired some skill ; but at first the diffi- 
 culty was the tossing. I think myself a safer plan would 
 have been to turn them by the aid of a knife and fork; 
 it is less showy, but more sure. At least, you avoid all 
 danger of catching the half-baked thing upon your head 
 instead of in the pan, of dropping it into the fire, or 
 among the cinders. But "Thorough" was always Dan's 
 motto ; and after all, small particles of coal or a few hairs 
 can always be detected by the careful feeder, and re- 
 moved. 
 
 A more even-tempered man than Dan for twenty-three 
 
292 Paul Kelver 
 
 hours out of every twenty-four surely never breathed. It 
 was a revelation to me to discover that for the other he 
 could be uncertain, irritable, even ungrateful. At first, in 
 a spirit of pure good nature, I would offer him counsel 
 and advice ; explain to him why, as it seemed to me, the 
 custard was pimply, the mayonnaise sauce suggestive of 
 hair oil. What was my return ? Sneers, insult and abuse, 
 followed, if I did not clear out quickly, by spoilt tomatoes, 
 cold coffee grounds — anything that happened to be handy. 
 Pained, saddened, I would withdraw, he would kick the 
 door to after me. His greatest enemy appeared to be the 
 oven. The oven it was that set itself to thwart his best 
 wrought schemes. Always it was the oven's fault that the 
 snowy bun appeared to have been made of red sandstone, 
 the macaroni cheese of Cambrian clay. One might have 
 sympathised with him more had his language been more 
 restrained. As it was, the virulence of his reproaches 
 almost inclined one to take the part of the oven. 
 
 Concerning our house-maid, I can speak in terms of 
 unqualified praise. There are, alas, fussy house-maids — 
 who has not known and suffered them ? — who overdo the 
 thing, have no repose, no instinct telling them when to 
 ease up and let the place alone. I have always held the 
 perpetual stirring up of dust a scientific error; left to 
 itself, it is harmless, may even be regarded as a delicate 
 domestic bloom, bestowing a touch of homeliness upon 
 objects that without it gleam cold and unsympathetic. 
 Let sleeping dogs lie. Why be continually waking up 
 the stuff, filling the air with all manner of unhealthy 
 germs? Nature in her infinite wisdom has ordained that 
 upon table, floor, or picture frame it shall sink and settle. 
 There it remains, quiet and inoffensive ; there it will con- 
 tinue to remain so long as nobody interferes with it : why 
 worry it ? So also with crumbs, odd bits of string, particles 
 of egg-shell, stumps of matches, ends of cigarettes : what 
 fitter place for such than under the nearest mat? To 
 sweep them up is tiresome work. They cling to the carpet. 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 293 
 
 you get cross with them, curse them for their obstinacy, 
 and feel ashamed of yourself for your childishness. For 
 every one you do persuade into the dust-pan, two jump 
 out again. You lose your temper, feel bitter towards the 
 man that dropped them. Your whole character becomes 
 deteriorated. Under the mat they are always willing to 
 go. Compromise is true statesmanship. There will come 
 a day when you will be glad of an excuse for not doing 
 something else that you ought to be doing. Then you 
 can take up the mats and feel quite industrious, contem- 
 plating the amount of work that really must be done — 
 some time or another. 
 
 To differentiate between the essential and the non-es- 
 sential, that is where woman fails. In the name of com- 
 mon sense, what is the use of washing a cup that half an 
 hour later is going to be made dirty again? If the cat 
 be willing and able to so clean a plate that not one speck 
 of grease remain upon it, why deprive her of pleasure to 
 inflict toil upon yourself ? If a bed looks made and feels 
 made, then for all practical purposes it is made ; why up- 
 set it merely to put it straight again? It would surprise 
 most women the amount of labour that can be avoided in 
 a house. 
 
 For needlework, I confess, I never acquired skill. Dan 
 had learnt to handle a thimble, but my own second 
 finger was ever reluctant to come forward when wanted. 
 It had to be found, all other fingers removed out of its 
 way. Then, feebly, nervously, it would push, slip, get 
 itself pricked badly with the head of the needle, and, thor- 
 oughly frightened, remain incapable of further action. 
 More practical I found it to push the needle through by 
 help of the door or table. 
 
 The opera, as Dan had predicted, ran far into the fol- 
 lowing year. When it was done with, another — in which 
 "Goggles" appeared as one of the principals — took its 
 place, and was even more successful. After the experi- 
 ence of Nelson Square, my present salary of thirty-five 
 
294 P^^l Kelver 
 
 shillings, occasionally forty shillings, a week seemed to 
 me princely. There floated before my eyes the possibility 
 of my becoming a great opera singer. On six hundred 
 pounds a week^ I felt I could be content. But the 
 O'Kelly set himself to dispel this dream. 
 
 "Ye'd be making a mistake, me boy," explained the 
 O'Kelly. '*Ye'd be just wasting ye're time, i wouldn't 
 tell ye so if I weren't convinced of it." 
 
 "I know it is not powerful," I admitted. 
 
 "Ye might almost call it thin," added the O'Kelly. 
 
 "It might be good enough for comic opera," I argued. 
 "People appear to succeed in comic opera without much 
 voice." 
 
 "Sure, there ye're right," agreed the O'Kelly, with a 
 sigh. "An' of course if ye had an exceptionally fine pres- 
 ence and were strikingly handsome " 
 
 "One can do a good deal with make-up," I sug- 
 gested. 
 
 The O'Kelly shook his head. "It's never quite the same 
 thing. It would depend upon your acting." 
 
 I dreamt of becoming a second Kean, of taking Mac- 
 ready's place. It need not interfere with my literary am- 
 bition. I could combine the two : fill Drury Lane in the 
 evening, turn out epoch-making novels in the morning, 
 write my own plays. 
 
 Every day I studied in the reading-room of the British 
 Museum. Wearying of success in Art, I might eventu- 
 ally go into Parliament: a Prime Minister with a 
 thorough knowledge of history: why not? With Ollen- 
 dorf for guide, I continued French and German. It might 
 be the diplomatic service that would appeal to me in my 
 old age. An ambassadorship! It would be a pleasant 
 termination to a brilliant career. 
 
 There was excuse for my optimistic mood about this 
 period. All things were going well with me. A story of 
 mine had been accepted. I forget for the moment the 
 name of the journal : it is dead now. Most of the papers 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 295 
 
 in which my early efforts appeared are dead. My contri- 
 butions might be likened to their swan songs. Proofs had 
 been sent me, which I had corrected and returned. But 
 proofs are not facts. This had happened to me once be- 
 fore, and I had been lifted to the skies only to fall the 
 more heavily. The paper had collapsed before my story 
 had appeared. (Ah, why had they delayed? It might 
 have saved them!) This time I remembered the proverb, 
 and kept my own counsel, slipping out early each morning 
 on the day of publication to buy the paper, to scan eagerly 
 its columns. For weeks I suffered hope deferred. But 
 at last, one bright winter's day in January, walking down 
 the Harrow Road, I found myself standing still, suddenly 
 stunned, before a bill outside a small newsvendor's shop. 
 It was the first time I had seen my real name in print: 
 **The Witch of Moel Sarbod : a legend of Mona, by Paul 
 Kelver." (For this I had even risked discovery by the 
 Lady 'Ortensia.) My legs trembling under me, I entered 
 the shop. A ruffianly-looking man in dirty shirt-sleeves, 
 who appeared astonished that any one should want a 
 copy, found one at length on the floor underneath the 
 counter. With it in my pocket, I retraced my footsteps 
 as in a dream. On a seat in Paddington Green I sat down 
 and read it. The hundred best books! I have waded 
 through them all; they have never charmed me as 
 charmed me that one short story in that now forgotten 
 journal. Need I add it was a sad and sentimental com- 
 position. Dnce upon a time there lived a mighty King; 
 one — but with the names I will not bore you; they are 
 somewhat unpronounceable. Their selection had cost 
 me many hours of study in the British Museum reading- 
 rooms, surrounded by lexicons of the Welsh language, 
 gazetteers, translations from the early Celtic poets — with 
 footnotes. He loved and was beloved by a beautiful 
 Princess, whose name, being translated, was Purity. One 
 day the King, hunting, lost his way, and being weary, 
 lay down and fell asleep. And by chance the spot where- 
 
296 Paul Kelver 
 
 on he lay was near to a place which by infinite pains, with 
 the aid of a magnifying glass, I had discovered upon the 
 map, and which means in English the Cave of the Waters, 
 where dwelt a wicked Sorceress, who, while he slept, cast 
 her spells upon him, so that he awoke to forget his kingly 
 honour and the good of all his people, his only desire 
 being towards the Witch of Moel Sarbod. 
 
 Now, there lived in this Kingdom by the sea a great 
 Magician ; and Purity, who loved the King far better than 
 herself, bethought her of him, and of all she had heard 
 concerning his power and wisdom ; and went to him and 
 besought his aid that she might save the King. There 
 was but one way to accomplish this : with bare feet Purity 
 must climb the rocky path leading to the Witch's dwell- 
 ing, go boldly up to her, not fearing her sharp claws nor 
 her strong teeth, and kiss her upon the mouth. In this 
 way the spirit of Purity would pass into the Witch's soul, 
 and she would become a woman. But the form and spirit 
 of the Witch would pass into Purity, transforming her, 
 and in the Cave of the Waters she must forever abide. 
 Thus Purity gave herself that the King might live. With 
 bleeding feet she climbed the rocky path, clasped the 
 Witch's form within her arms, kissed her on the mouth. 
 And the Witch became a woman and reigned with the 
 King over his people, wisely and helpfully. But Purity 
 became a hideous witch, and to this day abides on Moel 
 Sarbod, where is the Cave of the Waters. And they who 
 climb the mountain's side still hear above the roaring 
 of the cataract the sobbing of Purity, the King's be- 
 trothed. But many liken it rather to a joyous song of 
 love triumphant. 
 
 No writer worth his salt was ever satisfied with any- 
 thing he ever wrote, so I have been told, and so I try to 
 believe. Evidently I am not worth my salt. Candid 
 friends, and others, to whom in my salad days I used to 
 show my work, asking for a frank opinion, meaning, of 
 course, though never would they understand me, their 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 297 
 
 unadulterated praise, would assure me for my good, that 
 this, my first to whom the gods gave life, was but a 
 feeble, ill-shaped child: its attempted early English a 
 cross between "The Pilgrim's Progress'' and "Old 
 Moore's Almanac;" its scenery — which had cost me 
 weeks of research — ^an apparent attempt to sum up in the 
 language of a local guide book the leading characteristics 
 of the Garden of Eden combined with Dante's Inferno; 
 its pathos of the penny-plain and two-penny-coloured or- 
 der. Maybe they were right. Much have I written since 
 that at the time appeared to me good, that I have read 
 later with regret, with burning cheek, with frowning 
 brow. But of this, my first-born, the harbinger of all my 
 hopes, I am no judge. Touching the yellowing, badly- 
 printed pages, I feel again the deep thrill of joy with 
 which I first unfolded them and read. Again I am a 
 youngster, and life opens out before me — inmeasurable, 
 no goal too high. This child of my brain, my work: it 
 shall spread my name throughout the world. It shall be 
 a household world in lands that I shall never see. Friends 
 whose voices I shall never hear will speak of me. I shall 
 die, but it shall live, yield fresh seed, bear fruit I know not 
 of. Generations yet unborn shall read it and remember 
 me. My thoughts, my words, my spirit : in it I shall live 
 again ; it shall keep my memory green. 
 
 The long, long thoughts of boyhood ! We elders smile 
 at them. The little world spins round ; the little voices of 
 an hour sink hushed. The crawling generations come and 
 go. The solar system drops from space. The eternal 
 mechanism reforms and shapes itself anew. Time, turn- 
 ing, ploughs another furrow. So, growing sleepy, we 
 murmur with a yawn. Is it that we see clearer, or that 
 our eyes are growing dim? Let the young men see their 
 visions, dream their dreams, hug to themselves their 
 hopes of enduring fame; so shall they serve the world 
 better. 
 
 I brushed the tears from my eyes and looked up. Half- 
 
298 Paul Kelver 
 
 a-dozen urchins, male and female, were gaping at me 
 open-mouthed. They scattered shouting, whether com- 
 pliment or insult I know not : probably the latter. I flung 
 them a handful of coppers, which for the moment silenced 
 them; and went upon my way. How bright, how fair 
 the bustling streets, golden in the winter sunshine, 
 thronged with life, with effort! Laughter rang around 
 me. Sweet music rolled from barrel-organs. The strenu- 
 ous voices of the costermongers called invitation to the 
 fruitful earth. Errand boys passed me whistling shrilly 
 joyous melodies. Perspiring tradesmen shouted generous 
 offers to the needy. Men and women hurried by with 
 smiling faces. Sleek cats purred in sheltered nooks, till 
 merry dogs invited them to sport. The sparrows, feast- 
 ing in the roadway, chirped their hymn of praise. 
 
 At the Marble Arch I jumped upon a 'bus. I men- 
 tioned to the conductor in mounting that it was a fine day. 
 He replied that he had noticed it himself. The retort 
 struck me as a brilliant repartee. Our coachman, all but 
 run into by a hansom cab driven by a surly old fellow of 
 patriarchal appearance, remarked upon the danger of al- 
 lowing horses out in charge of bits of boys. How full 
 the world of wit and humour ! 
 
 Almost without knowing it, I found myself in earnest 
 conversation with a young man sitting next to me. We 
 conversed of life, of love. Not until afterwards, reflect- 
 ing upon the matter, did it surprise me that to a mere 
 chance acquaintance of the moment he had spoken of the 
 one thing dearest to his heart : a sweet but clearly way- 
 ward maiden, the Hebe of a small, old-fashioned coffee- 
 shop the 'bus was at that moment passing. Hitherto I 
 had not been the recipient of confidences. It occurred to 
 me that as a rule not even my friends spoke much to me 
 concerning their own affairs ; generally it was I who spoke 
 to them of mine. I sympathised with him, advised him 
 — how, I do not recollect. He said, however, he thought 
 that I was right; and at Regent Street he left me, ex- 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 299 
 
 pressing his determination to follow my counsel, whatever 
 it may have been. 
 
 Between Berners Street and the Circus I lent a shilling 
 to a couple of young ladies who had just discovered with 
 amusement, quickly swallowed by despair, that they 
 neither of them had any money with them. (They re- 
 turned it next day in postage stamps, with a charming 
 note.) The assurance with which I tendered the slight 
 service astonished me myself. At any other time I should 
 have hesitated, argued with my fears, offered it with an 
 appearance of sulky constraint, and been declined. For a 
 moment they were doubtful, then, looking at me, accepted 
 with a delightful smile. They consulted me as to the way 
 to Paternoster Row. I instructed them, adding a literary 
 anecdote, which seemed to interest them. I even ventured 
 on a compliment, neatly phrased, I am inclined to think. 
 Evidently it pleased — a result hitherto unusual in the case 
 of my compliments. At the corner of Southampton Row 
 I parted from them with regret. Why had I never 
 noticed before how full of pleasant people this sweet and 
 smiling London ? 
 
 At the corner of Queen's Square a decent-looking 
 woman stopped me to ask the way to the Children's Hos- 
 pital at Chelsea, explaining she had made a mistake, 
 thinking it was the one in Great Ormond Street where her 
 child lay. I directed her, then glancing into her face, 
 noticed how tired she looked, and a vista of the weary 
 pavements she would have to tramp flashed before me. I 
 slipped some money into her hand and told her to take a 
 'bus. She flushed, then thanked me. I turned a few 
 yards further on ; she was starting after me, amazement 
 on her face. I laughed and waved my hand to her. She 
 smiled back in return, and went her way. 
 
 A rain began to fall. I paused upon the doorstep for a 
 minute, enjoying the cool drops upon by upturned face, 
 the tonic sharpness of the keen east wind; then slipped 
 my key into the lock and entered. 
 
300 Paul Kelver 
 
 The door of old Deleglise's studio on the first floor 
 happened to be open. Hitherto, beyond the usual formal 
 salutations, when by chance we met upon the stairs, I had 
 exchanged but few words with my eccentric landlord ; but 
 remembering his kindly face, the desire came upon me to 
 tell him my good fortune. I felt sure his eyes would 
 lighten with delight. By instinct I knew him for a young 
 man's man. 
 
 I tapped lightly ; no answer came. Someone was talk- 
 ing; it sounded like a girl's voice. I pushed the door 
 further open and walked in ; such was the custom of the 
 house. It was a large room, built over the yard, lighted 
 by one high window, before which was the engraving 
 desk, shaded under a screen of tissue paper. At the fur- 
 ther end of the room stood a large cheval-glass, and in 
 front of this, its back towards me, was a figure that ex- 
 cited my curiosity ; so that remaining where I was, partly 
 hidden behind a large easel, I watched it for awhile in si- 
 lence. Above a heavily flounced blue skirt, which fell in 
 creases on the floor and trailed a couple of yards or so 
 behind, it wore a black low-cut sleeveless bodice — much 
 too big for it — of the fashion early Victorian. A good 
 deal of dark-brown hair, fastened up by hair-pins that 
 stuck out in all directions like quills upon a porcupine, 
 suggesting collapse with every movement, was orna- 
 mented by three enormous green feathers, one of which 
 hung limply over the lady's left ear. Three times, while 
 I watched, unnoticed, the lady propped it into a more be- 
 fitting attitude, and three times, limp and intoxicated- 
 looking, it fell back into its former foolish position. Her 
 long, thin arms, displaying a pair of brilliantly red elbows, 
 pointed to quite a dangerous degree, terminated in hands 
 so very sunburnt as to convey the impression of a pair of 
 remarkably well-fitting gloves. Her right hand grasped 
 and waved with determination a large lace fan, her left 
 clutched fiercely the front of her skirt. With a sweeping 
 curtsey to herself in the glass, which would have been 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 301 
 
 more effective could she have avoided tying her legs to- 
 gether with her skirt — a contretemps necessitating the 
 use of both hands and a succession of jumps before she 
 could disentangle herself — she remarked so soon as she 
 had recovered her balance : 
 
 *'So sorry I am late. My carriage was unfortunately 
 delayed." 
 
 The excuse, I gathered, was accepted, for with a 
 gracious smile and a vigorous bow, by help of which 
 every hairpin made distinct further advance towards free- 
 dom, she turned, and with much dignity and head over 
 the right shoulder took a short walk to the left. At the 
 end of six short steps she stopped and began kicking. For 
 what reason, I, at first, could not comprehend. It dawned 
 upon me after awhile that her object was the adjustment 
 of her train. Finding the manoeuvre too difficult of ac- 
 complishment by feet alone, she stooped, and, taking the 
 stuff up in her hands, threw it behind her. Then, facing 
 north, she retraced her steps to the glass, talking to her- 
 self, as she walked, in the high-pitched drawl, distinctive, 
 as my stage knowledge told me, of aristocratic society. 
 
 "Oh, do you think so — really ? Ah, yes ; you say that. 
 Certainly not ! I shouldn't think of it." There followed 
 what I am inclined to believe was intended for a laugh, 
 musical but tantalising. If so, want of practice marred 
 the effort. The performance failed to satisfy even her- 
 self. She tried again ; it was still only a giggle. 
 
 Before the glass she paused, and with a haughty in- 
 clination of her head succeeded for the third time in dis- 
 placing the intoxicated feather. 
 
 "Oh, bother the silly thing!" she said in a voice so 
 natural as to be, by contrast with her previous tone, quite 
 startling. 
 
 She fixed it again with difficulty, muttering something 
 inarticulate. Then, her left hand resting on an imaginary 
 coat-sleeve, her right holding her skirt sufficiently high to 
 enable her to move, she commenced to majestically gyrate. 
 
302 Paul Kelver 
 
 Whether, hampered as she was by excess of skirt, handi- 
 capped by the natural clumsiness of her age, catastrophe 
 in any case would not sooner or later have overtaken her, 
 I have my doubts. I have since learnt her own view to 
 be that but for catching sight, in turning, of my face, star- 
 ing at her through the bars of the easel, all would have 
 gone well and gracefully. Avoiding controversy on this 
 point, the facts to be recorded are, that, seeing me, she 
 uttered a sudden exclamation of surprise, dropped her 
 skirt, trod on her train, felt her hair coming down, tried 
 to do two things at once, and sat upon the floor. I ran to 
 her assistance. With flaming face and flashing eyes she 
 sprang to her feet. There was a sound as of the rushing 
 down of avalanches. The blue flounced skirt lay round 
 her on the floor. She stood above its billowy folds, re- 
 miniscent of Venus rising from the waves — a gawky, an- 
 gular Venus in a short serge frock, reaching a little below 
 her knees, black stockings and a pair of prunella boots of 
 a size suggesting she had yet some inches to grow before 
 reaching her full height. 
 
 **I hope you haven't hurt yourself," I said. 
 
 The next moment I didn't care whether *she had or 
 whether she hadn't. She did not reply to my kindly meant 
 enquiry. Instead, her hand swept through the air in the 
 form of an ample semi-circle. It terminated on my ear. 
 It was not a small hand ; it was not a soft hand ; it was 
 not that sort of hand. The sound of the contact rang 
 through the room like a pistol shot; I heard it with my 
 other ear. I sprang at her, and catching her before she 
 had recovered her equilibrium, kissed her. I did not kiss 
 her because I wanted to. I kissed her because I could 
 not box her ears back in return, which I should have pre- 
 ferred doing. I kissed her, hoping it would make her 
 mad. It did. If a look could have killed me, such would 
 have been the tragic ending of this story. It did not kill 
 me ; it did me good. 
 
 "You horrid boy !" she cried. "You horrid, horrid boy !" 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 30^ 
 
 There, I admit, she scored. I did not in the least ob- 
 ject to her thinking me horrid, but at nineteen one does 
 object to being mistaken for a boy. 
 
 ''I am not a boy," I explained. 
 
 "Yes, you are," she retorted ; "a beast of a boy !" 
 
 "If you do it again," I warned her — a sudden move- 
 ment on her part hinting to me the possibility — "I'll kiss 
 you again ! I mean it." 
 
 "Leave the room!" she commanded, pointing with her 
 angular arm towards the door. 
 
 I did not wish to remain. I was about to retire with 
 as much dignity as circumstances permitted. 
 
 "Boy !" she added. 
 
 At that I turned. "Now I won't go !" I replied, "See 
 if I do." 
 
 We stood glaring at each other. 
 
 "What right have you in here ?" she demanded. 
 
 "I came to see Mr. Deleglise," I answered. "I suppose 
 you are Miss Deleglise. It doesn't seem to me that you 
 know how to treat a visitor." 
 
 "Who are you ?" she asked. 
 
 "Mr. Horace Moncrieff," I replied. I was using at the 
 period both my names indiscriminately, but for this occa- 
 sion Horace Moncreiff I judged the more awe-inspiring. 
 
 She snorted. "I know. You're the house-maid. You 
 sweep all the crumbs under the mats." 
 
 Now this was a subject about which at the time I was 
 feeling somewhat sore. "Needs must when the Devil 
 drives ;" but as matters were, Dan and I could well have 
 afforded domestic assistance. It rankled in my mind that 
 to fit in with the foolish fad of old Deleglise, I, the future 
 Dickens, Thackeray and George Eliot, Kean, Macready 
 and Phelps rolled into one, should be compelled to the per- 
 formance of menial duties. On this morning of all others, 
 my brilliant literary career just commenced, the anomaly 
 of the thing appeared naturally more glaring. 
 
 Besides, how came she to know I swept the crumbs 
 
304 Paul Kelver 
 
 under the mat — ^that it was my method? Had she and 
 Dan been discussing me, ridiculing me behind my back? 
 What right had Dan to reveal the secrets of our menage 
 to this chit of a school-girl ? Had he done so ? or had she 
 been prying, poking her tilted nose into matters that did 
 not concern her ? Pity it was she had no mother to occa- 
 sionally spank her, teach her proper behaviour. 
 
 "Where I sweep our crumbs is nothing to do with you,'' 
 I replied with some spirit. "That I have to sweep them at 
 all is the fault of your father. A sensible girl " 
 
 "How dare you speak against my father!" she inter- 
 rupted me with blazing eyes. 
 
 "We will not discuss the question further," I answered, 
 with sense and dignity. 
 
 "I think you had better not !" she retorted. 
 
 Turning her back on me, she commenced to gather up 
 her hairpins — there must have been about a hundred of 
 them. I assisted her to the extent of picking up about 
 twenty, which I handed to her with a bow : it may have 
 been a little stiff, but that was only to be expected. I 
 wished to show her that her bad example had not affected 
 my own manners. 
 
 "I am sorry my presence should have annoyed you," I 
 said. "It was quite an accident. I entered the room 
 thinking your father was here." 
 
 "When you saw he wasn't, you might have gone out 
 again," she replied, "instead of hiding yourself behind a 
 picture." 
 
 "I didn't hide myself," I explained. "The easel hap- 
 pened to be in the way." 
 
 "And vou stopped there and watched me." 
 
 "I couldn't help it." 
 
 She looked round and our eyes met. They were frank, 
 grey eyes. An expression of merriment shot into them. 
 I laughed. 
 
 Then she laughed : it was a delightful laugh, the laugh 
 one would have expected from her. 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 305 
 
 "You might at least have coughed," she suggested. 
 
 "It was so amusing," I pleaded. 
 
 "I suppose it was," she agreed, and held out her hand. 
 "Did I hurt you ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, you did," I answered, taking it. 
 
 "Well, it was enough to annoy me, wasn't it?" she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Evidently," I agreed. 
 
 "I am going to a ball next week," she explained, "a 
 grown-up ball, and I've got to wear a skirt. I wanted to 
 see if I could manage a train." 
 
 "Well, to be candid, you can't," I assured her. 
 
 "It does seem difficult." 
 
 "Shall I show you?" I asked. 
 
 "What do you know about it ?" 
 
 "Well, I see it done every night." 
 
 "Oh, yes; of course, you're on the stage. Yes, 
 do." 
 
 We readjusted the torn skirt, accommodating it better 
 to her figure by the help of hairpins. I showed her how 
 to hold the train, and, I humming a tune, we commenced 
 to waltz. 
 
 "I shouldn't count my steps," I suggested to her. "It 
 takes your mind away from the music." 
 
 "I don't waltz well," she admitted meekly. "I know 
 I don't do anything well — except play hockey." 
 
 "And try not to tread on your partner's feet. That's a 
 very bad fault." 
 
 "I do try not to," she explained. 
 
 "It comes with practice," I assured her. 
 
 "I'll get Tom to give me half an hour every evening," 
 she said. "He dances beautifully." 
 
 "Who's Tom?" 
 
 "Oh, father." 
 
 "Why do you call your father Tom ? It doesn't sound 
 respectful." 
 
 "Oh, he likes it ; and it suits him so much better than 
 
3o6 Paul Kelver 
 
 father. Besides, he isn't Hke a real father. He does 
 everything I want him to." 
 
 *ls that good for you?" 
 
 "No ; it's very bad for me — everybody says so. When 
 you come to think of it, of course it isn't the way to bring 
 up a girl. I tell him, but he merely laughs — says it's the 
 only way he knows. I do hope I turn out all right. Am 
 I doing it better now ?" 
 
 "A little. Don't be too anxious about it. Don't look 
 at your feet." 
 
 "But if I don't they go all wrong. It was you who trod 
 on mine that time." 
 
 "I know. I'm sorry. It's a little difficult not to." 
 
 "Am I holding my train all right?" 
 
 "Well, there's no need to grip it as if you were afraid 
 it would run away. It will follow all right. Hold it 
 gracefully." 
 
 "I wish I wasn't a girl." 
 
 "Oh, you'll get used to it." 
 
 We concluded our dance. 
 
 "What do I do— say Thank you'?" 
 
 "Yes, prettily." 
 
 "What does /j^ do?" 
 
 "Oh, he takes you back to your chaperon, or suggests 
 refreshment, or you sit and talk." 
 
 "I hate talking. I never know what to say." 
 
 "Oh, that's his duty. He'll try and amuse you, then 
 you must laugh. You have a nice laugh." 
 
 "But I never know when to laugh. If I laugh when I 
 want to it always offends people. What do you do if 
 somebody asks you to dance and you don't want to dance 
 with them?" 
 
 "Oh, vou say vour programme is full." 
 
 "But if it isn't?" 
 
 "Well, you tell a lie." 
 
 "Couldn't I say I don't dance well, and that I'm sure 
 they'd get on better with somebody else?" 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 307 
 
 •'It would be the truth, but they might not believe it." 
 
 '*I hope nobody asks me that I don't want." 
 
 "Well, he won't a second time, anyhow." 
 
 **You are rude." 
 
 *'You are only a school-girl." 
 
 "I look a woman in my new frock, I really da." 
 
 "I should doubt it." 
 
 "You shall see me, then you'll be polite. It is because 
 you are a boy you are rude. Men are much nicer." 
 
 "Oh, are they?" 
 
 "Yes. You will be^ when you are a man." 
 
 The sound of voices rose suddenly in the hall. 
 
 "Tom !" cried Miss Deleglise ; and collecting her skirt 
 in both hands, bolted down the corkscrew staircase lead- 
 ing to the kitchen, leaving me standing in the centre of 
 the studio. 
 
 The door opened and old Deleglise entered, ac- 
 companied by a small, slight man with red hair and beard 
 and somewhat watery eyes. 
 
 Deleglise himself was a handsome old fellow, then a 
 man of about fifty-five. His massive, mobile face, illumi- 
 nated by bright, restless eyes, was crowned with a lion-like 
 mane of iron-grey hair. Till a few years ago he had been 
 a painter of considerable note. But in questions of art 
 his temper was short. Pre-Raphaelism had gone out of 
 fashion for the time being; the tendency of the new age 
 was towards impressionism, and in disgust old Deleglise 
 had broken his palette across his knee, and swore never to 
 paint again. Artistic work of some sort being necessary 
 to his temperament, he contented himself now with en- 
 graving. At the moment he was engaged upon the 
 reproduction of Memlinc's Shrine of St. Ursula, with 
 photographs of which he had just returned from 
 Bruges. 
 
 At sight of me his face Hghted with a smile, and he ad- 
 vanced with outstretched hand. 
 
 ''Ah, my lad, so you have got over your shyness and 
 
3o8 Paul Kelver 
 
 come to visit the old bear in his den. Good boy. I like 
 young faces." 
 
 He had a clear, musical voice, ever with the suggestion 
 of a laugh behind it. He laid his hand upon my shoulder. 
 
 *'Why, you are looking as if you had come into a for- 
 time," he added, "and didn't know what a piece of bad 
 luck that can be to a young fellow like yourself." 
 
 "How could it be bad luck ?" I asked, laughing. 
 
 "Takes all the sauce out of life, young man," answered 
 Deleglise. "What interest is there in running a race with 
 the prize already in your possession, tell me that ?" 
 
 "It is not that kind of fortune," I answered, "it is an- 
 other. I have had my first story accepted. It is in print. 
 Look." 
 
 I handed him the paper. He spread it out upon the 
 engraving board before him. 
 
 "Ah, that's better," he said, "that's better. Charlie," 
 he turned to the red-headed man^ who had seated himself 
 listlessly in the one easy-chair the room contained, "come 
 here." 
 
 The red-headed man rose and wandered towards us. 
 
 "Let me introduce you to Mr. Paul Kelver, our new 
 fellow servant. Our lady has accepted him. He has just 
 been elected ; his first story is in print." 
 
 The red-haired man stretched out his long thin hand. 
 "I have thirty years of fame," said the red-haired man — 
 "could I say world-wide ?" 
 
 He turned for confirmation to old Deleglise, who 
 laughed. "I think you can." 
 
 "If I could give it you would you exchange with me — 
 at this moment?" 
 
 "You would be a fool if you did," he went on. "One's 
 first success, one's first victory ! It is the lover's first kiss. 
 Fortune grows old and wrinkled, frowns more often than 
 she smiles. We become indifferent to her, quarrel with 
 her, make it up again. But the joy of her first kiss after 
 
How the Future Came to Paul 309 
 
 the long wooing! Burn it into your memory, my young 
 friend, that it may Hve with you always !" 
 
 He strolled away. Old Deleglise took up the parable. 
 
 *'Ah, yes ; one's first success, Paul ! Laugh, my boy, 
 cry ! Shut yourself up in your room, shout, dance ! Throw 
 your hat into the air and cry hurrah ! Make the most of 
 it, Paul. Hug it to your heart, think of it, dream of it. 
 This is the finest hour of your life, my boy. There will 
 never come another like it — never !" 
 
 He crossed the studio, and taking from its nail a small 
 oil painting, brought it over and laid it on the board be- 
 side my paper. It was a fascinating little picture, painted 
 with that exquisite minutiae and development of detail 
 that a newer school was then ridiculing: as though Art 
 had but one note to her voice. The dead figure of an old 
 man lay upon a bed. A child had crept into the darkened 
 room, and supporting itself by clutching tightly at the 
 sheet, was gazing with solemn curiosity upon the white, 
 still face. 
 
 ''That was mine," said old Deleglise. "It was hung in 
 the Academy thirty-six years ago, and bought for ten 
 guineas by a dentist at Bury St. Edmunds. He went mad 
 a few years later and died in a lunatic asylum. I had 
 never lost sight of it, and the executors were quite agree- 
 able to my having it back again for the same ten guineas. 
 I used to go every morning to the Academy to look at it. 
 I thought it the cleverest bit of work in the whole gallery, 
 and I'm not at all sure that it wasn't. I saw myself a 
 second Teniers, another Millet. Look how that light 
 coming through the open door is treated; isn't it good? 
 Somebody will pay a thousand guineas for it before I 
 have been dead a dozen years, and it is worth it. But I 
 wouldn't sell it myself now for five thousand. One's first 
 success ; it is worth all the rest of life !" 
 
 "All?" queried the red-haired man from his easy-chair. 
 
 We looked round. The lady of the skirt had entered, 
 
3IO Paul Kelver 
 
 now her own proper self: a young girl of about fifteen, 
 angular, awkward-looking, but bringing into the room 
 with her that atmosphere of life, of hope, that is the 
 eternal message of youth. She was not beautiful, not 
 then — plain one might almost have called her but for her 
 frank, grey eyes, her mass of dark-brown hair now 
 gathered into a long thick plait. A light came into old 
 Deleglise's eyes. 
 
 "You are right, not all," he murmured to the red-haired 
 man. 
 
 She came forward shyly. I found it difficult to recog- 
 nise in her the flaming Fury that a few minutes before 
 had sprung at me from the billows of her torn blue skirt. 
 She shook hands with the red-haired man and kissed her 
 father. 
 
 "My daughter," said old Deleglise, introducing me to 
 her. "Mr. Paul Kelver, a literary gent." 
 
 "Mr. Kelver and I have met already," she explained. 
 "He has been waiting for you here in the studio." 
 
 "And have you been entertaining him?" asked Deleglise. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I entertained him," she replied. Her voice 
 was singularly like her father's, with just the same sug- 
 gestion of ever a laugh behind it. 
 
 "We entertained each other," I said. 
 
 "That's all right," said old Deleglise. "Stop and lunch 
 with us. We will make ourselves a curry." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF THE GLORY AND GOODNESS AND THE EVIL THAT GO TO 
 THE MAKING OF LOVE. 
 
 During my time of struggle I had avoided all com- 
 munication with old Hasluck. He was not a man to 
 sympathise with feelings he did not understand. With 
 boisterous good humour he would have insisted upon help- 
 ing me. Why I preferred half starving with Lott and 
 Co. to selling my labour for a fair wage to good-natured 
 old Hasluck, merely because I knew him, I cannot ex- 
 plain. Though the profits may not have been so large, 
 Lott and Co.'s dealings were not one whit more honest : I 
 do not believe it was that which decided me. Nor do I 
 think it was because he was Barbara's father. I never 
 connected him, nor that good old soul, his vulgar, homely 
 wife, in any way with Barbara. To me she was a being 
 apart from all the world. Her true Parents! I should 
 have sought them rather amid the sacred groves of van- 
 ished lands, within the sky-domed shrines of banished 
 gods. There are instincts in us not easily analysed, not to 
 be explained by reason. I have always preferred the find- 
 ing — sometimes the losing — of my way according to the 
 map, to the surer and simpler method of vocal enquiry; 
 working out a complicated journey, and running the risk 
 of never arriving at my destination, by aid of a Conti- 
 nental Bradshaw, to putting myself into the hands of 
 courteous officials maintained and paid to assist the per- 
 plexed traveller. Possibly a far-ofif progenitor of mine 
 may have been some morose "rogue" savage with untribal 
 inclinations, living in his cave apart, fashioning his own 
 stone hammer, shaping his own flint arrow-heads, shun- 
 
312 Paul Kelver 
 
 ning the merry war-dance, preferring to caper by him- 
 self. 
 
 But now, having gained my own foothold, I could 
 stretch out my hand without fear of the movement being 
 mistaken for appeal, I wrote to old Hasluck, and almost 
 by the next post received from him the friendliest of 
 notes. He told me Barbara had just returned from 
 abroad, took it upon himself to add that she also would be 
 delighted to see me, and, as I knew he would, threw his 
 doors open to me. 
 
 Of my boyish passion for Barbara never had I spoken 
 to a living soul, nor do I think, excepting Barbara 
 herself, had any ever guessed it. To my mother, though 
 she was very fond of her, Barbara was only a girl, with 
 charms but also with faults, concerning which my mother 
 would speak freely ; hurting me, as one unwittingly might 
 hurt a neophyte by philosophical discussion of his newly 
 embraced religion. Often, choosing by preference late 
 evening or the night, I would wander round and round 
 the huge red-brick house standing in its ancient garden on 
 the top of Stamford Hill; descending again into the 
 noisome streets as one returning to the world from 
 praying at a shrine, purified, filled with peace, all 
 noble endeavour, all unselfish aims seeming within my 
 grasp. ^ 
 
 During Barbara's four years' absence my adoration had 
 grown and strengthened. Out of my memory of her my 
 desire had evolved its ideal; a being of my imagination, 
 but by reason of that, to me the more real, the more pres- 
 ent. I looked forward to seeing her again, but with no 
 impatience, revelling rather in the anticipation than eager 
 for the realisation. As a creature of flesh and blood, the 
 child I had played with, talked with, touched, she had 
 faded further and further into the distance ; as the vision 
 of my dreams she stood out clearer day by day. I knew 
 that when next I saw her there would be a gulf between 
 us I had no wish to bridge. To worship her from afar 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 3 1 3 
 
 was a sweeter thought to me than would have been the 
 hope of a passionate embrace. To Hve with her, sit op- 
 posite to her while she ate and drank, see her, perhaps, 
 with her hair in curl-papers, know possibly that she had a 
 corn upon her foot, hear her speak maybe of a decayed 
 tooth, or of a chilblain, would have been torture to me. 
 Into such abyss of the commonplace there was no fear 
 of my dragging her, and for this I was glad. In the 
 future she would be yet more removed from me. She was 
 older than I was ; she must be now a woman. Instinctive- 
 ly I felt that in spite of years I was not yet a man. She 
 would marry. The thought gave me no pain, my feeling 
 for her was utterly devoid of appetite. No one but my- 
 self could close the temple I had built about her, none 
 deny to me the right of entry there. No jealous priest 
 could hide her from my eyes, her altar I had reared too 
 high. Since I have come to know myself better, I per- 
 ceive that she stood to me not as a living woman, but as a 
 symbol ; not a fellow human being to be walked with 
 through life, helping and to be helped, but that impalpable 
 religion of sex to which we raise up idols of poor human 
 clay, alas, not always to our satisfaction, so that foolishly 
 we fall into anger against them, forgetting they were but 
 the work of our own hands; not the body, but the spirit 
 of love. 
 
 I allowed a week to elapse after receiving old Hasluck's 
 letter before presenting myself at Stamford Hill. It was 
 late one afternoon in early summer. Hasluck had not 
 returned from the City, Mrs. Hasluck was out visiting, 
 Miss Hasluck was in the garden. I told the supercilious 
 footman not to trouble, I would seek her there myself. I 
 guessed where she would be; her favourite spot had al- 
 ways been a sunny corner, bright with flowers, surround- 
 ed by a thick yew hedge, cut, after the Dutch fashion, into 
 quaint shapes of animals and birds. She was walking 
 there, as I had expected, reading a book. And again, as 
 I saw her, came back to me the feeling that had swept 
 
314 Paul Kelver 
 
 across me as a boy, when first outlined against the dusty 
 books and papers of my father's office she had flashed 
 upon my eyes : that all the fairy tales had suddenly come 
 true, only now, instead of the Princess, she was the 
 Queen. Taller she was, with a dignity that formerly had 
 been the only charm she lacked. She did not hear my 
 coming, my way being across the soft, short grass, and 
 for a little while I stood there in the shadow of the yews, 
 drinking in the beauty of her clear-cut profile, bent down 
 towards her book, the curving lines of her long neck, the 
 wonder of the exquisite white hand against the lilac of 
 her dress. 
 
 I did not speak; rather would I have remained so 
 watching ; but turning at the end of the path, she saw me, 
 and as she came towards me held out her hand. I knelt 
 upon the path, and raised it to my lips. The action was 
 spontaneous, till afterwards I was not aware of having 
 done it. Her lips were smiling as I raised my eyes to 
 them, the faintest suggestion of contempt mingling with 
 amusement. Yet she seemed pleased, and her contempt, 
 even if I were not mistaken, would not have wounded me. 
 
 "So you are still in love with me? I wondered if you 
 would be." 
 
 "Did you know that I was in love with you ?" 
 
 "I should have been blind if I had not." 
 
 "But I was only a boy." 
 
 "You were not the usual type of boy. You are not go- 
 ing to be the usual type of man." 
 
 "You do not mind my loving you ?" 
 
 "I cannot help it, can I ? Nor can you." 
 
 She seated herself on a stone bench facing a sun-dial, 
 and leaning back, her hands clasped behind her head, 
 looked at me and laughed. 
 
 "I shall always love you," I answered, "but it is with a 
 curious sort of love. I do not understand it myself." 
 
 "Tell me," she commanded, still with a smile about her 
 lips^ "describe it to me." 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 315 
 
 I was standing over against her, my arm resting upon 
 the dial's stone column. The sun was sinking, casting 
 long shadows on the velvety grass, illuminating with a 
 golden light her upturned face. 
 
 "I would you were some great queen of olden days, and 
 that I might be always near you, serving you, doing your 
 bidding. Your love in return would spoil all ; I shall 
 never ask it, never desire it. That I might look upon you, 
 touch now and then at rare intervals with my lips your 
 hand, kiss in secret the glove you had let fall, the shoe 
 you had flung off, know that you knew of my love, that 
 I was yours to do with as you would, to live or die accord- 
 ing to your wish. Or that you were priestess in some 
 temple of forgotten gods, where I might steal at day- 
 break and at dusk to gaze upon your beauty ; kneel with 
 clasped hands, watching your sandalled feet coming and 
 going about the altar steps ; lie with pressed lips upon the 
 stones your trailing robes had touched." 
 
 She laughed a light mocking laugh. 'T should prefer 
 to be the queen. The role of priestess would not suit me. 
 Temples are so cold." A slight shiver passed through 
 her. She made a movement with her hand, beckoning me 
 to her feet. "That is how you shall love me, Paul," she 
 said, "adoring me, worshipping me — ^blindly. I will be 
 your queen and treat you — as it chooses me. All I think, 
 all I do, I will tell you, and you shall tell me it is right. 
 The queen can do no wrong." 
 
 She took my face between her hands, and bending over 
 me, looked long and steadfastly into my eyes. "You un- 
 derstand, Paul, the queen can do no wrong — never, 
 never." There had crept into her voice a note of vehe- 
 mence, in her face was a look almost of appeal. 
 
 "My queen can do no wrong," I repeated. And she 
 laughed and let her hands fall back upon her lap. 
 
 "Now you may sit beside me. So much honour, Paul, 
 shall you have to-day, but it will have to last you long. 
 And you may tell me all you have been doing, maybe it 
 
3i6 Paul Kelver 
 
 will amuse me; and afterwards you shall hear what I 
 have done, and shall say that it was right and good of 
 me." 
 
 I obeyed, sketching my story briefly, yet leaving noth- 
 ing untold, not even the transit of the Lady 'Ortensia, 
 ashamed of the episode though I was. At that she looked 
 a little grave. 
 
 "You must do nothing again, Paul," she commanded, 
 "to make me feel ashamed of you, or I shall dismiss you 
 from my presence for ever. I must be proud of you, or 
 you shall not serve me. In dishonouring yourself you are 
 dishonouring me. I am angry with you, Paul. Do not 
 let me be angry with you again." 
 
 And so that passed ; and although my love for her — as 
 I know well she wished and sought it should — failed to 
 save me at all times from the apish voices whispering 
 ever to the beast within us, I know the desire to be worthy 
 of her, to honour her with all my being, helped my life as 
 only love can. The glory of the morning fades, the magic 
 veil is rent; we see all things with cold, clear eyes. My 
 love was a woman. She lies dead. They have mocked 
 her white sweet limbs with rags and tatters, but they 
 cannot cheat love's eyes. God knows I loved her in all 
 purity ! Only with false love we love the false. Beneath 
 the unclean clinging garments she sleeps fair. 
 
 My tale finished, "Now I will tell you mine," she said. 
 "I am going to be married soon. I shall be a Countess, 
 Paul, the Countess Huescar — I will teach you how to 
 pronounce it — and I shall have a real castle in Spain. You 
 need not look so frightened, Paul ; we shall not live there. 
 It is a half-ruined, gloomy place, among the mountains, 
 and he loves it even less than I do. Paris and London 
 will be my courts, so you will see me often. You shall 
 know the great world, Paul, the world I mean to conquer, 
 where I mean to rule." 
 
 "Is he very rich?" I asked. 
 
 "As poor," she laughed, "as poor as a Spanish noble- 
 
The Glory and Goodness- and the Evil 317 
 
 man. The money I shall have to provide, or, rather, poor 
 dear Dad will. He gives me title, position. Of course I 
 do not love him, handsome though he is. Don't look so 
 solemn, Paul. We shall get on together well enough. 
 Queens, Paul, do not make love matches, they contract 
 alliances. I have done well, Paul ; congratulate me. Do 
 you hear, Paul ? Say that I have acted rightly." 
 
 "Does he love you?" I asked. 
 
 "He tells me so," she answered, with a laugh. "How 
 uncourtier-like you are, Paul ! Do you suggest that any 
 man could see me and not love me?" 
 
 She sprang to her feet. "I do not want his love," she 
 cried ; "it would bore me. Women hate love they cannot 
 return. I don't mean love like yours, devout little Paul," 
 she added, with a laugh. "That is sweet incense wafted 
 round us that we like to scent with our noses in the air. 
 Give me that, Paul ; I want it, I ask for it. But the love 
 of a hand, the love of a husband that one does not care 
 for — it would be horrible !" 
 
 I felt myself growing older. For the moment my 
 goddess became a child needing help. 
 
 "But have you thought — " I commenced. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she interrupted me quickly, "I have thought 
 and thought till I can think no more. There must be some 
 sacrifice; it must be as little as need be, that is all. He 
 does not love me ; he is marrying me for my money — I 
 know that, and I am glad of it. You do not know me, 
 Paul. I must have rank, position. What am I? The 
 daughter of rich old Hasluck, who began life as a butcher 
 in the Mile End Road. As the Princess Huescar, society 
 will forget, as Mrs." — it seemed to me she checked 
 herself abruptly — "Jones or Brown it would remember, 
 however rich I might be. I am vain, Paul, caring for 
 power — ambition. I have my father's blood in me. All 
 his nights and days he has spent in gaining wealth ; he can 
 do no more. We upstarts have our pride of race. He 
 has done his share, I must do mine." 
 
3i8 Paul Kelver 
 
 "But you need not be mere Mrs. anybody common- 
 place/' I argued. ''Why not wait ? You will meet someone 
 who can give you position and whom at the same time you 
 can love. Would that not be better?" 
 
 "He will never come, the man I could love," she 
 answered. "Because, my little Paul, he has come already. 
 Hush, Paul, the queen can do no wrong." 
 
 "Who is he?" I asked. "May I not know?" 
 
 "Yes, Paul," she answered, "you shall know; I want you 
 to know, then you shall tell me that I have acted rightly. 
 Do you hear me, Paul? — quite rightly — that you still re- 
 spect me and honour me. He could not help me. As his 
 wife, I should be less even than I am, a mere rich nobody, 
 giving long dinner-parties to other rich nobodies, living 
 amongst City men, retired trades-people; envied only by 
 their fat, vulgarly dressed wives, courted by seedy Bo- 
 hemians for the sake of my cook ; with perhaps an opera 
 singer or an impecunious nobleman or two out of Dad's 
 City list for my show-guests. Is that the court, Paul, 
 where you would have your queen reign ?" 
 
 "Is he so commonplace a man," I answered, "the man 
 you love ? I cannot believe it." 
 
 "He is not commonplace," she answered. "It is I who 
 am commonplace. The things I desire, they are beneath 
 him; he will never trouble himself to secure them." 
 
 "Not even for love of you?" 
 
 "I would not have him do so, even were he willing. He 
 is great, with a greatness I cannot even understand. He 
 is not the man for these times. In old days, I should 
 have married him, knowing he would climb to greatness 
 by sheer strength of manhood. But now men do not 
 climb ; they crawl to greatness. He could not do that. I 
 have done right, Paul." 
 
 "What does he say?" I asked. 
 
 "Shall I tell you?" She laughed a little bitterly. "I 
 can give you his exact words, 'You are half a woman and 
 half a fool, so woman-like you will follow your folly. 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 319 
 
 But let vour folly see to it that your woman makes no 
 fool of herself.' " 
 
 The words were what I could imagine his saying. I 
 heard the strong ring of his voice through her mocking 
 mimicry. 
 
 "Hal r I cried. "It is he." 
 
 "So you never guessed even that, Paul. I thought at 
 times it would be sweet to cry it out aloud, that it could 
 have made no difference, that everyone who knew me 
 must have read it in my eyes." 
 
 "But he never seemed to take much notice of you," I 
 said. 
 
 She laughed. "You needn't be so unkind, Paul. What 
 did I ever do for you much more than snub you? We 
 boys and girls; there is not so much difference between 
 us : we love our masters. Yet you must not think so 
 poorly of me. I was only a child to him then, but we were 
 locked up in Paris together during the entire siege. Have 
 not you heard? He did take a little notice of me there, 
 Paul, I assure you." 
 
 Would it have been better, I wonder, had she followed 
 the woman and not the fool ? It sounds an easy question 
 to anwer ; but I am thinking of years later, one winter's 
 night at Tiefenkasten in the Julier Pass. I was on my 
 way from San Moritz to Chur. The sole passenger, I had 
 just climbed, half frozen, from the sledge, and was thaw- 
 ing myself before the stove in the common room of the 
 hotel when the waiter put a pencilled note into my hand : 
 
 "Come up and see me. I am a prisoner in this damned 
 hole till the weather breaks. Hal." 
 
 I hardly recognised him at first. Only the poor ghost 
 he seemed of the Hal I had known as a boy. His long 
 privations endured during the Paris siege, added to the 
 superhuman work he had there put upon himself, had 
 commenced the ruin of even his magnificent physique — 
 a ruin the wild, loose life he was now leading was soon to 
 complete. It was a gloomy, vaulted room that once had 
 
320 Paul Kelver 
 
 been a chapel, lighted dimly by a cheap, evil-smelling 
 lamp, heated to suffocation by one of those great green- 
 tiled German ovens now only to be met with in rare 
 out-of-the-way world corners. He was sitting propped 
 up by pillows on the bed, placed close to one of the 
 high windows, his deep eyes flaring like two gleaming 
 caverns out of his drawn, haggard face. 
 
 "I saw you from the window," he explained. "It is the 
 only excitement I get, twice a day when the sledges come 
 in. I broke down coming across the Pass a fortnight ago, 
 on my way from Davos. We were stuck in a drift for 
 eighteen hours ; it nearly finished my last lung. And I 
 haven't even a book to read. By God ! lad, I was glad to 
 see your frosted face ten minutes ago in the light of the 
 lantern." 
 
 He grasped me with his long bony hand; "Sit down, 
 and let me hear my voice using again its mother tongue — 
 you were always a good listener — for the last eight years 
 I have hardly spoken it. Can you stand the room? The 
 windows ought to be open, but what does it matter? I 
 may as well get accustomed to the heat before I die." 
 
 I drew my chair close to the bed, and for awhile, be- 
 tween his fits of coughing, we talked of things that were 
 outside our thoughts, or, rather, Hal talked, continuously, 
 boisterously, meeting my remonstrances with shouts of 
 laughter, ending in wild struggles for breath, so that I 
 deemed It better to let him work his mad mood out. 
 
 Then suddenly: "What is she doing?" he asked. "Do 
 you ever see her ?" 
 
 "She is playing in — " I mentioned the name of a comic 
 opera then running in Paris. "No ; I have not seen her 
 for some time." 
 
 He laid his white, wasted hand on mine. "What a 
 pity you and I could not have rolled ourselves into one, 
 Paul — you, the saint, and I, the satyr. Together we 
 should have made her perfect lover." 
 
 There came back to me the memory of those long nights 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 321 
 
 when I had lain awake listening to the angry voices of my 
 father and mother soaking through the flimsy wall. It 
 seemed my fate to stand thus helpless between those I 
 loved, watching them hurting one another against their 
 will. 
 
 ''Tell me," I asked — "I loved her, knowing her : I was 
 not blind. Whose fault was it? Yours or hers?" 
 
 He laughed. "Whose fault, Paul? God made us." 
 
 Thinking of her fair, sweet face, I hated him for his 
 mocking laugh. But the next moment, looking into his 
 deep eyes, seeing the pain that dwelt there, my pity was 
 for him. A smile came to his ugly mouth. 
 
 "You have been on the stage, Paul; you must have 
 heard the saying often : 'Ah, well, the curtain must come 
 down, however badly things are going.' It is only a play, 
 Paul. We do not choose our parts. I did not even know 
 I was the villain, till I heard the booing of the gallery. I 
 even thought I was the hero, full of noble sentiment, sac- 
 rificing myself for the happiness of the heroine. She 
 would have married me in the beginning had I plagued 
 her sufficiently." 
 
 I made to speak, but he interrupted me, continuing: 
 "Ah, yes ; it might have been better. That is easy to say, 
 not knowing. So, too, it might have been worse — in all 
 probability much the same. All roads lead to the end. 
 You know I was always a fatalist, Paul. We tried both 
 ways. She loved me well enough, but she loved the world 
 also. I thought she loved it better, so I kissed her on her 
 brow, mumbled a prayer for her happiness and made my 
 exit to a choking sob. So ended the first act. Wasn't 
 I the hero throughout that, Paul ? I thought so ; slapped 
 myself upon the back, told myself what a fine fellow I 
 had been. Then — you know what followed. She was 
 finer clay than she had fancied. Love is woman's king- 
 dom, not the world. Even then I thought more of her 
 than of myself. I could have borne my share of the 
 burden had I not seen her fainting under hers, shamed. 
 
322 Paul Kelver 
 
 degraded. So we dared to think for ourselves, injuring 
 nobody but ourselves, played the man and woman, lost 
 the world for love. Wasn't it brave, Paul? Were we 
 not hero and heroine? They had printed the playbill 
 wrong, Paul, that was all. I was really the hero, but the 
 printing devil had made a slip, so instead of applauding 
 you booed. How could you know, any of you? It was 
 not your fault." 
 
 "But that was not the end," I reminded him. "If the 
 curtain had fallen then, I could have forgiven you." 
 
 He grinned. "That fatal last act. Even yours don't 
 always come right, so the critics tell me. 
 
 The grin faded from his face. "We may never see 
 each other again, Paul," he went on; "don't think too 
 badly of me. I found I had made a second mistake — or 
 thought I had. She was no happier with me after a time 
 than she had been with him. If all our longings were one, 
 life would be easy ; but they are not. What is to be done 
 but toss for it ? And if it come down head we wish it had 
 been tail, and if tail we think of what we have lost 
 through its not coming down head. Love is no more the 
 whole of a woman's life than it is of a man's. He did not 
 apply for a divorce; that was smart of him. We were 
 shunned, ignored. To some women it might not have 
 mattered ; but she had been used to being sought, courted, 
 feted. She made no complaint — did worse : made des- 
 perate effort to appear cheerful, to pretend that our hum- 
 drum life was not boring her to death. I watched her 
 growing more listless, more depressed ; grew angry with 
 her, angrier with myself. There was no bond between us 
 except our passion ; that was real enough — 'grand,* I be- 
 lieve, is the approved literary adjective. It is good 
 enough for what nature intended it, a summer season in a 
 cave. It makes but a poor marriage settlement in these 
 more complicated days. We fell to mutual recriminations, 
 vulgar scenes. Ah, most of us look better at a little dis- 
 tance from one another. The sordid, contemptible side of 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 323 
 
 life became important to us. I was never rich; by con- 
 trast with all that she had known, miserably poor. The 
 mere sight of the food our twelve-pound-a-year cook put 
 upon the table would take away her appetite. Love does 
 not change the palate, give you a taste for cheap claret 
 when you have been accustomed to dry champagne. We 
 have bodies to think of as well as souls; we are apt to 
 forget that in moments of excitement. 
 
 ''She fell ill^ and it seemed to me that I had dragged 
 her from the soil where she had grown only to watch her 
 die. And then he came, precisely at the right moment. I 
 cannot help admiring him. Most men take their revenge 
 clumsily, hurting themselves; he was so neat, had been 
 so patient. I am not even ashamed of having fallen into 
 his trap ; it was admirably baited. Maybe I had despised 
 him for having seemed to submit meekly to the blow. 
 What cared he for me and my opinion? It was she was 
 all he cared for. He knew her better than I, knew that 
 sooner or later she would tire, not of love but of the cot- 
 tage; look back with longing eyes towards all that she 
 had lost. Fool ! Cuckold ! What was it to him that the 
 world would laugh at him, despise him? Love such as 
 his made fools of men. Would I not give her back to 
 him? 
 
 ''By God! It was fine acting; half into the night we 
 talked, I leaving him every now and again to creep to the 
 top of the stairs and listen to her breathing. He asked 
 me my advice, I being the hard-headed partner of cool 
 judgment. What would be the best way of approaching 
 her after I was gone ? Where should he take her ? How 
 should they live till the nine days' talk had died away? 
 And I sat opposite to him — how he must have longed to 
 laugh in my silly face — advising him ! We could not quite 
 agree as to details of a possible yachting cruise, and I re- 
 member hunting up an atlas, and we pored over it, our 
 heads close together. By God ! I envy him that night !" 
 
 He sank back on his pillows and laughed and coughed, 
 
324 Paul Kelver 
 
 and laughed and coughed again, till I feared that wild, 
 long, broken laugh would be his last. But it ceased at 
 length, and for awhile, exhausted, he lay silent before con- 
 tinuing. 
 
 "Then came the question : how was I to go? She loved 
 me still. He was sure of it, and, for the matter of that, 
 so was I. So long as she thought that I loved her, she 
 would never leave me. Only from her despair could 
 fresh hope arise for her. Would I not make some sacrifice 
 for her sake, persuade her that I had tired of her ? Only 
 by one means could she be convinced. My going off alone 
 would not suffice ; my reason for that she might suspect — 
 she might follow. It would be for her sake. Again it 
 was the hero that I played, the dear old chuckle-headed 
 hero, Paul, that you ought to have cheered, not hooted. 
 I loved her as much as I ever loved her in my life, that 
 night I left her. I took my boots off in the passage and 
 crept up in my stockinged feet. I told him I was merely 
 going to change my coat and put a few things into a bag. 
 He gripped my hand, and tears were standing in his eyes. 
 It is odd that suppressed laughter and expressed grief 
 should both display the same token, is it not ? I stole into 
 her room. I dared not kiss her for -fear of waking her ; 
 but a stray lock of her hair — you remember how long it 
 was — fell over the pillow, nearly reaching to the floor. I 
 pressed my lips against it, where it trailed over the bed- 
 stead, till they bled. I have it still upon my lips, the 
 mingling of the cold iron and the warm, soft silken hair. 
 He told me, when I came down again, that I had been 
 gone three-quarters of an hour. And we went out of the 
 house together, he and I. That is the last time I ever saw 
 her." 
 
 I leant across and put my arms around him ; I suppose 
 it was un-English ; there are times when one forgets these 
 points. 'T did not know ! I did not know," I cried. 
 
 He pressed me to him with his feeble arms. "What a 
 cad you must have thought me, Paul," he said. "But you 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 325 
 
 might have given me credit for better taste. I was al- 
 ways rather a gourmet than a gourmand where women 
 were concerned." 
 
 "You have never seen him either again?" I asked. 
 
 "No," he answered ; "I swore to kill him when I learnt 
 the trick he had played me. He commenced the divorce 
 proceedings against her the very morning after I had 
 left her. Possibly, had I succeeded in finding him within 
 the next six months, I should have done so. A few news- 
 paper proprietors would have been the only people really 
 benefited. Time is the cheapest Bravo ; a little patience is 
 all he charges. All roads lead to the end, Paul." 
 
 But I tell my tale badly, marring effects of sunlight 
 with the memory of shadows. At the time all promised 
 fair. He was a handsome, distinguished-looking man. 
 Not every aristocrat, if without disrespect to one's betters 
 a humble observer may say so, suggests his title; this man 
 would have suggested his title, had he not possessed it. 
 I suppose he must have been about fifty at the time ; but 
 most men of thirty would have been glad to exchange 
 with him both figure and complexion. His behaviour 
 to his fiancee was the essence of good taste, affectionate 
 devotion, carried to the exact point beyond which, hav- 
 ing regard to the disparity of their years, it would have 
 appeared ridiculous. That he sincerely admired her, was 
 fully content with her, there could be no doubt. I am 
 even inclined to think he was fonder of her than, divining 
 her feelings towards himself, he cared to show. Knowl- 
 edge of the world must have told him that men of fifty 
 find it easier to be the lovers of women young enough to 
 be their daughters, than girls find it to desire the affection 
 of men old enough to be their fathers ; and he was not the 
 man to allow impulse to lead him into absurdity. 
 
 From my own peculiar point of view he appeared the 
 ideal prince consort. It was difficult for me to imagine 
 my queen in love with any mere man. This was one be- 
 side whom she could live, losing in my eyes nothing of 
 
326 Paul Kelver 
 
 her dignity. My feelings for her he guessed at our first 
 interview. Most men in his position would have been 
 amused, and many would have shown it. For what reason 
 I cannot say, but with a tact and courtesy that left me 
 only complimented, he drew from me, before I had met 
 him half-a-dozen times, more frank confession than a 
 month previously I should have dreamt of my yielding to 
 anything than my own pillow. He laid his hand upon 
 my shoulder. 
 
 *'I wonder if you know, my friend, how wise you are," 
 he said. "We all of us at your age love an image of our 
 own carving. Ah, if only we could be content to worship 
 the white, changeless statute! But we are fools. We 
 pray the gods to give her life, and under our hot kisses she 
 becomes a woman. I also loved when I was your age, Paul. 
 Your countrymen, they are so practical, they know only 
 one kind of love. It is business-like, rich — how puts it 
 your poet? 'rich in saving common sense.' But there are 
 many kinds, you understand that, my friend. You are 
 wise, do not confuse them. She was a child of the moun- 
 tains. I used to walk three leagues to Mass each day to 
 worship her. Had I been wise — had I so left it, the mem- 
 ory of her would have coloured all my life with glory. 
 But I was a fool, my friend ; I turned her into a woman. 
 Ah!" — he made a gesture of disgust — "such a fat, ugly 
 woman, Paul, I turned her into. I had much difficulty in 
 getting rid of her. We should never touch things in 
 life that are beautiful; we have such clumsy hands, we 
 spoil whatever we touch." 
 
 Hal did not return to England till the end of the year, 
 by which time the Count and Countess Huescar — though 
 I had her permission still to call her Barbara, I never 
 availed myself of it ; the "Countess" fitted my mood better 
 — had taken up residence in the grand Paris house old 
 Hasluck had bought for them. 
 
 It was the high-water mark of old Hasluck^s 
 career, and, if anything, he was a little disappointed that 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 327 
 
 with the dowry he had promised her Barbara had not. 
 done even better for herself. 
 
 "Foreign Counts," he grumbled to me laughingly, one 
 day, "well, I hope they're worth more in Society than they 
 are in the City. A hundred guineas is their price there, 
 and they're not worth that. Who was that American girl 
 that married a Russian Prince only last week ? A million 
 dollars was all she gave for him, and she a wholesale boot- 
 maker's daughter into the bargain ! Our girls are not half 
 as smart." 
 
 But that was before he had seen his future son-in-law. 
 After, he was content enough, and up to the day of the 
 wedding, childishly elated. Under the Count's tuition he 
 studied with reverential awe the Huescar history. 
 Princes, statesmen, warriors, glittered, golden apples, 
 from the spreading branches of its genealogical tree. 
 Why not again ! its attenuated blue sap strengthened with 
 the rich, red blood, brewed by toil and effort in the grim 
 laboratories of the under world. In imagination, old 
 Hasluck saw himself the grandfather of Chancellors, the 
 great-grandfather of Kings. 
 
 "I have laid the foundation, you shall raise the edifice," 
 so he told her one evening I was spending with them, 
 caressing her golden hair with his blunt, fat fingers. "I 
 am glad you were not a boy. A boy, in all probability, 
 would have squandered the money, let the name sink back 
 again into the gutter. And even had he been the other 
 sort, he could only have been another business man, keep- 
 ing where I had left him. You will call your first boy 
 Hasluck, won't you? It must always be the first-born's 
 name. It shall be famous in the world yet, and for some- 
 thing else than mere money." 
 
 I began to understand the influences that had gone to- 
 wards the making— or marring — of Barbara's character. 
 I had never guessed he had cared for anything beyond 
 money and the making of money. 
 
 It was, of course, a wedding as ostentatious as possible. 
 
328 Paul Kelver 
 
 Old Hasluck knew how to advertise, and spared neither 
 expense nor labour, with the result that it was the event of 
 the season, at least according to the Society papers. Mrs. 
 Hasluck was the type of woman to have escaped obser- 
 vation, even had the wedding been her own ; that she was 
 present at her daughter's, ''becomingly dressed in grey 
 veiling spotted white, with an encrustation of mousseline 
 de soie," I learnt the next day from the Morning Post. 
 Old Hasluck himself had to be fetched every time he was 
 wanted. At the conclusion of the ceremony, seeking him, 
 1 found him sitting on the stairs leading to the crypt. 
 
 "Is it over?" he asked. He was mopping his face on a 
 huge handkerchief, and had a small looking-gliass in his 
 hand. 
 
 "All over," I answered, "they are waiting for you to 
 start." 
 
 "I always perspire so when I'm excited," he explained. 
 "Keep me out of it as much as possible." 
 
 But the next time I saw him, which was two or three 
 days later, the reaction had set in. He was sitting in his 
 great library, surrounded by books he would no more 
 have thought of disturbing than he would of strumming 
 on the gorgeous grand piano inlaid with silver that orna- 
 mented his drawing-room. A change had passed over 
 him. His swelling rotundity, suggestive generally of a 
 bladder inflated to its extremest limits by excess of self- 
 importance, appeared to be shrinking. I put the idea 
 aside as mere fancy at the time, but it was fact ; he became 
 a mere bag of bones before he died. He was wearing an 
 old pair of carpet slippers and smoking a short clay pipe. 
 
 "Well," I said, "everything went of? all right." 
 
 "Everybody's gone off all right, so far," he grunted. 
 He was crouching over the fire, though the weather was 
 still warm, one hand spread out towards the blaze. "Now 
 I've got to go off, that's the only thing they're waiting 
 for. Then everything will be in order." 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 329 
 
 ''I don't think they are wanting you to go off," I 
 answered, with a laugh. 
 
 "You mean," he answered, "I'm the goose that lays the 
 golden eggs. Ah, but you see, so many of the eggs break, 
 and so many of them are bad." 
 
 "Some of them hatch all right," I replied. The simile 
 was becoming somewhat confused : in conversation simi- 
 les are apt to. 
 
 "If I were to die this week," he said — ^he paused, com- 
 pleting mental calculations, "I should be worth, roughly 
 speaking, a couple of million. This time next year I may 
 be owing a million." 
 
 I sat down opposite to him. "Why run risks ?" I sug- 
 gested. "Surely you have enough. Why not give it up — 
 retire?" 
 
 He laughed. "Do you think I haven't said that to my- 
 self, lad — sworn I would a dozen times a year? I can't 
 do it ; I'm a gambler. It's the earliest thing I can recol- 
 lect doing, gambling with brace buttons. There are men, 
 Paul, now dying in the workhouse — men I once knew 
 well ; I think of them sometimes, and wish I didn't — who 
 any time during half their life might have retired on 
 twenty thousand a year. If I were to go to any one of 
 them, and settle an annuity of a hundred a year upon him, 
 the moment my back was turned he'd sell it out and totter 
 up to Threadneedle Street wjth the proceeds. It's in our 
 blood. I shall gamble on my death-bed, die with the tape 
 in my hand." 
 
 He kicked the fire into a blaze. A roaring flame made 
 the room light again. 
 
 "But that won't be just yet awhile," he laughed, "and 
 before it does, I'll be the richest man in Europe. I keep 
 my head cool — that's the great secret." Leaning over to- 
 wards me, he sunk his voice to a whisper, "Drink, Paul — 
 so many of them drink. They get worried ; fifty things 
 dancing round and round at the same time in their heads. 
 
330 Paul Kelver 
 
 Fifty questions to he answered in five minutes. Tick, 
 tick, tick, taps the little devil at their elbow. This going 
 down, that going up. Rumor of this, report of that. A 
 fortune to be lost here, a fortune to be snatched there. 
 Everything in a whirl ! Tick, tick, tick, like nails into a 
 coffin. God ! for five minutes' peace to think. Shut the 
 door, turn the key. Out comes the bottle. That's the end. 
 All right so long as you keep away from that. Cool, 
 quick brain, clear judgment — that's the secret." 
 
 *'But is it worth it all?" I suggested. ^'Surely you have 
 enough ?" 
 
 "It means power, Paul." He slapped his trousers 
 pocket, making the handful of gold and silver he always 
 carried there jingle musically. "It is this that rules the 
 world. My children shall be big pots, hobnob with kings 
 and princes, slap them on the back and call them by their 
 Christian names, be kings themselves — why not? It's 
 happened before. My children, the children of old Noel 
 Hasluck, son of a Whitechapel butcher ! Here's my pedi- 
 gree!" Again he slapped his tuneful pocket. "It's an 
 older one than theirs! It's coming into its own at last! 
 It's money — we men of money — that are the true kings 
 now. It's our family that rules the world — the great 
 money family ; I mean to be its head." 
 
 The blaze died out, leaving the room almost in dark- 
 ness, and for awhile we sat in silence. 
 
 "Quiet, isn't it?" said old Hasluck, raising his head. 
 
 The settling of the falling embers was the only sound 
 about us. 
 
 "Guess we'll always be like this, now," continued old 
 Hasluck. "Old woman goes to bed, you see, immediately 
 after dinner. It used to be diflFerent when she was about. 
 Somehow, the house and the lackeys and all the rest of it 
 seemed to be a more natural sort of thing when she was 
 the centre of it. It frightens the old woman now she's 
 gone. She likes to get away from it. Poor old Susan! 
 A little country inn with herself as landlady and me fuss- 
 
The Glory and Goodness and the Evil 331 
 
 ing about behind the bar; that was always her ambition, 
 poor old girl !" 
 
 ''You will be visiting them," I suggested, ''and they will 
 be coming to stop with you." 
 
 He shook his head. "They won't want me, and it isn't 
 my game to hamper them. I never mix out of my class. 
 I've always had sense enough for that." 
 
 I laughed, wishing to cheer him, though I knew he was 
 right. "Surely your daughter belongs to your own class/' 
 I replied. 
 
 "Do you think so ?" he asked, with a grin. "That's not 
 a pretty compliment to her. She was my child when she 
 used to cling round my neck, while I made the sausages, 
 calling me her dear old pig. It didn't trouble her then 
 that I dropped my aitches and had a greasy skin. I was 
 a Whitechapel butcher, and she was a Whitechapel brat. 
 I could have kept her if I'd liked, but I was set upon mak- 
 ing a lady of her, and I did it. But I lost my child. Every 
 time she came back from school I could see she despised 
 me a little more. I'm not blaming her ; how could she help 
 it? I was making a lady of her, teaching her to do it; 
 though there were moments when I almost hated her, felt 
 tempted to snatch her back to me, drag her down again to 
 my level, make her my child again, before it was too late. 
 Oh, it wasn't all unselfishness ; I could have done it. She 
 would have remained my class then, would have married 
 my class, and her children would have been my class. I 
 didn't want that. Everything's got to be paid for. I 
 got what I asked for; I'm not grumbling at the price. 
 But it ain't cheap." 
 
 He rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe. "Ring 
 the bell, Paul, will you ?" he said. "Let's have some light 
 and something to drink. Don't take any notice of me. 
 I've got the hump to-night." 
 
 It was a minute or two before the lamp came. He put 
 his arm upon my shoulder, leaning upon me somewhat 
 heavily. 
 
332 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 "I used to fancy sometimes, Paul," he said, "that you 
 and she might have made a match of it. I should have 
 been disappointed for some things. But you'd have been 
 a bit nearer to me, you two. It never occurred to you, 
 that, I suppose?" 
 
 'V 
 
 '^ 
 
 17808 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HOW PAUL SET FORTH UPON A QUEST. 
 
 Of old Deleglise's Sunday suppers, which, costumed 
 from head to foot in spotless linen, he cooked himself in 
 his great kitchen, moving with flushed, earnest face about 
 the gleaming stove, while behind him his guests waited, 
 ranged round the massive oaken table glittering with cut 
 glass and silver, among which fluttered the deft hands of 
 Madeline, his ancient whitecapped Bonne, much has been 
 already recorded, and by those possessed of greater 
 knowledge. They who sat there talking in whispers until 
 such time as old Deleglise turned towards them again, 
 radiant with consciousness of success, the savoury tri- 
 umph steaming between his hands, when, like the sudden 
 swell of the Moonlight Sonata, the talk would rush once 
 more into a roar, were men whose names were then — and 
 some are still — more or less household words throughout 
 the EngHsh-speaking world. Artists, musicians, actors, 
 writers, scholars, droles, their wit and wisdom, their say- 
 ings and their doings must be tolerably familiar to readers 
 of memoir and biography; and if to such their epigrams 
 appear less brilliant, their jests less laughable than to us 
 who heard them spoken, that is merely because fashion 
 in humour and in understanding changes as in all else. 
 
 You, gentle reader of my book, I shall not trouble with 
 second-hand record of that which you can read elsewhere. 
 For me it will be but to write briefly of my own brief 
 glimpse into that charmed circle. Concerning this story 
 more are the afternoon At Homes held by Dan and my- 
 self upon the second floor of the old Georgian house in 
 pleasant, quiet Queen Square. For cook and house-maid 
 
334 P^^l Kelver 
 
 on these days it would be a busy morning. Failing other 
 supervision, Dan and I agreed that to secure success on 
 these important occasions each of us should criticise the 
 work of the other. I passed judgment on Dan's cooking, 
 he upon my house-work. 
 
 'Too much soda," I would declare, sampling the cake. 
 
 "You silly Juggins! It's meant to taste of soda — it's 
 a soda cake." 
 
 "I know that. It isn't meant to taste of nothing but 
 soda. There wants to be some cake about it also. This 
 thing, so far as flavour is concerned, is nothing but a 
 Seidlitz powder. You can't give people solidified Seidlitz 
 powders for tea !" 
 
 Dan would fume, but I would remain firm. The soda 
 cake would be laid aside, and something else attempted. 
 His cookery was the one thing Dan was obstinate about. 
 He would never admit that anything could possibly be 
 wrong with it. His most ghastly failures he would de- 
 vour himself later on with pretended enjoyment. I have 
 known him finish a sponge cake, the centre of which had 
 to be eaten with a teaspoon, declaring it was delicious; 
 that eating a dry sponge cake was like eating dust ; that a 
 sponge cake ought to be a trifle syrupy towards the 
 centre. Afterwards he would be strangely silent and 
 drink brandy out of a wine-glass. 
 
 ''Call these knives clean?" It would be Dan's turn. 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 Dan would draw his finger across one, producing chi- 
 aro-oscuro. 
 
 "Not if you go fingering them. Why don't you leave 
 them alone and go on with your own work?" 
 
 "You've just wiped them, that's all." 
 
 "Well, there isn't any knife-powder." 
 
 "Yes, there is." 
 
 "Besides, it ruins knives, over-cleaning them — takes all 
 the edge off. We shall want them pretty sharp to cut 
 those lemon buns of yours." 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 335 
 
 "Over-cleaning them ! You don't take any pride in the 
 place." 
 
 "Good Lord! Don't I work from morning to night?" 
 
 "You lazy young devil !" 
 
 "Makes one lazy, your cooking. How can a man work 
 when he is suffering all day long from indigestion ?" 
 
 But Dan would not be content until I had found the 
 board and cleaned the knives to his complete satisfaction. 
 Perhaps it was as well that in this way all things once a 
 week were set in order. After lunch house-maid and 
 cook would vanish, two carefully dressed gentlemen being 
 left alone to receive their guests. 
 
 These would be gathered generally from among Dan's 
 journalistic acquaintances and my companions of the 
 theatre. Occasionally, Minikin and Jarman would be of 
 the number, Mrs. Peedles even once or twice arriving 
 breathless on our landing. Left to myself, I perhaps 
 should not have invited them, deeming them hardly fitting 
 company to mingle with our other visitors ; but Dan, hav- 
 ing once been introduced to them, overrode such objec- 
 tion. 
 
 "My dear Lord Chamberlain," Dan would reply, "an 
 ounce of originality is worth a ton of convention. Little 
 tin ladies and gentlemen all made to pattern ! One can 
 find them everywhere. Your friends would be an acquisi- 
 tion to any society." 
 
 "But are they quite good form?" I hinted. 
 
 "I'll tell you what we will do," replied Dan. "We'll 
 forget that Mrs. Peedles keeps a lodging-house in Black- 
 friars. We will speak of her as our friend, 'that dear, 
 quaint old creature. Lady P.' A title that is an oddity, 
 whose costume always suggests the wardrobe of a provin- 
 cial actress! My dear Paul, your society novelist would 
 make a fortune out of such a character. The personages 
 of her amusing anecdotes, instead of being third-rate 
 theatrical folk, shall be Earl Blank and the Baroness de 
 Dash. The editors of society journals shall pay me a 
 
336 Paul Kelver 
 
 shilling a line for them. Jarman — yes, Jarman shall be 
 the son of a South American millionaire. Vulgar ? Non- 
 sense! you mean racy. Minikin — he looks much more 
 like forty than twenty — he shall be an eminent scientist. 
 His head will then appear the natural size ; his glass eye, 
 the result of a chemical experiment, a touch of distinc- 
 tion; his uncompromising rudeness, a lovable character- 
 istic. We will make him buy a yard of red ribbon and 
 wear it across his shirt-front^ and address him as Herr 
 Professor. It will explain slight errors of English gram- 
 mar and all pecuHarities of accent. They shall be our 
 lions. You leave it to me. We will invite commonplace, 
 middle-class folk to meet them." 
 
 And this, to my terror and alarm, Dan persisted in 
 doing. Jarman entered into the spirit of the joke with 
 gusto. So far as he was concerned, our guests, from the 
 beginning to the end, were one and all, I am confident, de- 
 ceived. The more he swaggered, the more he boasted, 
 the more he talked about himself — and it was a failing he 
 was prone to — the greater was his success. At the per- 
 sistent endeavours of Dan's journalistic acquaintances to 
 excite his cupidity by visions of new journals, to be started 
 with a mere couple of thousand pounds and by the inher- 
 ent merit of their ideas to command at once a circulation 
 of hundreds of thouands, I could afford to laugh. But 
 watching the tremendous efforts of my actress friends 
 to fascinate him — luring him into corners, gazing at him 
 with languishing eyes, trotting out all their little tricks for 
 his exclusive benefit, quarrelling about him among them- 
 selves — my conscience would prick me, lest our jest 
 should end in a contretemps. Fortunately, Jarman him- 
 self, was a gentleman of uncommon sense, or my fears 
 might have been realised. I should have been sorry my- 
 self to have been asked to remain stone under the bland- 
 ishments of girls young and old, of women handsome and 
 once, no doubt, good looking, showered upon him during 
 that winter. But Jarman, as I think I have explained, 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 337 
 
 was no slave to female charms. He enjoyed his good 
 time while it lasted, and eventually married the eldest 
 daughter of a small blacking factory. She was a plain 
 girl, but pleasant, and later brought to Jarman possession 
 of the factory. When I meet him — he is now stout and 
 rubicund — he gives me the idea of a man who has at- 
 tained to his ideals. 
 
 With Minikin we had more trouble. People turned up 
 possessed of scientific smattering. We had to explain that 
 the Professor never talked shop. Others were owners of 
 unexpected knowledge of German, which they insisted 
 upon airing. W^e had to explain that the Herr Professor 
 was in London to learn English, and had taken a vow dur- 
 ing his residence neither to speak nor listen to his native 
 tongue. It was remarked that his acquaintance with 
 colloquial English slang, for a foreigner, was quite un- 
 usual. Occasionally he was too rude, even for a scientist, 
 informing ladies, clamouring to know how he liked Eng- 
 lish women, that he didn't like them silly ; telling one gen- 
 tleman, a friend of Dan, a rather important man, who 
 once asked him, referring to his yard of ribbon, what he 
 got it for, that he got it for fourpence. We had to ex- 
 plain him as a gentleman who had been soured by a love 
 disappointment. The ladies forgave him ; the gentlemen 
 said it was a damned lucky thing for the girl. Altogether, 
 Minikin took a good deal of explaining. 
 
 Lady Peedles, our guests decided among themselves, 
 must be the widow of some one in the City who had been 
 knighted in a crowd. They made fun of her behind her 
 back, but to her face were most effusive. "My dear Lady 
 Peedles" was the phrase most often heard in our rooms 
 whenever she was present. At the theatre "my friend 
 Lady Peedles" became a person much spoken of — gener- 
 ally in loud tones. My own social position I found decid- 
 edly improved by reason of her ladyship's evident liking 
 for myself. It went abroad that I was her presumptive 
 heir. I was courted as a gentleman of expectations. 
 
338 Paul Kelver 
 
 The fishy-eyed young man became one of our regu- 
 lar guests. Dan won his heart by never laughing at 
 him. 
 
 "I like talking to you," said the fishy-eyed young man 
 one afternoon to Dan. "You don't go into fits of laughter 
 when I remark that it has been a fine day ; most people do. 
 Of course, on the stage I don't mind. I know I am a 
 funny little devil. I get my living by being a funny little 
 devil. There is a photograph of me hanging in the theatre 
 lobby. I saw a workman stop and look at it the other day 
 as he passed; I was just behind him. He burst into a 
 
 roar of laughter. 'Little ! He makes me laugh to 
 
 look at him!' he cluttered to himself. Well, that's all 
 right; I want the man in the gallery to think me funny, 
 but it annoys me when people laugh at me off the stage. 
 If I am out to dinner anywhere and ask somebody to pass 
 the mustard, I never get it ; instead, they burst out laugh- 
 ing. I don't want people to laugh at me when I am hav- 
 ing my dinner. I want my dinner. It makes me very 
 angry sometimes." 
 
 "I know," agreed Dan, sympathetically. "The world 
 never grasps the fact that man is a collection, not a single 
 exhibit. I remember being at a house once where the chief 
 guest happened to be a great Hebrew scholar. One tea 
 time, a Miss Henman, passing the butter to some one in a 
 hurry, let it slip out of her hand. 'Why is Miss Henman 
 like a caterpillar ?' asked our learned guest in a sepulchral 
 voice. Nobody appeared to know. 'Because she makes 
 the butter fly.' It never occurred to any one of us that 
 the Doctor could possibly joke. There was dead silence 
 for about a minute. Then our hostess, looking grave, re- 
 marked : 'Oh, do you really think so ?' " 
 
 "If I were to enter a room full of people," said the 
 fishy-eyed young man, "and tell them that my mother 
 had been run over by an omnibus, they would think it the 
 funniest story they had heard in years." 
 
 He was playing a principal part now in the opera, and 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 339 
 
 it was he undoubtedly who was drawing the house. But 
 he was not happy. 
 
 ''I am not a comic actor, really/' he explained. "I could 
 play Romeo, so far as feeling is concerned, and play it 
 damned well. There is a fine vein of poetry in me. But 
 of course it's no good to me with this face of mine." 
 
 ''But are you not sinning your mercies, you fellows?" 
 Dan replied. "There is young Kelver here. At school 
 it was always his trouble that he could give us a good 
 time and make us laugh, which nobody else in the whole 
 school could do. His ambition was to kick a ball as well 
 as a hundred other fellows could kick it. He could tell 
 us a good story now if he would only write what the Al- 
 mighty intended him to write, instead of gloomy rigma- 
 roles about suffering Princesses in Welsh caves. I don't 
 say it's bad, but a hundred others could write the same 
 sort of thing better." 
 
 "Can't you understand," answered the little man ; "the 
 poorest tragedian that ever lived never wished himself 
 the best of low comedians. The court fool had an excel- 
 lent salary, no doubt; and, likely enough, had got two- 
 thirds of all the brain there was in the palace. But not a 
 wooden-headed man-at-arms but looked down upon him. 
 Every gallery boy who pays a shilling to laugh at me re- 
 gards himself as my intellectual superior; while to a 
 fourth-rate spouter of blank verse he looks up in admira- 
 tion." 
 
 "Does it so very much matter," suggested Dan, "how 
 the wooden-headed man-at-arms or the shilling gallery 
 boy happens to regard you ?" 
 
 "Yes, it does," retorted Goggles, "because we happen 
 to agree with them. If I could earn five pounds a 
 week as juvenile lead, I would never play a comic part 
 again." 
 
 "There I cannot follow you," returned Dan. "I can 
 understand the artist who would rather be the man of 
 action, the poet who would rather be the statesman or the 
 
34^ Paul Kelver 
 
 warrior; though personally my sympathies are precisely 
 the other way — with Wolfe who thought it a more glori- 
 ous work, the writing of a great poem, than the burning 
 of so many cities and the killing of so many men. We all 
 serve the community. It is difficult, looking at the matter 
 from the inside, to say who serves it best. Some feed it, 
 some clothe it. The churchman and the policeman be- 
 tween them look after its morals, keep it in order. The 
 doctor mends it when it injures itself; the lawyer helps it 
 to quarrel, the soldier teaches it to fight. We Bohemians 
 amuse it, instruct it. We can argue that we are the most 
 important. The others cater for its body, we for its mind. 
 But their work is more showy than ours and attracts more 
 attention ; and to attract attention is the aim and object of 
 most of us. But for Bohemians to worry among them- 
 selves which is the greatest, is utterly without reason. The 
 story-teller, the musician, the artist, the clown, we are 
 members of a sharing troupe; one, with the ambition of 
 the fat boy in Pickwick, makes the people's flesh creep; 
 another makes them hold their sides with laughter. The 
 tragedian, soliloquising on his crimes, shows us how 
 wicked we are ; you, looking at a pair of lovers from under 
 a scratch wig, show us how ridiculous we are. Both 
 lessons are necessary : who shall say which is the superior 
 teacher ?" 
 
 "Ah, I am not a philosopher," replied the little man, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 "Ah," returned Dan, with another, "and I am not a 
 comic actor on my way to a salary of a hundred a week. 
 We all of us want the other boy's cake." 
 
 The O'Kelly was another frequent visitor of ours. The 
 attic in Belsize Square had been closed. In vain had the 
 O'Kelly wafted incense, burned pastilles and sprinkled 
 eau-de-Cologne. In vain had he talked of rats, hinted at 
 drains. 
 
 "A wonderful woman," groaned the O'Kelly in tones 
 of sorrowful admiration. "There's no deceiving her." 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 341 
 
 "But why submit?" was our natural argument. "Why 
 not say you are going to smoke, and do it?" 
 
 "It's her theory, me boy," explained the O'Kelly, "that 
 the home should be kept pure — a sort of a temple, ye 
 know. She's convinced that in time it is bound to exer- 
 cise an influence upon me. It's a beautiful idea, when ye 
 come to think of it," 
 
 Meanwhile, in the rooms of half-a-dozen sinful men the 
 O'Kelly kept his own particular pipe, together with his 
 own particular smoking mixture ; and one such pipe and 
 one such tobacco jar stood always on our mantelpiece. 
 
 In the spring the forces of temptation raged round 
 that feeble but most excellently intentioned citadel, the 
 O'Kelly's conscience. The Signora had returned to Eng- 
 land, was performing then at Ashley's Theatre, The 
 O'Kelly would remain under long spells of silence, puff- 
 ing vigorously at his pipe. Or would fortify himself 
 with paeans in praise of Mrs. O'Kelly. 
 
 "If anything could ever make a model man of me" — he 
 spoke in the tones of one whose doubts are stronger than 
 his hopes — "it would be the example of that woman," 
 
 It was one Saturday afternoon, I had just returned 
 from the matinee, 
 
 "I don't believe," continued the O'Kelly, "I don't really 
 believe she has ever done one single thing she oughtn't to, 
 or left undone one single thing she ought, in the whole 
 course of her life." 
 
 "Maybe she has, and you don't know of it," I suggest- 
 ed, perceiving the idea might comfort him, 
 
 "I wish I could think so/' returned the O'Kelly, "I 
 don't mean anything really wrong," he corrected himself 
 quickly, "but something just a little wrong. I feel — I 
 really feel I should like her better if she had." 
 
 "Not that I mean I don't like her as it is, ye under- 
 stand," corrected himself the O'Kelly a second time. "I 
 respect that woman — I cannot tell ye, me boy, how much I 
 respect her. Ye don't know her. There was one morn- 
 
342 Paul Kelver 
 
 ing, about a month ago. That woman — she's down at 
 six every morning, summer and winter ; we have prayers 
 at half-past. I was a trifle late meself : it was never me 
 strong point, as ye know, early rising. Seven o'clock 
 struck ; she didn't appear, and I thought she had overslept 
 herself. I won't say I didn't feel pleased for the mo- 
 ment ; it was an unworthy sentiment, but I almost wished 
 she had. I ran up to her room. The door was open, the 
 bedclothes folded down as she always leaves them. She 
 came in five minutes later. She had got up at four that 
 morning to welcome a troupe of native missionaries from 
 East Africa on their arrival at Waterloo Station. She's 
 a saint, that woman ; I am not worthy of her." 
 
 *'I shouldn't dwell too much on that phase of the sub- 
 ject," I suggested. 
 
 "I can't help it, me boy," replied the O'Kelly. "I feel 
 I am not." 
 
 "I don't for a moment say you are," I returned ; "'but I 
 shouldn't harp upon the idea. I don't think it good for 
 you." 
 
 "I never will be," he persisted gloomily, "never !" 
 
 Evidently he was started on a dangerous train of re- 
 flection. With the idea of luring him away from it, I led 
 the conversation to the subject of champagne. 
 
 "Most people like it dry," admitted the O'Kelly. "Me- 
 self, I have always preferred it with just a suggestion of 
 fruitiness." 
 
 "There was a champagne," I said, "you used to be 
 rather fond of when we — years ago." 
 
 "I think I know the one ye mean," said the O'Kelly. 
 "It wasn't at all bad, considering the price." 
 
 "You don't happen to remember where you got it?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "It was in Bridge Street," remembered the O'Kelly, 
 "not so very far from the Circus." 
 
 "It is a pleasant evening," I remarked; "let us take a 
 walk." 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 343 
 
 We found the place, half wine-shop, half office. 
 
 *'Just the same," commented the O'Kelly as we pushed 
 open the door and entered. "Not altered a bit." 
 
 As in all probability barely twelve months had elapsed 
 since his last visit, the fact in itself was not surprising. 
 Clearly the O'Kelly had been calculating time rather by 
 sensation. I ordered a bottle, and we sat down. Myself, 
 being prejudiced against the brand, I called for a glass of 
 claret. The O'Kelly finished the bottle. I was glad to 
 notice my ruse had been successful. The virtue of that 
 wine had not departed from it. With every glass the 
 O'Kelly became morally more elevated. He left the place, 
 determined that he would be worthy of Mrs. O'Kelly. 
 Walking down the Embankment, he asserted his determi- 
 nation of buying an alarm-clock that very evening. At the 
 corner of Westminster Bridge he became suddenly ab- 
 sorbed in his own thoughts. Looking to discover the 
 cause of his silence, I saw that his eyes were resting on a 
 poster representing a charming lady standing on one leg 
 upon a wire ; below her — at some distance — appeared the 
 peaks of mountains ; the artist had even caught the like- 
 ness. I cursed the luck that had directed our footsteps, 
 but the next moment, lacking experience, was inclined to 
 be reassured. 
 
 "Me dear Paul," said the O'Kelly— he laid a fatherly 
 hand upon my shoulder — "there are fair-faced, laughing- 
 women — sweet creatures, that ye want to put yer arm 
 around and dance with." He shook his head disapprov- 
 ingly. "There are the sainted women, who lead us up, 
 Paul — up, always up." 
 
 A look, such as the young man with the banner might 
 have borne with him to the fields of snow and ice, suf- 
 fused the O'Kelly's handsome face. Without another 
 word he crossed the road and entered an American store, 
 where for six-and-elevenpence he purchased an alarm- 
 clock the man assured us would awake an Egyptian 
 mummy. With this in his hand he waved me a good-bye. 
 
344 P^^l Kelver 
 
 and jumped upon a Hampstead 'bus, and alone I strolled 
 on to the theatre. 
 
 Hal returned a little after Christmas and started himself 
 in chambers in the City. It was the nearest he dared 
 venture, so he said, to civilisation. 
 
 ''I'd be no good in the West End," he explained. "For 
 a season I might attract as an eccentricity, but your swells 
 would never stand me for longer — no more would any 
 respectable folk, anywhere: we don't get on together. I 
 commenced at Richmond. It was a fashionable suburb 
 then, and I thought I was going to do wonders. I had 
 everything in my favour, except myself. I do know my 
 work, nobody can deny that of me. My father spent 
 every penny he had, poor gentleman, in buying me an old- 
 established practice : fine house, carriage and pair, white- 
 haired butler — everything correct, except myself. It was 
 of no use. I can hold myself in for a month or two ; then 
 I break out, the old original savage that I am under my 
 frock coat. I feel I must run amuck, stabbing, hacking 
 at the prim, smiling Lies mincing round about me. I 
 can fool a silly woman for half-a-dozen visits ; bow and 
 rub my hands, purr round her sympathetically. All the 
 while I am longing to tell her the truth : 
 
 " 'Go home. Wash your face ; don't block up the pores 
 of your skin with paint. Let out your corsets. You are 
 thirty- three round the abdomen if you are an inch: how 
 can you expect your digestion to do its work when you're 
 squeezing it into twenty-one? Give up gadding about 
 half your day and most of your night ; you are old enough 
 to have done with that sort of thing. Let the children 
 come, and suckle them yourself. You'll be all the better 
 for them. Don't loll in bed all the morning. Get up like 
 a decent animal and do something for your living. Use 
 your brain, what there is of it, and your body. At that 
 price you can have health to-morrow, and at no other. I 
 can do nothing for you.' 
 
 "And sooner or later I blurt it out." He laughed his 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 345 
 
 great roar. ''Lord! you should see the real face coming 
 out of the simpering mask. 
 
 "Pompous old fools, strutting into me like turkey-cocks ! 
 By Jove, it was worth it ! They would dribble out, look- 
 ing half their proper size after I had done telling them 
 what was the matter with them. 
 
 " 'Do you want to know what you are really suffering 
 from ?' I would shout at them, when I could contain my- 
 self no longer. 'Gluttony, my dear sir; gluttony and 
 drunkenness, and over-indulgence in other vices that shall 
 be nameless. Live like a man ; get a little self-respect 
 from somewhere ; give up being an ape. Treat your body 
 properly and it will treat you properly. That's the only 
 prescription that will do you any good.' " 
 
 He laughed again. " 'Tell the truth, you shame the 
 Devil.' But the Devil replies by starving you. It's a fair- 
 ly effective retort. I am not the stuff successful family 
 physicians are made of. In the City I may manage to rub 
 along. One doesn't see so much of one's patients; they 
 come and go. Clerks and warehousemen my practice will 
 be among chiefly. The poor man does not so much mind 
 being told the truth about himself ; it is a blessing to which 
 he is accustomed." 
 
 We spoke but once of Barbara. A photograph of her 
 in her bride's dress stood upon my desk. Occasionally, 
 first fitting the room for the ceremony, sweeping away 
 all impurity even from under the mats, and dressing my- 
 self with care, I would centre it amid flowers, and kneel- 
 ing, kiss her hand where it rested on the back of the top- 
 heavy looking chair without which no photographic 
 studio is complete. 
 
 One day he took it up, and looked at it long and hard. 
 
 "The forehead denotes intellectuality; the eyes tender- 
 ness and courage. The lower part of the face, on the 
 other hand, suggests a good deal of animalism : the finely 
 cut nostrils show egotism — another word for selfishness ; 
 the nose itself, vanity ; the lips, sensuousness and love of 
 
346 Paul Kelver 
 
 luxury. I wonder what sort of woman she really is." He 
 laid the photograph back upon the desk. 
 
 "I did not know you were so firm a believer in Lavater," 
 I said. 
 
 "Only when he agrees with what I know," he answered. 
 "Have I not described her rightly?" 
 
 "I do not care to discuss her in that vein," I replied, 
 feeling the blood mounting to my cheeks. 
 
 "Too sacred a subject?" he laughed. "It is the one in- 
 gredient of manhood I lack, ideality — an unfortunate de- 
 ficiency for me. I must probe, analyse, dissect, see the 
 thing as it really is, know it for what it is." 
 
 "Well, she is the Countess Huescar now," I said. "For 
 God's sake, leave her alone." 
 
 He turned to me with the snarl of a beast. "How do 
 you know she is the Countess Huescar? Is it a special 
 breed of woman made on purpose? How do you know 
 she isn't my wife — ^brain and heart, flesh and blood, mine ? 
 If she was, do you think I should give her up because some 
 fool has stuck his label on her ?" 
 
 I felt the anger burning in my eyes. "Yours, his ! She 
 is no man's property. She is herself," I cried. 
 
 The wrinkles round his nose and mouth smoothed them- 
 selves out. "You need not be afraid," he sneered. "As 
 you say, she is the Countess Huescar. Can you imagine 
 her as Mrs. Doctor Washburn? I can't." He took her 
 photograph in his hand again. "The lower part of the 
 face is the true index to the character. It shows the ani- 
 mal, and it is the animal that rules. The soul, the intel- 
 lect, it comes and goes : the animal remains always. Sens- 
 uousness, love of luxury, vanity, those are the strings to 
 which she dances. To be a Countess is of more impor- 
 tance to her than to be a woman. She is his, not mine. 
 Let him keep her." 
 
 "You do not know her," I answered; "you never 
 have. You listen to what she says. She does not know 
 herself." 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 347 
 
 He looked at me queerly. "What do you think her to 
 be ?" he asked me. "A true woman, not the shallow thing 
 she seems?" 
 
 "A true woman," I persisted stoutly, "that you have not 
 eyes enough to see." 
 
 "You little fool/' he muttered, with the same queer 
 look — "you little fool. But let us hope you are wrong, 
 Paul. Let us hope, for her sake, you are wrong." 
 
 It w^as at one of Deleglise's Sunday suppers that I first 
 met Urban Vane. The position, nor even the character, I 
 fear it must be confessed, of his guests was never en- 
 quired into by old Deleglise. A simple-minded, kindly 
 old fellow himself, it was his fate to be occasionally sur- 
 prised and grieved at the discovery that even the most en- 
 tertaining of supper companions could fall short of the 
 highest standard of conventional morality. 
 
 "Dear, dear me!" he would complain, pacing up and 
 down his studio with puzzled visage. "The last man in 
 the world of whom I should have expected to hear it. 
 So original in all his ideas. Are you quite sure ?" 
 
 "I am afraid there can be no doubt about it." 
 
 "I can't believe it ! I really can't beHeve it ! One of the 
 most amusing men I ever met !" 
 
 I remember a well-known artist one evening telling us 
 with much sense of humour how he had just completed 
 the sale of an old Spanish cabinet to two distinct and 
 separate purchasers. 
 
 "I sold it first," recounted the little gentleman with 
 glee, "to old Jong, the dealer. He has been worrying me 
 about it for the last three months, and on Saturday after- 
 noon, hearing that I was clearing out and going abroad, 
 he came round again. 'Well, I am not sure I am in a posi- 
 tion to sell it,' I told him. 'Who'll know?' he asked. 
 'They are not in, are they?' 'Not yet,' I answered, 'but I 
 expect they will be some time on Monday.' 'Tell your 
 man to open the door to me at eight o'clock on Monday 
 morning/ he replied, 'we'll have it away without any fuss. 
 
348 Paul Kelver 
 
 There needn't be any receipt. Fm lending you a hundred 
 pounds, in cash/ I worked him up to a hundred and 
 twenty, and he paid me. Upon my word, I should never 
 have thought of it, if he hadn't put the idea into my head. 
 But turning round at the door : 'You won't go and sell it 
 to some one else,' he suggested, 'between now and Mon- 
 day?' It serves him right for his damned impertinence. 
 'Send and take it away to-day if you are at all nervous,' I 
 told him. He looked at the thing, it is about twelve feet 
 high altogether. 'I would if I could get a cart,' he mut- 
 tered. Then an idea struck him. 'Does the top come off ?' 
 'See for yourself,' I answered ; 'it's your cabinet, not mine.' 
 I was feeling rather annoyed with him. He examined it. 
 'That's all right,' he said ; 'merely a couple of screws. I'll 
 take the top with me now on my cab.' He got a man in, 
 and they took the upper cupboard away, leaving me the 
 bottom. Two hours later old Sir George called to see me 
 about his wife's portrait. The first thing he set eyes on 
 was the remains of the cabinet : he had always admired it. 
 'Hallo,' he asked, 'are you breaking up the studio literally ? 
 What have you done with the other half?' 'I've sent it 
 round to Jong's — ' He didn't give me time to finish. 'Save 
 Jong's commission and sell it to me direct,' he said. 'We 
 won't argue about the price and I'll pay you in cash.' 
 
 "Well, if Providence comes forward and insists on 
 taking charge of a man, it is hardly good manners to 
 flout her. Besides, his wife's portrait is worth twice as 
 much as he is paying for it. He handed me over the 
 money in notes. 'Things not going quite smoothly with 
 you just at the moment?' he asked me. 'Oh, about the 
 same as usual,' I told him. 'You won't be offended at my 
 taking it away with me this evening?' he asked. 'Not in 
 the least,' I answered ; 'you'll get it on the top of a four- 
 wheeled cab.' We called in a couple of men, and I helped 
 them down with it, and confoundedly heavy it was. *I 
 shall send round to Jong's for the other half on Monday 
 morning,' he said, speaking with his head through the 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 349 
 
 cab window, 'and explain it to him.' 'Do,' I answered; 
 'he'll understand.' 
 
 "I'm sorry I'm going away so early in the morning," 
 concluded the little gentleman. "I'd give back Jong ten 
 per cent, of his money to see his face when he enters the 
 studio." 
 
 Everybody laughed ; but after the little gentleman was 
 gone, the subject cropped up again. 
 
 "If I wake sufficiently early," remarked one, "I shall 
 find an excuse to look in myself at eight o'clock. Jong's 
 face will certainly be worth seeing." 
 
 "Rather rough both on him and Sir George," observed 
 another. 
 
 "Oh, he hasn't really done anything of the kind," 
 chimed in old Deleglise in his rich, sweet voice. "He 
 made that all up. It's just his fun; he's full of humour." 
 
 "I am inclined to think that would be his idea of a 
 joke," asserted the first speaker. 
 
 Old DelegHse would not hear of it ; but a week or two 
 later I noticed an addition to old Deleglise's studio furni- 
 ture in the shape of a handsome old carved cabinet twelve 
 feet high. 
 
 "He really had done it," explained old Deleglise, speak- 
 ing in a whisper, though only he and I were present. "Of 
 course, it was only his fun ; but it might have been misun- 
 derstood. I thought it better to put the thing straight. 
 I shall get the money back from him when he returns. A 
 most amusing little man !" 
 
 Old DelegHse possessed a house in Gower Street which 
 fell vacant. One of his guests, a writer of poetical drama, 
 was a man who three months after he had earned a thou- 
 sand pounds never had a penny with which to bless him- 
 self. They are dying out, these careless, good-natured, 
 conscienceless Bohemians ; but quarter of a century ago 
 they still lingered in Alsatian London. Turned out of his 
 lodgings by a Philistine landlord, his sole possession in 
 the wide world, two acts of a drama, for which he had 
 
350 Paul Kelver 
 
 already been paid, the problem of his future, though it 
 troubled him but little, became acute to his friends. Old 
 Deleglise, treating the matter as a joke, pretending not 
 to know who was the landlord, suggested he should apply 
 to the agents for position as caretaker. Some furniture 
 was found for him, and the empty house in Gower Street 
 became his shelter. The immediate present thus provided 
 for, kindly old Deleglise worried himself a good deal con- 
 cerning what would become of his friend when the house 
 was let. There appeared to be no need for worry. Weeks, 
 months went by. Applications were received by the agents 
 in fair number, view^ cards signed by the dozen ; but pros- 
 pective tenants were never seen again. One Sunday even- 
 ing our poet, warmed by old Deleglise's Burgundy, for- 
 getful whose recommendation had secured him the lowly 
 but timely appointment, himself revealed the secret. 
 
 "Most convenient place IVe got," so he told old Dele- 
 ghse. "Whole house to myself. I wander about ; it just 
 suits me." 
 
 "Fm glad to hear that," murmured old Deleglise. 
 
 "Come and see me, and I'll cook you a chop," continued 
 the other. "I've had the kitchen range brought up into 
 the back drawing-room ; saves going up and down stairs." 
 
 "The devil you have!" growled old DelegHse. "What 
 do you think the owner of the house will say?" 
 
 "Haven't the least idea who the poor old duffer is 
 myself. They've put me in as caretaker — an excellent ar- 
 rangement : avoids all argument about rent." 
 
 "Afraid it will soon come to an end, that excellent ar- 
 rangement ;" remarked old Deleglise, drily. 
 
 "Why? Why should it?" 
 
 "A house in Gower Street oughtn't to remain vacant 
 long." 
 
 "This one will." 
 
 "You might tell me," asked old Deleglise, with a grim 
 smile ; "how do you manage it ? What happens when peo- 
 ple come to look over the house — don't you let them in ?" 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 351 
 
 ''I tried that at first," explained the poet, "but they 
 would go on knocking, and boys and policemen passing 
 would stop and help them. It got to be a nuisance; so 
 now I have them in, and get the thing over. I show them 
 the room where the murder was committed. If it's a ner- 
 vous-looking party, I let them off with a brief summary. 
 If that doesn't do, I go into details and show them the 
 blood-spots on the floor. It's an interesting story of the 
 gruesome order. Come round one morning and I'll tell 
 it to you. I'm rather proud of it. With the blinds down 
 and a clock in the next room that ticks loudly, it goes 
 well." 
 
 Yet this was a man who, were the merest acquaintance 
 to call upon him and ask for his assistance, would at once 
 take him by the arm and lead him upstairs. All notes and 
 cheques that came into his hands he changed at once into 
 gold. Into some attic half filled with lumber he would 
 fling it by the handful; then, locking the door, leave it 
 there. On their hands and knees he and his friends, when 
 they wanted any, would grovel for it, poking into corners, 
 hunting under boxes, groping among broken furniture, 
 feeling between cracks and crevices. Nothing gave him 
 greater delight than an expedition of this nature to what 
 he termed his gold-field ; it had for him, as he would ex- 
 plain, all the excitements of mining without the inconveni- 
 ence and the distance. He never knew how much was 
 there. For a certain period a pocketful could be picked 
 up in five minutes. Then he would entertain a dozen men 
 at one of the best restaurants in London, tip cabmen and 
 waiters with half-sovereigns, shower half-crowns as he 
 w^alked through the streets, lend or give to anybody for 
 the asking. Later, half-an-hour's dusty search would be 
 rewarded with a single coin. It made no difference to 
 him; he would dine in Soho for eighteenpence, smoke 
 shag, and run into debt. 
 
 The red-haired man, to whom Deleglise had introduced 
 me on the day of my first meeting with the Lady of the 
 
352 Paul Kelver 
 
 train, was another of his most constant visitors. It flat- 
 tered my vanity that the red-haired man, whose name was 
 famous throughout Europe and America, should conde- 
 scend to confide to me — as he did and at some length — the 
 deepest secrets of his bosom. Awed — at all events at first 
 — I would sit and listen while by the hour he would talk 
 to me in corners, telling me of the women he had loved. 
 They formed a somewhat large collection. Julias, Marias, 
 Janets, even Janes — he had madly worshipped, deliriously 
 adored so many it grew bewildering. With a far-away 
 look in his eyes, pain trembling through each note of his 
 musical, soft voice, he would with bitter jest, with passion- 
 ate outburst, recount how he had sobbed beneath the stars 
 for love of Isabel, bitten his own flesh in frenzied yearning 
 for Lenore. He appeared from his own account — if in 
 connection with a theme so poetical I may be allowed a 
 commonplace expression — to have had no luck with any 
 of them. Of the remainder, an appreciable percentage 
 had been mere passing visions, seen at a distance in the 
 dawn, at twilight — generally speaking, when the light 
 must have been uncertain. Never again, though he had 
 wandered in the neighbourhood for months, had he suc- 
 ceeded in meeting them. It would occur to me that en- 
 quiries among the neighbours, applications to the local 
 police, might possibly have been eflicacious; but to have 
 broken in upon his exalted mood with such suggestions 
 would have demanded more nerve than at the time I pos- 
 sessed. In consequence, my thoughts I kept to myself. 
 
 "My God, boy!" he would conclude, "may you never 
 love as I loved that woman Miriam" — or Henrietta, or 
 Irene, as the case might be. 
 
 For my sympathetic attitude towards tlTe red-haired 
 man I received one evening commendation from old Dele- 
 glise. 
 
 "Good boy,'* said old Deleglise, laying his hand on my 
 shoulder. We were standing in the passage. We had 
 just shaken hands with the red-haired man, who, as usual, 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 353 
 
 had been the last to leave. "None of the others will listen 
 to him. He used to stop and confide it all to me after 
 everybody else had gone. Sometimes I have dropped 
 asleep, to wake an hour later and find him still talking. 
 He gets it over early now. Good boy !" 
 
 Soon I learnt it was characteristic of the artist to be 
 willing — nay, anxious, to confide his private affairs to any 
 one and every one who would only listen. Another char- 
 acteristic appeared to be determination not to listen to 
 anybody else's. As attentive recipient of other people's 
 troubles and emotions I was subjected to practically no 
 competition whatever. One gentleman, a leading actor 
 of that day, I remember, immediately took me aside on 
 my being introduced to him, and consulted me as to his 
 best course of procedure under the extremely painful con- 
 ditions that had lately arisen between himself and his wife. 
 We discussed the unfortunate position at some length, 
 and I did my best to counsel fairly and impartially. 
 
 *'I wish you would lunch with me at White's to-mor- 
 row," he said. ''We can talk it over quietly. Say half- 
 past one. By the bye, I didn't catch your name." 
 
 I spelt it to him : he wrote the appointment down on his 
 shirt-cuff. I went to White's the next day and waited an 
 hour, but he did not turn up. I met him three weeks later 
 at a garden-party with his wife. But he appeared to have 
 forgotten me. 
 
 Observing old Deleglise's guests, comparing them with 
 their names, it surprised me the disconnection between 
 the worker and the work. Writers of noble sentiment, of 
 elevated ideality, I found contained in men of common- 
 place appearance, of gross appetites, of conventional ideas. 
 It seemed doubtful whether they fully comprehended their 
 own work ; certainly it had no effect upon their own lives. 
 On the other hand, an innocent, boyish young man, who 
 lived the most correct of lives with a girlish-looking wife 
 in an ivy-covered cottage near Barnes Common, I dis- 
 covered to be the writer of decadent stories at which the 
 
354 P^^l Kelver 
 
 Empress Theodora might have blushed. The men whose 
 names were widest known were not the men who shone 
 the brightest in DelegHse's kitchen; more often they ap- 
 peared the dull dogs, listening enviously, or failing pa- 
 thetically when they tried to compete with others who to 
 the public were comparatively unknown. After a time I 
 ceased to confound the artist with the man, thought no 
 more of judging the one by the other than of evolving a 
 tenant from the house to which circumstances or careless- 
 ness might have directed him. Clearly they were two cre- 
 ations originally independent of each other, settling 
 down into a working partnership for purposes merely of 
 mutual accommodation ; the spirit evidently indifferent as 
 to the particular body into which he crept, anxious only 
 for a place to work in, easily contented. 
 
 Varied were these guests that gathered round old Dele- 
 gHse's oak. Cabinet Ministers reported to be in Hom- 
 burg ; Russian Nihilists escaped from Siberia ; Italian rev- 
 olutionaries ; high church dignitaries disguised in grey 
 suitings ; ex-errand boys, who had discovered that with 
 six strokes of the pen they could set half London laugh- 
 ing at whom they would ; raw laddies with the burr yet 
 clinging to their tongues, but who we knew would one 
 day have the people dancing to the music of their words. 
 Neither wealth, nor birth, nor age, nor position counted. 
 Was a man interesting, amusing; had he ideas and 
 thoughts of his own ? Then he was welcome. Men who 
 had come, men who were coming, met there on equal foot- 
 ing. Among them, as years ago among my schoolmates, I 
 found my place — somewhat to my dissatisfaction. I 
 amused. Much rather would I have shocked them by the 
 originality of my views, impressed them with the depth of 
 my judgments. They declined to be startled, refused to 
 be impressed; instead, they laughed. Nor from these 
 men could I obtain sympathy in my disappointment. 
 
 "What do you mean, you villain!" roared DelegHse's 
 caretaker at me one evening on entering the kitchen. 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 355 
 
 "How dare you waste your time writing this sort of 
 stuff?" 
 
 He had a copy of the paper containing my ''Witch of 
 Moel Sarbod" in his hand — then some months old. He 
 screwed it up into a ball and flung it in my face. "I've 
 only just read it. What did you get for it ?" 
 
 "Nothing," I answered. 
 
 "Nothing!" he screamed. "You got off for nothing? 
 You ought to have been whipped at the cart's tail !" 
 
 "Oh, come, it's not as bad as that," suggested old Dele- 
 glise. 
 
 "Not bad ! There isn't a laugh in it from beginning to 
 end." 
 
 "There wasn't intended to be," I interrupted. 
 
 "Why not, you swindler ? What were you sent into the 
 world to do ? To make it laugh." 
 
 "I want to make it think/' I told him. 
 
 "Make it think! Hasn't it got enough to think about? 
 Aren't there ten thousand penny-a-liners, poets, tragedi- 
 ans, tub-thumpers, long-eared philosophers, boring it to 
 death ? Who are you to turn up your nose at your work 
 and tell the Almighty His own business? You are here 
 to make us laugh. Get on with your work, you confound- 
 ed young idiot !" 
 
 Urban Vane was the only one among them who under- 
 stood me, who agreed with me that I was fitted for higher 
 things than merely to minister to the world's need of 
 laughter. He alone it was who would listen with approval 
 to my dreams of becoming a famous tragedian, a writer 
 of soul-searching books, of passion-analysing plays. I 
 never saw him laugh himself, certainly not at anything 
 funny. "Humour!" he would explain in his languid 
 drawl, "personally it doesn't amuse me." One felt its 
 introduction into the scheme of life had been an error. He 
 was a large, fleshy man, with a dreamy, caressing voice 
 and strangely impassive face. Where he came from, who 
 he was, nobody knew. Without ever passing a remark 
 
356 Paul Kelver 
 
 himself that was worth Hstening to, he, nevertheless, by 
 some mysterious trick of manner I am unable to explain, 
 soon established himself, even throughout that company, 
 where as a rule men found their proper level, as a silent 
 authority in all contests of wit or argument. Stories at 
 which he listened, bored, fell flat. The bon mot at which 
 some faint suggestion of a smile quivered round his clean- 
 shaven Hps was felt to be the crown of the discussion. I 
 can only conclude his secret to have been his magnificent 
 assumption of superiority, added to a sphinx-like impen- 
 etrability behind which he could always retire from any 
 danger of exposure. Subjects about which he knew noth- 
 ing — and I have come to the conclusion they were more 
 numerous than was suspected — became in his presence 
 topics outside the radius of cultivated consideration : one 
 felt ashamed of having introduced them. His own sub- 
 jects — they were few but exclusive — he had the knack of 
 elevating into intellectual tests : one felt ashamed, reflect- 
 ing how little one knew about them. Whether he really 
 did possess a charm of manner, or whether the sense of 
 his superiority with which he had imbued me it was that 
 made any condescension he paid me a thing to grasp at, 
 I am unable to say. Certain it is that when he suggested 
 I should throw up chorus singing and accompany him 
 into the provinces as manager of a theatrical company he 
 was then engaging to run a wonderful drama that was 
 going to revolutionise the English stage and educate the 
 English public, I allowed myself not a moment for con- 
 sideration, but accepted his proposal with grateful de- 
 light. 
 
 "Who is he?" asked Dan. Somehow he had never im- 
 pressed Dan ; but then Dan was a fellow to impress whom 
 was slow work. As he himself confessed, he had no in- 
 stinct for character. "I judge," he would explain, "purely 
 by observation." 
 
 "What does that matter?" was my reply. 
 
 "What does he know about the business ?" 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 357 
 
 "That's why he wants me." 
 
 "What do you know about it?" 
 
 "There's not much to know. I can find out." 
 
 "Take care you don't find out that there's more to know 
 than you think. What is this wonderful play of his?" 
 
 "I haven't seen it yet; I don't think it's finished. It's 
 something from the Spanish or the Russian, I'm not sure. 
 I'm to put it into shape when he's done the translation. 
 He wants me to put my name to it as the adaptor." 
 
 "Wonder he hasn't asked you to wear his clothes. Has 
 he got any money ?" 
 
 "Of course he has money. How can you run a theatri- 
 cal company without money?" 
 , "Have you seen the money ?" 
 
 "He doesn't carry it about with him in a bag." 
 
 "I should have thought your ambition to be to act, 
 not to manage. Managers are to be had cheap enough. 
 Why should he want some one who knows nothing 
 about it?" 
 
 "I'm going to act. I'm going to play a leading part." 
 
 "Great Scott!" 
 
 "He'll do the management really himself ; I shall simply 
 advise him. But he doesn't want his own name to ap- 
 pear." 
 
 "Why not?" ' . 
 
 "His people might object." 
 
 "Who are his people?" 
 
 "How do I know ? What a suspicious chap you are." 
 
 Dan shrugged his shoulders. "You are not an actor, 
 you never will be ; you are not a business man. You've 
 made a start at writing, that's your proper work. Why 
 not go on with it?" 
 
 "I can't get on with it. That one thing was accepted, 
 and never paid for ; everything else comes back regularly, 
 just as before. Besides, I can go on writing wherever I 
 am." 
 
 "You've got friends here to help you." 
 
358 Paul Kelver 
 
 "They don't believe I can do anything but write non- 
 sense." 
 
 "Well, clever nonsense is worth writing. It's better 
 than stodgy sense : literature is blocked up with that. Why 
 not follow their advice ?" 
 
 "Because I don't believe they are right. I'm not a 
 clown ; I don't mean to be. Because a man has a sense of 
 humour it doesn't follow he has nothing else. That is 
 only one of my gifts, and by no means the highest. I 
 have knowledge of human nature, poetry, dramatic in- 
 stinct. I mean to prove it to you all. Vane's the only man 
 that understands me." 
 
 Dan lit his pipe. "Have vou made up your mind to 
 go?" 
 
 "Of course I have. It's an opportunity that doesn't 
 occur twice. There's a tide in the affairs ' " 
 
 "Thanks," interrupted Dan; "I've heard it before. 
 Well, if you've made up your mind, there's an end of the 
 matter. Good luck to you! You are young, and it's 
 easier to learn things then than later." 
 
 "You talk," I answered, "as if you were old enough to 
 be my grandfather." 
 
 He smiled and laid both hands upon my shoulders. "So 
 I am," he said, "quite old enough, little boy Paul. Don't 
 be angry ; you'll always be little Paul to me." He put his 
 hands in his pockets and strolled to the window. 
 
 "What'll you do?" I enquired. "Will you keep on 
 these rooms?" 
 
 "No," he replied. "I shall accept an oflfer that has been 
 made to me to take the sub-editorship of a big Yorkshire 
 paper. It is an important position and will give me ex- 
 perience." 
 
 "You'll never be happy mewed up in a provincial town," 
 I told him. "I shall want a London address, and I can 
 easily afford it. Let's keep them on together." 
 
 He shook his head. "It wouldn't be the same thing," 
 he said. 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 359 
 
 So there came a morning when we said good-bye. Be- 
 fore Dan returned from the office I should be gone. They 
 had been pleasant months that we had spent together in 
 these pretty rooms. Though my life was calling to me 
 full of hope, I felt the pain of leaving them. Two years 
 is a long period in a young man's life, when the sap is 
 running swiftly. My affections had already taken root 
 there. The green leaves in summer, in winter the bare 
 branches of the square, the sparrows that chirped about 
 the window-sills, the quiet peace of the great house, Dan, 
 kindly old Deleglise : around them my fibres clung, closer 
 than I had known. The Lady of the train : she managed 
 it now less clumsily. Her hands and feet had grown 
 smaller, her elbows rounder. I found myself smiling as I 
 thought of her — one always did smile when one thought 
 of Norah, everybody did ; — of her tomboy ways, her ring- 
 ing laugh — there were those who termed it noisy ; her ir- 
 repressible frankness — there were times when it was in- 
 convenient. Would she ever become lady-like, sedate, 
 proper? One doubted it. I tried to picture her a wife, 
 the mistress of a house. I found the smile deepening 
 round my mouth. What a jolly wife she would make ! I 
 could see her bustling, full of importance; flying into 
 tempers, lasting possibly for thirty seconds ; then calling 
 herself names, saving all argument by undertaking her 
 own scolding, and doing it well. I followed her to moth- 
 erhood. What a joke it would be ! What would she do 
 with them? vShe would just let them do what they liked 
 with her. She and they would be a parcel of children to- 
 gether, she the most excited of them all. No ; on second 
 thoughts I could detect in her a strong vein of common 
 sense. They would have to mind their p's and q's. I 
 could see her romping with them, helping them to tear 
 their clothes; but likewise I could see her flying after 
 them, bringing back an armful struggling, bathing it, 
 physicking it. Perhaps she would grow stout, grow grey ; 
 but she would still laugh more often than sigh, speak her 
 
360 Paul Kelver 
 
 mind, be quick, good-tempered Norah to the end. Her 
 character precluded all hope of surprise. That, as I told 
 myself, was its defect. About her were none of those 
 glorious possibilities that make of some girls charming 
 mysteries. A woman, said I to myself, should be a won- 
 drous jewel, hiding unknown lights and shadows. You, 
 my dear Norah — I spoke my thoughts aloud, as had be- 
 come a habit with me : those who live much alone fall into 
 this way — you are merely a crystal, not shallow — no, I 
 should not call you shallow by any mans, but transparent. 
 
 What would he be, her lover? Some plain, matter-of- 
 fact, business-like young fellow, a good player of cricket 
 and football, fond of his dinner. What a very uninterest- 
 ing affair the love-making would be ! If she liked him — 
 well, she would probably tell him so; if she didn't, he 
 would know it in five minutes. 
 
 As for inducing her to change her mind, wooing her, 
 cajoling her — I heard myself laughing at the idea. 
 
 There came a quick rap at the door. "Come in," I 
 cried ; and she entered. 
 
 "1 came to say good-bye to you," she explained. "I'm 
 just going out. What were you laughing at ?" 
 
 "Oh, at an idea that occurred to me." 
 
 "A funny one ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Tell it me." 
 
 "Well, it was something in connection with yourself. 
 It might offend you." 
 
 "It wouldn't trouble you much if it did, would it?" 
 
 "No, I don't suppose it would." 
 
 "Then why not tell me?" 
 
 "I was thinking of your lover." 
 
 It did offend her ; I thought it would. But she looked 
 really interesting when she was cross. Her grey eyes 
 would flash, and her whole body quiver. There was a 
 charming spice of danger always about making her cross. 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 361 
 
 "I suppose you think I shall never have one." 
 
 "On the contrary, I think you will have a good many." 
 I had not thought so before then. I formed the idea for 
 the first time in that moment, while looking straight into 
 her angry face. It was still a childish face. 
 
 The anger died out of it as it always did within the 
 minute, and she laughed. "It would be fun, wouldn't it. 
 I wonder what I should do with him ? It makes you feel 
 very serious being in love, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "Have you ever been in love ?" 
 
 I hesitated for a moment. Then the delight of talking 
 about it overcame my fear of being chaffed. Besides, 
 when she felt it, nobody could be more delightfully sym- 
 pathetic. I determined to adventure it. 
 
 "Yes," I answered, "ever since I was a boy. If you are 
 going to be foolish," I added, for I saw the laugh before 
 it came, "I shan't talk to you about it." 
 
 "I'm not — I won't, really," she pleaded, making her 
 face serious again. "What is she like ?" 
 
 I took from my breast pocket Barbara's photograph, 
 and handed it to her in silence. 
 
 "Is she really as beautiful as that?" she asked, gazing 
 at it evidently fascinated. 
 
 "More so," I assured her. "Her expression is the most 
 beautiful part of her. Those are only her features." 
 
 She sighed. "I wish I was beautiful." 
 
 "You are at an awkward age," I told her. "It is impos- 
 sible to say what you are going to be like." 
 
 "Mamma was a lovely woman, everybody says so; and 
 Tom I call awfully handsome. Perhaps I'll be better 
 when I'm filled out a bit more." A small Venetian mirror 
 hung between the two windows ; she glanced up into it. 
 "It's my nose that irritates me," she said. She rubbed it 
 viciously, as if she would rub it out. 
 
 "Some people admire snub noses," I explained to her. 
 
362 Paul Kelver 
 
 "No, really?" 
 
 'Tennyson speaks of them as *tip-tilted like the petals 
 of a rose.' " 
 
 ''How nice of him ! Do you think he meant my sort ?" 
 She rubbed it again, but in a kinder fashion ; then looked 
 again at Barbara's photograph. "Who is she?" 
 
 "She was Miss Hasluck," I answered; "she is the 
 Countess Huescar now. She was married last summer." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I remember; you told us about her. You 
 were children together. But what's the good of your be- 
 ing in love with her if she's married ?" 
 
 "It makes my whole life beautiful." 
 
 "Wanting somebody you can't have ?" 
 
 "I don't want her."' * 
 
 "You said you were in love with her." 
 
 "So I am." 
 
 She handed me back the photograph, and I replaced it 
 in my pocket. 
 
 "I don't understand that sort of love," she said. "If I 
 loved anybody I should want to have them with me al- 
 ways." 
 
 "She is with me always," I answered, "in my thoughts." 
 
 She looked at me with her clear grey eyes. I found 
 myself blinking. Something seemed to be slipping from 
 me, something I did not want to lose. I remember a simi- 
 lar sensation once at the moment of waking from a 
 strange, delicious dream to find the sunlight pouring in 
 upon me through an open window. 
 
 "That isn't being in love," she said. "That's being in 
 love with the idea of being in love. That's the way I used 
 to go to balls" — she laughed — "in front of the glass. You 
 caught me once, do you remember?" 
 
 "And was it not sweeter," I argued, "the imagination? 
 You were the belle of the evening; you danced divinely 
 every dance, were taken in to supper by the Lion. In re- 
 ality you trod upon your partner's toes, bumped and were 
 bumped, were left a wallflower more than half the time, 
 
How Paul Set Forth Upon a Quest 363 
 
 had a headache the next day. Were not the dream balls 
 the more delightful ?" 
 
 "No, they weren't," she answered without the slightest 
 hesitation. "One real dance, when at last it came, was 
 worth the whole of them. Oh, I know, I've heard you 
 talking, all of you — of the faces that you see in dreams 
 and that are ever so much. more beautiful than the faces 
 that you see when you're awake ; of the wonderful songs 
 that nobody ever sings, the wonderful pictures that no- 
 body ever paints, and all the rest of it. I don't believe a 
 word of it. It's tommyrot !" 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't use slang." 
 
 "Well, you know what I mean. What is the proper 
 word? Give it me." 
 
 "I suppose you mean cant," I suggested. 
 
 "No, I don't. Cant is something that you don't be- 
 lieve in yourself. It's tommyrot: there isn't any other 
 word. When I'm in love it will be with something that 
 is real." 
 
 I was feeling angry with her. "I know just what he 
 will be like. He will be a good-natured, common- 
 place " 
 
 "Whatever he is," she interrupted, "he'll be alive, and 
 he'll want me and I shall want him. Dreams are silly. I 
 prefer being up." She clapped her hands. "That's it." 
 Then, silent, she looked at me with an expression of new 
 interest. "I've been wondering and wondering what it 
 was : you are not really awake yet. You've never got 
 up." 
 
 I laughed at her whimsical way of putting it ; but at the 
 back of my brain was a troubled idea that perhaps she 
 was revealing to me the truth. And if so, what would 
 "waking up," as she termed it, be like? A flash of memory 
 recalled to me that summer evening upon Barking Bridge, 
 when, as it had seemed to me, the little childish Paul had 
 slipped away from me, leaving me lonely and bewildered 
 to find another Self. Was my boyhood in like manner 
 
364 Paul Kelver 
 
 now falling from me ? I found myself clinging to it with 
 vague terror. Its thoughts, its feelings — dreams : they 
 had grown sweet to me; must I lose them? This cold, 
 unknown, new Self, waiting to receive me : I shrank away 
 from it with fear. 
 
 "Do you know, I think you will be rather nice when 
 you wake up." 
 
 Her words recalled me to myself. "Perhaps I never 
 shall wake up," I said. "I don't want to wake up." 
 
 "Oh, but one can't go on dreaming all one's life," she 
 laughed. "You'll wake up, and fall in love with somebody 
 real." She came across to me, and taking the lapels of my 
 coat in both her hands, gave me a vigorous shake. "I 
 hope she'll be somebody nice. I am rather afraid." 
 
 "You seem to think me a fool !" I was still angry with 
 her, without quite knowing why. 
 
 She shook me again. "You know I don't. But it isn't 
 the nice people that take best care of themselves. Tom 
 can't. I have to take care of him." 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 "I do, really. You should hear me scold him. I like 
 taking care of people. Good-bye." 
 
 She held out her hand. It was white now and shapely, 
 but one could not have called it small. Strong it felt and 
 firm as it gripped mine. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AND HOW CAME BACK AGAIN. 
 
 I LEFT London, the drums beating in my heart, the flags 
 waving in my brain. Somewhat more than a year later, 
 one foggy wet December evening, I sneaked back to it 
 defeated — ah, that is a small thing, capable of redress — 
 disgraced. I returned to it as to a hiding-place where, lost 
 in the crowd, I might waste my days unnoticed until such 
 time as I could summon up sufficient resolution to put an 
 end to my dead life. I had been ambitious — dwelling 
 again amid the bitterness of the months that followed my 
 return, I write in the past tense. I had been eager to make 
 a name, a position for myself. But were I to claim no 
 higher aim, I should be doing injustice to my blood — to 
 the great-souled gentleman whose whole life had been an 
 ode to honour, to her of simple faith who had known no 
 other prayer to teach me than the childish cry, "God help 
 me to be good V I had wished to be a great man, but it 
 was to have been a great good man. The world was to 
 have admired me, but to have respected me also. I was 
 to have been the knight without fear, but, rarer yet, with- 
 out reproach — Galahad, not Launcelot. I had learnt my- 
 self to be a feeble, backboneless fighter, conquered by the 
 first serious assault of evil, a creature of mean fears, slave 
 to every crack of the devil's whip, a feeder with swine. 
 
 Urban Vane I had discovered to be a common swindler. 
 His play he had stolen from the desk of a well-known 
 dramatist whose acquaintance he had made in Deleglise's 
 kitchen. The man had fallen ill, and Vane had been con- 
 stant in his visits. Partly recovering, the man had gone 
 abroad to Italy. Had he died there, as at the time was 
 
366 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 expected, the robbery might never have come to light. 
 News reached us in a small northern town that he had 
 taken a fresh lease of life and was on his way back to 
 England. Then it was that Vane with calm indifference, 
 smoking his cigar over a bottle of wine to which he had 
 invited me, told me the bald truth, adorning it with some 
 touches of wit. Had the recital come upon me sooner, I 
 might have acted differently ; but six months' companion- 
 ship with Urban Vane, if it had not, by grace of the Lord, 
 destroyed the roots of whatever flower of manhood might 
 have been implanted in me, had most certainly withered 
 its leaves. 
 
 The man was clever. That he was not clever enough 
 to perceive from the beginning what he has learnt since : 
 that honesty is the best policy — at least, for men with 
 brains — remains somewhat of a mystery to me. Where 
 once he made his hundreds among shady ways, he now, I 
 suppose, makes his thousands in the broad daylight of 
 legitimate enterprise. Chicanery in the blood, one might 
 imagine, has to be worked out. Urban Vanes are to be 
 found in all callings. They commence as scamps; years 
 later, to one's astonishment, one finds them ornaments to 
 their profession. Wild oats are of various quality, accord- 
 ing to the soil from which they are preserved. We sow 
 them in our various ways. 
 
 At first I stormed. Vane sat with an amused smile upon 
 his lips and listened. 
 
 "Your language, my dear Kelver," he replied, my vo- 
 cabulary exhausted, "might wound me were I able to ac- 
 cept you as an authority upon this vexed question of mor- 
 als. With the rest of the world you preach one thing 
 and practise another. I have noticed it so often. It is per- 
 haps sad, but the preaching has ceased to interest me. 
 You profess to be very indignant with me for making use 
 of another man's ideas. It is done every day. You your- 
 self were quite ready to take credit not due to you. For 
 months we have been travelling with this play : *Drama, 
 
And How Came Back Again 367 
 
 in five acts, by Mr. Horace Moncreiff.' Not more than 
 two hundred lines of it are your own — excellent lines, I 
 admit, but they do not constitute the play." 
 
 This aspect of the affair had not occurred to me. "But 
 you asked me to put my name to it," I stammered. "You 
 said you did not want your own to appear — for private 
 reasons. You made a point of it." 
 
 He waved away the smoke from his cigar. "The man 
 you are posing as would never have put his name to work 
 not his own. You never hesitated ; on the contrary, you 
 jumped at the chance of so easy an opening to your career 
 as playwright. My need, as you imagined it, was your 
 opportunity." 
 
 "But you said it was from the French," I argued ; "you 
 had merely translated it, I adapted it. I don't defend the 
 custom, but it is the custom : the man who adapts a play 
 calls himself the author. They all do it." 
 
 "I know," he answered. "It has always amused me. 
 Our sick friend himself, whom I am sure we are both de- 
 lighted to welcome back to life, has done it more than 
 once, and made a very fair profit on the transaction. In- 
 deed, from internal evidence, I am strongly of opinion 
 that this present play is a case in point. Well, chickens 
 come home to roost : I adapt from him. What is the dif- 
 ference ?" 
 
 "Simply this," he continued, pouring himself out an- 
 other glass of wine, "that whereas, owing to the anomal- 
 ous state of the copyright laws, stealing from the foreign 
 author is legal and commendable, against stealing from 
 the living English author there is a certain prejudice." 
 
 "And the consequences, I am afraid, you will find some- 
 what unpleasant," I suggested. 
 
 He laughed : it was not a frivolity to which he was 
 prone. "You mean, my dear Kelver, that you will." 
 
 "Don't look so dumbfounded," he went on. "You can- 
 not be so stupid as you are pretending to be. The original 
 manuscript at the Lord Chamberlain's office is in your 
 
368 Paul Kelver 
 
 handwriting. You knew our friend as well as I did, and 
 visited him. Why, the whole tour has been under your 
 management. You have arranged everything — most ex- 
 cellently; I have been quite surprised." 
 
 My anger came later. For the moment, the sudden 
 light blinded me to everything but fear. 
 
 ''But you told me," I cried, "it was only a matter of 
 form, that you wanted to keep your name out of it be- 
 cause " 
 
 He was looking at me with an expression of genuine 
 astonishment. My words began to appear humorous even 
 to myself. I found it difficult to believe I had been the 
 fool I was now seeing myself to have been. 
 
 "I am sorry," he said, ''I am really sorry. I took you 
 for a man of the world. I thought you merely did not 
 wish to know anything." 
 
 Still, to my shame, fear was the thing uppermost in 
 my heart. **You are not going to put it all on to me ?" I 
 pleaded. 
 
 He had risen. He laid his hand upon my shoulder. 
 Instead of flinging it ofif, I was glad of its kindly pres- 
 sure. He was the only man to whom I could look for 
 help. 
 
 ''Don't take it so seriously," he said. "He will merely 
 think the manuscript has been lost. As likely as not, he 
 will be unable to remember whether he wrote it or merely 
 thought of writing it. No one in the company will say 
 anything: it isn't their business. We must set to work. 
 I had altered it a good deal before you saw it, and changed 
 all the names of the characters. We will retain the third 
 act : it is the only thing of real value in the play. The sit- 
 uation is not original ; you have as much right to dish it 
 up as he had. In a fortnight we will have the whole thing 
 so different that if he saw it himself he would only im- 
 agine we had got hold of the idea and had forestalled 
 him." 
 
 There were moments during the next few weeks when 
 
And How Came Back Again 369 
 
 I listened to the voice of my good angel, when I saw clear- 
 ly that even from the lowest point of view he was giving 
 me sound advice. I would go to the man, tell him frankly 
 the whole truth. 
 
 But Vane never left my elbow. Suspecting, I suppose, 
 he gave me clearly to understand that if I did so, I must 
 expect no mercy from him. My story, denounced by him 
 as an outrageous lie, would be regarded as the funk-in- 
 spired subterfuge of a young rogue. At the best I should 
 handicap myself with suspicion that would last me 
 throughout my career. On the other hand, what harm 
 had we done? Presented in some twenty or so small 
 towns,where it would soon be forgotten, a play something 
 like. Most plays were something like. Our friend would 
 produce his version and reap a rich harvest; ours would 
 disappear. If by any unlikely chance discussion should 
 arise, the advertisement would be to his advantage. So 
 soon as possible we would replace it by a new piece alto- 
 gether. A yoimg man of my genius could surely write 
 something better than hotch-potch such as this ; experience 
 was all that I had lacked. As regarded one's own con- 
 science, was not the world's honesty a mere question of 
 convention? Had he been a young man, and had we 
 diddled him out of his play for a ten-pound note, we 
 should have been applauded as sharp men of business. 
 The one commandment of the world was : Don't get 
 •found out. The whole trouble, left alone, would sink and 
 fade. Later, we should tell it as a good joke — and be 
 laughed with. 
 
 So I fell from mine own esteem. Vane helping me — 
 and he had brains — I set feverishly to work. I am glad 
 to remember that every line I wrote was born in misery. 
 I tried to persuade Vane to let me make a new play alto- 
 gether, which I offered to give him for nothing. He ex- 
 pressed himself as grateful, but his frequently declared 
 belief in my dramatic talent failed to induce his accept- 
 ance. 
 
370 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Later on, my dear Kelver," was his reply. "For the 
 present this is doing very well. Going on as we are, we 
 shall soon improve it out of all recognition, while at the 
 same time losing nothing that is essential. All your ideas 
 are excellent." 
 
 By the end of about three weeks we had got together 
 a concoction that, so far as dialogue and characters were 
 concerned, might be said to be our own. There was good 
 work in it, here and there. Under other conditions I 
 might have been proud of much that I had written. As it 
 was, T experienced only the terror of the thief dodging 
 the constable: my cleverness might save me; it afforded 
 me no further satisfaction. My humour, when I heard 
 the people laughing at it, I remembered I had forged 
 listening in vague fear to every creak upon the stairs, 
 wondering in what form discovery might come upon me. 
 There was one speech, addressed by the hero to the vil- 
 lain : "Yes, I admit it ; I do love her. But there is that 
 which I love better — my self-respect !" Stepping down to 
 the footlights and slapping his chest (which according to 
 stage convention would appear to be a sort of moral jewel- 
 box bursting with assorted virtues), our juvenile lead — a 
 gentleman who led a somewhat rabbit-like existence, per- 
 petually diving down openings to avoid service of writs, 
 at the instance of his wife, for alimony — would invariably 
 bring down the house upon this sentiment. Every night, 
 listening to the applause, I would shudder, recalling how 
 I had written it with burning cheeks. 
 
 There was a character in the piece, a vicious old man, 
 that from the beginning Vane had wanted me to play. I 
 had disliked the part and had refused, choosing instead to 
 act a high-souled countryman, in the portrayal of whose 
 irreproachable emotions I had taken pleasure. Vane now 
 renewed his arguments, and my power of resistance seem- 
 ing to have departed from me, I accepted the exchange. 
 Certainly the old gentleman's scenes went with more snap, 
 but at a cost of further degradation to myself. Upon 
 
And How Came Back Again 371 
 
 an older actor the effect might have been harmless, but 
 the growing tree springs back less surely. I found my- 
 self taking pleasure in the coarse laughter that rewarded 
 my suggestive leers, calling up all the evil in my nature 
 to help me in the development of fresh "business." Vane 
 was enthusiastic in his praises, generous with his assist- 
 ance. Under his tuition I succeeded in making the part 
 as unpleasant as we dared. I had genius, so Vane told 
 me ; I understood so much of human nature. One proof 
 of the moral deterioration creeping over me was that I 
 was beginning to like Vane. 
 
 Looking back at the man as I see him plainly now, a 
 very ordinary scamp, his pretension not even amusing, I 
 find it difficult to present him as he appeared to my boy- 
 ish eyes. He was well educated and well read. He gave 
 himself the airs of a superior being by freak of fate com- 
 pelled to abide in a world of inferior creatures. To live 
 among them in comfort it was necessary for him to out- 
 wardly conform to their conventions ; but to respect their 
 reasoning would have been beneath him. To accept their 
 laws as binding on one's own conscience was, using the 
 common expression, to give oneself away, to confess 
 oneself commonplace. Every decent instinct a man 
 might own to was proof in Vane's eyes of his being 
 ''suburban,'' "bourgeois" — everything that was unintel- 
 lectual. It was the first time I had heard this sort of talk. 
 Vane was one of the pioneers of the movement, which has 
 since become somewhat tiresome. To laugh at it is easy 
 to a man of the world; boys are impressed by it. From 
 him I first heard the now familiar advocacy of pure 
 Hedonism. Pan, enticed from his dark groves, was to 
 sit upon Olympus. 
 
 My lower nature rose within me to proclaim the foolish 
 chatterer as a prophet. So life was not as I had been 
 taught — a painful struggle between good and evil. There 
 was no such thing as evil ; the senseless epithet was a libel 
 upon Nature. Not through wearisome repression, but 
 
37^ Paul Kelver 
 
 rather through joyous expression of the animal lay ad- 
 vancement. 
 
 Villains — workers in wrong for aesthetic pleasure of 
 the art — are useful characters in fiction ; in real life they 
 do not exist. I am convinced the man believed most of 
 the rubbish he talked. Since the time of which I write he 
 has done some service to the world. I understand he is 
 an excellent husband and father, a considerate master, a 
 delightful host. He intended, I have no doubt, to im- 
 prove me, to enlarge my understanding, to free me from 
 the soul-stifling bondage of convention. Not to credit 
 him with this well-meaning intention would be to assume 
 him something quite inhuman, to bestow upon him a dig- 
 nity beyond his deserts. I find it easier to regard him 
 merely as a fool. 
 
 Our leading lady was a handsome but coarse woman, 
 somewhat over-developed. Starting life as a music-hall 
 singer, she had married a small tradesman in the south 
 of London. Some three or four years previous, her Juno- 
 like charms had turned the head of a youthful novelist — 
 a refined, sensitive man, of whom great things in litera- 
 ture had been expected, and, judging from his earlier 
 work, not unreasonably. He had run away with her, and 
 eventually married her; the scandal was still fresh. Al- 
 ready she had repented of her bargain. These women 
 regard their infatuated lovers merely as steps in the social 
 ladder, and he had failed to appreciably advance her. 
 Under her demoralising spell his ambition had died in 
 him. He no longer wrote, no longer took interest in any- 
 thing beyond his own debasement. He was with us in 
 the company, playing small parts, and playing them 
 badly; he would have remained with us as bill-poster 
 rather than have been sent away. 
 
 Vane planned to bring this woman and myself together. 
 To her he pictured me a young gentleman of means, a 
 coming author, who would soon be earning an income 
 sufficient to keep her in every luxury. To me he hinted 
 
And How Came Back Again 373 
 
 that she had fallen in love with me. I was never at- 
 tracted to her by any feeling stronger than the admiration 
 with which one views a handsome animal. It was my 
 vanity upon which he worked. He envied me; any man 
 would envy me; experience of life was what I needed to 
 complete my genius. The great intellects of this earth 
 must learn all lessons, even at the cost of suffering to 
 themselves and others. 
 
 As years before I had laboured to acquire a hking for 
 cigars and whiskey, deeming it an accomplishment neces- 
 sary to a literary career, so painstakingly I now applied 
 myself to the cultivation of a pretty taste in passion. Ac- 
 cording to the literature, fictional and historical. Vane 
 was kind enough to supply me with, men of note were 
 invariably sad dogs. That my temperament was not that 
 of the sad dog, that I lacked instinct and inclination for 
 the part, appeared to this young idiot of whom I am writ- 
 ing in the light of a defect. That her languishing 
 glances irritated rather than maddened me, that the oc- 
 casional covert pressure of her hot, thick hand left me 
 cold, I felt a reproach to my manhood. I would fall in 
 love with her. Surely my blood was red like other men's. 
 Besides, was I not an artist, and was not profligacy the 
 hall-mark of the artist ? 
 
 But one grows tired of the confessional. Fate saved 
 me from playing the part Vane had assigned me in this 
 vulgar comedy, dragged me from my entanglement, flung 
 me on my feet again. She was a little brusque in the 
 process ; but I do not feel incHned to blame the kind lady 
 for that. The mud was creeping upward fast, and a 
 quick hand must needs be rough. 
 
 Our dramatic friend produced his play sooner than we 
 had expected. It crept out that something very like it 
 had been seen in the Provinces. Argument followed, en- 
 quiries were set on foot. "It will blow over," said Vane. 
 But it seemed to be blowing our way. 
 
 The salaries, as a rule, were paid by me on Friday 
 
374 P^^l Kelver 
 
 night. Vane, in the course of the evening, would bring 
 me the money for me to distribute after the performance. 
 We were playing in the north of Ireland. I had not seen 
 Vane all that day. So soon as I had changed my clothes 
 I left my dressing-room to seek him. The box-office 
 keeper, meeting me, put a note into my hand. It was 
 short and to the point. Vane had pocketed the evening's 
 takings, and had left by the seven-fifty train! He re- 
 gretted causing inconvenience, but life was replete with 
 small comedies; the wise man attached no seriousness to 
 them. We should probably meet again and enjoy a laugh 
 over our experiences. 
 
 Some rumour had got about. I looked up from the 
 letter to find myself surrounded by suspicious faces. 
 With dry lips I told them the truth. Only they happened 
 not to regard it as the truth. Vane throughout had con- 
 trived cleverly ; to them I was the manager, the sole per- 
 son responsible. My wearily spoken explanations were 
 to them incomprehensible lies. The quarter of an hour 
 might have been worse for me had I been sufficiently alive 
 to understand or care what they were saying. A dull, 
 listless apathy had come over me. I felt the scene only 
 stupid, ridiculous, tiresome. There was some talk of 
 giving me *'a damned good hiding." I doubt whether I 
 should have known till the next morning whether the sug- 
 gestion had been carried out or not. I gathered that the 
 true history of the play, the reason for the sudden altera- 
 tions, had been known to them all along. They appeared 
 to have reserved their virtuous indignation till this even- 
 ing. As explanation of my apparent sleepiness, some- 
 body, whether in kindness to me or not I cannot say, sug- 
 gested I was drunk. Fortunately, it carried conviction. 
 No further trains left the town that night ; I was allowed 
 to depart. A deputation promised to be round at my 
 lodgings early in the morning. 
 
 Our leading lady had left the theatre immediately on 
 the fall of the curtain ; it was not necessary for her to 
 
And How Came Back Again 375 
 
 wait, her husband acting as her business man. On reach- 
 ing my rooms, I found her sitting by the fire. It re- 
 minded me that our agent in advance having fallen ill, 
 her husband had, at her suggestion, been appointed in his 
 place, and had left us on the Wednesday to make the 
 necessary preparations in the next town on our list. I 
 thought that perhaps she had come round for her money, 
 and the idea amused me. 
 
 "Well?" she said, with her one smile. I had been 
 doing my best for some months to regard it as soul-con- 
 suming, but without any real success. 
 
 "Well," I answered. It bored me, her being there. I 
 wanted to be alone. 
 
 "You don*t seem overjoyed to see me. What's the 
 matter with you? What's happened?" 
 
 I laughed. "Vane's bolted and taken the week's 
 money with him." 
 
 "The beast!" she said. "I knew he was that sort. 
 What ever made you take up with him? Will it make 
 much difference to you?" 
 
 "It makes a difference all round," I replied. "There's 
 no money to pay any of you. There's nothing to pay 
 your fares back to London." 
 
 She had risen. "Here, let me understand this," she 
 said. "Are you the rich mug Vane's been representing 
 you to be, or only his accomplice?" 
 
 "The mug and the accomplice both," I answered, 
 "without the rich. It's his tour. He put my name to it 
 because he didn't want his own to appear — for family 
 reasons. It's his play; he stole it " 
 
 She interrupted me with a whistle. "I thought it 
 looked a bit fishy, all those alterations. But such funny 
 things do happen in this profession ! Stole it, did he ?" 
 
 "The whole thing in manuscript. I put my name to it 
 for the same reason — he didn't want his own to appear." 
 
 She dropped into her chair and laughed — a good-tem- 
 pered laugh, loud and long. "Well, I'm damned!" she 
 
376 Paul Kelver 
 
 said. "The first man who has ever taken me in. I should 
 never have signed if I had thought it was his show. I 
 could see the sort he was with half an eye." She jumped 
 up from the chair. **Here, let me get out of this," she 
 said. "I just looked in to know what time to-morrow; 
 I'd forgotten. You needn't say I came." 
 
 Her hand upon the door, laughter seized her again, so 
 that for support she had to lean against the wall. 
 
 "Do you know why I really did come?" she said. 
 "You'll guess when you come to think it over, so I may 
 as well tell you. It's a bit of a joke. I came to say 'yes' 
 to what you asked me last night. Have you forgotten?" 
 
 I stared at her. Last night! It seemed a long while 
 ago — so very unimportant what I might have said. 
 
 She laughed again. "So help me! if you haven't. 
 Well, you asked me to run away with you — that's all, to 
 let our two souls unite. Damned lucky I took a day to 
 think it over! Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night," I answered, without moving. I was 
 gripping a chair to prevent myself from rushing at her, 
 pushing her out of the room, and locking the door. I 
 wanted to be alone. 
 
 I heard her turn the handle. "Got a pound or two to 
 carry you over?" It was a woman's voice. 
 
 I put my hand into my pocket. "One pound seven- 
 teen," I answered, counting it. "It will pay my fare to 
 London — or buy me a dinner and a second-hand revolver. 
 I haven't quite decided yet." 
 
 "Oh, you get back and pull yourself together," she 
 said. "You're only a kid. Gk)od-night." 
 
 I put a few things into a small bag and walked thirty 
 miles that night into Belfast. Arrived in London, I took 
 a lodging in Deptford, where I was least likely to come in 
 contact with any face I had ever seen before. I main- 
 tained myself by giving singing lessons at sixpence the 
 half-hour, evening lessons in French and German (the 
 Lord forgive me!) to ambitious shop-boys at eighteen 
 
And How Came Back Again 377 
 
 pence a week, making up tradesmen's books. A few arti- 
 cles of jewellery I had retained enabled me to tide over 
 bad periods. For some four months I existed there, 
 never going outside the neighbourhood. Occasionally, 
 wandering listlessly about the streets, some object, some 
 vista, would strike me by reason of its familiarity. Then 
 I would turn and hasten back into my grave of dim, wel- 
 tering streets. 
 
 Of thoughts, emotions, during these dead days I was 
 unconscious. Somewhere in my brain they may have 
 been stirring, contending ; but myself I lived as in a long, 
 dull dream. I ate, and drank, and woke, and slept, and 
 walked and walked, and lounged by corners; staring by 
 the hour together, seeing nothing. 
 
 It has suprised me since to find the scenes I must then 
 have witnessed photographed so clearly on my mind. 
 Tragedies, dramas, farces, played before me in that teem- 
 ing underworld — the scenes present themselves to me dis- 
 tinct, complete ; yet I have no recollection of ever having 
 seen them, 
 
 I fell ill. It must have been some time in April, but I 
 kept no count of days. Nobody came near me, nobody 
 knew of me. I occupied a room at the top of a huge 
 block of workmen's dwellings. A woman who kept a 
 second-hand store had lent me for a shilling a week a few 
 articles of furniture. Lying upon my chair-bedstead, I 
 listened to the shrill sounds around me, that through the 
 light and darkness never ceased. A pint of milk, left 
 each morning on the stone landing, kept me alive. I 
 would wait for the man's descending footsteps, then crawl 
 to the door. I hoped I was going to die, regretting my 
 returning strength, the desire for food that drove me out 
 into the streets again. 
 
 One night, a week or two after my partial recovery, I 
 had wandered on and on for hour after hour. The break- 
 ing dawn recalled me to myself. I was outside the 
 palings of a park. In the faint shadowy light it looked 
 
378 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 strange and unfamiliar. I was too tired to walk further. 
 I scrambled over the low wooden fencing, and reaching a 
 seat, dropped down and fell asleep. 
 
 I was sitting in a sunny avenue; birds were singing 
 joyously, bright flowers were all around me. Norah was 
 beside me, her frank, sweet eyes were looking into mine ; 
 they were full of tenderness, mingled with wonder. It 
 was a delightful dream : I felt myself smiling. 
 
 Suddenly I started to my feet. Norah's strong hand 
 drew me down again. 
 
 I was in the broad walk. Regent's Park, where, I 
 remembered, Norah often walked before breakfast. A 
 park-keeper, the only other human creature within sight, 
 was eyeing me suspiciously. I saw myself — without a 
 looking-glass — unkempt, ragged. My intention was to 
 run, but Norah was holding me by the arm. Savagely I 
 tried to shake her off. I was weak from my recent ill- 
 ness, and, I suppose, half starved ; it angered me to learn 
 she was the stronger of the two. In spite of my efforts, 
 she dragged me back. 
 
 Ashamed of my weakness, ashamed of everything 
 about me, I burst into tears ; and that of course made me 
 still more ashamed. To add to my discomfort, I had no 
 handkerchief. Holding me with one hand — it was quite 
 sufficient — Norah produced her own, and wiped my eyes. 
 The park-keeper, satisfied, I suppose, that at all events I 
 was not dangerous, with a grin passed on. 
 
 ''Where have you been, and what have you been 
 doing?" asked Norah. She still retained her grip upon 
 me, and in her grey eyes was quiet determination. 
 
 So, with my face turned away from her, I told her the 
 whole miserable story, taking strange satisfaction in ex- 
 aggerating, if anything, my own share of the disgrace. 
 My recital ended, I sat staring down the long, shadow- 
 freckled way, and for awhile there was no sound but the 
 chirping of the sparrows. 
 
 Then behind me I heard a smothered laugh. It was 
 
And How Came Back Again 379 
 
 impossible to imagine it could come from Norah. I 
 turned quickly to see who had stolen upon us. It was 
 Norah who was laughing; though to do her justice she 
 was trying to suppress it, holding her handkerchief to her 
 face. It was of no use, it would out; she abandoned the 
 struggle, and gave way to it. It astonished the sparrows 
 into silence ; they stood in a row upon the low iron border 
 and looked at one another. 
 ' ''I am glad you think it funny," I said, 
 
 "But it is funny," she persisted. "Don't say you have 
 lost your sense of humour, Paul ; it was the one real thing 
 you possessed. You were so cocky — you don't know 
 how cocky you were ! Everybody was a fool but Vane ; 
 nobody else but he appreciated you at your true worth. 
 You and he between you were going to reform the stage, 
 to educate the public, to put everything and everybody to 
 rights. I am awfully sorry for all you've gone through ; 
 but now that it is over, can't you see yourself that it is 
 funny ?" 
 
 Faintly, dimly, this aspect of the case, for the very first 
 time, began to present itself to me ; but I should have pre- 
 ferred Norah to have been impressed by its tragedy. 
 
 "That is not all," I said. "I nearly ran away with 
 another man's ,wife." 
 
 I was glad to notice that sobered her somewhat. 
 "Nearly? Why not quite?" she asked more seriously. 
 
 "She thought I was some young idiot with money," I 
 replied bitterly, pleased with the effect I had produced. 
 "Vane had told her a pack of lies. When she found out 
 I was only a poor devil, ruined, disgraced, without a six- 
 pence — " I made a gesture expressive of eloquent con- 
 tempt for female nature generally. 
 
 "I am sorry," said Norah ; "I told you you would fall 
 in love with something real." 
 
 Her words irritated me, unreasonably, I confess. "In 
 love!" I replied; "good God, I was never in love with 
 herr 
 
38o 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Then why did you nearly run away with her?" 
 
 I was wishing now I had not mentioned the matter ; it 
 promised to be difficult of explanation. "I don't know," 
 I replied irritably. "I thought she was in love with me. 
 She was very beautiful — at least, other people seemed to 
 think she was. Artists are not like ordinary men. You 
 must live — understand life, before you can teach it to 
 others. When a beautiful woman is in love with you — or 
 pretends to be, you — you must say something. You 
 can't stand like a fool and " 
 
 Again her laughter interrupted me ; this time she made 
 no attempt to hide it. The sparrows chirped angrily, 
 and flew off to continue their conversation somewhere 
 where there would be less noise. 
 
 "You are the biggest baby, Paul," she said, so soon as 
 she could speak, "I ever heard of." She seized me by the 
 shoulders, and turned me round. "If you weren't looking 
 so ill and miserable, I would shake you, Paul, till there 
 wasn't a bit of breath left in your body." 
 
 "How much money do you owe?" she asked — "to the 
 people in the company and anybody else, I mean — 
 roughly ?" 
 
 "About a hundred and fifty pounds," I answered. 
 
 "Then if you rest day or night, Paul, till you have paid 
 that hundred and fifty — every penny of it — I'll think you 
 the meanest cad in London !" 
 
 Her grey eyes were flashing quite alarmingly. I felt 
 almost afraid of her. She could be so vehement at times. 
 
 "But how can I ?" I asked. 
 
 "Go straight home," she commanded, "and write some- 
 thing funny: an article, story — anything you like; only 
 mind that it is funny. Post it to me to-morrow, at the 
 latest. Dan is in London, editing a new weekly. I'll 
 have it copied out and sent to him. I shan't say who it 
 is from. I shall merely ask him to read it and reply, at 
 once. If you've a grain of grit left in you, you'll write 
 something that he will be glad to have and to pay for. 
 
And How Came Back Again 381 
 
 Pawn that ring on your finger and get yourself a good 
 breakfast" — it was my mother's wedding-ring, the only 
 piece of dispensable property I had not parted with — "she 
 won't mind helping you. But nobody else is going to — 
 except yourself." 
 
 She looked at her watch. "I must be off." She turned 
 
 again. "There is something I was forgetting. B " 
 
 — she mentioned the name of the dramatist whose play 
 Vane had stolen — "has been looking for you for the last 
 three months. If you hadn't been an idiot you might 
 have saved yourself a good deal of trouble. He is quite 
 certain it was Vane stole the manuscript. He asked the 
 nurse to bring it to him an hour after Vane had left the 
 house, and it couldn't be found. Besides, the man's char- 
 acter is well known. And so is yours. I won't tell it 
 you," she laughed ; "anyhow, it isn't that of a knave." 
 
 She made a step towards me, then changed her mind. 
 "No," she said, "I shan't shake hands with you till you 
 have paid the last penny that you owe. Then I shall 
 know that you are a man." 
 
 She did not look back. I watched her, till the sunlight, 
 streaming in my eyes, raised a golden mist between us. 
 
 Then I went to my work. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS SENDS PAUL A RING. 
 
 It took me three years to win that handshake. For the 
 first six months I remained in Deptford. There was ex- 
 cellent material to be found there for humorous articles, 
 essays, stories; likewise for stories tragic and pathetic. 
 But I owed a hundred and fifty pounds — a little over two 
 hundred it reached to, I found, when I came to add up 
 the actual figures. So I paid strict attention to business, 
 left the tears to be garnered by others — ^better fitted may- 
 be for the task; kept to my own patch, reaped and took 
 to market only the laughter. 
 
 At the beginning I sent each manuscript to Norah ; she 
 had it copied out, debited me with the cost, received pay- 
 ment, and sent me the balance. At first my earnings 
 were small ; but Norah was an excellent agent ; rapidly 
 they increased. Dan grew quite cross with her, wrote in 
 pained surprise at her greed. The "matter" was fair, but 
 in no way remarkable. Any friend of hers, of course, he 
 was anxious to assist; but business was business. In 
 justice to his proprietors, he could not and would not pay 
 more than the market value. Miss Deleglise, ' replying 
 curtly in the third person, found herself in perfect accord 
 with Mr. Brian as to business being business. If Mr. 
 Brian could not afford to pay her price for material so 
 excellent, other editors with whom Miss Deleglise was 
 equally well acquainted could and would. Answer by 
 return would greatly oblige, pending which the manu- 
 script then in her hands she retained. Mr. Brian, under- 
 standing he had found his match, grumbled but paid. 
 Whether he had any suspicion who "Jack Horner" might 
 be, he never confessed; but he would have played the 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 383 
 
 game, pulled his end of the rope, in either case. Nor was 
 he allowed to decide the question for himself. Competi- 
 tion was introduced into the argument. Of purpose a 
 certain proportion of my work my agent sent elsewhere. 
 ''Jack Horner" grew to be a commodity in demand. For, 
 seated at my rickety table, I laughed as I wrote, the 
 fourth wall of the dismal room fading before my eyes, 
 revealing vistas beyond. 
 
 Still, it was slow work. Humour is not an industrious 
 maid ; declines to be bustled, will work only when she 
 feels inclined — does not often feel inclined; gives herself 
 a good many unnecessary airs ; if worried, packs up and 
 goes off. Heaven knows where! comes back when she 
 thinks she will : a somewhat unreliable young person. To 
 my literary labours I found it necessary to add journal- 
 ism. I lacked Dan's magnificent assurance. Fate never 
 befriends the nervous. Had I burst into the editorial 
 sanctum, the editor most surely would have been out; if 
 in, would have been a man of short ways, would have seen 
 to it that I went out quickly. But the idea was not to be 
 thought of ; Robert Macaire himself in my one coat would 
 have been diffident, apologetic. I joined the ranks of the 
 penny-a-liners — to be literally exact, three-halfpence-a- 
 liners. In company with half-a-dozen other shabby out- 
 siders — some of them young men like myself seeking to 
 climb; others, older men who had sunk — I attended in- 
 quests, police courts; flew after fire-engines; rejoiced in 
 street accidents; yearned for murders. Somewhat vul- 
 ture-like we lived precariously upon the misfortunes of 
 others. We made occasional half-crowns by providing 
 the public with scandal, occasional crowns by keeping our 
 information to ourselves. 
 
 "I think, gentlemen," would explain our spokesman in 
 a hoarse whisper, on returning to the table, "I think the 
 corpse's brother-in-law is anxious that the affair, if possi- 
 ble, should be kept out of the papers." 
 
 The closeness and attention with which we would fol- 
 
384 Paul Kelver 
 
 low that particular case, the fulness and completeness of 
 our notes, would be quite remarkable. Our spokesman 
 would rise, drift carelessly away, to return five minutes 
 later, wiping his mouth. 
 
 "Not a very interesting case, gentlemen, I don't think. 
 Shall we say five shillings apiece ?'' Sometimes a sense of 
 the dignity of our calling would induce us to stand out 
 for ten. 
 
 And here also my sense of humour came to my aid; 
 gave me perhaps an undue advantage over my compet- 
 itors. Twelve good men and true had been asked to say 
 how a Lascar sailor had met his death. It was perfectly 
 clear how he had met his death. A plumber, working on 
 the roof of a small two-storeyed house, had slipped and 
 fallen on him. The plumber had escaped with a few 
 bruises ; the unfortunate sailor had been picked up dead. 
 Some blame attached to the plumber. His mate, an ex- 
 cellent witness, told us the whole story. 
 
 "I was fixing a gas-pipe on the first floor," said the 
 man. "The prisoner was on the roof." 
 
 "We won't call him 'the prisoner,' " interrupted the cor- 
 oner, "at least, not yet. Refer to him, if you please, as 
 the 'last witness. '" 
 
 "The last witness," corrected himself the man. "He 
 shouts down the chimney to know if I was ready for 
 him." 
 
 " 'Ready and waiting,' I says. 
 
 " 'Right,' he says ; 'I'm coming in through the window.' 
 
 " 'Wait a bit,' I says ; 'I'll go down and move the ladder 
 for you. 
 
 " 'It's all right,' he says ; 'I can reach it.' 
 
 " 'No, you can't,' I says. 'It's the other side of the 
 chimney.' 
 
 " 'I can get round,' he says. 
 
 "Well, before I knew what had happened, I hears him 
 go, smack ! I rushes to the window and looks out : I see 
 him on the pavement, sitting up like. 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 385 
 
 " 'Hullo, Jim,' I says. 'Have you hurt yourself ?' 
 
 " 'I think Fm all right,' he says, 'as far as I can tell. 
 But I wish you'd come down. This bloke I've fallen on 
 looks a bit sick.' " 
 
 The others headed their flimsy "Sad Accident," a title 
 truthful but not alluring. I altered mine to "Plumber in 
 a Hurry — Fatal Result." Saying as little as possible 
 about the unfortunate sailor, I called the attention of 
 plumbers generally to the coroner's very just remarks 
 upon the folly of undue haste ; pointed out to them, as a 
 body, the trouble that would arise if somehow they could 
 not cure themselves of this tendency to rush through 
 their work without a moment's loss of time. 
 
 It established for me a useful reputation. The sub- 
 editor of one evening paper condescended so far as to 
 come out in his shirt-sleeves and shake hands with me. 
 
 "That's the sort of thing we want," he told me ; "a light 
 touch, a bit of humour." 
 
 I snatched fun from fires (I sincerely trust the insur- 
 ance premiums were not overdue) ; culled quaintness from 
 street rows; extracted merriment from catastrophes the 
 most painful, and prospered. 
 
 Though often within a stone's throw of the street, I 
 unremittingly avoided the old house at Poplar. I was 
 suffering inconvenience at this period by reason of finding 
 myself two distinct individuals, contending with each 
 other. My object was to encourage the new Paul — 
 the sensible, practical, pushful Paul, whose career began 
 to look promising; to drive away from interfering with 
 me his strangely unlike twin — ^^the old childish Paul of 
 the sad, far-seeing eyes. Sometimes out of the cracked 
 looking-glass his wistful, yearning face would plead to 
 me ; but I would sternly shake my head. I knew well his 
 cunning. Had I let him have his way, he would have led 
 me through the maze of streets he knew so well, past the 
 broken railings (outside which he would have left my 
 body standing), along the weedy pathway, through the 
 
386 Paul Kelver 
 
 cracked and dented door, up the creaking staircase to the 
 dismal little chamber where we once — he and I together 
 — had sat dreaming foolish dreams. 
 
 "Come," he would whisper; "it is so near. Let us 
 push aside the chest of drawers very quietly, softly raise 
 the broken sash, prop it open with the Latin diction- 
 ary, lean our elbows on the sill, listen to the voices 
 of the weary city, voices calling to us from the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 But I was too wary to be caught. "Later on," I would 
 reply to him; "when I have made my way, when I am 
 stronger to withstand your wheedling. Then I will go 
 with you, if you are still in existence, my sentimental little 
 friend. We will dream again the old impractical, foolish 
 dreams — and laugh at them." 
 
 So he would fade away, and in his place would nod to 
 me approvingly a businesslike-looking, wide-awake young 
 fellow. 
 
 But to one sentimental temptation I succumbed. My 
 position was by now assured; there was no longer any 
 reason for my hiding myself. I determined to move 
 westward. I had not intended to soar so high, but pass- 
 ing through Guildford Street one day, the creeper-cov- 
 ered corner house that my father had once thought of tak- 
 ing recalled itself to me. A card was in the fanlight. I 
 knocked and made enquiries. A bed-sitting-room upon 
 the third floor was vacant. I remembered it well the 
 moment the loquacious landlady opened its door. 
 
 "This shall be your room, Paul," said my father. So 
 clearly his voice sounded behind me that I turned, for- 
 getting for the moment it was but a memory. "You will 
 be quiet here, and we can shut out the bed and wash- 
 stand with a screen." 
 
 So my father had his way. It was a pleasant, sunny 
 little room, overlooking the gardens of the hospital. I 
 followed my father's suggestion, shut out the bed and 
 washstand with a screen. And sometimes of an evening 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 387 
 
 it would amuse me to hear my father turn the handle of 
 the door. 
 
 "How are you getting on — all right ?" 
 
 "Famously." 
 
 Often there came back to me the words he had once 
 used. "You must be the practical man, Paul, and get on. 
 Myself, I have always been somewhat of a dreamer. I 
 meant to do such great things in the world, and somehow 
 — I suppose I aimed too high. I wasn't — practical." 
 
 "But ought not one to aim high?" I had asked. 
 
 My father had fidgeted in his chair. "It is very diffi- 
 cult to say. It is all so — so very ununderstandable. You 
 aim high and you don't hit anything — at least, it seems as 
 if you didn't. Perhaps, after all, it is better to aim at 
 something low, and — and hit it. Yet it seems a pity — 
 one's ideals, all the best part of one — I don't know why it 
 is. Perhaps we do not understand." 
 
 For some months I had been writing over my own 
 name. One day a letter was forwarded to me by an 
 editor to whose care it had been addressed. It was a 
 short, formal note from the maternal Sellars, inviting me 
 to the wedding of her daughter with a Mr. Reginald 
 Clapper. I had almost forgoten the incident of the Lady 
 'Ortensia, but it was not unsatisfactory to learn that it 
 had terminated pleasantly. Also, I judged from an invita- 
 tion having been sent me, that the lady wished me to be 
 witness of the fact that my desertion had not left her dis- 
 consolate. So much gratification I felt I owed her, and 
 accordingly, purchasing a present as expensive as my 
 means would permit, I made my way on the following 
 Thursday, clad in frock coat and light grey trousers, to 
 Kennington Church. 
 
 The ceremony was already in progress. Creeping on 
 tiptoe up the aisle, I was about to slip into an empty pew, 
 when a hand was laid upon my sleeve. 
 
 "We're all here," whispered the O'Kelly; "just room 
 for ye." 
 
388 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 Squeezing his hand as I passed, I sat down between 'the 
 Signora and Mrs. Peedles. Both ladies were weeping; 
 the Signora silently, one tear at a time clinging fondly to 
 her pretty face as though loath to fall from it; Mrs. 
 Peedles copiously, with explosive gurgles, as of water 
 from a bottle. 
 
 "It is such a beautiful service," murmured the Sign- 
 ora, pressing my hand as I settled myself down. "I 
 should so — so love to be married." 
 
 "Me darling," whispered the O'Kelly, seizing her other 
 hand and kissing it covertly behind his open Prayer Book, 
 "perhaps ye will be — one day." 
 
 The Signora through her tears smiled at him, but with 
 a sigh shook her head. 
 
 Mrs. Peedles, clad, so far as the dim November light 
 enabled me to judge, in the costume of Queen Elizabeth 
 — nothing regal; the sort of thing one might assume to 
 have been Pier Majesty's second best, say third best, frock 
 — explained th,at weddings always reminded her how 
 fleeting a thing was love. 
 
 "The poor dears !" she sobbed. "But there, there's no 
 telling. Perhaps they'll be happy. I'm sure I hope they 
 may be. He looks harmless." 
 
 Jarman, stretching out a hand to me from the other 
 side of Mrs. Peedles, urged me to cheer up. "Don't wear 
 your 'eart upon your sleeve," he advised. "Try and 
 smile." 
 
 In the vestry I met old friends. The maternal Sellars, 
 stouter than ever, had been accommodated with a chair — 
 at least, I assumed so, she being in a sitting posture ; the 
 chair itself was not in evidence. She greeted me with 
 more graciousness than I had expected, enquiring after 
 my health with pointedness and an amount of tender 
 solicitude that, until the explanation broke upon me, 
 somewhat puzzled me. 
 
 Mr. Reginald Clapper was a small but energetic gen- 
 tleman, much impressed, I was glad to notice, with a con- 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 389 
 
 viction of his own good fortune. He expressed the great- 
 est delight at being introduced to me, shook me heartily 
 by the hand, and hoped we should always be friends. 
 
 "Won't be my fault if we're not," he added. "Come 
 and see us whenever you like." He repeated this three 
 times. I gathered the general sentiment to be that he 
 was acting, if anything, with excess of generosity. 
 
 Mrs. Reginald Clapper, as I was relieved to know she 
 now was, received my salute to a subdued murmur of ap- 
 plause. She looked to my eyes handsomer than when I 
 had last seen her, or maybe my taste was growing less 
 exacting. She also trusted she might always regard me 
 as a friend. I replied that it would be my hope to de- 
 serve the honour; whereupon she kissed me of her own 
 accord, and embracing her mother, shed some tears, ex- 
 plaining the reason to be that everybody was so good 
 to her. 
 
 Brother George, less lank than formerly, hampered by 
 a pair of enormous white kid gloves, superintended my 
 signing of the register, whispering to me sympathetically : 
 "Better luck next time, old cock." 
 
 The fat young lady — or, maybe, the lean young lady, 
 grown stouter, I cannot say for certain — who feared I 
 had forgotten her, a thing I assured her utterly impos- 
 sible, was good enough to say that, in her opinion, I was 
 worth all the others put together. 
 
 "And so I told her," added the fat young lady — or the 
 lean one grown stouter, "a dozen times if I told her once. 
 But there !" 
 
 I murmured my obligations. 
 
 Cousin Joseph, whom I found no difficulty in recognis- 
 ing by reason of his watery eyes, appeared not so chirpy 
 as of yore. 
 
 "You take my tip," advised Cousin Joseph, drawing 
 me aside, "and keep out of it." 
 
 "You speak from experience?" I suggested. 
 
 "I'm as fond of a joke," said the watery-eyed Joseph, 
 
390 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 "as any man. But when it comes to buckets of 
 water " 
 
 A reminder from the maternal Sellars that breakfast 
 had been ordered for eleven o'clock caused a general 
 movement and arrested Joseph's revelations. 
 
 "See you again, perhaps," he murmured, and pushed 
 past me. 
 
 What Mrs. Sellars, I suppose, would have alluded to as 
 a cold col-la-shon had been arranged for at a restaurant 
 near by. I walked there in company with Uncle and 
 Aunt Gutton; not because I particularly desired their 
 companionship, but because Uncle Gutton, seizing me by 
 the arm, left me no alternative. 
 
 "Now then, young man," commenced Uncle Gutton 
 kindly, but boisterously so soon as we were in the street, 
 at some little distance behind the others, "if you want to 
 pitch into me, you pitch away. I shan't mind, and maybe 
 it'll do you good." 
 
 I informed him that nothing was further from my de- 
 sire. 
 
 "Oh, all right," returned Uncle Gutton, seemingly dis- 
 appointed. "If you're willing to forgive and forget, so 
 am I. I never liked you, as I daresay you saw, and so I 
 told Rosie. *He may be cleverer than he looks,' I says, 
 'or he may be a bigger fool than I think him, though 
 that's hardly likely. You take my advice and get a full- 
 grown article, then you'll know what you're doing.' " 
 
 I told him I thought his advice had been admirable. 
 
 "I'm glad you think so," he returned, somewhat puz- 
 zled ; "though if you wanted to call me names I shouldn't 
 have blamed you. Anyhow, you've took it like a sensible 
 chap. You've got over it, as I always told her you would. 
 Young men out of story-books don't die of broken hearts, 
 even if for a month or two they do feel like standing on 
 their head in the water-butt." 
 
 "Why, I was in love myself three times," explained 
 Uncle Gutton, "before I married the old woman." 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 391 
 
 Aunt Gutton sighed and said she was afraid gentlemen 
 didn't feel these things as much as they ought to. 
 
 "They've got their living to earn," retorted Uncle Gut- 
 ton. 
 
 I agreed with Uncle Gutton that life could not be 
 wasted in vain regret. 
 
 "As for the rest," admitted Uncle Gutton, handsomely, 
 "I was wrong. You've turned out better than I expected 
 you would." 
 
 I thanked him for his improved opinion, and as we 
 entered the restaurant we shook hands. 
 
 Minikin we found there waiting for us. He explained 
 that having been able to obtain only limited leave of ab- 
 sence from business, he had concluded the time would 
 be better employed at the restaurant than at the church. 
 Others were there also with whom I was unacquainted, 
 young sparks, admirers, I presume, of the Lady 'Ortensia 
 in her professional capacity, fellow-clerks of Mr. Clap- 
 per, who was something in the City. Altogether we 
 must have numbered a score. 
 
 Breakfast was laid in a large room on the first floor. 
 The wedding presents stood displayed upon a side-table. 
 My own, with my card attached, had not been seen by 
 Mrs. Clapper till that moment. She and her mother lin- 
 gered, examining it. 
 
 "Real silver!" I heard the maternal Sellars whisper, 
 "Must have paid a ten pound note for it." 
 
 "I hope you'll find it useful," I said. 
 
 The maternal Sellars, drifting away, joined the others 
 gathered together at the opposite end of the room. 
 
 "I suppose you think I set my cap at you merely be- 
 cause you were a gentleman," said the Lady 'Ortensia. 
 
 "Don't let's talk about it," I answered. "We were both 
 foolish." 
 
 "I don't want you to think it was merely that," con- 
 tinued the Lady 'Ortensia. "I did like you. And I 
 wouldn't have disgraced you — at least, I'd have tried not 
 
392 Paul Kelver 
 
 to. We women are quick to learn. You never gave me 
 time." 
 
 "Believe me, things are much better as they are," I 
 said. 
 
 "I suppose so," she answered. "I was a fool." She 
 glanced round; we still had the corner to ourselves. "I 
 told a rare pack of lies," she said; "I didn't seem able 
 to help it ; I was feeling sore all over. But I have always 
 been ashamed of myself. I'll tell them the truth, if you 
 like." 
 
 I thought I saw a way of making her mind easy. "My 
 dear girl," I said, "you have taken the blame upon your- 
 self, and let me go scot-free. It was generous of you." 
 
 "You mean that ?" she asked. 
 
 "The truth," I answered, "would shift all the shame on 
 to me. It was I who broke my word, acted shabbily from 
 beginning to end." 
 
 "I hadn't looked at it in that light," she replied. 
 "Very well, I'll hold my tongue." 
 
 My place at breakfast was to the left of the maternal 
 Sellars, the Signora next to me, and the O'Kelly oppo- 
 site. Uncle Gutton faced the bride and bridegroom. 
 The disillusioned Joseph was hidden from me by flowers, 
 so that his voice, raised from time to time, fell upon my 
 ears, embellished with the mysterious significance of the 
 unseen oracle. 
 
 For the first quarter of an hour or so the meal pro- 
 ceeded almost in silence. The maternal Sellars when not 
 engaged in whispered argument with the perspiring 
 waiter, was furtively occupied in working sums upon the 
 table-cloth by aid of a blunt pencil. The Signora, 
 strangely unlike her usual self, was not in talkative mood. 
 
 "It was so kind of them to invite me," said the Signora, 
 speaking low. "But I feel I ought not to have come." 
 
 "Why not?" I asked 
 
 "I'm not fit to be here," murmured the Signora in a 
 broken voice. "What right have I at wedding break- 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 393 
 
 fasts ? Of course, for dear Willie it is different. He has 
 been married." 
 
 The O'Kelly, who never when the Signora was present 
 seemed to care much for conversation in which she was 
 unable to participate, took advantage of his neighbour's 
 being somewhat deaf to lapse into abstraction. Jarman 
 essayed a few witticisms of a general character, of which 
 nobody took any notice. The professional admirers of 
 the Lady 'Ortensia, seated together at a corner of the 
 table, appeared to be enjoying a small joke among them- 
 selves. Occasionally, one or another of them would laugh 
 nervously. But for the most part the only sounds to be 
 heard were the clatter of the knives and forks, the ener- 
 getic shuffling of the waiter, and a curious hissing noise 
 as of escaping gas, caused by Uncle Gutton drinking 
 champagne. 
 
 With the cutting, or, rather, the smashing into a hun- 
 dred fragments, of the wedding cake — a work that taxed 
 the united strength of bride and bridegroom to the utmost 
 — the atmosphere lost something of its sombreness. The 
 company, warmed by food, displaying indications of be- 
 ing nearly done, commenced to simmer. The maternal 
 Sellars, putting away with her blunt pencil considerations 
 of material nature, embraced the table with a smile. 
 
 ''But it is a sad thing," sighed the maternal Sellars the 
 next moment, with a shake of her huge head, "when your 
 daughter marries, and goes away and leaves you." 
 
 "Damned sight sadder," commented Uncle Gutton, 
 "when she don't go off, but hangs on at home year after 
 year and expects you to keep her." 
 
 I credit Uncle Gutton with intending this as an aside 
 for the exclusive benefit of the maternal Sellars ; but his 
 voice was not of the timbre that lends itself to secrecy. 
 One of the bridesmaids, a plain, elderly girl, bending over 
 her plate, flushed scarlet. I concluded her to be Miss 
 Gutton. 
 
 "It doesn't seem to me," said Aunt Gutton from the 
 
394 P^^'' Kelver 
 
 other end of the table, "that gentlemen are as keen on 
 marrying nowadays as they used to be." 
 
 "Got to know a bit about it, I expect," sounded the 
 small, shrill voice of the unseen Joseph. 
 
 "To my thinking," exclaimed a hatchet-faced gentle- 
 man, "one of the evils crying most loudly for redress at 
 the present moment is the utterly needless and monstrous 
 expense of legal proceedings." He spoke rapidly and 
 with warmth. "Take divorce. At present, what is it? 
 The rich man's luxury," 
 
 Conversation appeared to be drifting in a direction un- 
 suitable to the occasion; but Jarman was fortunately 
 there to seize the helm. 
 
 "The plain fact of the matter is," said Jarman, "girls 
 have gone up in value. Time was, so I've heard, when 
 they used to be given away with a useful bit of household 
 linen, maybe a chair or two. Nowadays — well, it's only 
 chaps wallowing in wealth like Clapper there as can af- 
 ford a really first-class article." 
 
 Mr. Clapper, not a gentleman in other respects of ex- 
 ceptional brilliancy, possessed one quality that popularity- 
 seekers might have envied him : the ability to explode on 
 the slightest provocation into a laugh instinct with all the 
 characteristics of genuine delight. 
 
 "Give and take," observed the maternal Sellars, so soon 
 as Mr. Clapper's roar had died away ; "that's what you've 
 got to do when you're married." 
 
 "Give a deal more than you bargained for and take 
 what you don't want — that sums it up," came the bitter 
 voice of the unseen. 
 
 "Oh, do be quiet, Joe," advised the stout young lady, 
 from which I concluded she had once been the lean 
 young lady. "You talk enough for a man." 
 
 "Can't I open my mouth?" demanded the indignant 
 oracle. 
 
 "You look less foolish when you keep it shut," returned 
 the stout young lady. 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 395 
 
 "We'll show them how to get on," observed the Lady 
 'Ortensia to her bridegroom, with a smile. 
 
 Mr. Clapper responded with a gurgle. 
 
 ''When me and the old girl there fixed things up," said 
 Uncle Gutton, "we didn't talk no nonsense, and we didn't 
 start with no misunderstandings. 'I'm not a duke,' I 
 says " 
 
 "Had she been mistaking you for one ?" enquired Mini- 
 kin. 
 
 Mr. Clapper commented, not tactfully, but with ap- 
 preciative laugh. I feared for a moment lest Uncle Gut- 
 ton's little eyes should leave his head. 
 
 "Not being a natural-born, one-eyed fool," replied 
 Uncle Gutton, glaring at the unabashed Minikin, "she 
 did not. 'I'm not a duke,' I says, and she had sense 
 enough to know as I was talking sarcastic like. 'I'm not 
 offering you a life of luxury and ease. I'm offering you 
 myself, just what you see, and nothing more.' " 
 
 "She took it?" asked Minikin, who was mopping up 
 his gravy with his bread. 
 
 "She accepted me, sir," returned Uncle Gutton, in 
 a voice that would have awed any one but Minikin. 
 "Can you give me any good reason for her not doing 
 so?" 
 
 "No need to get mad with me," explained Minikin. 
 "I'm not blaming the poor woman. We all have our mo- 
 ments of despair." 
 
 The unfortunate Clapper again exploded. Uncle Gut- 
 ton rose to his feet. The ready Jarman saved the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 "'Ear! 'ear!" cried Jarman, banging the table with 
 the handles of two knives. "Silence for Uncle Gutton! 
 'E's going to propose a toast. 'Ear, 'ear !" 
 
 Mrs. Clapper, seconding his efforts, the whole table 
 broke into applause. 
 
 "What, as a matter of fact, I did get up to say — " began 
 Uncle Gutton. 
 
396 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Good old Uncle Gutton ! " persisted the determined 
 Jarman. ''Bride and bridegroom — long life to 'em !" 
 
 Uncle Gutton, evidently pleased, allowed his indigna- 
 tion against Minikin to evaporate. 
 
 "Well," said Uncle Gutton, "if you think I'm the one 
 to do it " 
 
 The response was unmistakable. In our enthusiasm 
 we broke two glasses and upset a cruet; a small, thin 
 lady was unfortunate enough to shed her chignon. Thus 
 encouraged. Uncle Gutton launched himself upon his 
 task. Personally, I should have been better pleased had 
 Fate not interposed to assign to him the duty. 
 
 Starting with a somewhat uninstructive history of his 
 own career, he suddenly, and for no reason at all obvious, 
 branched off into fierce censure of the Adulteration Act. 
 Reminded of the time by the maternal Sellars, he got in 
 his first sensible remark by observing that with such ques- 
 tions, he took it, the present company was not particularly 
 interested, and directed himself to the main argument. 
 To his. Uncle Gutton's, foresight, wisdom and instinctive 
 understanding of humanity, Mr. Clapper, it appeared, 
 owed his present happiness. Uncle Gutton it was who 
 had divined from the outset the sort of husband the 
 fair Rosina would come eventually to desire — a plain, 
 simple, hard-working, level-headed sort of chap, with no 
 hity-tity nonsense about him: such an one, in short, as 
 Mr. Clapper himself — (at this Mr. Clapper expressed 
 approval by a lengthy laugh) — a gentleman who, so far 
 as Uncle Gutton's knowledge went, had but one fault: a 
 silly habit of laughing when there was nothing whatever 
 to laugh at; of which, it was to be hoped, the cares and 
 responsibilities of married life would cure him. (To the 
 rest of the discourse Mr. Clapper listened with a gravity 
 painfully maintained.) There had been moments, Uncle 
 Gutton was compelled to admit, when the fair Rosina had 
 shown inclination to make a fool of herself — ^to desire in 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 397 
 
 place of honest worth mere painted baubles. He used the 
 term in no offensive sense. Speaking for himself, what a 
 man wanted beyond his weekly newspaper, he. Uncle 
 Gutton, was unable to understand ; but if there were fools 
 in the world who wanted to read rubbish written by other 
 fools, then the other fools would of course write it; 
 Uncle Gutton did not blame them. He mentioned no 
 names, but what he would say was : a plain man for a 
 sensible girl, and no painted baubles. 
 
 The waiter here entering with a message from the 
 cabman to the effect that if he was to catch the twelve- 
 forty-five from Charing Cross, it was about full time he 
 started, Uncle Gutton was compelled to bring his speech 
 to a premature conclusion. The bride and bridegroom 
 were hustled into their clothes. There followed much 
 female embracing and male hand-shaking. The rice hav- 
 ing been forgotten, the waiter was almost thrown down- 
 stairs, with directions to at once procure some. There 
 appearing danger of his not returning in time, the re- 
 sourceful Jarman suggested cold semolina pudding as a 
 substitute. But the idea was discouraged by the bride. 
 A slipper of remarkable antiquity, discovered on the floor 
 and regarded as a gift from Providence, was flung from 
 the window by brother George, with admirable aim, and 
 alighted on the roof of the cab. The waiter, on his return, 
 not being able to find it, seemed surprised. 
 
 I walked back as far as the Obelisk with the O'Kelly 
 and the Signora, who were then living together in Lam- 
 beth. Till that morning I had not seen the O'Kelly since 
 my departure from London, nearly two years before, so 
 that we had much to tell each other. For the third time 
 now had the O'Kelly proved his utter unworthiness to be 
 the husband of the lady to whom he still referred as his 
 "dear good wife." 
 
 "But, under the circumstances, would it not be better," 
 
398 Paul Kelver 
 
 I suggested, "for her to obtain a divorce? Then you and 
 the Signora could marry and there would be an end to the 
 whole trouble." 
 
 "From a strictly worldly point of view," replied the 
 O'Kelly, "it certainly would be; but Mrs. O'Kelly" — his 
 voice took to itself unconsciously a tone of reverence — 
 "is not an ordinary woman. You can have no concep- 
 tion, my dear Kelver, of her goodness. I had a letter 
 from her only two months ago, a few weeks after the — 
 the last occurrence. Not one word of reproach, only that 
 if I trespassed against her even unto seven times seven 
 she would still consider it her duty to forgive me; that 
 the 'home' would always be there for me to return to 
 and repent." 
 
 A tear stood in the O'Kelly's eye. "A beautiful na- 
 ture," he commented. "There are not many women like 
 her." 
 
 "Not one in a million!" added the Signora, with en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 "Well, to me it seems like pure obstinacy," I said. 
 
 The O'Kelly spoke quite angrily. "Don't ye say a 
 word against her ! I won't listen to it. Ye don't under- 
 stand her. She never will despair of reforming me." 
 
 "You see, Mr. Kelver," explained the Signora, "the 
 whole difficulty arises from my unfortunate profession. 
 It is impossible for me to keep out of dear Willie's way. 
 If, I could earn my living by any other means, I would ; 
 but I can't. And when he sees my name upon the posters, 
 it's all over with him." 
 
 "I do wish, Willie, dear," added the Signora in tones of 
 gentle reproof, "that you were not quite so weak." 
 
 "Me dear," replied the O'Kelly, "ye don't know how at- 
 tractive ye are or ye wouldn't blame me." 
 
 I laughed. "Wliy don't you be firm," I suggested to 
 the Signora, "send him packing about his business?" 
 
 "I ought to," admitted the Signora. "I always mean 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 399 
 
 to, until I see him. Then I don't seem able to say any- 
 thing — not anything I ought to." 
 
 "Ye do say it," contradicted the O'Kelly. ''Ye're an 
 angel, only I won't listen to ye." 
 
 'T don't say it as if I meant it," persisted the Signora. 
 "It's evident I don't." 
 
 *T still think it a pity," I said, "someone does not ex- 
 plain to Mrs. O'Kelly that a divorce would be the truer 
 kindness." 
 
 "It is difficult to decide," argued the Signora. "If ever 
 you should want to leave me " 
 
 "Me darling!" exclaimed the O'Kelly. 
 
 "But you may," insisted the Signora. "Something 
 may happen to help you, to show you how wicked it all 
 is. I shall be glad then to think that you will go back 
 to her. Because she is a good woman, Willie, you know 
 she is." 
 
 "She's a saint," agreed Willie. 
 
 At the Obelisk I shook hands with them, and alone 
 pursued my way towards Fleet Street. 
 
 The next friend whose acquaintance I renewed was 
 Dan. He occupied chambers in the Temple, and one 
 evening a week or two after the 'Ortensia marriage, I 
 called upon him. Nothing in his manner of greeting me 
 suggested the necessity of explanation. Dan never de- 
 manded anything of his friends beyond their need of 
 him. Shaking hands with me, he pushed me down into 
 the easy-chair, and standing with his back to the fire, 
 filled and lighted his pipe. 
 
 "I left you alone," he said. "You had to go through 
 it, your slough of despond. It lies across every path — 
 that leads to anywhere. Clear of it?" 
 
 "I think so," I replied, smiHng. 
 
 "You are on the high road," he continued. "You have 
 only to walk steadily. Sure you have left nothing be- 
 hind you— in the slough?" 
 
400 Paul Kelver 
 
 "Nothing worth bringing out of it," I said. "Why do 
 you ask so seriously?" 
 
 He laid his hand upon my head, rumpling my hair, as 
 in the old days. 
 
 "Don^t leave him behiind you," he said; "the little 
 boy Paul — Paul the dreamer." 
 
 I laughed. "Oh, he ! He was only in my way." 
 
 "Yes, here," answered Dan. "This is not his world. 
 He is of no use to you here ; won't help you to bread and 
 cheese — no, nor kisses either. But keep him near you. 
 Later, you will find, perhaps, that all along he has been 
 the real Paul — the living, growing Paul; the other — ^the 
 active, worldly, pushful Paul, only the stuff that dreams 
 are made of, his fretful life a troubled night rounded by a 
 sleep." 
 
 "I have been driving him away," I said. "He is so — 
 so impracticable." 
 
 Dan shook his head gravely. "It is not his world," he 
 repeated. "We must eat, drink — ^be husbands, fathers. 
 He does not understand. Here he is the child. Take 
 care of him." 
 
 We sat in silence for a little while — for longer, per- 
 haps, than it seemed to us — Dan in the chair opposite to 
 me, each of us occupied with his own thoughts. 
 
 "You have an excellent agent," said Dan; "retain her 
 services as long as you can. She possesses the great 
 advantage of having no conscience, as regards your af- 
 fairs. Women never have where they " 
 
 He broke off to stir the fire. 
 
 "You like her?" I asked. The words sounded feeble. 
 It is only the writer who fits the language to the emotion ; 
 the living man more often selects by contrast. 
 
 "She is my ideal woman," returned Dan; "true and 
 strong and tender ; clear as crystal, pure as dawn. Like 
 her!" 
 
 He knocked the ashes from his pipe. "We do not 
 marry our ideals," he went on. "We love with our 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 401 
 
 hearts, not with our souls. The woman I shall marry" 
 — he sat gazing into the fire, a smile upon his face — "she 
 will be some sweet, clinging, childish woman, David Cop^ 
 perfield's Dora. Only I am not Doady, who always seems 
 to me to have been somewhat of a — He reminds me of 
 you, Paul, a little. Dickens was right; her helplessness, 
 as time went on, would have bored him more and more 
 instead of appealing to him." 
 
 "And the women," I suggested, "do they marry their 
 ideals ?" 
 
 He laughed. "Ask them." 
 
 "The difference between men and women," he con- 
 tinued, "is very slight; we exaggerate it for purposes of 
 art. What sort of man do you suppose he is, Norah's 
 ideal? Can't you imagine him? — But I can tell you the 
 type of man she will marry, ay, and love with all her 
 heart." 
 
 He looked at me from under his strong brows drawn 
 down, a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 "A nice enough fellow — clever, perhaps, but someone 
 — well, someone who will want looking after, taking care 
 of, managing; someone who will appeal to the mother 
 side of her — not her ideal man, but the man for whom 
 nature intended her." 
 
 "Perhaps with her help," I said, "he may in time be- 
 come her ideal." 
 
 "There's a long road before him," growled Dan. 
 
 It was Norah herself who broke to me the news of 
 Barbara's elopment with Hal. I had seen neither of 
 them since my return to London. Old Hasluck a month 
 or so before I had met in the City one day by chance, and 
 he had insisted on my lunching with him. I had found 
 him greatly changed. His buoyant self-assurance had 
 deserted him ; in its place a fretful eagerness had become 
 his motive force. At first he had talked boastingly : Had 
 I seen the Post for last Monday, the Court Circular for 
 the week before? Had I read that Barbara had danced 
 
402 Paul Kelver 
 
 with the Crown Prince, that the Count and Countess 
 Huescar had been entertaining a Grand Duke? What 
 of the world? Ay, and the nobs should be made to 
 I think of that! and such like. Was not money master 
 of the world? Ay, and the nobs should be made to 
 acknowledge it! 
 
 But as he had gulped down glass after glass the brag 
 had died away. 
 
 "No children," he had whispered to me across the 
 table; "that's what I can't understand. Nearly four 
 years and no children! What'll be the good of it all? 
 Where do / come in? What do / get? Damn these 
 rotten popinjays! What do they think we buy them 
 for?" 
 
 It was in the studio on a Monday morning that Norah 
 told me. It was the talk of the town for the next day — 
 and the following eight. She had heard it the evening 
 before at supper, and had written to me to come and 
 see her. 
 
 "I thought you would rather hear it quietly," said 
 Norah, "than learn it from a newspaper paragraph. Be- 
 sides, I wanted to tell you this. She did wrong when 
 she married, putting aside love for position. Now she 
 has done right. She has put aside her shame with all 
 the advantages she derived from it. She has proved 
 herself a woman : I respect her." 
 
 Norah would not have said that to please me had she 
 not really thought it. I could see it from that light ; but 
 it brought me no comfort. My goddess had a heart, pas- 
 sions, was a mere human creature like myself. From 
 her cold throne she had stepped down to mingle with 
 the world. So some youthful page of Arthur's court 
 may have felt, learning the Great Queen was but a 
 woman. 
 
 I never spoke with her again but once. That was an 
 evening three years later in Brussels. Strolling idly after 
 dinner, the bright lights of a theatre invited me to enter. 
 
The Princess of the Golden Locks 403 
 
 It was somewhat late ; the second act had commenced. I 
 sHpped quietly into my seat, the only one vacant at the 
 extreme end of the front row of the first range; then, 
 looking down upon the stage, met her eyes. A little later 
 
 an attendant whispered to me that Madame G would 
 
 like to see me ; so at the fall of the curtain I went round. 
 Two men were in the dressing-room smoking, and on 
 the table were some bottles of champagne. She was 
 standing before her glass, a loose shawl about her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "Excuse my shaking hands," she said. "This damned 
 hole is like a furnace; I have to make up fresh after 
 each act." 
 
 She held them up for my inspection with a laugh; 
 they were smeared with grease. 
 
 "D'you know my husband?" she continued. "Baron 
 G ; Mr. Paul Kelver." 
 
 The Baron rose. He was a red-faced, pot-bellied little 
 man. "Delighted to meet Mr. Kelver," he said, speak- 
 ing in excellent English. "Any friend of my wife's is 
 always a friend of mine." 
 
 He held out his fat, perspiring hand. I was not in the 
 mood to attach much importance to ceremony. I bowed 
 and turned away, careless whether he was offended or 
 not. 
 
 "I am glad I saw you," she continued. "Do you re- 
 member a girl called Barbara ? You and she were rather 
 chums, years ago." 
 
 "Yes," I answered, "I remember her." 
 
 "Well, she died, poor girl, three years ago." She was 
 rubbing paint into her cheeks as she spoke. "She asked 
 me if ever I saw you to give you this. I have been car- 
 rying it about with me ever since." 
 
 She took a ring from her finger. It was the one ring 
 Barbara had worn as a girl, a chrysolite set plainly in a 
 band of gold. I had noticed it upon her hand the first 
 time I had seen her, sitting in my father's office framed 
 
404 Paul Kelver 
 
 by the dusty books and papers. She dropped it into my 
 outstretched palm. 
 
 ''Quite a pretty little romance," laughed the Baron. 
 
 "That's all," added the woman at the glass. "She 
 said you would understand." 
 
 From under her painted lashes she flashed a glance at 
 me. I hope never to see again that look upon a woman's 
 face. 
 
 "Thank you," I said. "Yes, I understand. It was 
 very kind of you. I shall always wear it." 
 
 Placing the ring upon my finger, I left the room. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 PAUL FINDS HIS WAY. 
 
 Slowly, surely, steadily I climbed, putting aside all 
 dreams, paying strict attention to business. Often my 
 other self, little Paul of the sad eyes, would seek to lure 
 me from my work. But for my vehement determination 
 never to rest for a moment till I had purchased back my 
 honesty, my desire — growing day by day, till it became 
 almost a physical hunger — to feel again the pressure of 
 Norah's strong white hand in mine, he might possibly 
 have succeeded. Heaven only knows what then he 
 might have made of me : politician, minor poet, more or 
 less able editor, hampered by convictions — something 
 most surely of but little service to myself. Now and 
 again, with a week to spare — my humour making holi- 
 day, nothing to be done but await patiently its return — I 
 would write stories for my own pleasure. They made 
 no mark; but success in purposeful work is of slower 
 growth. Had I persisted — but there was money to be 
 earned. And by the time my debts were paid, I had 
 established a reputation. 
 
 "Madness!'' argued practical friends. "You would 
 be throwing away a certain fortune for, at the best, a 
 doubtful competence. The one you know you can do, 
 the other — it would be beginning your career all over 
 again. '* 
 
 "You would find it almost impossible now," explained 
 those who spoke, I knew, words of wisdom, of experi- 
 ence. "The world would never listen to you. Once a 
 humourist always a humourist. As well might a comic 
 actor insist upon playing Hamlet. It might be the best 
 
4o6 Paul Kelver 
 
 Hamlet ever seen upon the stage; the audience would 
 only laugh — or stop away." 
 
 Drawn by our mutual need of sympathy, "Goggles" 
 and I, seeking some quiet corner in the Club, would pour 
 out our souls to each other. He would lay before me, 
 at some length, his conception of Romeo — an excellent 
 conception, I have no doubt, though I confess it failed to 
 interest me. Somehow I could not picture him to myself 
 as Romeo. But I listened with every sign of encourage- 
 ment. It was the price I paid him for, in turn, listening 
 to me while I unfolded to him my ideas how monumental 
 literature, helpful to mankind, should be imagined and 
 built up. 
 
 "Perhaps in a future existence," laughed Goggles, one 
 evening, rising as the clock struck seven, "I shall be a 
 great tragedian, and you a famous poet. Meanwhile, I 
 suppose, as your friend Brian puts it, we are both sinning 
 our mercies. After all, to live is the most important 
 thing in life." 
 
 I had strolled with him so far as the cloak-room and 
 was helping him to get into his coat. 
 
 "Take my advice" — tapping me on the chest, he fixed 
 his funny, fishy eyes upon me. Had I not known his in- 
 tention to be serious, I should have laughed, his expres- 
 sion was so comical. "Marry some dear little woman" 
 (he was married himself to a placid lady of about twice 
 his own weight) ; "one never understands life properly 
 till the babies come to explain it to one." 
 
 I returned to my easy-chair before the fire. Wife, 
 children, home ! After all, was not that the true work of 
 man — of the live man^ not the dreamer? I saw them 
 round me, giving to my life dignity, responsibility. The 
 fair, sweet woman, helper, comrade, comforter, the little 
 faces fashioned in our image, their questioning voices 
 teaching us the answers to life's riddles. All other hopes, 
 ambitions, dreams, what were they? Phantoms of the 
 morning mist fading in the sunlight. 
 
Paul Finds His Way 407 
 
 Hodgson came to me one evening. "I want you to 
 write me a comic opera," he said. He had an open letter 
 in his hand which he was reading. "The public seem to 
 be getting tired of these eternal translations from the 
 French. I want something English, something new and 
 original." 
 
 **The English is easy enough/' I replied; "but I 
 shouldn't clamour for anything new and original if I 
 were you." 
 
 "Why not?" he asked, looking up from his letter. 
 
 "You might get it," I answered. "Then you would 
 be disappointed." 
 
 He laughed. "Well, you know what I mean — some- 
 thing we could refer to as 'new and original' on the 
 programme. What do you say? It will be a big chance 
 for you, and I'm willing to risk it. I'm sure you can do 
 it. People are beginning to talk about you." 
 
 I had written a few farces, comediettas, and they had 
 been successful. But the chief piece of the evening is a 
 serious responsibility. A young man may be excused 
 for hesitating. It can make, but also it can mar him. A 
 comic opera above all other forms of art — if I may be 
 forgiven for using the sacred word in connection with 
 such a subject — demands experience. 
 
 I explained my fears. I did not explain that in my 
 desk lay a four-act drama throbbing with humanity, with 
 life, with which it had been my hope — growing each 
 day fainter — to take the theatrical public by storm, to 
 establish myself as a serious playwright. 
 
 "It's very simple," urged Hodgson. "Provide Ather- 
 ton plenty of comic business ; you ought to be able to do 
 that all right. Give Gleeson something pretty in waltz 
 time, and Duncan a part in which she can change her 
 frock every quarter of an hour or so, and the thing is 
 done." 
 
 "I'll tell you what," continued Hodgson, "I'll take the 
 whole crowd down to Richmond on Sunday. We'll have 
 
4o8 Paul Kelver 
 
 a coach, and leave the theatre at half-past ten. It will 
 be an oportunity for you to study them. You'll be able to 
 have a talk with them and get to know just what they 
 can do. Atherton has ideas in his head; he'll explain 
 them to you. Then, next week, we'll draw up a contract 
 and set to work." 
 
 It was too good an opportunity to let slip, though I 
 knew that if successful I should find myself pinned down 
 firmer than ever to my role of jester. But it is remunera- 
 tive, the writing of comic opera. 
 
 A small crowd had gathered in the Strand to see us 
 start. 
 
 "Nothing wrong, is there?" enquired the leading lady, 
 in a tone of some anxiety, alighting a quarter of an hour 
 late from her cab. ''It isn't a fire, is it?" 
 
 "Merely assembled to see you," explained Mr. Hodg- 
 son, without raising his eyes from his letters. 
 
 "Oh, good gracious !" cried the leading lady, "do let us 
 get away quickly." 
 
 "Box seat, my dear," returned Mr. Hodgson. 
 
 The leading lady, accepting the profifered assistance of 
 myself and three other gentlemen, mounted the ladder 
 with charming hesitation. Some delay in getting off was 
 caused by our low comedian, who twice, making believe 
 to miss his footing, slid down again into the arms of the 
 stolid door-keeper. The crowd, composed for the most 
 part of small boys approving the endeavour to amuse 
 them, laughed and applauded. Our low comedian thus 
 encouraged, made a third attempt upon his hands and 
 knees, and, gaining the roof, sat down upon the tenor, 
 who smiled somewhat mechanically. 
 
 The first dozen or so 'busses we passed our low come- 
 dian greeted by rising to his feet and bowing profoundly, 
 afterwards falling back upon either the tenor or myself. 
 Except by the tenor and myself his performance appeared 
 to be much appreciated. Charing Cross passed, and no- 
 
Paul Finds His Way 409 
 
 body seeming to be interested in our progress, to the 
 relief of the tenor and myself, he settled down. 
 
 'Teople sometimes ask me," said the low comedian, 
 brushing the dust off his knees, "why I do this sort of 
 thing off the stage. It amuses me." 
 
 "I was coming up to London the other day from Bir- 
 mingham," he continued. "At Willesden, when the ticket 
 collector opened the door, I sprang out of the carriage 
 and ran off down the platform. Of course, he ran after 
 me, shouting to all the others to stop me. I dodged them 
 for about a minute. You wouldn't believe the excitement 
 there was. Quite fifty people left their seats to see what 
 it was all about. I explained to them when they caught 
 me that I had been travelling second with a first-class 
 ticket, which was the fact. People think I do it to attract 
 attention. I do it for my own pleasure." 
 
 "It must be a troublesome way of amusing oneself," I 
 suggested. 
 
 "Exactly what my wife says," he replied; "she can 
 never understand the desire that comes over us all, I sup- 
 pose, at times, to play the fool. As a rule, when she is 
 with me I don't do it." 
 
 "She's not here to-day?" I asked, glancing round. 
 
 "She suffers so from headaches," he answered, "she 
 hardly ever goes anywhere." 
 
 "I'm sorry." I spoke not out of mere politeness; I 
 really did feel sorry. 
 
 During the drive to Richmond this irrepressible desire 
 to amuse himself got the better of him more than once or 
 twice. Through Kensington he attracted a certain 
 amount of attention by balancing the horn upon his nose. 
 At Kew he stopped the coach to request of a young 
 ladies' boarding school change for sixpence. At the foot 
 of Richmond Hill he caused a crowd to assemble while 
 trying to persuade a deaf old gentleman in a Bath-chair 
 to allow his man to race us up the hill for a shilling. 
 
 ^ 
 
41 o Paul Kelver 
 
 At these antics and such like our party laughed up- 
 roariously, with the exception of Hodgson, who had his 
 correspondence to attend to, and an elegant young lady of 
 some social standing who had lately emerged from the 
 Divorce Court with a reputation worth to her in cash a 
 hundred pounds a week. 
 
 Arriving at the hotel quarter of an hour or so before 
 lunch time, we strolled into the garden. Our low come- 
 dian, observing an elderly gentleman of dignified appear- 
 ance sipping a glass of Vermouth at a small table, stood 
 for a moment rooted to the earth with astonishment, then, 
 making a bee-line for the stranger, seized and shook 
 him warmly by the hand. We exchanged admiring 
 glances with one another. 
 
 "Charlie is in good form to-day," we told one another, 
 and followed at his heels. 
 
 The elderly gentleman had risen ; he looked puzzled. 
 
 "And how's Aunt Martha?" asked him our low come- 
 dian. "Dear old Aunt Martha ! Well, I am glad ! You 
 do look bonny ! How is she ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid — " commenced the elderly gentleman. 
 
 Our low comedian started back. Other visitors had 
 gathered round. 
 
 "Don't tell me anything has happened to her! Not 
 dead ? Don't tell me that !" 
 
 He seized the bewildered gentleman by the shoulders 
 and presented to him a face distorted by terror. 
 
 "I really have not the faintest notion what you are 
 talking about," returned the gentleman, who seemed an- 
 noyed. "I don't know you." 
 
 "Not know me? Do you mean to tell me you've for- 
 gotten — ? Isn't your name Steggles?" 
 
 "No, it isn't," returned the stranger, somewhat 
 shortly. 
 
 "My mistake," replied our low comedian. He tossed 
 off at one gulp what remained of the stranger's Vermouth 
 and walked away rapidly. 
 
Paul Finds His Way 411 
 
 The elderly gentleman, not seeing the humour of the 
 joke, one of our party to soothe him explained to him that 
 it was Atherton, the Atherton — Charlie Atherton. 
 
 "Oh, is it,"growled the elderly gentleman. "Then will 
 you tell him from me that when I want his damned tom- 
 foolery I'll come to the theatre and pay for it." 
 
 "What a disagreeable man," we said, as, following our 
 low comedian, we made our way into the hotel. 
 
 During lunch he continued in excellent spirits; kissed 
 the bald back of the waiter's head, pretending to mistake 
 it for a face, called for hot mustard and water, made be- 
 lieve to steal the silver, and when the finger-bowls ar- 
 rived, took off his coat and requested the ladies to look 
 the other way. 
 
 After lunch he became suddenly serious, and slip- 
 ping his arm through mine, led me by unfrequented 
 paths. 
 
 "Now, about this new opera," he said; "we don't 
 want any of the old stale business. Give us something 
 new." 
 
 I suggested that to do so might be difficult. 
 
 "Not at all," he answered. "Now, my idea is this. I 
 am a young fellow, and I'm in love with a girl." 
 
 I promised to make a note of it. 
 
 "Her father, apopletic old idiot — make him comic: 
 'Damme, sir ! By gad !' all that sort of thing." 
 
 By persuading him that I understood what he meant, I 
 rose in his estimation. 
 
 "He won't have anything to say to me — thinks I'm an 
 ass. I'm a simple sort of fellow — on the outside. But 
 I'm not such a fool as I look." 
 
 "You don't think we are getting too much out of the 
 groove?" I enquired. 
 
 His opinion was that the more so the better. 
 
 "Very well. Then, in the second act I disguise my- 
 self. I'll come on as an organ-grinder, sing a song in 
 broken English, then as a policeman, or a young swell 
 
412 Paul Kelver 
 
 about town. Give me plenty of opportunity, that*s the 
 great thing — opportunity to be really funny, I mean. Wc 
 don't want any of the old stale tricks." 
 
 I promised him my support. 
 
 "Put a little pathos in it," he added, "give me a scene 
 where I can show them I've something else in me besides 
 merely humour. We don't want to make them howl, but 
 just to feel a little. Let's send them out of the theatre 
 saying: 'Well, Charlie's often made me laugh, but I'm 
 damned if I knew he could make me cry before!' See 
 what I mean?" 
 
 I told him I'thought I did. 
 
 The leading lady, meeting us on our return, requested, 
 with pretty tone of authority, everybody else to go away 
 and leave us. There were cries of "Naughty!" The 
 leading lady, laughing girlishly, took me by the hand and 
 ran away with me. 
 
 "I want to talk to you," said the leading lady, as soon 
 as we had reached a secluded seat overlooking the river, 
 "about my part in the new opera. Now, can't you give 
 me something original? Do." 
 
 Her pleading was so pretty, there was nothing for it 
 but to pledge compliance. 
 
 "I am so tired of being the simple village maiden," said 
 the leading lady ; "what I want is a part with some oppor- 
 tunity in it — a coquettish part. I can flirt," assured me 
 the leading lady, archly. "Try me." 
 
 I satisfied her of my perfect faith. 
 
 "You might," said the leading lady, "see your way to 
 making the plot depend upon me. It always seems to me 
 that the woman's part is never made enough of in comic 
 opera. I am sure a comic opera built round a woman 
 would be a really great success. Don't you agree with 
 me, Mr. Kelver," pouted the leading lady, laying her 
 pretty hand on mine. "We are much more interesting 
 than the men — now, aren't we?" 
 
 Personally, as I told her, I agreed with her. 
 
Paul Finds His Way 413 
 
 The tenor, sipping tea with me on the balcony, beck- 
 oned me aside. 
 
 "About this new opera," said the tenor; "doesn't it 
 seem to you the time has come to make more of the 
 story — that the public might prefer a little more human 
 interest and a little less clowning?" 
 
 I admitted that a good plot was essential. 
 
 "It seems to me," said the tenor, "that if you could 
 write an opera round an interesting love story, you would 
 score a success. Of course, let there be plenty of humour, 
 but reduce it to its proper place. As a support, it is ex- 
 cellent; when it is made the entire structure, it is apt to 
 be tiresome — at least, that is my view." 
 
 I replied with sincerity that there seemed to me much 
 truth in what he said. 
 
 "Of course, so far as I am personally concerned," went 
 on the tenor, "it is immaterial. I draw the same salary 
 whether Fm on the stage five minutes or an hour. But 
 when you have a man of my position in the cast, and 
 give him next to nothing to do — well, the public are 
 disappointed." 
 
 "Most naturally," I commented. 
 
 "The lover," whispered the tenor, noticing the careless 
 approach towards us of the low comedian, "that's the 
 character they are thinking about all the time — men and 
 women both. It's human nature. Make your lover in- 
 teresting — that's the secret." 
 
 Waiting for the horses to be put to, I became aware of 
 the fact that I was standing some distance from the 
 others in company with a tall, thin, somewhat oldish-look- 
 ing man. He spoke in low, hurried tones, fearful evi- 
 dently of being overheard and interrupted. 
 
 "You'll forgive me, Mr. Kelver," he said — "Trevor, 
 Marmaduke Trevor. I play the Duke of Bayswater in 
 the second act." 
 
 I was unable to recall him for the moment ; there were 
 quite a number of small parts in the second act. But 
 
414 P^^l Kelver 
 
 glancing into his sensitive face, I shrank from wounding 
 him. 
 
 "A capital performance," I lied. "It has always 
 amused me." 
 
 He flushed with pleasure. "I made a great success 
 some years ago," he said, "in America with a soda-water 
 syphon, and it occurred to me that if you could, Mr. Kel- 
 ver, in a natural sort of way, drop in a small part leading 
 up to a little business with a soda-water syphon, it might 
 help the piece." 
 
 I wrote him his soda-water scene, I am glad to remem- 
 ber, and insisted upon it, in spite of a good deal of oppo- 
 sition. Some of the critics found fault with the incident, 
 as lacking in originality. But Marmaduke Trevor was 
 quite right, it did help a little. 
 
 Our return journey was an exaggerated repetition of 
 our morning drive. Our low comedian produced hideous 
 noises from the horn, and entered into contests of run- 
 ning wit with 'bus drivers — a decided mistake from his 
 point of view, the score generally remaining with the 'bus 
 driver. At Hammersmith, seizing the opportunity of a 
 block in the traffic, he assumed the role of Cheap Jack, 
 and, standing up on the back seat, offered all our hats 
 for sale at temptingly low prices. 
 
 "Got any ideas out of them?" asked Hodgson, when 
 the time came for us to say good-night. 
 
 "I'm thinking, if you don't mind," I answered, "of 
 going down into the country and writing the piece quietly, 
 away from everybody." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," agreed Hodgson. "Too 
 many cooks — Be sure and have it ready for the au- 
 tumn." 
 
 I wrote it with some pleasure to myself amid the York- 
 shire Wolds, and was able to read it to the whole com- 
 pany assembled before the close of the season. My turn- 
 ing of the last page was followed by a dead silence. The 
 leading lady was the first to speak. She asked if the 
 
Paul Finds His Way 415 
 
 dock upon the mantelpiece could be relied upon; be- 
 cause, if so, by leaving at once, she could just catch her 
 train. Hodgson, consulting his watch, thought, if any- 
 thing, it was a little fast. The leading lady said she 
 hoped it was, and went. The only comforting words 
 were spoken by the tenor. He recalled to our mind a 
 successful comic opera produced some years before at the 
 Philharmonic. He distinctly remembered that up to five 
 minutes before the raising of the curtain everybody had 
 regarded it as rubbish. He also had a train to catch. 
 Marmaduke Trevor, with a covert shake of the hand, 
 urged me not to despair. The low comedian, the last to 
 go, told Hodgson he thought he might be able to do some- 
 thing with parts of it, if given a free hand. Hodgson 
 and I left alone, looked at each other. 
 
 "It's no good," said Hodgson, ''from a box-office point 
 of view. Very clever." 
 
 "How do you know it is no good from a box-office 
 point of view?" I ventured to enquire. 
 
 'T never made a mistake in my life," replied Hodgson. 
 
 "You have produced one or two failures," I reminded 
 him. 
 
 "And shall again," he laughed. "The right thing isn't 
 easy to get." 
 
 "Cheer up," he added kindly, "this is only your first 
 attempt. We must try and knock it into shape at re- 
 hearsal." 
 
 Their notion of "knocking it into shape" was knocking 
 it to pieces. 
 
 "Fll tell you what we'll do," would say the low come- 
 dian ; "we'll cut that scene out altogether." Joyously he 
 would draw his pencil through some four or five pages 
 of my manuscript. 
 
 "But it is essential to the story," I would argue. 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "But it is. It is the scene in which Roderick escapes 
 from prison and falls in love with the gipsy." 
 
41 6 Paul Kelver 
 
 "My dear boy, half-a-dozen words will do all that. I 
 meet Roderick at the ball. 'Hallo, what are you do- 
 ing here?' 'Oh, I have escaped from prison.' 'Good 
 business. And how's Miriam?' 'Well and happy — 
 she is going to be my wife!' What more do you 
 want?" 
 
 "I have been speaking to Mr. Hodgson," would ob- 
 serve the leading lady, "and he agrees with me, that if in- 
 stead of falling in love with Peter, I fell in love with 
 John " 
 
 "But John is in love with Arabella." 
 
 "Oh, we've cut out Arabella. I can sing all her 
 songs." 
 
 The tenor would lead me into a corner. "I want you 
 to write in a Httle scene for myself and Miss Duncan at 
 the beginning of the first act. I'll talk to her about it. 
 I think it will be rather pretty. I want her — ^the sec- 
 ond time I see her — to have come out of her room on 
 to a balcony, and to be standing there bathed in moon- 
 light." 
 
 "But the first act takes place in the early morning." 
 
 "I've thought of that. We must alter it to the even- 
 ing." 
 
 "But the opera opens with a hunting scene. People 
 don't go hunting by moonlight." 
 
 "It will be a novelty. That's what's wanted for comic 
 opera. The ordinary hunting scene! My dear boy, it 
 has been done to death." 
 
 I stood this sort of thing for a week. "They are people 
 of experience," I argued to myself; "they must know 
 more about it than I do." By the end of the week I had 
 arrived at the conclusion that anyhow they didn't. Added 
 to which I lost my temper. It is a thing I should advise^ 
 any lady or gentleman thinking of entering the ranks oi" 
 dramatic authorship to lose as soon as possible. I took 
 both manuscripts with me, and, entering Mr. Hodgson's 
 
Paul Finds His Way 417 
 
 private room, closed the door behind me. One parcel 
 was the opera as I had originally written it, a neat, in- 
 telligible manuscript, whatever its other merits. The 
 second, scored, interlined, altered, cut, interleaved, re- 
 written, reversed, turned inside out and topsy-turvy — one 
 long, hopeless confusion from beginning to end — was the 
 opera, as, everybody helping, we had "knocked it into 
 shape." 
 
 "That's your opera," I said, pushing across to him 
 the bulkier bundle. "If you can understand it, if you 
 can make head or tail of it, if you care to produce it, it 
 is yours, and you are welcome to it. This is mine!" I 
 laid it on the table beside the other. "It may be good, it 
 may be bad. If it is played at all it is played as it is 
 written. Regard the contract as cancelled, and make up 
 your mind." 
 
 He argued with force, and he argued with eloquence. 
 He appealed to my self-interest, he appealed to my better 
 nature. It occupied him forty minutes by the clock. 
 Then he called me an obstinate young fool, flung the 
 opera as "knocked into shape" into the waste-paper 
 basket — which was the only proper place for it, and, 
 striding into the middle of the company, gave curt direc- 
 tions that the damned opera was to be played as it was 
 written, and be damned to it! 
 
 The company shrugged its shoulders, and for the next 
 month kept them shrugged. For awhile Hodgson re- 
 mained away from the rehearsals, then returning, de- 
 veloped by degrees a melancholy interest in the some- 
 what gloomy proceedings. 
 
 So far I had won, but my difficulty was to maintain 
 the position. The low comedian, reciting his lines with 
 meaningless monotony, would pause occasionally to ask 
 of me politely, whether this or that passage was intended 
 to be serious or funny. 
 
 "You think," the leading lady would enquire, more in 
 
41 8 Paul Kelver 
 
 sorrow than in anger, "that any girl would behave in this 
 way — any real girl, I mean?" 
 
 *' Perhaps the audience will understand it," would con- 
 sole himself hopefully the tenor. ''Myself, I confess I 
 don't." 
 
 With a sinking heart concealed beneath an aggressive- 
 ly disagreeable manner, I remained firm in my "pig- 
 headed conceit," as it was regarded, Hodgson generously 
 supporting me against his own judgment. 
 
 "It's bound to be a failure," he told me. "I am spend- 
 ing some twelve to fifteen hundred pounds to teach you 
 a lesson. When you have learnt it we'll square accounts 
 by your writing me an opera that will pay." 
 
 "And if it does succeed ?" I suggested. 
 
 "My dear boy," replied Hodgson, "I never make mis- 
 takes." 
 
 From all which a dramatic author of more experience 
 would have gathered cheerfulness and hope, knowing 
 that the time to be depressed is when the manager and 
 company unanimously and unhesitatingly predict a six 
 months' run. But new to the business, I regarded my 
 literary career as already at an end. Belief in oneself is 
 merely the match with which one lights oneself. The 
 oil is supplied by the belief in one of others; if that be 
 not forthcoming, one goes out. Later on I might try 
 to light myself again, but for the present I felt myself 
 dark and dismal. My desire was to get away from my 
 own smoke and smell. The final dress rehearsal over, I 
 took my leave of all concerned. The next morning I 
 would pack a knapsack and start upon a walking tour 
 through Holland. The English papers would not reach 
 me. No human being should know my address. In a 
 month or so I would return, the piece would have disap- 
 peared — would be forgotten. With courage, I might be 
 able to forget it myself. 
 
 "I shall run it for three weeks," said Hodgson, "then 
 we'll withdraw it quietly, 'owing to previous arrange- 
 
Paul Finds His Way 419 
 
 ments'; or Duncan can suddenly fall ill — she's done it 
 often enough to suit herself; she can do it this once to 
 suit me. Don't be upset. There's nothing to be 
 ashamed of in the piece; indeed, there is a good deal 
 that will be praised. The idea is distinctly original. As 
 a matter of fact, that's the fault with it," added Hodgson, 
 "it's too original." 
 
 "You said you wanted it original," I reminded him. 
 
 He laughed. "Yes, but original for the stage, I meant 
 — the old dolls in new frocks." 
 
 I thanked him for all his kindness, and went home and 
 packed my knapsack. 
 
 For two months I wandered, avoiding beaten tracks, 
 my only comrades a few books, belonging to no age, no 
 country. My worries fell from me, the personal affairs 
 of Paul Kelver ceasing to appear the be all and the end 
 all of the universe. But for a chance meeting with Well- 
 bourne, Deleglise's amateur caretaker of Gower Street 
 fame, I should have delayed yet longer my return. It 
 was in one of the dead cities of the Zuyder Zee. I was 
 sitting under the lindens on the grass-grown quay, await- 
 ing a slow, crawling boat that, four miles off, I watched a 
 moving speck across the level pastures. I heard his foot- 
 steps in the empty market-place behind me, and turned 
 my head. I did not rise, felt even no astonishment ; any- 
 thing might come to pass in that still land of dreams. He 
 seated himself beside me with a nod, and for awhile we 
 smoked in silence. 
 
 "All well with you?" I asked. 
 
 "I am afraid not," he answered ; "the poor fellow is in 
 great trouble." 
 
 "I'm not Wellbourne himself," he went on, in answer to 
 my look; "I am only his spirit. Have you ever tested 
 that belief the Hindoos hold : that a man may leave his 
 body, wander at will for a certain period, remembering 
 only to return ere the thread connecting him with flesh 
 and blood be stretched to breaking point? It is quite 
 
420 Paul Kelver 
 
 correct. I often lock the door of my lodging, leave my- 
 self behind, wander a free Spirit." 
 
 He pulled from his pocket a handful of loose coins and 
 looked at them. *'The thread that connects us, I am 
 sorrow to say, is wearing somewhat thin," he sighed; 
 "I shall have to be getting back to him before long — 
 concern myself again with his troubles, follies. It is 
 somewhat vexing. Life is really beautiful, when one is 
 dead." 
 
 "What was the trouble?" I enquired. 
 
 "Haven't you heard?" he replied. "Tom died five 
 weeks ago, quite suddenly, of syncope. We had none of 
 us any idea." 
 
 So Norah was alone in the world. I rose to my feet. 
 The slowly moving speck had grown into a thin, dark 
 streak ; minute by minute it took shape and form. 
 
 "By the way, I have to congratulate you," said Well- 
 bourne. "Your opera looked like being a big thing when 
 I left London. You didn't sell outright, I hope ?" 
 
 "No," I answered. "Hodgson never expressed any 
 desire to buy." 
 
 "Lucky for you," said Wellboume. 
 
 I reached London the next evening. Passing the 
 theatre on my way to Queen's Square, it occurred to me 
 to stop my cab for a few minutes and look in. 
 
 I met the low comedian on his way to his dressing- 
 room. He shook me warmly by the hand. 
 
 "Well," he said, "we're pulling them in. I was 
 right, you see, 'Give me plenty of opportunity.' That's 
 what I told you, didn't I? Come and see the piece. I 
 think you will agree with me that I have done you jus- 
 tice." 
 
 I thanked him. 
 
 *'Not at all," he returned; "it's a pleasure to work, 
 when you've got something good to work on." 
 
 I paid my resi>ects to the leading lady. 
 
 "I am so grateful to you," said the leading lady. 
 
Paul Finds His Way 421 
 
 "It is so delightful to play a real live woman, for a 
 change." 
 
 The tenor was quite fatherly. 
 
 "It is what I have been telling Hodgson for years," he 
 said, "give them a simple human story." 
 
 Crossing the stage, I ran against Marmaduke Trevor. 
 
 "You will stay for my scene," he urged. 
 
 "Another night," I answered. "I have only just re- 
 turned." 
 
 He sank his voice to a whisper. "I want to talk to you 
 on business, when you have the time. I am thinking of 
 taking a theatre myself — not just now, but later on. Of 
 course, I don't want it to get about." 
 
 I assured him of my secrecy. 
 
 "If it comes off, I want you to write for me. You 
 understand the public. We will talk it over." 
 
 He passed onward with stealthy tr^ad. 
 
 I found Hodgson in the front of the house. 
 
 "Two stalls not sold and six seats in the upper circle," 
 he informed me ; "not bad for a Thursday night." 
 
 I expressed my gratification. 
 
 "I knew you could do it," said Hodgson, "I felt sure of 
 it merely from seeing that comedietta of yours at the 
 Queen's. I never make a mistake." 
 
 Correction under the circumstances would have been 
 unkind. Promising to see him again in the morning, I 
 left him with his customary good conceit of himself un- 
 impaired, and went on to the Square. I rang twice, but 
 there was no response. I was about to sound a third 
 and final summons, when Norah joined me on the step. 
 She had been out shopping and was laden with parcels. 
 
 "We must wait to shake hands," she laughed, as she 
 opened the door. "I hope you have not been kept long. 
 Poor Annette grows deafer every day." 
 
 "Have you nobody in the house with you but Ann- 
 ette?" I asked. 
 
 "No one. .You know it was a whim of his. I used to 
 
422 Paul Kelver 
 
 get quite cross with him at times. But I should not like 
 to go against his wishes — now." 
 
 ''Was there any reason for it ?" I asked. 
 
 "No," she answered; "if there had been I could have 
 argued him out of it." She paused at the door of the 
 studio. "I'll just get rid of these," she said, "and then I 
 will be with you." 
 
 A wood fire was burning on the open hearth, flashing 
 alternate beams of light and shadow down the long bare 
 room. The high oak stool stood in its usual place beside 
 the engraving desk, upon which lay old Deleglise's last 
 unfinished plate, emitting a dull red glow. I paced the 
 creaking boards with halting steps, as through some 
 ghostly gallery hung with dim portraits of the dead and 
 living. In a little while Norah entered and came to me 
 with outstretched hand. 
 
 "We will not light the lamp," she said, "the firelight is 
 so pleasant." 
 
 "But I want to see you," I replied. 
 
 She had seated herself upon the broad stone kerb. 
 With her hand she stirred the logs ; they shot into a clear 
 white flame. Thus, the light upon her face, she raised 
 it gravely towards mine. It spoke to me with fuller 
 voice. The clear grey eyes were frank and steadfast as 
 ever, but shadow had passed into them, deepening them, 
 illuminating them. 
 
 For a space we talked of our two selves, our trivial 
 plans and doings. 
 
 "Tom left something to you," said Norah, rising, "not 
 in his will, that was only a few lines. He told me to 
 give it to you, with his love." 
 
 She brought it to me. It was the picture he had always 
 treasured, his first success; a child looking on death; 
 "The Riddle" he had named it. 
 
 We spoke of him, of his work, which since had come to 
 be appraised at truer value, for it was out of fashion 
 while he lived. 
 
Paul Finds His Way 423 
 
 "Was he a disappointed man, do you think?" I asked. 
 
 "No," answered Norah. "I am sure not. He was too 
 fond of his work." 
 
 "But he dreamt of becoming a second Millet. He 
 confessed it to me once. And he died an engraver." 
 
 "But they were good engravings," smiled Norah. 
 
 "I remember a favourite saying of his," continued 
 Norah, after a pause; "I do not know whether it was 
 original or not. The stars guide us. They are not our 
 goal.' " 
 
 "Ah, yes, we aim at the moon and — hit the currant 
 bush." 
 
 "It is necessary always to allow for deflection," laughed 
 Norah. "Apparently it takes a would-be poet to write a 
 successful comic opera." 
 
 "Ah, you do not understand!" I cried. "It was not 
 mere ambition; cap and bells or laurel wreath! that is 
 small matter. I wanted to help. The world's cry of 
 pain, I used to hear it as a boy. I hear it yet. I meant 
 to help. They that are heavy laden. I hear their cry. 
 They cry from dawn to dawn and none heed them: we 
 pass upon the other side. Man and woman, child and 
 beast. I hear their dumb cry in the night. The child's 
 sob in the silence, the man's fierce curse of wrong. The 
 dog beneath the vivisectbr's knife, the overdriven brute, 
 the creature tortured for an hour that a gourmet may 
 enjoy an instant's pleasure ; they cried to me. The wrong 
 and the sorrow and the pain, the long, low, endless moan 
 God's ears are weary of; I hear it day and night. I 
 thought to help." 
 
 I had risen. She took my face between her quiet, cool 
 hands. 
 
 "What do we know? We see but a corner of the 
 scheme. This fortress of laughter that a few of you have 
 been set apart to guard — this rally ing-point for all the 
 forces of joy and gladness! how do you know it may 
 not be the key to the whole battle ! It is far removed 
 
424 
 
 Paul Kelver 
 
 from the grand charges and you think yourself forgotten. 
 Trust your leader, be true to your post." 
 
 I looked into her sweet grey eyes. 
 
 "You always help me," I said. 
 
 "Do I ?" she answered. "I am so glad." 
 
 She put her firm white hand in mine. 
 
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