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 OLIVER'S KIND WOMEN 
 
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 Suddenly a hand was placed upon his arm, and a voice said 
 " Oliver I . . . Oliver Luniley I " — p. 399.
 
 OLIVER'S Kind Women 
 
 »>■ 
 
 Philip Gibbs 
 
 
 Boston 
 DANA ESTES & CO. 
 
 ;aN-TA 3ARBARA. QAJwIP".-
 
 All Rights Reservec 
 
 ^76% 
 
 i \
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. 
 II. 
 
 Rash Youth ». 
 
 • 
 Love on the Common 
 
 I 
 
 12 
 
 III. 
 
 A Man of Letters 
 
 ... 17 
 
 IV. 
 
 Father and Son 
 
 ... 23 
 
 V. 
 
 The Touch of Chivalry 
 
 ... 29 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Lady Bountiful 
 
 ... 37 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Price of a Meal 
 
 ... 44 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Men of the Empire 
 
 ... 48 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Bohemians 
 
 ... 52 
 
 X. 
 
 A Letter to a Lady 
 
 ... 67 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Old Home 
 
 ... 71 
 
 XII. 
 
 Maids and Men 
 
 ... 76 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Generous Heart 
 
 ... 84 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Humiliation of a Young Gentleman 
 
 ... q2
 
 VI 
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 
 XV. 
 
 A Lady of Quality 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Mental Arithmetic 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The House in Pont Street 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 In Disguise 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A Pageant of History 
 
 XX. 
 
 An Accusation 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The Charity of Women 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Gay Adventures 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Deliberate Insults 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The End of an Idyll 
 
 XXV. 
 
 In the Enemy's Camp 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Sharp Arrows 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The Fugitive 
 
 XXVIIl. 
 
 The Threshold of Fate 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Virginia Garland 
 
 XXX. 
 
 A Cockney in the Woods 
 
 XXXL 
 
 Rural Society 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The Garden of Peace 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The Beggar-Man 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 The Wonderful News
 
 
 Contents 
 
 vii 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 
 PAGK 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 A Warning 
 
 ... 296 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Husband and Wife 
 
 ... 302 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 A Country Gentleman 
 
 ... 306 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 The Unveiled Soul 
 
 ... 311 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Poor Relations 
 
 ... 321 
 
 XL. 
 
 The Broken Image 
 
 ... 327 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Haunting Fear 
 
 ... 338 
 
 XLII. 
 
 The Father of the Girl 
 
 ... 345 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 The Blackmailers 
 
 ... 348 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The Outcast 
 
 ... 355 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Philosophy of the Old School 
 
 ... 369 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 The Bitter Cup 
 
 ... 376 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Nearing the End 
 
 ... 387 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 The Rescue 
 
 ... 397 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Two Women 
 
 ... 409 
 
 L. 
 
 The Return ^ 
 
 ... 419
 
 OLIVER'S KIND WOMEN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Rash Touth 
 
 MR. OLIVER LUMLEY was a young man 
 of promise. He had good looks (in the 
 mid-Victorian era he would have been 
 called " Byronic "), good health, brains, a tempera- 
 ment, an ambition, and a spirit of adventure. 
 
 If I were still a young man I should pray the 
 good fairies to give me those qualities. With these 
 natural gifts the world seems an easy thing to con- 
 quer. With such an outfit a young man of twenty- 
 three (Oliver Lumley was just on the verge of 
 that) should travel far and fare well. Good looks 
 and a gay heart are master-keys to open the gates 
 of life. For a handsome young man with a fine 
 clear-cut face and lips that soften quickly to a 
 smile may be shabbily dressed, ma}^ have no money 
 to jingle in his pockets, may have no settled 
 position in the world, but women will turn their 
 heads his way and speak a word for him in good 
 places, and grant a request which from a plain 
 fellow, or from a man not ugly enough to be in- 
 teresting, would be flouted. Therefore the first gate- 
 I
 
 2 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 way on the path to progress is unlocked to him, for 
 women guard many doors of the world's treasure- 
 houses, and as the old saying is, kissing goes by 
 favour. So young Mr. Oliver Lumley had unusual 
 chances, for that he was a handsome lad few men 
 denied, and no woman. 
 
 I have said that he had ambition, temperament, 
 and a spirit of adventure. By ambition I do not 
 mean that he aspired to be a millionaire or a Prime 
 Minister. In spite of youth he had set himself 
 limits, and they were well within the bounds of 
 moderation. In the Wastrel Club (of Greek Street, 
 Soho), where once a week he sat with a few of his 
 kindred spirits, he said more than once, through 
 a haze of tobacco smoke, " My friends, I intend 
 to be satisfied with ;^i,500 a year. I should loathe 
 to be really rich. It smothers one's idealism. One 
 becomes a slave in gilded chains." 
 
 At this time he was earning, irregularly, and 
 with luck, about sixty shillings a week. His friends 
 praised his moderation. Happening one night to 
 be two gentlemen who had just been called to the 
 Bar, they had their eyes on a future in which it 
 would be easy enough to pick up a good many 
 thousands a year, with a judgeship or an Attorney- 
 generalship as a quiet and remunerative rest-cure 
 after they had borne the heat and burden of the 
 day. 
 
 " Roly," said one of these newly called barristers, 
 trying to find the way to his o\\4n mouth with the
 
 Rash Youth 3 
 
 stem of a churchwarden pipe (churchwardens were 
 traditional in the Wastrels), and nearly putting 
 out his left eye, with which he regarded his friend 
 solemnly, while his other was half closed, " Roly, 
 my boy, I think you are making a rotten, silly 
 mistake with yourself, if I may say so as man to 
 man. Forgive me, dear old chap, but why not 
 abandon the flighty ways of that fickle jade — er — 
 the Muse of Literature — what the deuce did she 
 call herself? — and go in for the Law? The Law, 
 old friend ! Mighty fat in good things ! Plenty 
 of pickings, especially for a man of presence ! 
 You've got presence, Roly. Good-looking young 
 buck, don't you know ! All right with a wig on 
 your noddle." 
 
 Oliver Lumley laughed, and traced his initials 
 with the stem of a broken churchwarden in a 
 puddle of whisky on the deal table (deal tables 
 were also part of the tradition at the Wastrels). 
 
 "The Law? No, thanks, old fellow. I'm a Man 
 of Letters. I've got a temperament." 
 
 It was perfectly true that he had a temperament. 
 It is the story of that temperament which this 
 book will endeavour to set down. I have not a 
 very clear idea as to the meaning of the word — 
 it is sometimes used by those who dislike the 
 drudgery of life ; but if it means a character not 
 to be fastened down to squalid duties and hum- 
 drum tasks, Oliver Lumley had got it. 
 
 How and why are puzzles to me. By what
 
 4 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 strange throw-back of heredity, by what psycho- 
 logical or physiological conditions a child with a 
 temperament had been born to a City clerk mated 
 to a woman who was the sixth daughter of a 
 Nonconformist minister in Peckham, is one of 
 those problems which cry out for the scientist. 
 A mere literary man is unable to form even a 
 guess. But the fact was there in Oliver Lumley, 
 second son of Richard Lumley, of Cutter & 
 Bodger, Mincing Lane, E.C., and of 33, Rosemary 
 Avenue, Denmark Hill, S.E. 
 
 Horace, the eldest son, had no temperament 
 whatever. At the Camberwell Grammar School 
 he was the model boy, on conventional lines ; at 
 the age of eighteen he had been appointed the 
 juniorest junior in the Comet Assurance Company; 
 at the age of twenty-six he was getting the respect- 
 able salary of £go per annum, and was a good, 
 quiet, steady fellow, fond of reading during the 
 evenings at home, devoted, in his unemotional, 
 reserved waj^, to his mother and father, and with 
 a soft corner in his heart for his sister, Galatea, 
 who was a typist in a City office. Horace had 
 always admired Oliver, for the very qualities which 
 he himself lacked, and especially for his spirit of 
 adventure ; but though they had been bedfellows 
 for almost twenty years, he did not understand the 
 brother whom he loved. 
 
 For Oliver had baffled all his people at home. 
 Richard Lumley, the father, had year after year
 
 Rash Youth 5 
 
 studied the annual reports brought home by his 
 boys from school, and always an anxious look 
 had crept into his grey eyes. Horace was nearly 
 always top of his class, Oliver nearly always at 
 the bottom. " Very bad at arithmetic " ; " Ex- 
 tremely negligent of his home-lessons " ; " Utterly 
 unmethodical"; "High-spirited, but headstrong," 
 were phrases familiar to an anxious father. 
 
 " My dear," said Richard Lumley to his wife, 
 year after year, when these reports were brought 
 home, " what shall we do with Oliver ? Horace 
 never gives me a moment's anxiety. He will 
 be a comfort to us in our old age. But Oliver — 
 he is very wild, very unsteady. I fear the poor 
 boy will find it hard to settle down into the collar 
 of life." 
 
 " I wish there were no collar," said Mrs. Lumley, 
 during one of these quiet talks between husband 
 and wife. She put down the stocking she was 
 knitting, and stared down at the red tablecloth, 
 on which many blots of ink had been spilt. " Why 
 should my dear, high-spirited boy be put into the 
 collar ? Why should he have the spirit crushed 
 out of him by the awful drudgery of office 
 work ? " 
 
 She spoke quietly, but there was a queer vibra- 
 tion in her voice. 
 
 Richard Lumley lifted his eyes from his book. 
 He was reading " The Mill on the Floss," for the 
 sixth time.
 
 6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Duty, darling," he said. " England expects — 
 you know the rest." 
 
 " Duty! " said Mrs. Lumley. Her cheeks flushed, 
 and the colour gave to her worn face a trace of 
 that charm which had suggested her title of " The 
 Rose of the Rye," to a descriptive reporter at the 
 Peckham bazaar in aid of her father's chapel, 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 " I hate that word. It is so cruel. It has made 
 slaves of you and me. It is always duty, duty, 
 from morning till night. And then the children 
 grow up, and they too will have to do their duty. 
 Gradually they will lose all their freshness — Horace 
 is already so pale that he frightens me ; they will 
 come home tired after a long day in a stuffy office, 
 and they will become like you, Dick, not a man, 
 but — a City clerk. Oh, that City ! I hope to God 
 Oliver will escape it ! It is deadening ! " 
 
 Richard Lumley had laid down his book, seeing 
 that the bookmarker was in its place. He was 
 staring at his wife, with a startled look on his 
 face. At her last words a wave of colour mounted 
 from his thin neck, with its rather prominent 
 Adam's apple, to the forehead, made high by the 
 hair having worn away in front. His thin lips 
 tightened, the nostrils quivered. Into the grey 
 eyes, which ordinarily gazed out upon the world 
 with mild tranquillity, there crept a glint of anger. 
 
 " Alice, your words have hurt. Am I not a man ? 
 Have I been deadened?"
 
 Rash Youth 7 
 
 His wife put a hand across the table and stroked 
 one of his. 
 
 " I did not mean that. But I mean that Oliver 
 is too full of life and restlessness to be tamed into 
 a City clerk." 
 
 Unintentionally she had made her words more 
 stinging by that " tamed," and her husband winced 
 as though she had pricked him with one of her 
 needles. He opened his book and pretended to go 
 on with his reading. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I have been ' tamed.' But it 
 has been in the service of my wife and children. 
 . . . And the reward ? Your boy Oliver has all 
 your heart, and I have none of it." 
 
 That was a reproach he had made several times, 
 and in later years Mrs. Lumley became familiar 
 with it. A husband must always have one stand- 
 ing grievance for use in defence and attack. There 
 was truth in it too, which made it more effective ; 
 for though Mrs. Lumley was patient with a rather 
 querulous husband, and devoted to Horace and 
 Galatea, it was for Oliver that she put by little 
 savings stinted from the housekeeping money ; it 
 was Oliver who with a kiss and a hug could be- 
 witch her into giving consent after any denial ; it 
 was Oliver, rising year by year into a tall lad with 
 wavy black hair and the fine profile of a Greek 
 statue, who was nearly always in her thoughts, 
 always in her prayers, and often in her dreams. 
 She had told the only lies of her life to save him
 
 8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 from scrapes in and out of school and from his 
 father's eloquence of reproach. Once she had sold 
 a few of her little trinkets (without Richard's know- 
 ledge and consent) to pay some debts incurred by 
 Oliver at a confectioner's shop in Denmark Hill. 
 The young rogue at sixteen years of age had 
 bewitched the girl across the counter, who had let 
 him go tick until the old lady who kept the shop 
 demanded instant settlement of the account. Mrs. 
 Lumley had wept over that episode in Oliver's 
 career, for she could not square it with her own 
 principles of morality. 
 
 " Oliver, my dearest boy, debt is the devil's trap. 
 Your father and I have never owed a penny in the 
 world. Promise me you will never get into debt 
 again." 
 
 He promised, on his solemn word of honour, 
 and then gave an entertaining account of old 
 Mrs. Tufton when she threatened "to tell his poor 
 ma of all his carryings on." 
 
 Mrs. Lumley laughed in spite of her sorrow at 
 his sinfulness — "you know it was really wicked of 
 you, Oliver," she said — and, in return for his pledge 
 of honour never, never to get into debt again, she 
 readily gave a promise when the boy said, " Look 
 here, mother mine, don't you let on to the 
 governor." For the truth was that the one man 
 in the world of whom Oliver Lumley had a little 
 fear was his father, whose principles on Duty and 
 Honour were as fixed as the Pole star, whose
 
 Rash Youth 9 
 
 mild eyes could look unutterable reproach, and 
 who had constant suspicion of his second son's 
 innate wildness and wantonness. 
 
 That suspicion was confirmed when at twenty 
 years of age Oliver, who had spent two miserable, 
 restless, and irritable years in a solicitor's office, 
 came home one night with the news that he had 
 got "the sack." 
 
 " And a jolly good job too, for I would rather 
 starve to death than put up with such hideous 
 slavery." 
 
 That was how he took his dismissal ; and, as 
 though a great burden had been lifted from his 
 shoulders, he was in a prankish mood that night — 
 gibed at Horace as a solemn old dog who was 
 destined to live and die a bachelor, shocked his 
 father, mother, and sister by discoursing rather 
 wildly upon liberty and love, and at an early hour 
 went whistling to his room, where he read in bed 
 till midnight. Then his mother, who had been 
 lying still in her own bed listening for his footsteps 
 to cross the floor on his way to the gas-bracket, 
 came out of her room and tapped at his door. 
 
 " Fut out your light, my dear boy. It is time 
 you went to sleep. And it is such a waste of 
 gas!" 
 
 He called her : " Mother mine ! " 
 
 She opened the door in her blue dressing-gown, 
 and stood by his bedside looking down at him as 
 he sat up with his head propped against a pillow
 
 lo Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 and a book on his knees, and a pipe on a little 
 table by his side. 
 
 "It is so dangerous to smoke in bed ! You know 
 how father dislikes it." 
 
 " The governor dislikes such a lot of things I 
 love." 
 
 He held his arms out to his mother, and she 
 bent down and kissed him on the forehead. She 
 marvelled at the splendour of his beauty as he lay 
 there with the collar of his night-shirt open at the 
 throat and with his wavy black hair against the 
 white pillow. 
 
 " I'm as chirpy as a cricket to-night. No more 
 City slush for me, mother ! " 
 
 " What are you going to do, Oliver ? Your 
 father cannot afford to keep you. We are miser- 
 ably poor. Your earnings were a help. . . ." 
 
 " That's all right. I'm going to earn pots of 
 money. You'll be driving in your own motor 
 before you know where you are." 
 
 She half believed him, and was half afraid. 
 
 " Nothing rash, Oliver, I hope ? " 
 
 " Rash ? " he chuckled. " Perhaps. Anyhow, 
 I'm going to have a shot at literature." 
 
 She did not understand him. Literature was a 
 vague, meaningless word to her as a method of 
 making money. 
 
 " Tell me about it," she said, and he laughed and 
 told her to put out the light. 
 
 " Go away and sleep, little mother, while I
 
 Rash Youth ii 
 
 think out my plans. I'm going to make the 
 family fortune. Isn't that good enough for your 
 dreams ? " 
 
 He called her back as she went over to the gas- 
 bracket. 
 
 " Mother, do you know how beautiful you 
 are ? " 
 
 " Oliver, what nonsense ! " 
 
 She blushed like a girl who has been flattered 
 by her sweetheart. 
 
 " Honour bright ! " 
 
 She put out the light, and he heard her blow 
 a kiss to him in the darkness and creep out of the 
 room. 
 
 " I'd like to make a success, for her sake," said 
 Oliver Lumley aloud in the darkness. Then he 
 snuggled down in bed and slept immediately.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Love on the Common 
 
 Oliver's success did not come quickly. He spent 
 a year at home, borrowing his brother's trousers 
 when his own became too frayed at the edges and 
 too baggy at the knees, getting sixpence a day 
 from his mother to buy tobacco, with an occasional 
 half-crown from Horace for an evening at the 
 theatre, and now and again receiving a sovereign 
 from his father, which, in Oliver's own phrase, came 
 in " devilish handy." 
 
 His father became gloomy and despondent at 
 the sight of his son at home. There were times 
 when they quarrelled with hot words because 
 Oliver refused obstinately to answer advertisements 
 for junior clerkships, which his father cut out of 
 the morning papers and gave him in the evening. 
 Horace had pessimistic moods, when he told Oliver 
 with brotherly candour that he was a lazy young 
 devil and would inevitably go to the dogs. Galatea 
 jibed at him continually as a ne'er-do-weel, and 
 even his mother gazed at him with anxious eyes 
 and asked him once a month whether he was right 
 to go on like this. 
 
 " Quite right," said Oliver cheerfully. " Don't
 
 Love on the Common 13 
 
 you worry, and all will be well. Am / worry- 
 ing?" 
 
 He was not. He. kept up his spirits amazingly 
 well, though occasionally he had moments of 
 passion, when he reproached his family for their 
 lack of faith in such wild and whirling words that 
 his mother went white to the lips and Galatea 
 crimsoned to the tips of her ears. 
 
 All this time Oliver was in training for the sub- 
 lime career of a Man of Letters. His studies were 
 made chiefly in the Public Library, where he read 
 through an immense number of short stories in the 
 magazines, and observed human nature as exhibited 
 by the young ladies sitting at the tables. Some 
 of them were distinctly pretty, and some of them, 
 by a remarkable coincidence, always met his eyes 
 when he glanced their way. This in more than 
 one case led to acquaintanceship outside the 
 Library and to some charming adventures in 
 gallantry which were useful to Oliver Lumley as 
 a future novelist. 
 
 There was one girl, a Mignonette of France, 
 whom he met by appointment on Clapham Com- 
 mon when she had a half-holiday from the High 
 School (where she taught French to shopkeepers' 
 daughters in return for her " keep ") twice a 
 week. 
 
 He kissed her one day under the shelter of an 
 oak-tree not far from the Round Pond. After 
 that they corresponded daily — his letters being
 
 14 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 addressed to a sweetstuff shop in the Old Town. 
 She wrote continually and poured out her little 
 palpitating heart to him, and he slept with her 
 letters under his pillow. To her he wrote many 
 brilliant essays on the great problems of life and 
 the human heart — making a fair copy of them for 
 future use, as some of his phrases were too good 
 to be lost. 
 
 The idyll with Gabrielle le Brun ended as it 
 had begun, under the oak-tree by the Round 
 Pond. 
 
 " Oliver, cher ami, I am come to say good-bye. 
 It is not right that I should meet you any longer 
 like this. In a week I marry myself to Mr. Tipping 
 the music- master, of whom I tell you often. We 
 set up house together quite soon, when he gets — 
 what you call it ? — a ' rise up.' " 
 
 Oliver Lumley went rather pale, and then rather 
 red. 
 
 "What! Have you been fooling me all this 
 time ? " 
 
 He was angry. His pride was hurt. He had 
 given the best of his brain and heart to this little 
 French minx. He had also borrowed a good 
 many shillings from Horace to buy her flowers 
 and trinkets. 
 
 " You are broken-'earted ! My poor boy ! " 
 
 She looked at him with her head slightly on 
 one side, and pressing her white muff to her 
 bosom.
 
 Love on the Common 1 5 
 
 He laughed furiously, 
 
 " No, I shall not break my heart. I shall only 
 think that women are as selfish and callous as 
 she-devils." 
 
 There was a scene under the oak-tree, watched 
 from a distance by a butcher-boy with a basket 
 on his head. 
 
 Gabrielle shed a few tears, and Oliver was con- 
 strained to kiss them away. But it was her turn 
 to get angry when he refused to send back her 
 letters. She had brought all of his in her muff", 
 and he seized them from her and tore them up, 
 scattering their pieces to the wind. The butcher- 
 boy, whirling his basket, had a paper-chase. 
 
 " If you is a gentleman of honour I demand my 
 letters." 
 
 " I shall keep them as a proof of your infidelity." 
 
 " Quelle Idchete !" 
 
 They walked back together, a yard apart, to the 
 High School. 
 
 " Good morning ! " said Oliver. He lifted his 
 hat and strode away, with a gloomy face, 
 
 A few weeks later he saw her in the High 
 Street. She was leaning on the arm of a sandy- 
 haired little man, who, no doubt, was Mr. Tipping. 
 They were looking at a suite of bedroom furniture 
 to be obtained on the hire system. Oliver gave 
 an ironical laugh, and Gabrielle le Brun started 
 and turned her head. Their eyes met. The girl 
 cut him dead, as we say. 
 
 *-
 
 1 6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 It was the last time he saw her. But he used 
 some of her letters, with the details of her girlhood 
 in Paris, for a short story, which was accepted by 
 a monthly magazine. They paid him five pounds 
 for it, and he reckoned that Gabrielle had paid him 
 back, with interest, for the presents he had given 
 to her and for his intellectual and moral damage. 
 
 But he forgot to pay back Horace, who had 
 advanced the money for this love affair. He 
 bought himself his first dress suit. It had velvet 
 buttons and a broad silk stripe down each leg. 
 He looked like a young duke in it.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A Man of Letters 
 
 It was not the first story presented to the world 
 under the signature of Oliver Lumley. Towards 
 the end of a year of rather disappointing experi- 
 ments in the art of fiction, 01i\'er had got into his 
 stride. By diligent reading of the magazines he 
 learnt the tricks of the trade. He discovered that 
 too much striving for originality is a mistake. 
 Familiar situations worked up with a new touch, 
 conventional characters under different names, 
 bright, scrappy dialogues, a little tenderness of 
 sentiment, a sparkle of humour, are the ingredients 
 of the most marketable fiction, and when you have 
 learnt the knack of it, it is quite easy. Oliver 
 Lumley borrowed his plots according to the 
 admirable French philosophy " Je prends mon bien 
 ou je le trouve," and, having adopted this method 
 in the place of his earlier and more agonising 
 efforts to spin a golden web of thought out of his 
 own knowledge and emotions, he achieved a success 
 which startled his family and satisfied his own self- 
 esteem. 
 
 He did not make a fortune, you understand, but 
 six short stories were accepted out of fifteen in five 
 2 17
 
 1 8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 months, and brought him in the sum of ;{^24 lOi". 
 Oliver Lumley was satisfied with this as a good 
 beginning to a literary career. It enabled him to 
 buy many little luxuries which his heart desired, 
 including three new suits, a pair of excellent patent- 
 leather boots, a number of fancy ties and socks, a 
 pair of riding-breeches and gaiters (which would 
 go very well with a horse when he could afford 
 one, and were impressive to the inhabitants of 
 Denmark Hill even when he walked in them), and 
 a silk dressing-gown, in which he would sit of an 
 evening when thinking out new subjects for his 
 pen and the various steps of his high-mounting 
 career. It is true that he did not as yet see his 
 way to contribute anything to the household 
 accounts, nor did he pay back his sniall debts to 
 Horace. But he took his mother and Galatea to 
 the theatre one night, he bought a new edition 
 of " Middlemarch " for his father, and to Horace, 
 who liked a good cigar, he gave a box of pretty 
 good Havanas. They were pleased with his 
 generosity, and awed by his rapid rise to fame. 
 
 His father, especially, was profoundly moved by 
 the knowledge that he had produced a literary son. 
 As each story appeared he read it again and again, 
 and never lost his sense of wonderment that it 
 should have been written by Oliver. But there 
 was his boy's name in big letters — "A Complete 
 and Original Story by Oliver Lumley." 
 
 If the words had been written in letters of gold
 
 A Man of Letters 19 
 
 they could not have dazzled him more. For 
 literature of any kind, for anything written and 
 printed, he had an old-fashioned reverence. He 
 believed everything in his daily paper. A work 
 of imagination, even if it were no longer than a 
 short story, seemed to him a wonderful effort of 
 the brain. He could not understand how his own 
 •child could have learnt the secrets of the human 
 heart, nor how he could have plunged so deeply 
 into the problems of life. Sometimes over the 
 breakfast-table, or in the evening, he would stare 
 stealthily at the boy, as though trying to fathom 
 this mystery in his own household. He was 
 almost frightened of him. He was certainly some- 
 what nervous of the handsome fellow who dressed 
 like the son of a peer (instead of being the son 
 of Cutter & Bodger's under-paid clerk), who had 
 expensive tastes, of which Richard Lumley himself 
 had never dreamed, who in his gay, careless, devil- 
 may-care way expressed his open contempt for the 
 plain and simple life which his father had con- 
 sidered to be the height of prosperity for people 
 of his class. 
 
 One of the proudest moments of his life was 
 when a fellow clerk said, " I have been reading a 
 story by Oliver Lumley in T/ie Empire Magazme. 
 A relative of yours ? " 
 
 " My son," said Richard Lumley. 
 
 Not only his father, but Mrs. Lumley, Horace, 
 and Galatea looked upon Oliver with a new
 
 20 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 admiration and a sense of awe. Mrs. Lumley's 
 pride in her son's achievements was very great, 
 though her natural humility bade her conceal this 
 among her friends and neighbours when they spoke 
 to her of her "brilliant boy." 
 
 But she was rather scared at his success. There 
 was a secret fear in her heart that he would get 
 too " grand " for their humble home-life. And she 
 too watched him sometimes above her needlework, 
 studying him as he sat reading in one of his new 
 suits — poor old Horace was very shabby by the 
 side of him — with the cuffs of his new shirts so 
 white and spotless, and he seemed to her like some 
 Prince Charming. She could not think where he 
 got his ideas, his almost terrifying ambitions, his 
 extravagant desires. Not from her did he inherit 
 them. She was content — nearly always — to make 
 beds and puddings, to mend socks and under- 
 garments, and to do the daily drudgery of a small 
 house in a quiet suburb. It almost seemed as if 
 this boy, with his desire for the beautiful things of 
 the world, for a society which she only knew by 
 the fashionable intelligence in TAe Daily TelegrapJi, 
 and for the great gay world, must have been a 
 changeling put into the cradle which she had 
 rocked twenty-one years ago ! 
 
 Horace and Galatea expressed, in different ways, 
 somewhat similar ideas. 
 
 " My dear old chap," said Horace one night, 
 in the bedroom which they had shared in common
 
 A Man of Letters 21 
 
 until Oliver had taken possession of the attic as a 
 bed-sitting room and study, " I can't think where 
 you get your imagination from. That last story 
 of yours is a stunner. I couldn't have thought it 
 out to save my life." 
 
 Oliver laughed. 
 
 " My dear old fellow, I'm not worrying where 
 the ideas come from. I am only a 'prentice hand 
 as yet. These are the first crude experiments. 
 When I have got my pen well tempered then you 
 can begin to talk. One of these days I shall be 
 making my i^ 1,500 a year." 
 
 Horace did not disbelieve him ; but the fact 
 made him thoughtful. 
 
 " At that time I shall be earning at the most 
 £17$. That's my limit. I'm one of the stick-in- 
 the-muds." 
 
 Oliver put his hand on his older brother's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Never you mind. Your young brother ain't 
 going to forget his best pal ! " 
 
 " One of these days you'll be ashamed of me," 
 said Horace. 
 
 " Rot ! " said Oliver. 
 
 Galatea, who had been rather scornful of Oliver's 
 literary pretensions, was now humble before him. 
 His fine clothes gave him a kind of nobility in her 
 eyes. To walk down Denmark Hill with him was 
 an exciting adventure, for all her girl friends were 
 envious. Certainly he looked like a young duke.
 
 22 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Oliver," she said one day, quite suddenly, as 
 she sat toasting her toes before a glowing fire, with 
 a book on her lap, " when you get to know good 
 people — people outside this suburban set — don't 
 forget you have a sister." 
 
 " My dear old kid, you may bet your boots 
 I shall never forget that ! What are you driving 
 at?" 
 
 Galatea held her hands before the fire and her 
 face. Perhaps it was the heat that had put a warm 
 flush into her cheeks. 
 
 " One of these days I may want to marry. I 
 don't want to grow into an old maid. I should 
 like to meet some nice men." 
 
 She spoke quite frankly and with simplicity. 
 
 Oliver looked at her curiously. Almost for the 
 first time he realised that his sister was above the 
 average in good looks. He told her so. 
 
 " Nice men will like to meet you. You're a 
 deuced pretty kid, you know." 
 
 Her words set his imagination on fire, and he 
 painted glowing pictures of the marriages he would 
 arrange for her. She pulled him up, with a gay 
 laugh, by the reminder that she could marry only 
 one man. 
 
 " That's all right," said Oliver. " You'll be able 
 to take your choice. I shan't leave you in this 
 suburban squalor."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Father and Son 
 
 At this time, it will be remembered, the name of 
 Oliver Lumley had appeared only six times in the 
 public prints. But he had a fair supply of un- 
 published stories, his imagination was vivid, and 
 he could safely, or at least hopefully, assume that 
 he was well on his way to luck. 
 
 Nevertheless, a literary man is not as other men. 
 His temperament (whatever may be the exact 
 meaning of the word) requires careful nursing. 
 His imagination must be stimulated and nourished 
 by emotional experiences and a full knowledge of 
 life. His heart-beats must be quickened by the 
 electricity of social intercourse. So, at least, the 
 literary man asks us to believe. Oliver Lumley 
 was not slow to realise the necessity of these 
 things. He complained that the atmosphere of 
 Denmark Hill was not good for him. He stifled 
 in it. 
 
 " But, my dear boy," said Mrs. Lumley, " every- 
 body says that it is most healthy. Now, Clapham 
 is much more relaxing." 
 
 Oliver laughed heartily. 
 
 " My dear lady, by atmosphere I don't mean the 
 23
 
 24 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 air that feeds the body. The mental horizon here 
 is too lin:iited." 
 
 Mrs. Lumley did not understand his words, but, 
 with a sinking heart, she understood his purpose. 
 After various hints dropped from time to time 
 he finally declared his intention of going into 
 " diggings " in the West of London — " the great 
 human heart," as he called it in the new language 
 which he had adopted with his literary career. 
 
 He had been exploring, and had found the most 
 ideal crib for his purpose in a little street under the 
 shadow of Big Ben and at the back of the Abbey. 
 The houses were all of the Queen Anne period. 
 They had panelled rooms and little window-seats 
 and low ceilings. There was the right atmosphere 
 here. He could not help writing novels if he lived 
 in such a place. He would be under the spell of a 
 romantic influence, and he could get a bedroom 
 and sitting-room in Barton Street, Westminster, 
 for twenty-five shillings a week, including breakfast 
 and attendance. It was absurdly, ridiculously 
 cheap. For a man who would soon be earning his 
 thousand a year it was almost too modest, but 
 Oliver was not, as he said, out for extravagance. 
 He would always live simply. 
 
 There was just one trouble. At the outset he 
 could not be sure of earning, with unfailing 
 regularity, the two pounds or two pounds ten 
 which he would need for his weekly expenses. 
 Magazine editors did not pay as promptly as their
 
 Father and Son 25 
 
 contributors might wish, and literary men were 
 kept waiting for their money. Oliver, who had a 
 certain shrewdness of character beneath his happy 
 idealism and playfulness of fancy, pointed out that 
 he would be severely handicapped at the beginning 
 of his career if he did not have a little capital to fall 
 back upon in case of need. He pointed this out to 
 his father one night when they sat talking together 
 after the other members of the family had gone to 
 bed. For the first time during recent years Oliver 
 opened his heart and mind to his father with can- 
 dour and earnestness. 
 
 Richard Lumley, sitting back in a cane settee 
 which cracked at every movement, was filled with 
 a father's pride at this handsome, bright-eyed son 
 who sat straddlewise across a wooden chair, with 
 his arms folded on the back of it, and his firm chin 
 resting on his arms, while he spoke in glowing 
 words of his ambition, his future, his certainty of 
 success, and his intended generosity to all at home. 
 Once or twice, as Oliver went on with his mono- 
 logue, his father contrasted himself with his own 
 boy, and in the mirror of his mind saw himself: a 
 shabby man, older-looking than his years, with 
 lack-lustre eyes, a thin face worn with hard work 
 and continual anxiety to make both ends meet, 
 and a head that was getting bald too soon, owing 
 perhaps to that haunting fear of losing his job 
 at Cutter & Bodger's — there were younger men 
 pushing ahead and intriguing against him — which
 
 26 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 had made him submissive to the rather sharp and 
 brutal behaviour of his employers, and slavishly 
 eager to do his duty to the uttermost detail. Once 
 or twice a sharp pang of envy — almost of jealousy 
 — of this boy of his, with his youth and his good 
 looks, took possession of him. 
 
 Years ago he too had had ambitions. He had 
 desired rather more of the good things of life than 
 were within reach of a junior clerk in the City. 
 But the ambitions had never been fulfilled, and the 
 good things had never come within his reach. 
 He married too early. He had always been 
 shabby. He had always been struggling in 
 respectable poverty. It had crushed him and 
 tamed him. Even his wife pitied him, and 
 despised him a little, because his spirit had been 
 broken. He was a lonely man. Even his children 
 kept their secrets from him, and were happier and 
 more unrestrained in their laughter when he was 
 shut up in his own room working out the house- 
 hold accounts or brooding over a book. 
 
 Richard Lumley had these thoughts, and then 
 was ashamed of them. He followed the thread of 
 Oliver's discourse. He warmed his chilled heart 
 in the glow of his boy's enthusiasm. He realised, 
 not without gladness, that Oliver wanted his father's 
 assistance and co-operation in his literary career. 
 
 Towards the end of the talk Oliver put forward 
 a request very plainly and simply. Would his 
 father allow him, or rather lend him, a pound a
 
 Father and Son 27 
 
 week for a year, in order that he might take those 
 rooms in Westminster and get into the right 
 atmosphere ? His whole career depended on that. 
 It was essential to his success. He would pay 
 back his father a hundredfold. He would return 
 the loan with generous interest. 
 
 " You can always look to me for support in your 
 old age, dad. You can look upon this pound a 
 week as an Old Age Insurance." 
 
 He laughed in his infectious way, and the idea 
 seemed to please him immensely. Then he rode 
 off again on the wings of his imagination, and gave 
 such a vivid picture of the rising splendour of the 
 Lumley fam.ily that his father's first startled 
 protest was silenced, and the proposed allowance 
 seemed a petty thing compared with the great gifts 
 to follow. He agreed upon that pound a week, 
 though, as he explained, it would mean working 
 later hours to make it up in overtime, and the most 
 stringent economy. 
 
 Oliver shook hands with his father before going 
 to bed. 
 
 " I'm tremendously grateful to you, dad. And, 
 look here, don^t tell mother, or Horace and Galatea, 
 Let it be our little secret. Is that a bargain ? " 
 
 Mr. Lumley made it a bargain. 
 
 " God bless you, my boy," he said. " I am very 
 proud of you." 
 
 He lay awake that night wondering how on 
 earth he could squeeze a pound a week out of his
 
 2 8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 miserable income, which was not more than enough 
 to make both ends meet. When the clock struck 
 three he groaned aloud, so that he woke his wife, 
 
 " What is the matter, dear ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Mr. Lumley ; " I am just a trifle 
 restless." 
 
 So Oliver Lumley left the house in Denmark 
 Hill and went into his lodgings in Barton Street, 
 Westminster, where the atmosphere was more 
 congenial to his temperament. 
 
 His mother wept when he went. She twined 
 her arms around him and clasped him as though 
 she were losing him for ever. 
 
 On the first night of his absence his empty chair 
 stood at the supper-table and the little maid-servant 
 laid his place by mistake. Mrs. Lumley put her 
 head down on the table and cried. Then she went 
 upstairs to her bedroom and did not come down 
 again that evening. Horace and Galatea ate their 
 supper without speaking, and their father, after 
 trying to maintain a monologue with artificial 
 cheerfulness, relapsed into silence. 
 
 But in Barton Street, Westminster, Oliver was 
 giving a supper party to three of his friends. It 
 cost him the best part of the first sovereign 
 advanced by his father. But he did not begrudge 
 the cost. He had got into his right "atmosphere" 
 at last. For a literary man this was better than 
 the squalor of the suburbs. His soul was free to 
 set out upon the adventures of life.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The louch of Chivalry 
 
 I HAVE said that Oliver Lumley was a tempera- 
 mental young man. That word will dog me 
 through this book, for it is inevitable, though 
 inexplicable. It is his own word. Again and 
 again throughout his career he used it of himself, 
 complacently, proudly ; in self-glory and in self- 
 excuse ; in prosperity and in adversity ; in 
 exultation and in despair. 
 
 " I am a man of temperament," he said. Let 
 us, therefore, not quarrel with the word, but try, 
 as far as we may, to understand it. This 
 mysterious temperament may account for many 
 things which otherwise would be puzzling in the 
 life of this young man of letters. I blame it for 
 many things in his career, I praise it for other 
 things. There are times when we must pity the 
 young man for being possessed by this tyrannical 
 temperament of his. Let us look at him as 
 established in Barton Street, Westminster (a world 
 away, it would appear, from Rosemary Avenue, 
 Denmark Hill), and follow some of his adven- 
 tures. 
 
 Rapidly he made his way into many different 
 29
 
 30 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 phases of London society, both high and low, and, 
 to use one of his own phrases, touched life " in 
 many of its varied aspects." Life held out its 
 hands to him, for his good looks and his youthful 
 spirit won friendship and goodwill. Men much 
 older than himself liked to hear his laughter and to 
 listen to his philosophy as it changed from hour to 
 hour. Women of all classes — and he became 
 acquainted with ladies of reputation and otherwise 
 — could not resist the fascination of this boy if he 
 took the trouble to put his spell upon them. 
 
 He was generally pleased to take that trouble. 
 As a student of human nature, he was deeply 
 interested in the heart of womanhood, whether it 
 was hidden under the print frock of a servant- 
 maid, the cheap blouse of a shop-girl, the sealskin 
 jacket of a chorus girl, or the Liberty tea-gown of 
 a lady of fashion. Often he would set out from 
 Barton Street with the object of extending his 
 studies in this direction, and he seldom came home 
 without new knowledge. 
 
 Some men might walk London for a week 
 without making acquaintance with any human soul 
 and without a single romantic adventure. Not so 
 Oliver. He was a striking proof of the old proverb 
 — Adventures to the adventurous. If he went into 
 a tobacconist's shop to buy a threepenny packet of 
 cigarettes, he was almost certain to have an inte- 
 resting encounter with the girl who served him. 
 She would call him " silly," and giggle at the little
 
 The Touch of Chivalry 31 
 
 compliment which he would drop as lightly as the 
 match with which he had struck a light But upon 
 his third visit she would whisper her secrets to him 
 over the counter, and ask for his advice or his 
 sympathy upon intimate problems of her life. 
 His way of saying " my dear child," the frank 
 candour of his eyes, his really noble manner and 
 condescending graciousness seemed to bewitch a 
 a girl like this so that she would lay bare her little 
 heart to him. In this way he became on terms of 
 friendship with pretty waitresses in restaurants and 
 tea-shops, with young women who served behind 
 the bars of taverns between Fleet Street and 
 Piccadilly Circus, with a chorus girl of the Hilarity 
 Theatre whose muff he had picked up as she 
 dropped it when jumping off an omnibus ; with a 
 flower-girl outside Westminster Abbey who pinned 
 a blossom to his coat every morning when he 
 sauntered forth from his lodging to drink the air 
 and study the bustle of life ; with a poor girl to 
 whom, he would sometimes stand a cup of coffee 
 at a stall when Big Ben was booming its mid- 
 night strokes ; and with women in the Queer 
 Streets of a great city, which he explored in a 
 spirit of romance and adventure. 
 
 Scraps of conversation with these new friends he 
 made revealed to him strange tragedies of life, and 
 gave to him glimpses of Other Points of View 
 (as he entitled them in his note-book) which were 
 most valuable to him as a writer of fiction.
 
 32 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Take that scene when he met Daphne at the 
 coffee stall by Westminster Bridge. She was 
 hanging on the arm of a young man in evening 
 dress who was obviously the worse for drink. The 
 lamplight fell upon her white face with its carmine 
 lips and big grey eyes. The wind blew a wisp of 
 hair across her forehead. Her hat had a black 
 feather in it, made sodden and limp by the rain 
 which was still falling lightly. Her dress was 
 splashed up to the waist with mud. The girl 
 looked hungry and miserable, but she laughed 
 with a shrill and awful gaiety as she clutched the 
 arm of the man and said, " Well, at least you can 
 give me a cup of coffee, can't you ? " 
 
 " Get off ! " said the man. He pushed her 
 violently away from him, and she fell on her hands 
 and knees in the mud. It was Oliver who raised 
 her up. " My poor child," he said, " I hope you 
 are not hurt ? " The man in evening dress lurched 
 off, stopping once or twice to look round. His hat 
 was on the back of his head and he had the 
 imbecile look of a drunken man. 
 
 " It is well for him that he has made off," said 
 Oliver. 
 
 He took out his pocket-handkerchief and wiped 
 the girl's hands and some of the wet mud off her 
 dress. 
 
 She seemed dazed, and leant up against the 
 coffee-stall, in which a stout man stood with his 
 elbows on the counter watching the scene stolidly.
 
 The Touch of Chivalry 33 
 
 " A cup of coffee, mister," said Oliver, and when 
 he took it from the man he held it to the girl's 
 lips. The first sip seemed to revive her and 
 brought a flush of colour into her white face. She 
 took the cup and saucer, and while she drank the 
 steaming liquid stared at Oliver as though he were 
 some strange and unfamiliar being. 
 
 " You've spoilt that handkerchief of yours, 
 haven't you ? " she said. 
 
 " Oh, that's nothing. . . . What a brute that 
 fellow was ! " 
 
 " They're all brutes," said the girl, putting down 
 her cup with a clatter. " All bad, but some are 
 worse than others." She thought for a moment, 
 pressing her hand to her temples. 
 
 " If I were to meet a good man, I would go 
 down on my knees in the mud to him, and then 
 ask him to scrag me." 
 
 " I am pretty good myself," said Oliver. " Not 
 so bad. But I don't want to spoil another hand- 
 kerchief, and I certainly shan't scrag you." 
 
 " You're not good, are you ? " said the girl. She 
 put a hand on his arm, and stared up into his face. 
 Their eyes looked into each other closely. She 
 breathed heavily, and then gave a miserable 
 laugh. 
 
 " Oh, I expect you're like the rest of them. . . . 
 Are you coming home ? " 
 
 " I'll see you home," said Oliver. " Where do 
 you live ? " 
 
 3
 
 34 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Turncoat Street. It's not far from here." 
 
 She put her arm through his, and leant her 
 head against his shoulder. Oliver held his um- 
 brella over her, for the rain was falling heavily 
 now. As they walked he questioned her about 
 her life and her people. She told him that her 
 name was Daphne, that her life was hell, and that 
 her people were devils. Her father and brother 
 were " professional " gentlemen. They had 
 chucked her because she was too well known to 
 the " narks." She had done a bit of time herself. 
 All things considering, prison was better than the 
 streets. 
 
 " My poor little one ! " said Oliver. " To think 
 that you might have been a good wife and 
 mother ! " 
 
 The remark was rather commonplace in the 
 circumstances, but it startled the girl Daphne as 
 though he had hit her. She dropped his arm and 
 looked at him with a stare of surprise. 
 
 "Strike me!" she said. "You're not a parson, 
 are you ? " 
 
 " Good heavens no ! " said Oliver, " What 
 makes you think that ? " 
 
 " Well, you do talk like one of them save-your- 
 soul fellows." 
 
 Then she made a confession. 
 
 " Not but what I don't like a little bit of religion 
 now and again. I have got a few texts round the 
 walls. You'll see them when you come in. I
 
 The Touch of Chivalry 35 
 
 bought them for tuppence in a second-hand book- 
 stall down Farringdon Road." 
 
 She gave a shrill laugh, as though tickled by the 
 sharp ironies of life. 
 
 " Strange ! " said Oliver. " Even you have not 
 lost all your spirituality, little one. Poor child of 
 the streets ! " 
 
 " Oh, shut up ! " said Daphne. " Spirituality ! 
 I don't think ! " 
 
 They turned down a narrow alley, where lights 
 blinked through the broken window-panes and 
 tattered blinds of some dilapidated houses. A 
 woman's shriek pierced the silence. 
 
 " What's that ? " said Oliver. 
 
 " Nothing to fret about. You hear lots of queer 
 noises down this street. Nobody bothers." 
 
 The girl stopped before a low doorway and 
 fumbled in her frock for a latchkey. 
 
 " Well, good-bye ! " said Oliver. " I am glad to 
 have seen you home." 
 
 " What ! Aren't you coming in ? " 
 
 The girl's grey eyes grew big with amazement. 
 
 " No ; of course not ! " 
 
 He took her hand and put it to his lips. 
 
 " I have a reverence for all poor women ; for the 
 little flower of love that is in every woman's heart." 
 
 She pulled her hand away, as though he had 
 ctung it with the touch of his lips. 
 
 " What are you playing at ? " she said hoarsely. 
 " I'm not a good woman. I'm a bit of dirt."
 
 36 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 "No. You are unfortunate, that is all. In 
 another position of life you would have been a 
 good woman. Good night, my poor Daphne ! " 
 
 The girl was leaning back against the door. 
 
 " Oh, God ! " she cried, and laughed and laughed 
 hysterically. 
 
 Oliver strode away, and the shrill laughter 
 thrilled in his ears until he turned the corner into 
 the Westminster Bridge Road. He had a warm 
 glow about the heart. He felt that he had be- 
 haved with chivalry and nobility. He was pleased 
 with himself. He remembered that phrase of his, 
 " I reverence the little flower of love that is in 
 every woman's heart." He stopped under the 
 lamp-post and made a note of it. " Rather pretty ! " 
 he said.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The Lady Bountiful 
 
 THft adventure with Daphne suggested an idea for 
 a short story, which he called " Flower o' the Mud." 
 He wrote it tenderly, and it was accepted in The 
 Magazine of Fiction. The editor sent a note of 
 congratulation, and asked to see more of his work. 
 Daphne had paid for her cup of coffee. 
 
 He received another letter, which pleased him 
 even more than the one from the editor. It was 
 such a genuine and tender tribute of admiration 
 from a stranger. It was written on hand-woven 
 paper, from which as he opened the envelope there 
 stole out the faint fragrance of violets. " A lady ! " 
 said Oliver, and his instinct was right. In a very 
 firm and delicate handwriting were the words that 
 follow : 
 
 "Dear Sir,— 
 
 " Will you forgive me — a stranger — for writ- 
 ing a few lines to tell you how deeply I have been 
 touched by your story, ' Flower o' the Mud ' ? I 
 lire here in a quiet village where there is but little 
 poverty, and where I think the loveliness of Nature 
 (so generous in its beauty !) keeps our hearts free 
 from the basest passions and the most violent 
 37
 
 38 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 temptations of life. Even here we have our tra- 
 gedies, and the human heart is always frail, but we 
 are sheltered from all those terrible dangers which 
 beset the path of young men and women in a great 
 city. I myself live a rather cloistered life (an old 
 English garden keeps my hands busy and my heart 
 glad), but sometimes I reproach myself for enjoying 
 that comfortable peace which is denied to those 
 who toil so hard in the midst of noise and in the 
 depths of squalor. Your story of that httle human 
 flower blossoming in the mud of evil things made 
 me weep for all that such poor girls have to suffer 
 on their way through the world. It is wonderful to 
 me to think that a man should have such a delicate 
 understanding of a woman's heart, and should write 
 her story with such tenderness and sympathy. This 
 is the first letter I have ever written to an author 
 who is unknown to me, and I hope very much you 
 will forgive this intrusion. 
 " I am, 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "Virginia Garland. 
 
 " P.S. — I enclose a cheque for ;^io, in the hope 
 that you may see your way to use it for the relief 
 of deserving cases among the outcasts of London 
 whom you may know as a student of London life. 
 If that is troubling you too much, kindly send it to 
 the Hospital for Women. 
 
 "V. G. 
 ••The Rookery, Windlesham, 
 •' Worcestershire."
 
 The Lady Bountiful 39 
 
 Oliver Lumley read this letter several times, with 
 a glowing sense of pleasure and pride. It was the 
 first time the lady had written to an author, she 
 said, and it was the first time that Oliver Lumley, 
 author, had received a letter from one of his 
 readers. It was a sign of his increasing fame. 
 It was a proof that he could write living words to 
 stir the hearts of men and women. 
 
 He repeated the name of his correspondent. 
 " Virginia Garland — how charming and fragrant ! " 
 In his imagination he conjured up the picture of 
 his admirer — it was a picture of a beautiful 
 girl of twenty-five or so, with brown hair and 
 an oval face with dark, luminous eyes. She 
 wore a big straw hat with roses in it, and a white 
 dress. She was sitting on the terrace of a noble 
 garden with a bouquet of flowers on her lap and 
 The Magazine of Fiction on a little stool by 
 her side. It was open at the page where his 
 own story was printed, " ' Flower o' the Mud,' by 
 Oliver Lumley." 
 
 A charming picture ! He was almost in love 
 with it. Then he fingered the cheque drawn upon 
 the London and County Bank. Ten pounds ! 
 At that moment he had two shillings and seven- 
 pence halfpenny in his pocket. The cheque was 
 made out in his name, and he could do what he 
 liked with it in charity. Here was an opportunity 
 for playing the good fairy. 
 
 He sat down in his small room in Barton Street
 
 40 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 and, clearing a place among the breakfast things, 
 which had not yet been taken away, as Big Ben 
 boomed out the stroke of noon (he had been late 
 overnight and was still in his blue silk dressing- 
 gown), he wrote an enthusiastic letter of thanks to 
 " Virginia Garland." 
 
 He told her something of his own ideals and 
 aspirations as a literary man, and as a student of 
 human nature. He told her how glad he would 
 be to get away to the flower fields and the peace 
 of the country from the squalor and roar and 
 tragedy of London, the modern Babylon, but how 
 his duty held him to his world of bricks and 
 mortar. 
 
 " I accept your beautiful gift," he wrote, " on 
 behalf of those poor children of life who dwell 
 with poverty. I will use it to the best advantage, 
 and in their rough and simple way they will bless 
 your name." 
 
 There was a moisture in his eyes when he sealed 
 the envelope. He was stirred with generous 
 emotion. He addressed the letter to Miss Virginia 
 Garland, after a moment's hesitation as to the 
 " Miss." But he was certain she was not a married 
 woman. 
 
 After completing his toilet he had a short inter- 
 view with his landlady, who pressed for the rent, 
 which was three weeks overdue. With a little 
 good-natured pleasantry it was easy to persuade 
 her to wait awhile. Then he cleaned his patent-
 
 The Lady Bountiful 41 
 
 leather boots with his own hands in the kitchen, 
 where Bessie the maidservant was making a roly- 
 poly pudding (he kissed her bare arm, which 
 looked so pretty as it was powdered with the 
 white flour up to her dimpled elbow!) and after- 
 wards went out to the post. Thence he took a 
 " taxi " to the London and County Bank, where he 
 cashed the cheque, and paid for the cab out of a 
 pound in silver. 
 
 A little while later Oliver met Sally Stiff, the 
 flower-girl who provided him with his morning 
 button-hole. She had her carnation ready for him, 
 and said, " Look 'ere, young man, I ain't a-goin' to 
 give you sich long credit. You owe me for a week 
 already, and though you do say sich pretty things 
 abaht me brahn 'air an' coral teeth, I'm not in 
 business for the love of the thing. See ? " 
 
 " My dear Sally," said Oliver, " is there any little 
 thing you want just now ? Have you set your 
 mind on any small treasure ?" 
 
 The girl laughed, and showed those remarkably 
 white teeth to which Oliver had paid a compliment 
 one day. Some passers-by turned to look at the 
 girl with the ruddy face and loose brown hair, who 
 stood with her hand on her broad hip and a basket 
 of flowers slung from her shoulder. They wondered 
 why she was " cheeking " the young swell who was 
 talking to her. 
 
 " Hush ! I'm quite serious ! " 
 
 " Gar'n ! " said Sally Stiff.
 
 42 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Oliver said that it was a case of honour bright. 
 He showed her as proof a new half-sovereign. 
 
 " Look here, I'm going to make you a present of 
 that. Have you got a poor old mother at home, 
 or an invalid sister? It will do them a bit of 
 good." 
 
 "Pore old muvver? Lor' lumme, she's been in 
 the Jug these three years past for bashing pore 
 old farver ! " 
 
 The girl laughed with shrill amusement. 
 
 "Invalid sister, did yer siy? No blooming fear. 
 There's nothing the matter with our 'ealth. A 
 bit of rope 'as made the quickest death in our 
 family ! " 
 
 " Well, anyhow, you are one of the poor children 
 of the great city," said Oliver, somewhat dis- 
 heartened. " Buy yourself some nice warm things 
 with this." 
 
 The girl took the half-sovereign, and bit it with 
 her nice white teeth. 
 
 " It's a good un ! . . . My word, it would buy 
 me a bloomin' fine 'at with fevvers, wouldn't it jest! 
 That would knock Alf a bit ! " 
 
 She stared at the bit of gold in her big red hand. 
 Then she turned on Oliver as fiercely as a young 
 tigress. 
 
 " 'Oo're yer gitting at ? What's yer gime ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Oliver. " I've got no game. I 
 want nothing back — except one or two carnations. 
 Have you got a pin?"
 
 The Lady Bountiful 43 
 
 He picked out one of her flowers and put it into 
 his coat. 
 
 " That's a fair bargain. Put it on, Sally." 
 
 The girl obeyed with trembling hands. 
 
 " I siy. I didn't know you was one of them 
 millionaire blokes. Strike me pink ! 'Arf a 
 shiner ! " 
 
 "I'm not rich. I'm as poor as a church mouse. 
 But this is a gift from a fairy godmother." 
 
 Oliver Lumley went on his way with the joyous 
 feeling of having done a charitable deed. 
 
 " Thank Heaven," he said, " I was born with a 
 good heart."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The Price of a Meal 
 
 Oliver showed the excellence of his heart by the 
 way in which he distributed the other part of the 
 ten pounds from Virginia Garland. He treated 
 Miss Livvy O'Brien and one of her girl friends to 
 a charming though modest luncheon at Michel's in 
 Soho. 
 
 Liwy was the young chorus lady whose muff 
 Oliver had picked up as she jumped off a bus 
 opposite the Hilarity Theatre. Oliver had made 
 good friends with her, and once or twice had 
 visited her lodgings in the Kennington Road — it 
 was awkwardly near his own home in Denmark 
 Hill — where she had introduced him to other 
 young women of the profession and to young 
 actors who dropped in to take tea with her. 
 Livvy acted musical comedy in summer and panto- 
 mime in winter (she had had a speaking part in 
 "Jack and the Beanstalk "), and out of her twenty- 
 five shillings a week she helped her parents, who 
 lived in Dublin. So, at least, she said ; and as she 
 was an Irish girl there was no reason to doubt 
 her. 
 
 Oliver considered that he was fully justified in 
 44
 
 The Price of a Meal 45 
 
 regarding her as a " deserving case " according to 
 the terms of Virginia Garland's bequest. He also 
 extended the principle to the girl friend, Doris 
 Fortescue. 
 
 " The poor girls do not have much brightness 
 in their lives," he said to himself. " They certainly 
 are outcasts. It will be the best of charity to 
 give them a little good cheer for once in their 
 lives." 
 
 He cheered them up remarkably well, and indeed 
 no one would have imagined that either Livvy or 
 Doris were outcasts in a world of misery. Livvy 
 was in the highest spirits when Oliver fetched her 
 from the theatre after a rehearsal and sat between 
 her and Doris in a hansom cab, on the way to 
 Michel's. 
 
 " Isn't he the dearest boy out of Dublin ? " she 
 said to her friend, and, putting her arm through 
 his, pressed her rosy face against his shoulder, 
 leaving there a faint mark of pearl powder. 
 
 Doris took Oliver's other arm, and said that he 
 was an angel in disguise and quite the nicest thing 
 she had ever met in a bowler hat. 
 
 The luncheon party was a complete success, but 
 rather more expensive than Oliver had reckoned. 
 When he said " What are you girls going to drink 
 — lemonade, I suppose ? " Doris sang a little song 
 which had the refrain of " Catch me ! Catch me ! 
 Catch me ! " and said, " I fancy a little bottle of 
 port ; don't you, Livvy ? It will warm up the
 
 46 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 cockles of our hearts after the draughts in that 
 filthy theatre." Livvy said that any old thing 
 was good enough for her, but she did not object 
 to port. So port it was, paid for by Virginia 
 Garland's charity. 
 
 Undoubtedly it did warm up the cockles of their 
 hearts, for with rather flushed cheeks and sparkling 
 eyes they laughed with the most silvery ripple at 
 every jest of Oliver's, told a number of amusing 
 theatrical stories, and over the cigarettes and 
 coffee indulged in confidences about their adven- 
 tures on tour, which revealed a good deal of human 
 nature to a young man in quest of knowledge. 
 
 Livvy sat next to Oliver and fondled his hand 
 every time she laid down her fork, which was not 
 so often, for she had a hearty young appetite. 
 Even after a five-course meal she suggested, with 
 an exaggerated brogue, that "sure an' she would 
 be plased if the darlingest boy would jump to a 
 box of chockies for the sweetest little rosebuds 
 that bloomed in the Strand." Oliver "jumped," 
 and in less than fifteen minutes Livvy and Doris 
 had consumed chocolates to the amount of three 
 and sixpence. He took them back again to the 
 theatre in a cab, and they thanked him vivaciously 
 for the real treat he had given to them. 
 
 " You have behaved like a perfect gentleman," 
 said Livvy. She put her head on one side and 
 eyed him roguishly. " Like a musical-comedy 
 gentleman," she added, with a final ripple of
 
 The Price of a Meal 47 
 
 laughter, and then with a swish of her skirts she 
 sped through the stage door. 
 
 The luncheon cost Oliver Lumley two pounds 
 and a few shillings. " And extremely cheap, too ! " 
 was his reflection when he added up the items ot 
 that remarkable meal.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Men of the Empire 
 
 The expenditure of what remained of Virginia 
 Garland's bounty — amounting to seven pounds or 
 so — may not be set down in detail, for Oliver was 
 not a man of accounts, but a man of letters. A 
 good deal of it was dispensed at the Wastrel Club 
 in the form of whiskies-and- sodas to fellows who 
 were down on their luck, and so poor that they 
 could not refresh their rather painful thirst until 
 some other member, more blessed with this world's 
 goods than they, took pity on them, and said, 
 " Have a drink, old man ? " Oliver Lumley felt 
 it to be a very noble privilege to take the lead 
 in this matter, and, though the youngest member 
 of the club, to act in some degree as the Master of 
 Ceremonies. 
 
 It was the more delightful to him because these 
 men were intellectual Bohemians, and among them 
 were the leaders of thought in England, the cream 
 of London's literary and artistic life, and the 
 members of that inmost circle which had seemed 
 so far away, so glorious, and so exclusive, when 
 Oliver was beginning his new career in Rosemary 
 Avenue, Denmark Hill. It was, of course, of 
 
 48
 
 Men of the Empire 49 
 
 immense value, socially and professionally, to 
 Oliver, that he should enter this circle, and be on 
 terms of equality with brothers of his craft. 
 
 He owed this privilege to an old schoolfellow of 
 his with whom he had renewed friendship after 
 a meeting in the lounge of the Empire. There it 
 was one night that Oliver was tapped on the 
 shoulder, and turning round heard a voice say — 
 "Roly — or I'll eat my hat! " It was a crush hat, 
 and the face underneath was familiar to Oliver in 
 a reminiscent way. 
 
 " Why, it is Kiss-me-Hardy ! . . . my dear old 
 chap ! " 
 
 The two men clasped hands. 
 
 " You are looking awfully fit ! " 
 
 " We have both changed a lot. How many 
 years ago is it ? Seven, by Jove ! " 
 
 Charles Hardy was a tall young man in rather 
 shabby evening clothes and a crumpled shirt-front. 
 He stood six feet high, with broad shoulders and 
 a good chest. He was too stout for his age, but 
 had a big boyish face, with eyes as blue as forget- 
 me-nots, and a fine head of fair hair cropped pretty 
 close, but with crisp curls. He was a typical actor, 
 by the look of him, the sort of man who would 
 bring the house down as the hero of a Drury Lane 
 melodrama, clasping the little heroine to his broad 
 bosom with the limelight on his upturned face and 
 in the whites of his eyes. His looks belied him. 
 Oliv-er discovered afterwards he was a journalist on 
 4
 
 50 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 a halfpenny paper, where he had gained an immense 
 reputation and a fair salary as a " sob-merchant." 
 That is to say, he supplied the sentiment. 
 
 With his blue eyes and a sunny smile he looked 
 at Oliver from head to foot, and then gave him an 
 approving word. 
 
 " You've improved, my lad. Quite a blood — 
 what ? " He glanced over to the stage, where a 
 girl in a thin garment was capering before a ghastly 
 head. " Infernal nonsense ! Let's get out of this. 
 Come round to the Wastrels." 
 
 " Who are they ? " asked Oliver. 
 
 Hardy made his blue eyes bigger. 
 
 " Don't know the Wastrels ? Well, you've a 
 lot to learn ! " 
 
 Oliver was abashed. He blushed and stammered 
 out that he had heard of them somewhere. He 
 was annoyed to think that he should appear so 
 suburban to this old schoolfellow, who had all the 
 air of a man of the town. 
 
 " Will you have anything ? " he said, to cover 
 his confusion, and Hardy replied, " Why not ? " ' in 
 his genial, careless way. 
 
 Two whiskies and a split soda were provided 
 out of Virginia Garland's bounty. Then Hardy 
 led the way out of the theatre and hailed a taxicab. 
 On the way he questioned Oliver as to his business 
 in life, and laughed heartily when he heard of his 
 literary ambitions. 
 
 " Poor devil ! " he cried. " Take my advice and
 
 Men of the Empire 51 
 
 become a commercial traveller. You'll make more 
 money, old man." 
 
 On leaving the cab he put his hand in his pocket 
 and jingled some coins. But Oliver was before- 
 hand with him. " This is mine," he said ; and 
 Hardy gave him a sunny smile and said, " Just as 
 you like, my child." 
 
 That was Oliver's first night at the Wastrels, 
 and he had a merry time in the heart of modern 
 Bohemia.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Bohemians 
 
 The place was a barely furnished suite of rooms 
 on the first floor of a house on the outskirts of 
 Soho, and its walls were plastered from floor to 
 ceiling with outrageous caricatures of the club- 
 members, distorted out of all human likeness, yet 
 suggestive in a diabolical way of the frailties, 
 follies, and vanities of human character. It seemed 
 as if the artist had given impressionistic studies of 
 the souls of his victims seen by jaundiced eyes. 
 
 " Extraordinary ! " said Oliver, staring at them. 
 
 " Yes, devilish clever, aren't they ? " said Hardy. 
 "That fellow would go far, if the English fool- 
 public had any sense of art. Which they haven't." 
 
 He took Oliver's coat and hung it on a peg. 
 
 " I'll introduce you to some of the boys," he said. 
 Bright-looking lot, don't you think ? " 
 
 " Who are they ? " asked Oliver, with humility. 
 " I ought to know them, I suppose. But I have 
 only just begun to live," 
 
 " Oh, you'll see Life here, my boy ! With a 
 big L. We're all famous people in the Wastrels. 
 The public ignores us, but we admire each other — 
 tremendously and industriously. See that fellow 
 
 52
 
 The Bohemians 53 
 
 with the touzled hair that has never seen a brush 
 these ten years, and coffee stains down his shirt- 
 front? That's Rowland Higgs." 
 
 " Who's he ? " said Oliver. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " 
 
 Hardy appeared to be shocked to his inmost 
 soul, and then chuckled deliciously, as though he 
 liked the sensation. 
 
 " Don't know Rowland Higgs ? Why, he's the 
 celebrated poet, writes decadent verse in The 
 Academy. Has produced three morbid plays at 
 the Stage Society. Reviews novels and children's 
 books, by way of earning a living. He's one of 
 our big guns, I can tell you. We always put him 
 up on one of our ' nights ' to recite ' Our Last Ride 
 Together ' — Longfellow's or Swinburne's or some- 
 body's — and he always forgets the words, and we 
 all clap and say ' Dashed good, old fellow ; you 
 ought to be with Beerbohm Tree.' " 
 
 Hardy glanced round the room to pick out 
 other notabilities, and found them easily, 
 
 " There's Braintree Smith, editor of The Social 
 Guide. Takes tea regularly with the Countess of 
 Nottingham, and knows all the scandal of society. 
 Docs the social notes in The Crown and lives on 
 Tulse Hill. . . . And there's Winwood Barnes, the 
 dramatic critic. I can see he has had five first 
 nights this week by the state of his shirt. , . . 
 That tired-looking young man with reddish hair 
 and white-mouse eyes is Douglas Vernon, who
 
 54 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 writes those historical novels full of sword-play 
 and romantic adventure. Cribs Dumas all the 
 time, and in the opinion of his friends on the 
 literary pages of the press is better than his master. 
 You must have seen his stuff on the bookstalls? 
 It is read by every typist girl in London." 
 
 Hardy seemed to be enjoying himself His 
 eyes roved round the room, and at every glance 
 he gave a life-history of a man of fame, of whom 
 Oliver Lumley had never heard. Among them 
 were painters, drawing-room entertainers, novelists, 
 essayists, critics, black-and-white artists, two or 
 three barristers, and several journalists. 
 
 " You can always tell a journalist," said Hardy, 
 "because he always makes himself the central 
 figure of his anecdotes and talks with an air of 
 authority upon every subject under the sun, re- 
 vealing his childlike ignorance in every sentence. 
 I ought to know, because I am a journalist myself 
 with the same tricks. . . . But look here, I must 
 not fail to introduce you to old Ballantyne. He's 
 our show-piece. We keep him in free drinks, with 
 occasional free grub (though the old fellow can go 
 for a week without eating), and have a subscrip- 
 tion once every five years to buy him a new suit 
 of clothes in order that he may be within the 
 regulations of decency as laid down by the 
 Metropolitan Police. Ballantyne has made this 
 club. He gives it all its glamour. He brings 
 American visitors to the Wastrel ' nights.' He
 
 The Bohemians 55 
 
 has bolstered up our reputation as a haunt of 
 Bohemians. For there is no denying that he is 
 the last of the Bohemians. Forty years ago he 
 played Shakesperian clowns in the provinces, once, 
 according to tradition, he played Hamlet at the 
 old Surrey. Since then he has not done a stroke 
 of work, but lives on a sardonic and poisonous 
 humour, upon stories of old-time actors, and upon 
 the bounty of literary hangers-on who get into 
 touch with Bohemianism by lending him half- 
 crowns, standing him whiskies, and listening with 
 winks and nods and chuckles to his ofttold yarns. 
 Without old Ballantyne the Wastrels wouldn't 
 exist. Understand ? " 
 
 Oliver did not understand very clearly, because 
 he suspected his friend of indulging in satire, and 
 because he felt a thrill of pride at arriving at last in 
 one of the inner haunts of the true Bohemianism. 
 
 " Hulloh ! " said Hardy, " there's old Burdon. 
 That's good. I'll put you on to him for a start. 
 It'll save me a lot of trouble and do you a bit 
 of good." 
 
 He steered a straight course to an elderly man 
 with a frock-coat tucked over his knees, a stiff 
 white waistcoat over a somewhat portly stomach, 
 which formed a good background for a massive 
 gold chain with seals, and, among other charac- 
 teristics of elderly respectability, a bald head 
 which glistened like a china globe under the 
 electric light.
 
 56 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Room at your table, young fellow ? " asked 
 Hardy, in his delightfully easy way. " Here's a 
 nice youth whom I want to introduce to you. 
 Oliver Lumley — a rising star in the spacious 
 heavens of literature, don't you know ? That is to 
 say, he has written for The Police Budget.^' 
 
 " My dear young sir," said Mr. Burdon, rising, 
 and grasping Oliver by the hand warmly, " I am 
 delighted, delighted. Any man of letters may 
 command me for a whisky, or two, or three. Sit 
 down, Mr. Lumley. Join the boys. We are sans 
 cer^monie in the Wastrels. All Bohemians here, 
 you know ! " 
 
 " It is very kind of you ! " said Oliver, and he 
 was genuinely moved by his warm welcome. He 
 sat down between two young men with extremely 
 pallid faces and rather long hair, who were sip- 
 ping glasses of whisky silently and thoughtfully. 
 They were introduced to Oliver as Mr. Bingham 
 and Mr. Shawcross, the well-known dramatists. 
 
 On the other side of the table was a man who 
 might have been anything between thirty-five and 
 seventy-five, with a clean-shaven face, a heavy jaw, 
 and hard-boiled eyes. He wore an old-fashioned 
 stock and dog's-eared collar, and among other 
 details of his costume was a pair of immaculate 
 patent boots with cloth uppers. He sat over a 
 very large tankard of beer, which he held firmly 
 in one big hand, and when he spoke, which was 
 seldom, it was in a hoarse voice, like a coster who
 
 The Bohemians 57 
 
 has been crying his wares, and when he winked, 
 which was often, it convulsed the whole side of his 
 face. 
 
 Mr. Burdon introduced him by the name of 
 Gilbert Verney, " the celebrated barrister." It was 
 then that the gentleman gave the first of his 
 cataclysmic winks, and said in his hoarse voice, 
 " What-o ! " 
 
 On the other side of him was an older man with 
 a mass of red hair, and a long, lean face, with 
 melancholy blue eyes which matched his flowing 
 tie. He wore a Norfolk jacket, Harris tweed 
 trousers very baggy at the knees, and big brown 
 boots. 
 
 " Our humorist, Jack RaiTerty," said Mr. Burdon, 
 by way of introduction. 
 
 Mr. Burdon himself was magnificent. He talked 
 continuously in the greatest good humour, and 
 told a number of anecdotes of a somewhat old and 
 full-flavoured kind. These he always prefaced by 
 the same words : " By the way, boys, have I told 
 you that little story about . ..." so and so. 
 
 The answer was always the same : " No, go on, 
 old man ! Let's have it." 
 
 This was from Gilbert Verney, the old, or young, 
 gentleman with the stock and the dog's-eared 
 collar, who then gave a hoarse chuckle, and one 
 of his vast winks. 
 
 " A good story is like old wine. You can't have 
 too much of it."
 
 58 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 This was from Jack Rafferty, " Our humorist," 
 as he was called, who then sighed deeply, and 
 stared across the room through the tobacco smoke 
 with wistful, melancholy eyes, until he was slapped 
 on the back by Mr. Burdon, who called him a 
 devilish droll dog. 
 
 " I am sure it will be fresh to me," said Mr. 
 Bingham, one of the celebrated dramatists. 
 
 " I'm listening," said Mr. Shawcross, the other 
 celebrated dramatist. 
 
 " Well, then, if you will have it," said Mr. 
 Burdon, launching forth into a narrative of which 
 the conclusion was too obvious at the beginning. 
 
 " Devilish good, old buck ! " said Gilbert Verney, 
 turning stiffly round in his chair to wink at Oliver 
 with immense solemnity. " And as fresh as a 
 daisy. But who said drinks ? " 
 
 " God bless my soul ! " cried Mr. Burdon. " For- 
 give me, boys. Waiter ! " 
 
 And the waiter was commanded to bring more 
 beer for Mr. Verney — " In a tankard," said Mr. 
 Verney — and more whisky for the other gentle- 
 men. 
 
 It was astonishing to see the amount of liquid 
 refreshment ordered by Mr. Burdon and put down 
 to his account by the waiter. Friendly hands 
 would press him on the shoulder, and friendly 
 voices say, " Dear old boy, in fine form as usual, 
 eh?" And Mr. Burdon would look round, with a 
 delighted laugh, and say, " My dear lad, how are
 
 The Bohemians 59 
 
 you ? But you've got nothing to drink ! What 
 shall it be?" 
 
 " Oh, a drop of Scotch," or " a green Chartreuse," 
 or "a small Bass, old man," were the cheerful 
 replies of the friendly voices. 
 
 Oliver Lumley was overawed by this prodigal 
 generosity. He wondered who this bland and 
 benevolent old gentleman might be. Probably, he 
 thought, the editor of The Ttjnes, or an actor- 
 manager of importance and wealth. Yes, looking 
 at the white shirt-front and the massive gold 
 chain, he decided upon the actor-manager. 
 
 An improvised entertainment was in progress in 
 the room, for it was a Wastrel " night." Old 
 Ballantyne — "dear old Ballantyne," said Mr. 
 Burdon — was called for by long and repeated 
 shouts. He turned deaf ears to them for several 
 minutes, and sat scowling in a seat nearest to the 
 fire, plucking at his long iron-grey locks, or passing 
 his long, bony hands over his sharp, gaunt knees. 
 Then he rose and took his stand by the fireside, 
 and in a deep, sepulchral voice, said, " The Grave- 
 diggers' Scene from Hamlet." 
 
 Tremendous applause followed this announce- 
 ment, and at the fag-end of it Mr. Burdon leant 
 over to Oliver and whispered in his ear : " An 
 actor of the old school, my lad ! We don't breed 
 them now. . . . I've heard him do it a hundred 
 times, and it is always inimitable." 
 
 Ballantyne declaimed the old familiar lines. At
 
 6o Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 times it seemed as if the wind whistled through 
 his toothless gums. At times his sepulchral voice 
 broke into a childish treble. His lean, grey face 
 was twisted into strange and hideous contortions. 
 His words were as indistinct as Irving's in his most 
 inarticulate moments. But at the conclusion, when 
 he thrust back his iron-grey locks and bowed with 
 grave dignity to the company, tremendous en- 
 thusiasm applauded him. 
 
 " What do you think of that}" asked Mr. Burden 
 of Oliver, and without waiting for an answer said 
 " Magnificent. The old school ! The old school ! " 
 
 Gilbert Verney turned his hard-boiled eyes to 
 Oliver, and Oliver had learned by this time to 
 expect the prodigious wink which followed. 
 
 "Gives one a bit of a twist," said Mr. Gilbert 
 Verney, staring into his empty tankard. 
 
 And Mr. Burdon said : " My dear old boy, 
 forgive me ! Waiter ! More beer for Mr. 
 Verney," 
 
 *' In a tankard," said Gilbert Verney. 
 
 Other gentlemen followed with songs, recitations, 
 and anecdotes. They were given chiefly by elder 
 members of the club, several of whom wore frock- 
 coats. Tremendous enthusiasm followed every 
 performance, though it was evident from Mr. 
 Burdon's remarks, and from the behaviour of the 
 company, that they were familiar of old with every 
 item on the impromptu programme. They called 
 the names of the songs, and sang the choruses
 
 The Bohemians 6i 
 
 They knew the end of each anecdote before it had 
 been told, and laughed uproariously before the 
 point had been reached. They prompted with 
 lines of recitations when the reciter forgot his 
 words. 
 
 "Dear old Robinson," said Mr. Burdon. "He 
 has told that story on every Wastrel ' night ' for the 
 last fifteen years. And it is better every time." 
 
 Only one man's song was received with coldness 
 and lack of applause. 
 
 " That's something new, isn't it ? " asked Mr. 
 Burdon. " It's poor trash, and rather bad form, 
 don't you think ? The Wastrels are not to be 
 fudged off with things that have not had the hall- 
 mark of their approval." 
 
 " I agree," said Mr. Jack Rafferty, the humorist 
 " We don't want new wine in old bottles." 
 
 Mr. Burdon laughed noisily. 
 
 " We can always rely on old Jack Rafferty for 
 an epigram." He turned to Oliver Lumley. 
 " Devilish droll dog, isn't he ? He's our humorist, 
 you know." 
 
 Oliver laughed also ; but he wondered where the 
 joke was, or where the epigram. It bothered him 
 a good deal in bed that night. 
 
 At the conclusion of the entertainment the 
 Wastrels seemed suddenly to go mad all together, 
 and by general consent. 
 
 " The Wastrels' Band ! " cried Mr. Burdon, 
 laughing until the tears came into his eyes. He
 
 62 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 seized a plate and a spoon, and used them as 
 drum and drumstick, while he marched round the 
 room in a procession of club-members playing 
 strange and awful music on instruments of a 
 curious kind. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert Verney used a pewter tankard as 
 a gong, upon which he rapped with his latch-key. 
 An old gentleman with silvery locks and a refined 
 old face was banging away at a tea-tray. The 
 fire-tongs, the shovel and poker, newspapers rolled 
 into the form of trumpets, a comb and tissue paper, 
 a penny whistle produced from the frock-coat of 
 a respectable middle-aged man with side whiskers, 
 a violin, on which one of the club members had 
 played Mascagni's " Intermezzo," provided instru- 
 ments for other performers, and with a wild hulla- 
 baloo, a terrific din and discord, yells, cat-calls, 
 and snatches of song the Wastrels proceeded 
 round and round the table, with queer, freakish, 
 grotesque steps, like a cake-walk in a lunatic 
 asylum. 
 
 Oliver had a German beer jug, with which he 
 contrived to make a good deal of noise by snap- 
 ping the lid up and down. His head was in a 
 whirl. His pulse was beating fast. His blood 
 was all a-tingle. This was Life ! This was the 
 folly of Youth ! ... It was magnificent anyhow, 
 although as regards youthfulness he was surprised 
 at the number of middle-aged men who took part 
 in the mad merriment.
 
 The Bohemians 63 
 
 Mr. Burdon returned to the table mopping his 
 forehead. 
 
 " Oh, Bohemia ! " he said. " Bohemia ! Gay, 
 mad, dissolute old Bohemianism ! " 
 
 He asked if any of the boys would like a drink. 
 Many of them accepted the proposal. 
 
 " Dry work ! " said Gilbert Verney. " Where's 
 the beer ? " 
 
 " Waiter, more beer for Mr. Verney," said Mr. 
 Burdon. 
 
 " In a tankard," said Gilbert Verney. 
 
 The clock was striking twelve. The tinkling 
 bell seemed to have a magical effect upon the 
 company. Young men gulped down their liquid 
 hurriedly. Old men, whose eyes were rather 
 watery now, tilted their glasses with a haste which 
 caused some of them to spill a little whisky down 
 their shirt-fronts. 
 
 " Well, the last train for Tooting waits for no 
 man ! " said Mr. Jack Rafferty, the humorist. 
 " And the wife is waiting for me at the other end 
 of the line ! " 
 
 Mr. Burdon chuckled, grasped his hand warmly, 
 and slapped him on the back. 
 
 " Witty to the last ! " he said, laughing. " You'll 
 die with a jest on your lips, old boy. . . . Gay old 
 dog!" 
 
 " The twelve-ten to Brixton, my lad," said Mr. 
 Shawcross, the celebrated dramatist, to Mr. Bing- 
 ham, the other celebrated dramatist.
 
 64 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Can we do it ? " said Mr, Bingham anxiously. 
 " Alice will be waiting up for me." 
 
 " I'm for Wimbledon," said Gilbert Verney. He 
 gave one of his hoarse chuckles, and Oliver just 
 dodged his curious wink. " A far cry from 
 Bohemia ! But much better air out of town." 
 
 There was a general exodus from the club, and 
 respectable, middle-aged gentlemen suddenly re- 
 membered " the wife," while some of them also 
 remembered with alarm that they had forgotten 
 to take the latch-key. 
 
 "Well, back to the little suburban home," said 
 one of the club members. 
 
 Mr. Burdon shook both of Oliver's hands. 
 
 " Delighted to have met you. Delighted. I am 
 always glad of brilliant conversation. It is a 
 mental pick-me-up, a moral tonic. You must join 
 the Wastrels, Mr. Lumley, sir. A young literary 
 man like yourself — Bohemia, you know. Let me 
 nominate you." 
 
 " I should be most honoured," said Oliver. 
 " But as yet I am only a novice. I am serving 
 my apprenticeship." 
 
 Mr. Burdon waved his doubts away. 
 
 " You are a literary man. That is enough. . . . 
 Personally, I regret to say, I am not a professional 
 man of letters, only a connoisseur and patron, as 
 they would have said in the old days. The fact 
 is ..." he lowered his voice, and squeezed Oliver's 
 arm in a confidential way — " I keep a hat-shop
 
 The Bohemians 65 
 
 in the City, 303, Cheapside. Home address, 22, 
 Primrose Villas, Dulwich. If you need a new hat 
 I always give discount to the Wastrels." 
 ^ He became more confidential. 
 
 " I like to come here with the boys. Dear lads ! 
 dear, gay-hearted, irresponsible Bohemian lads ! 
 As you have seen, I am somewhat of a raconteur. 
 They like my stories. It is pleasant to get away 
 from Dulwich into this wild Bohemian haunt. It 
 brings back the spirit of immortal youth." 
 
 He put his hand on his white waistcoat in 
 the direction of his heart, and gazed round the 
 room with moist eyes, sniffing a little at the 
 stale tobacco smoke and the fumes of the whisky 
 dregs, 
 
 " Ah ! " he said. " Bohemia ! " 
 
 He grasped Oliver by the hand. 
 
 " I must hurry away, my dear lad. The wife 
 always stays up to warm a basin of broth for 
 me." 
 
 Only a few men remained in the club. One 
 of them was the old man Ballantyne, whose lean 
 withered face looked like a death-mask as he sat 
 over the last embers of the club fire. He was 
 telling some rather terrible stories of vicious 
 humour to three or four young men, who burst 
 out into shrill laughter. 
 
 Oliver looked round for Hardy, his old school 
 chum, but he had gone hours before. Then Oliver 
 went out into the street, glad to feel the fresh 
 5
 
 66 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 night air in his face. His eyes and lips and palate 
 were smoke-dried. He had a bad headache. But 
 he had seen behind the hidden veil of modern 
 Bohemia, and he felt that he had gone a step 
 forward in his career. His only regret was that 
 so many of those Bohemians lived in the suburbs.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A Letter to a Lady 
 
 " My dear Miss Virginia Garland " (the letter was 
 from Oliver Lumley), 
 " Your name has a beautiful fragrance to me — if 
 you will allow me to say so— and sometimes in city 
 streets the memory of it comes to me like a breath of 
 sweet country air. To-day this fragrance is really present 
 to my senses, for I have upon my desk now as I write, 
 above a litter of manuscripts (I confess that as a man of 
 letters I am hopelessly untidy !) a cheap vase containing 
 those flowers — the hollyhocks and sweetwilliams — which 
 you have sent me from your garden. That was like the 
 Lady Bountiful you are. It is very comforting to me, 
 very encouraging (believe me) to know that while I toil 
 in town, weaving plots, getting deep into the throbbing 
 turmoil of humanity, exploring this great, and wonderful, 
 and squalid city in the quest for Truth (for that, after 
 all, is the vocation of the Uterary man), that far away 
 in the country is a lady, unknown to me except by name 
 and sympathy, who sometimes in her quiet garden and 
 among her blossoms, sends a thought to the man who 
 has no quietude, and no flower-garden save that of the 
 imagination. 
 
 " But you have sent more than a thought — httle gifts, 
 tangible and practical, and full of power and charity. 
 
 67
 
 68 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 For your last five pounds I thank you most sincerely, on 
 behalf of those luckless ones among whom I have distri- 
 buted it, in your name, as largesse in their misery. Shall 
 I give an account of my stewardship? That would 
 weary you. But be assured that it has given new hope, 
 a little joy, a good relief, to several poor souls ' down on 
 their luck,' as they say. 
 
 '* You write that you cannot understand the miracle of 
 that imaginative and creative gift which belongs to the 
 novelist. You envy it. No. It is not to be envied. 
 The literary temperament is a miserable heritage. Some- 
 times I could pray most earnestly that it should be lifted 
 from me, and that I should become one of those ordinary 
 men who go on their quiet, plodding way with good- 
 humour and content, without that self-analysis, that 
 quivering sensibility, those haunting, unsatisfied desires, 
 which torture the artist. 
 
 " Shall I tell you some of my secrets — the secrets of a 
 literary man ? We do not know each other, except in 
 correspondence, so that the confession is not dangerous ! 
 (I write jestingly !) Shall I tell you of the agonies of 
 that creative gift which you so envy ? You think it is a 
 natural gift which flows easily. All artists would deny 
 that. Creation, whether in painting, music, or literature, 
 is always painful. Believe me, I sit down for hours before 
 blank paper, wrestling, as it were, with my own inner 
 consciousness, in the hope that suddenly out of nothing- 
 ness there will appear an idea — a situation — a plot. A 
 hundred vague and shadowy forms, the unborn, embryo 
 creatures of imagination, float through my brain. The 
 echoes of our great throbbing human life come with 
 faint, formless harmonies to my senses. The beginnings of
 
 A Letter to a Lady 69 
 
 stories, the ends of stories, the tangled threads, or ragged 
 ends of human dramas, tease me on with the expectation 
 of arranging themselves into clear-cut, definite, orderly 
 motives for a narrative. Then suddenly I find my 
 nerves are quivering, my head hot, my heart sickened 
 with these vain intellectual efforts. I have smoked too 
 much (an evil habit, though sometimes it soothes the 
 senses, and concentrates the mind), and I plunge out 
 into the fresh air, into the busy streets. At home on my 
 desk the paper is still blank ! And always there is the 
 haunting thought to a poor literary man — I am some- 
 times proud of my poverty, and sometimes afraid of it — 
 that he must write a story or go without a meal ; that he 
 must write something new somehow, to pay his bills, 
 that he must create or starve ! 
 
 " The tragedy of it is that his temperament demands 
 things unnecessary to the ordinary man. He needs a 
 continual change of environment, of scenery, and of 
 society. Otherwise he rusts, and his imagination is 
 limited by the commonplace. He needs beauty — 
 though he lives perhaps in squalor. His poverty is not 
 that stimulus which it has been called by comfortable 
 folk. It often degrades him, drags him down, stifles 
 him, destroys him. He is tempted to work down to the 
 level of what the public will buy, rather than strive for 
 the high summits of his ideals. Editors — the merchants 
 of Literature — are in conspiracy against his idealism, and 
 he is tempted by the devil. Tempted also by the beauti- 
 ful fairies of life. I confess to you, dear Lady Bountiful, 
 that I love and desire the beautiful things of this world 
 — beautiful pictures, beautiful furniture (does not Ruskin 
 say that the imagination is brutalised by living with ugly
 
 70 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 things ?) beautiful dresses, music, paintings, and scenery. 
 Occasionally I get glimpses of these things, for I have 
 the privilege of going at times among people who possess 
 them. (As a gentleman I am not denied pleasant 
 society, though as a literary man I am poverty-stricken !) 
 — but always I have to return to this wretched lodging 
 and its gimcrack furniture, and its slatternly landlady — 
 dear soul that she is ! 
 
 " Why do I tell you these things ? Because, though 
 we have never met (do you never come to town?) I 
 know that you will sympathise, and perhaps under- 
 stand. Forgive me if I have been too candid in self- 
 revelation. 
 
 " Yours always sincerely, 
 
 "Oliver Lumley. 
 
 " P.S. — Yes, George Herbert's poems are very beauti- 
 ful. I send you in return my latest story. A little trifle, 
 but with an underlying meaning."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 The Old Home 
 
 It will be seen that our young friend Oliver con- 
 tinued his correspondence (and took pains with the 
 style of it) with the lady who had written to him 
 from the country. It will be noticed also that she 
 had followed her first gift by another, on behalf of 
 those suffering people whom as an author he came 
 to know in the queer streets of life. It is, I think, 
 to Oliver's credit that he built up a rather beautiful 
 picture in his imagination of this rural benefactress. 
 One or two phrases in his letter to her may have 
 a ring of insincerity, but that is because a literary 
 man's letter, written with a touch of what we call 
 "style," always seems slightly false to people of 
 this day, whose letter-writing is more slovenly and 
 colloquial. I defend the character of Oliver by 
 saying that he was perfectly sincere in his gratitude 
 and in his devotion. He told the plain truth when 
 he said that often as he went about in London 
 the vision of a beautiful face and the memory of 
 a charming name — Virginia Garland's — haunted 
 him. In his imaginative way he made a little 
 idyll about her in his heart. She was his dream- 
 lady, vague and mystical, whom he worshipped 
 
 71
 
 72 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 as young Dante his Beatrice, who was not more 
 familiar in the flesh. Yet, tliough he made a little 
 shrine for her in his heart, he was not precluded 
 from intercourse of a more human kind with other 
 women. 
 
 To return to his letter. I call attention to that 
 phrase in which he says that he will not give an 
 account of his stewardship regarding the lady's 
 second contribution to the Oliver Lumley Charity 
 Funds. Personally, I do not think he was called 
 upon to present a debit and credit account, with 
 items nicely set down and balanced, as though he 
 were a chartered accountant. On the other hand, 
 I fancy his conscience glided too easily to one of 
 the proverbs which the devil has made to trap 
 the souls of men. " Charity begins at home," said 
 Oliver when he fingered that crisp five-pound note, 
 and reflecting that his father was an overworked 
 man, that his mother mended too many garments, 
 that his brother Horace led a humdrum life, and 
 that Galatea had few pleasures, he decided that 
 his flesh and blood came well within the terms 
 of Virginia Garland's bequest. 
 
 Setting aside the origin and purpose of the 
 money, it was certainly a generous instinct which 
 prompted Oliver to give a great " treat " to his 
 people ; and their immense pleasure and pride 
 rewarded him. During the first six months of his 
 residence in Barton Street he had seen little of 
 his family. They lived but a three-halfpenny tram-
 
 The Old Home 73 
 
 car ride away from him, yet, in his mind's eye, it 
 seemed a world away. He had entered into a new 
 world, with new friends, new ideas, new manners. 
 
 He did not care — as time went on he cared less 
 and less — to retrace his steps even for an hour or 
 two and go back to that house in Denmark Hill, 
 with its old associations of a mean little home-life. 
 He felt that it dragged him down. The sight of 
 the threadbare carpets, of the broken springs in the 
 big armchair, of the cheap china ornaments on 
 the mantelpiece, of the brown earthenware teapot 
 hurt him almost physically, hurt him as a German 
 oleograph would shock the eyeballs of a Post- 
 Impressionist. 
 
 His rare appearance in Denmark Hill was the 
 cause of grief beyond words to his mother. She 
 waited for him like a sweetheart her lover. Every 
 unexpected knock at the door made her heart 
 jump with the hope of " There's Oliver ! " Every 
 tea-time she hoped that he might come to supper. 
 When every supper had passed she buoyed herself 
 up with the hope that he would come to tea next 
 day. When the weeks passed and he did not come 
 at all, she was miserable, and new lines crept about 
 her eyes and mouth. 
 
 Often she would drop her sewing and sit think- 
 ing and thinking, in a brooding way, of his hand- 
 some face and gaiety of heart and careless ways. 
 She wrote little notes to him, begging him to come 
 more often, pleading for the sight of him. When
 
 74 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 he answered them it was often on a postcard, with 
 just a line : " Frightfully busy 1 " or " Hope to see 
 you soon." 
 
 Mr. Lumley was still working overtime, to pay 
 that pound a week which he had promised for a 
 year. It made supper-time an hour later, and, for 
 that reason, he had been compelled to tell his wife 
 the cause of his extra industry. He took some 
 credit to himself, as he had every right to do. 
 
 " I am glad to help the boy in his career," he 
 said simply. " But I think no one can accuse me 
 of not being a devoted father. I have not be- 
 grudged the sweat of my brow." 
 
 To that Mrs. Lumley replied : " I should think 
 not indeed. For what other reason do we bring 
 children into the world, except to work for them 
 and love them ? " 
 
 This seemed a hard answer to Richard Lumley. 
 Just for a moment he was filled with a kind of 
 unreasoning hatred against his own son, coupled 
 with an intense anger with his wife for taking all 
 that he did for granted. His pallid face flushed, 
 and he took off his spectacles and rubbed them 
 nervously with his handkerchief Then he re- 
 strained himself from uttering bitter words, which 
 he knew he would regret, and said, meekly enough, 
 " I suppose so, my dear." 
 
 It was Galatea who said the bitter words without 
 restraint. She accused Oliver of having forgotten 
 his family and of being ashamed of them. She
 
 The Old Home 75 
 
 had a "scene " with her mother because she said 
 that Oliver's heart was as big as a monkey-nut, 
 and that he had the selfish vanity of an actress in 
 musical comedy. 
 
 Galatea had become the typist secretary of a 
 patent medicine proprietor in the City, and she 
 suffered from typist's headache, so that when she 
 came home at seven o'clock she vowed that her 
 hat weighed as heavily as the dome of St. Paul's. 
 As she confessed frankly to her mother, after a 
 few tears and much contrition, her hard sayings 
 against Oliver were caused by fiddle-string nerves 
 and general bad temper with " life and everything." 
 Upon this plea she was almost forgiven, though, 
 as Mrs. Lumley confided to Horace, she could not 
 understand how Galatea could say such cruel and 
 horrible things about a brother so good and kind 
 as Oliver. 
 
 " My dear mother," said Horace in his quiet way, 
 " Galatea does not mean half what she says, and 
 the other half she is sorry for. Fortunately I am 
 not given to many words, so I am saved a lot of 
 misery." 
 
 But though Horace did not use many words he 
 thought a good deal, and Oliver gave him cause 
 for anxiety.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Maids and Men 
 
 Four or five times Horace called at Barton Street, 
 Westminster, after his day's work in the City, in 
 the hope of smoking a pipe with his brilliant 
 brother. But only once did he find Oliver in his 
 rooms. Mrs. Trant, the landlady, informed him 
 that five nights out of six " the young gentleman " 
 put on a starched shirt and went to places which, 
 to her mind, being an old-fashioned body, were no 
 better than they should be. She referred to " them 
 music-halls and such-like," which were the ruination 
 of young people, putting no end of foolish ideas 
 into their heads. Many was the maidservant she 
 had had who had gone straight to the bad from the 
 gallery of the " nine-o'clock house." She had got 
 one now who would sing flashy songs while clean- 
 ing the boots, and whom she had caught imitating 
 Marie Lloyd before a looking-glass when she was 
 supposed to be making the beds. In duty bound 
 Mrs. Trant had given the girl " what-for " and sent 
 her down to the kitchen with a flea in her ear. 
 
 Upon hearing that Horace was the brother of 
 her lodger, she confided to him that Mr. Oliver 
 was most irregular with his payments and owed 
 her for eight weeks' board and lodging. 
 
 76
 
 Maids and Men 77 
 
 " If it weren't for his tongue, which could talk 
 the hind leg off a donkey," said the landlady, " I 
 wouldn't put up with such habits. But there — 
 when he puts on that smile of his and begins his 
 artful flattery, he makes me as soft as butter. I'm 
 not the only woman he makes a fool of, and that's 
 certain. I'm sure I pity the poor girls that he 
 casts his black eyes on." 
 
 So she rattled on to Horace, at the hall door, 
 until at the first pause he lifted his hat and strode 
 away, filled with melancholy forebodings as to 
 Oliver's future. 
 
 But one evening, after several visits, he found his 
 brother actually at home. He was giving a supper- 
 party to some friends, who happened to be Miss 
 Livvy O'Brien and Miss Doris Fortescue. Horace 
 felt overwhelmingly embarrassed when he stood in 
 the doorway of the front parlour and saw his brother 
 sitting in a cane arm-chair before the fire, with an 
 extremely pretty young person in a blue dress on 
 his knees, with her arms round Oliver's neck and 
 her face against his cheek, while at the piano sat 
 another girl in a fluffy muslin frock, singing a little 
 ballad called " Catch me ! Catch me ! Catch me ! " 
 in a piping soprano. A cup of coffee stood at the 
 pianist's right hand on the keyboard, and a blue 
 wreath of smoke rose from a half-burnt cigarette 
 suspended between the ears of a comical china cat 
 on the music rest. 
 
 The supper-table had not been cleared away,
 
 78 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 and was littered with the remnants of the feast, 
 which displayed the bones of mutton cutlets in 
 white paper frills. 
 
 It was the girl at the piano — Doris Fortescue 
 — who first caught sight of Horace's grave, em- 
 barrassed face in the doorway. She smudged her 
 notes, stopped singing in the middle of a line, and 
 said with the prettiest impudence : 
 
 "Is this the ghost of Hamlet's father, or an 
 undertaker to measure a corpse ? Stranger, speak, 
 I conjure thee ! " 
 
 " What the dickens are you talking about over 
 there, little one ? " said Oliver. 
 
 He released himself from Livvy's arms, and 
 turned his head round. When he saw Horace he 
 uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " Horace, by Jove ! " 
 
 He gave Livvy a little push, and stood up with 
 a reddening face. Then he laughed boisterously, 
 but in an artificial way. It would be difficult to 
 say which of the brothers was more embarrassed. 
 
 " I'm afraid I am in the way," said Horace. " I 
 just looked in to — er — see how you are, old man. 
 I'd better be going." 
 
 " Oh, rot ! Come in and warm your toes." 
 Oliver pulled himself together. 
 
 " Let me introduce you — Miss O'Brien, Miss 
 Fortescue. Livvy, this is my brother Horace, one 
 of the best." 
 
 " How do you do ? " said Miss Livvy, taking
 
 Maids and Men 79 
 
 Horace's limp hand ; and looking up into his face 
 with mischievous eyes. " What a nice big 
 brother ! " 
 
 " Horace ? " said Miss Doris Fortescue, swinging 
 round on the music-stool. " Delightful name ! 
 It reminds me of a song I used to sing : — 
 
 " Horace was a curate, 
 Horace was so shy 
 He hardly could endure it 
 When Kitty winked her eye I " 
 
 The real Horace blushed up to the roots of his 
 hair, fumbled with his hat and stick, and again 
 reiterated his opinion that he had better be going. 
 But Doris Fortescue would not hear of such a 
 thing. 
 
 " Going I " she cried. " My dear good man, you 
 have arrived just in time to save a tragedy. Livvy 
 has entirely monopolised your baby brother, and 
 I was left all on my lonesome, and horribly out in 
 the cold. I was just going to break things." 
 
 She put her hands on Horace's arm and led him 
 over to the horsehair sofa. " Here we will rest 
 awhile under the greenwood tree. Upon this 
 mossy bank there is just room enough for you 
 and me," 
 
 She took a seat, tucked in her skirt, and patted 
 a cushion as an invitation to Horace to make use 
 of it. He sat down awkwardly, and stared gravely 
 at the carpet.
 
 8o Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 The two girls studied him with the frankest 
 curiosity, their quick eyes roving over his rather 
 worn, pale face, over his shabby suit and his thick 
 boots. Then they laughed together very merrily, 
 so that Horace prayed that the floor would open 
 and swallow him up. 
 
 " Have a whisky, old man ? " said Oliver. 
 
 " No, thank you, Roly," said Horace. " I can't 
 stay more than a few minutes." 
 
 The name by which he called Oliver was 
 instantly seized upon by the two girls. Livvy 
 went off into a little shriek of laughter. " Oh how 
 exquisite ! Roly-poly puddiny-pie ! " 
 
 " Roly ! " cried Doris Fortescue, clapping her 
 hands. She began to sing one of her little songs : 
 
 "A frog he would a-wooing go — 
 
 Hey, ho, said Roly — 
 Whether his mother would wish him or no " 
 
 She did not complete the song, but finished it 
 with a peal of silvery notes, and threw a cushion 
 at Oliver, who caught it just in time to save a 
 candlestick. 
 
 " How perfectly it fits the character of our dear 
 Oliver ! " said Livvy, who was kneeling on the 
 floor, with her hands on Oliver's knees. " How 
 often he goes a-wooing, whether his mother would 
 wish it or no ! " 
 
 So they prattled on, and Doris assured Horace 
 that she would be eternally grateful to him for
 
 Maids and Men 8i 
 
 having revealed that precious nickname, which she 
 would never, never forget. 
 
 Horace sat silent. He found both these young 
 ladies remarkably unconventional. Never in his 
 life had he been in the same room with such girls. 
 At first he was half scared. He felt that it was 
 impossible for him to foresee what they would do 
 next. He had alarming forebodings. He was 
 filled with a profound anxiety for his brother 
 Oliver, who had fallen into the company of these 
 dangerous young creatures. 
 
 But gradually the sprightliness of Miss Livvy 
 and Miss Doris, and their overflowing good humour, 
 made him feel less ill at ease. Their utter lack of 
 shyness and self-consciousness relieved his own 
 bashfulness. Yet he blushed like a schoolboy 
 when Doris Fortescue, sitting rather close to him 
 on the horsehair sofa, confessed that a delicious 
 dreaminess was taking possession of her little body 
 and soul, and laying her head against his shoulder, 
 begged him to tell her a ghost story while the fire- 
 light flickered in the grate. 
 
 Horace caught a glance from Oliver's eyes in 
 which there was a sly amusement. He was sitting 
 up stiffly and awkwardly and wishing to Heaven 
 that the young lady would remove her fluffy head 
 from his shoulder. He protested that he knew no 
 ghost story, nor any other kind of story, and again 
 reiterated his statement that he must be going. 
 But Doris Fortescue took his hand, and fondled it 
 6
 
 82 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 in her lap, vowing that he would be the beastliest 
 kind of beast if he broke up the harmony of the 
 evening, and her blessed sense of peacefulness. 
 
 It was Livvy who told a story. It was the story 
 of an adventurous love affair with a young actor 
 in the provinces who had persecuted her with his 
 attentions until she consp red with the rest of the 
 company to make him a laughing-stock. Miss 
 Livvy tolJ the story with a wealth of dramatic 
 detail, as she sat on a footstool with Oliver as her 
 head-rest. In the excitement of the story her 
 Irish accent became more marked, and her dark 
 eyes danced with merriment. The dreaminess of 
 Doris was dispelled by her friend's narrative, and 
 she laughed quite hysterically at the end of it, 
 so that the springs of the sofa creaked under her, 
 jerking Horace up and down as though he were on 
 wires. He was caught up also by the infectious- 
 ness of her laughter, and his dry " Ha ! ha ! " was 
 like the croak of a raven to the rippling mirth 
 of these two nightingales. 
 
 " A miracle ! " cried Livvy when her story 
 finished. " I have put a smile on to the face of 
 your big brother, Roly, dear infant. Sure, I thought 
 he would always be as grave as an undertaker ! " 
 
 " I won't have you say unkind things about his 
 face," said Doris, turning round on the sofa, and 
 looking at Horace. " It is a very nice face, a very 
 handsome face. As old Shakespeare says, we shall 
 never look upon his like again."
 
 Maids and Men 83 
 
 It was then that Horace struggled up to go, and 
 released himself from Miss Fortescue's affectionate 
 clasp. Oliver, who had been enjoying himself 
 enormously in a quiet way, by watching his 
 brother's behaviour, saw him out to the front door, 
 and asked him in a whisper what he thought of 
 the girls. 
 
 " Remarkable young women," said Horace 
 gravely. " I advise you to be careful, old man." 
 
 " They're as harmless as doves," said Oliver. 
 " Well, good-bye, old chap. Glad you came. I 
 will go over to Denmark Hill in a day or two." 
 
 He watched his brother stride down the street, 
 and noticed with a touch of pity how shabby he 
 looked, and how his shoulders were humped by 
 years of office work. " Poor old Horace ! " he 
 thought, as he shut the door. And as Horace 
 walked to the nearest tram to Denmark Hill he 
 thought, " Poor old Oliver ! I am afraid he is 
 running into danger. What amazing young 
 women ! . , . I wish he did not owe for all that 
 rent." 
 
 He did not tell his mother or father the full 
 details of that evening v^'ith Oliver in Barton Street, 
 but he rejoiced Mrs. Lumley's heart by telling her 
 that Oliver had promised to come over to see them 
 very soon.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 The Generous Heart 
 
 On the rare days when Oliver was able to tear 
 himself away from those serious studies of life, 
 in order to visit his old home, he came like a god 
 out of the machine to the house in Rosemary 
 Avenue. 
 
 Not like Horace did he use the humble tramway. 
 He came in the magnificence of a motor-cab. The 
 noise of its panting petrol-tank, and all its glorious 
 rattle and roar, as it pulled up in front of Number 33, 
 caused some of the neighbours to put their heads 
 out of window and afterwards to comment upon 
 the Lumleys' " successful son." 
 
 No sound was more joyous to the ears of Mrs. 
 Lumley herself, though, after her warm embrace, 
 she rebuked Oliver gently for his extravagance. 
 
 " It seems such dreadful waste of money," she 
 said, " when the tuppences go ticking on that little 
 machine. They are hard enough to earn, and so 
 quick to run away." 
 
 But Oliver replied, in his careless, royal way, 
 that with him time was money, and that what 
 saved his brain saved his pocket. 
 
 It was curious that each member of Oliver's 
 84
 
 The Generous Heart 85 
 
 family felt a little ill at ease when he came back 
 to them. The splendour of his appearance seemed 
 to reproach their own poverty. Even the brilliance 
 of his patent-leather boots made the drawing-room 
 carpet seem more threadbare. The beautiful 
 creases in his trousers were a silent contrast to 
 the baggy knees of Mr. Lumley and Horace. His 
 conversation, too, gay and good-hearted as it was, 
 abashed them and made them feel uncomfortable. 
 He spoke light-heartedly of tea-parties at the 
 house of a certain Lady Goldstein, with whom 
 he seemed on terms of intimate friendship, and 
 described in his humorous way the foibles of the 
 distinguished men and women, many of them 
 titled, whom he met there. 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. Lumley it was a startling thing 
 that their boy should appear on terms of equality 
 with such great people, but that he .should make 
 fun of them was awe-inspiring. Only Galatea 
 pretended to be quite unmoved by all this grandeur 
 into which Oliver had made his way. She took a 
 kind of bitter pleasure in reminding her brother of 
 the days when he had inked the seams of his boots, 
 and pleaded with her to sew up the ends of his 
 frayed trousers. She also exaggerated the contrast 
 between what she called the " squalor " of her own 
 life as a typist in the City and his luxurious 
 habits. 
 
 One such scene took place a few nights after 
 Horace's visit to Barton Street, when Oliver
 
 86 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 redeemed his promise to spend an evening at 
 home. 
 
 Galatea came in late. She had had to fight for 
 a tram at Blackfriars in a downpour of rain. Her 
 boots were covered with mud, her skirt was be- 
 draggled and splashed, and she looked cold and 
 miserable. 
 
 Oliver was sitting in the one arm-chair, drawn 
 close to the fire. He had been giving his mother 
 a vivid description of a first night at the opera, 
 for which he had obtained a ticket from a friend. 
 Galatea overheard a sentence or two about the 
 gorgeous dresses of the women. She took off 
 her wet hat, and stabbed it several times with a 
 long pin. 
 
 " I suppose you would despise those women," 
 she said in a hard voice, " if they earned their 
 living honestly, and had to wade in the mud and 
 slush of life ? " 
 
 " My dear girl," said Oliver, " if they had to do 
 that I should not have seen them at the opera. 
 They are the women of the Smart Set. You 
 should see all their diamonds, by Jove! Simply 
 blazing ! " 
 
 "Disgusting vulgarity, I call it," said Galatea. 
 " And they are all loose-living creatures." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Oliver, as though he were 
 intimately acquainted with all of them. " That 
 is too sweeping, my dear. Some of them are 
 charming women, as simple as possible. Of course
 
 The Generous Heart 87 
 
 they can't help being rich. They were just born 
 with the luck." 
 
 " They were born bad," said Galatea. " They 
 are rotten at the heart, as greedy as vultures, 
 as selfish as cats, and utterly vain and foolish." 
 
 " My dear child," said Oliver, with the severity 
 of an elder brother, " you know nothing about 
 them. Talk of something with which you are 
 more familiar." 
 
 " Yes ! " said Galatea, restraining a passion of 
 anger, which brought a swift flush to her face. 
 " I will talk of girls like myself, who do the 
 drudgery of life. I will talk of the horror of 
 typing six hours, seven hours, nine hours a day, 
 until one has an iron band round the head, bursting 
 one's brain. I will talk of tea-shop luncheons for 
 fivepence, and the insulting familiarity of City 
 clerks who sit in the same room at the office, 
 and the struggle for the tramcar morning and 
 evening. I know all about those things. I am 
 very familiar with that way of life ! " 
 
 She spoke with such intense feeling, and her 
 eyes were fired with such a fierce light, that Oliver 
 was startled, and Mrs. Lumley said, " Hush, my 
 dear. Why speak so bitterly ? " 
 
 " Shall I tell you why ? " 
 
 She laughed scornfully, and gave a swift, straight 
 glance at Oliver. 
 
 " It is because I come home to find one of my 
 brothers boasting of his social success, and con-
 
 88 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 descending to his own family, as though they were 
 inferior to him. And all the while I drudge and 
 drudge, in order to add a few shillings to the 
 housekeeping money, while Oliver — noble fellow ! 
 — is living a gay life without helping his father 
 or mother by so much as a single farthing ! There, 
 the truth is out now ! " 
 
 The truth being out, she burst into tears, and 
 went hurriedly into the next room. Certainly her 
 words of truth were painful. They left Oliver 
 rather white, and with two lines across his forehead 
 which were only visible when he was very angry. 
 Mrs. Lumley was almost in tears herself. As 
 though Oliver were a distinguished stranger who 
 had been insulted at her hearthside, she apologised 
 for Galatea's behaviour. 
 
 " Her nerves have gone all wrong. The poor 
 girl drinks too much tea, I am afraid, and that 
 office of hers is warmed by hot-water pipes. Please 
 do not take her words to heart, my dear boy. She 
 has a great love and admiration for you." 
 
 " It seems like it," said Oliver drily. 
 
 For an hour or two he was rather quiet and 
 thoughtful, and avoided looking at Galatea's red 
 eyes when she sat at the supper-table. But 
 afterwards, when his father and Horace had 
 come in, he forced himself to be cheerful and 
 chatty, and then made a proposal which put 
 them in a good humour, and restored his self- 
 complacency.
 
 The Generous Heart 89 
 
 " Look here, I haven't celebrated my modest 
 success in literature by any family function. What 
 do you say to a box at the theatre — His Majesty's — 
 and a little dinner afterwards at Michel's in Soho ? 
 It would be very jolly, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " Oh, Oliver ! " said Mrs. Lumley, " how sweet of 
 you ! " 
 
 " My dear boy," said his father, " you are very 
 good and kind. But wouldn't it cost you a great 
 deal of money ? Are you sure you can afford such 
 an expense ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's all right," said Oliver airily. He 
 added as an afterthought that he had put by a 
 little sum for this special purpose. He did not 
 mention that it was Miss Virginia Garland's 
 charity. His people had never heard of Vir- 
 ginia Garland, so it was no use going into that 
 matter. 
 
 His father had a new objection. 
 
 " There is another thing," he said, hesitating a 
 little, as though slightly embarrassed. " I have 
 not an evening dress suit. As you know, I 
 have never had much time for the social side of 
 life." 
 
 " Same here," said Horace. " We should not 
 do you credit in a box, Roly." 
 
 Oliver could not deny that a white shirt-front 
 was essential in such a position, but, not to be 
 beaten, he said, " Very well, then, if you will be 
 so haughty, we will get a row of seats in the
 
 90 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 dress-circle. Strange as it may seem, that is a 
 place in which you needn't dress." 
 
 He turned to Galatea and said, " You will 
 come, won't you, Gally-pot?" 
 
 It was a peace-offering, and Galatea's lips, which 
 had been rather tremulous after her tears, softened 
 into a smile. 
 
 " I should love to. But how about a frock ? " 
 
 " Oh, any old thing will do," said Oliver. 
 " Whatever you wear you will be the prettiest 
 girl in the theatre." 
 
 " Bravo ! " said Horace, " and hear, hear ! " 
 
 This tribute to his sister's beauty put him into 
 a good humour with Oliver for the rest of the 
 evening, and made him forget a serious conver- 
 sation which he had decided to have with his 
 brother on the question of money-matters. 
 
 Galatea had blushed deeply at the compliment, 
 and a little while later she took a footstool at 
 Oliver's knees, and stroked his hand, as a silent 
 plea for forgiveness. 
 
 Oliver was now in good spirits, and talked a long 
 time about his literary schemes — of the great novel 
 which was taking shape in his brain, and of the 
 play with which, one day, not very far off, he was 
 going to make a pile of money. 
 
 " There is nothing like the drama for money- 
 making on a big scale." 
 
 When he went back to Barton Street, as eleven 
 o'clock struck, he had talked his family into the
 
 The Generous Heart 91 
 
 belief that he was on the high road to fortune. 
 Not even Galatea doubted that he would soon be 
 driving up to Rosemary Avenue in a motor-car 
 of his own. She had a vision of him in a fur- 
 lined coat, costing at the very least one hundred 
 guineas. Curiously enough, as Oliver drove back 
 in a taxi he had the same idea.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Humiliation of a Toung Gentleman 
 
 The evening at the theatre with his family, fol- 
 lowed by a dinner at Michel's, cost Oliver more 
 than five pounds, for he was in a generous mood, 
 and determined to " do " his people well. Fortu- 
 nately, or perhaps unfortunately, he was not called 
 upon to pay for the dinner there and then, for 
 M. Michel knew the young gentleman as one of 
 his regular customers, and was willing to hold over 
 the bill. 
 
 Oliver had put on his beautiful evening clothes 
 (with the velvet collar and broad silk stripe), and 
 this nobility of appearance was rather discon- 
 certing to his father and mother. They had done 
 their best to rise to the occasion, but Oliver was 
 rather painfully aware that his father's shirt-cuffs 
 had been " whiskered " in the wash, and that his 
 black suit looked as if it had seen much service at 
 family funerals. 
 
 Horace wore his City clothes, and the sleeves of 
 his morning coat were shiny with much desk- 
 polishing, while his trousers fell into curious folds 
 and creases, 
 
 Mrs. Lumley had put on a black satin dress, 
 92
 
 Humiliation of a Gentleman 93 
 
 which Oliver remembered as her best gown so far 
 back as his childhood, when he used to take ad- 
 vantage of the bedroom cupboard in games of hide- 
 and-seek with Horace and Galatea. It smelt 
 strongly of camphor, and had last been used at 
 the marriage of Oliver's aunt Alice, five years 
 ago. 
 
 These reminiscences shocked him. The extreme 
 poverty of his family was distressing to his own 
 pride. Only Galatea was consoling in her appear- 
 ance. She was wearing a simple gown of cream 
 silk, cut low at the throat, round which she had put 
 a little string of cheap pearls. With her dark hair 
 looped above her ears, and a little flush of excite- 
 ment on her cheeks, she made a pretty figure as 
 she stood in the vestibule, and Oliver whispered 
 his praise. 
 
 " Well done, Gally-pot ! You look charming ! " 
 
 But the shabbiness of his father and brother, and 
 the old-fashioned gown of his mother, filled him 
 with a sense of uneasiness. He hoped fervently 
 that none of his friends would be in the theatre 
 that night. As it happened. Hardy the journalist 
 came in at that very moment. 
 
 " Hulloh, Roly, young spark," he said, "what 
 mischief are you up to to-night?" 
 
 Then he noticed that Oliver had people v/ith 
 him. His babe-blue eyes glanced at each member 
 of the family, Oliver knew that this keen student 
 of humanity would not fail to notice his father's
 
 94 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 frayed cuffs, his brother's baggy trousers and shiny 
 elbows, his mother's long-preserved gown, his 
 sister's home-made frock. Hardy himself wore 
 an opera hat tilted rather rakishly at the back 
 of his handsome head, a long motor-coat reaching 
 to his heels, and open in front, so that it revealed 
 the frilled white shirt across his broad chest. He 
 stood three inches higher than Oliver, and was a 
 distinguished figure in the vestibule. 
 
 " Who are your pals? " he said, as Oliver moved 
 a little on one side with him. 
 
 " Oh, friends." 
 
 "Is it your landlady's family? Funny old 
 frumps, aren't they ? The old boy looks very 
 pleased with himself, and rather awestricken at this 
 gilded hall." 
 
 " As a matter of fact," said Oliver, " those funny 
 old frumps are my father and mother." 
 
 His face was very red with anger and humiliation. 
 
 Hardy lifted his eyebrows, and then gave a quiet 
 laugh. 
 
 " I say ! I'm sorry ! Why didn't you tell me ? " 
 
 He was very cool, and only slightly disconcerted. 
 
 " What a charming girl that is. Your sister? " 
 
 " It is," said Oliver stiffly. 
 
 " I congratulate you. Introduce me, will you?" 
 
 Oliver would have liked to refuse, but his resent- 
 ment was softened by Hardy's friendly squeeze of 
 the arm, and by his genuine look of admiration at 
 Galatea. He took him over to the family group.
 
 Humiliation of a Gentleman 95 
 
 where Hardy made honourable amends for his 
 indiscretion, and behaved charmingly. 
 
 To Mr. Lumley he said : " I am an old school- 
 fellow of your son, sir. I was delighted to meet 
 him again." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Lumley, whose face lit up with 
 pride, " my son has a brilliant career before him. 
 His imaginative gifts are a constant surprise to us." 
 
 " They must be ! " said Hardy. 
 
 He made some amiable and flattering remark to 
 Mrs. Lumley, and then turned to Galatea with a 
 delightful smile and admiring eyes. 
 
 " I suppose you are very fond of the theatre ? " 
 
 " I hardly ever go. But I love it." 
 
 " You must allow me to send you some tickets 
 now and again," said Hardy. 
 
 Between the acts Hardy came round to the 
 dress-circle with a big box of chocolates tied up 
 with pale-blue ribbon, and handed them to Galatea. 
 Until the curtain went up again he stayed chatting, 
 and was so respectful to Mr. Lumley, so immensely 
 impressed, it seemed, with Mr. Lumley's dramatic 
 criticism and philosophical remarks on the great- 
 ness of Shakespeare, so friendly in his attitude to 
 Horace, and so chivalrous to Galatea, that Oliver 
 almost forgave him for his faux pas in the vestibule. 
 
 At the end of the second act he came to say 
 good-bye. 
 
 " I have a little dinner-party on, so that I must 
 be getting away now."
 
 96 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 He shook hands with Mr. Lumley, and assured 
 him that he would remember some of his words, 
 which had shed an entirely new light upon the 
 character of Hamlet. 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Lumley, in the manner of Dr. 
 Johnson, " I lead a quiet life, but Shakespeare 
 has given me some knowledge of human nature. 
 I am glad that my ideas do not seem to you quite 
 worthless." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Hardy warmly ; " on 
 the contrary, my dear sir ! " 
 
 He took Galatea's hand, and held it for a 
 moment longer than was quite necessary. 
 
 " I hope very much I shall see you again." 
 
 Galatea did not answer, but her face had a 
 deeper colour, and when Hardy had gone Oliver 
 noticed that his sister's eyes were strangely lumi- 
 nous, and that she did not take any part in the 
 family conversation. 
 
 Mr. Lumley launched into a panegyric of their 
 new friend, and was of the decided opinion that 
 he was a most intelligent and respectable young 
 man. Mrs. Lumley thought that he was the 
 handsomest young gentleman she had ever seen, 
 with the exception of some one whom she would 
 not mention. The proud mother woke in her eyes, 
 and Oliver smiled at her. 
 
 " Is he quite sincere, do you think ? " asked quiet 
 old Horace. 
 
 Oliver chuckled.
 
 Humiliation of a Gentleman 97 
 
 " He is a champion poseur." 
 
 It was then that Galatea spoke for the first time 
 after Hardy's good-bye. 
 
 " I do not know what you mean by ' poseur,' but 
 he is certainly the soul of kindness." 
 
 " Oh, he is good-natured," said Oliver. " Quite 
 a decent fellow, though inclir.cd to put on airs. 
 I'm glad you like him. In the old days we used 
 to call him Kiss-me- Hardy — aft:r Nelson's pal."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 A Lady of duality 
 
 By an extraordinary coincidence, the first person 
 who met the gaze of the Lumley family on taking 
 their table in Michel's restaurant was Hardy him- 
 self. He was sitting in a corner of the room with 
 three men and one woman, who were all laughing, 
 as though one of them had made an excellent 
 joke. 
 
 It was the lady who attracted Galatea's atten- 
 tion while Oliver was busy with the bill of fare. 
 She seemed hardly older than Galatea herself, and 
 was as fair as Galatea was dark. She had hair of 
 pale gold, full of little waves, in which the lights 
 and shadows played. Her rather long mouth with 
 its arched lips was curved into a satirical smile, 
 and in her brown eyes there was a dancing light of 
 merriment. She had a long straight neck, upon 
 which her head was supported like a flower on its 
 stalk, and the sleeves of her dove-grey gown were 
 short enough to show her arms bare to the elbows. 
 She was thin, and her elbows were pointed, but 
 no man would have called her scraggy, because 
 she had a softness of line and feature which just 
 saved her from being angular. She was playing 
 98
 
 A Lady of Quality 99 
 
 with a cigarette — hardly smoking it ; and as her 
 right arm with its little pointed elbow on the 
 white tablecloth swayed to and fro beneath the 
 curling smoke, there was a glint of diamonds on 
 her fingers and wrist. 
 
 " What a pretty woman ! " said Galatea, and 
 then she caught her breath a little and said, " Why, 
 there is Mr. Hardy again ! " 
 
 The eyes of the Lumley family were turned to 
 that table in the corner of the restaurant. Oliver 
 gave a sharp exclamation and flushed up to the 
 temples. 
 
 With that strange magnetism of the human eye 
 the gaze of the Lumley family attracted the 
 attention of the dinner-party at the other table. 
 Hardy, who was sitting with his back to Oliver's 
 people, turned round, and when he saw them 
 again he gave a start of surprise. For a moment 
 he also seemed embarrassed and disconcerted. 
 But he quickly recovered himself and gave a 
 smiling greeting to them all. At the same moment 
 the lady, who was sitting opposite to him, looked 
 towards Oliver. She spoke his name so clearly 
 that her words could be heard across the res- 
 taurant. 
 
 " Why, there is Roly ! " 
 
 She raised a wine-glass, touched it with her lips, 
 and smiled across to him. Then her eyes roved 
 upon the family group, with the frankest curiosity, 
 until she looked again at Oliver with a little
 
 loo Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 raising of the eyebrows as though to say, " Who 
 are those people with you ? " 
 
 Oliver returned her wine-glass greeting. Galatea 
 could see that he was trying to conceal his 
 nervousness. His hand trembled as he held the 
 menu while the French waiter stood by his side 
 and said, " Quel vin, monsieur?" 
 
 " Who is she ? " asked Galatea. 
 
 " That is Lady Goldstein. . . . Strange that she 
 should be here." 
 
 " Lady Goldstein ! " 
 
 It was Mrs. Lumley who made the exclamation, 
 and her husband and Horace showed equal sur- 
 prise and consternation at the announcement. 
 Many times Oliver had spoken of his friendship 
 with Lady Goldstein, of the great receptions at 
 her town-house — he always spoke of her " town- 
 house," as though she had a mansion in the 
 country — and of her literary evenings, at which all 
 the most distinguished people in London were 
 present. They were as astonished as Oliver to 
 find that grand lady having dinner with four young 
 men in a Soho restaurant. 
 
 Mrs. Lumley became rather fluttered, and 
 smoothed down her black satin gown. She re- 
 gretted that it had Iain so long in her wardrobe 
 that its creases would not disappear. Mr. Lumley 
 thrust back his frayed cuffs, and Horace buttoned 
 up his black morning coat to conceal his shabby 
 waistcoat.
 
 A Lady of Quality loi 
 
 " Does she call you Roly ? " asked Galatea. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 Oliver spoke irritably, and his face was gloomy. 
 He was sorry for having brought his people to 
 town. They were so obviously suburban, so 
 utterly shabby-genteel. How on earth could he 
 get them out of the restaurant without introducing 
 them to Lady Goldstein ? She was so satirical, so 
 critical of dress, so keen-witted and sharp-tongued, 
 that he would never hold up his head in her 
 drawing-room if she discovered that these people 
 were his own family. Perhaps she knew already. 
 Hardy would give him away. Her rippling 
 laughter made him flush crimson again. No 
 doubt she was laughing at the discovery already. 
 
 Once she had questioned him about his family, 
 and he had told white lies to her, and represented 
 his father as a City merchant. She would see 
 now that he was only a shabby clerk. What on 
 earth had , made her come to this restaurant ? 
 Oliver knew the men with her. One was Lord 
 Hugh Marcroft, a boy just down from Oxford. 
 The other was Gilbert Verney of the Wastrels. 
 The third man was Halliday Wing, a black-and- 
 white artist with a hobby for painting im- 
 pressionistic pictures which nobody would buy. 
 They belonged to the Goldstein crowd and were 
 Katherine's particular pets and slaves. He could 
 expect no mercy from them if they were intro- 
 duced to his family.
 
 I02 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Young Marcroft had his monocle stuck in his 
 eye, and was staring over at Galatea. Then he 
 turned to Lady Goldstein and said something in a 
 quizzing way which made her smile. She, too, 
 looked across at Galatea and then at his father 
 and mother. Oliver knew that her quick eyes 
 would notice every detail. He was ashamed of 
 his own family, and then was horribly ashamed 
 of being ashamed. It made him miserable during 
 the meal. He sat moody and silent, except when 
 he spoke so irritably to the waiters that he made 
 his father and mother uncomfortable and brought 
 a few words of protest from Galatea. 
 
 And his people did not understand the reason 
 for his irritability. Mrs. Lumley thought her dear 
 boy must be feeling tired. No doubt his brain 
 was fagged with too much literary work. Mr. 
 Lumley agreed that the mental strain of inventing 
 new plots must be very severe. He was curious 
 to know the characters and occupations of other 
 people in the restaurant ; and when Oliver pointed 
 out a fairly well-known actor, a journalist, and a 
 minor poet — the latter was picking his teeth in 
 a dreamy way, and jotting down lines on the back 
 of an envelope — he said that he was much obliged 
 to Oliver for giving him a peep into such a hostelry 
 of the artistic professions. He regretted that as a 
 young man he had not come West at times during 
 the luncheon hour, instead of always taking his 
 meals at an a la mode beef shop in Mincing Lane.
 
 A Lady of Quality 103 
 
 At the end of the meal Horace said, " No objec- 
 tion to putting on a pipe, I suppose ? " and without 
 waiting for an answer, loaded up, struck a match, and 
 puffed away quietly, while he watched his brother 
 through the haze of smoke. He could not make 
 Oliver out. Something had upset him. That was 
 quite certain. 
 
 Just then he noticed a sudden colour creep into 
 Galatea's cheeks, and he was puzzled to account 
 for her emotion, until he saw that Hardy had left 
 the other table, and was crossing the room towards 
 them. 
 
 He stood with his hand on the back of Oliver's 
 chair, looking down upon them with his pleasant, 
 whimsical smile. His eyes rested rather steadily on 
 Galatea. 
 
 " Curious, meeting again like this ! Our friend 
 Oliver here would call it the long arm of coinci- 
 dence, and one more proof that fact is stranger 
 than fiction, eh ? " 
 
 He put his hand on Oliver's shoulder. 
 
 " Roly, you are commanded to the Royal 
 presence." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that her ladyship desires speech with 
 you. She has been trying to catch your eye this 
 twenty minutes, but you were looking straight 
 down your nose." 
 
 Oliver hesitated, and did not seem inclined to 
 move.
 
 I04 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " We'll change seats," said Hardy. 
 
 Oliver rose rather awkwardly, and then glanced 
 over to Lady Goldstein. She beckoned him, with a 
 " Come hither " in her eye, and he could not resist 
 the invitation. As he left the table Hardy took 
 his chair, and, speaking to Galatea, said, " Well, 
 what do you think of Michel's?" 
 
 Oliver crossed the room, and Lady Goldstein 
 stretched out her hand, and gave him her little 
 finger to shake. 
 
 " Rude boy. Why have you ignored me all this 
 time?" 
 
 " Ignored you ? Why, I bowed to you in my 
 best style ! " 
 
 He sat down, and brushed away Hardy's bread- 
 crumbs. 
 
 " I did not expect to see you here." 
 
 " No ? " said Lady Goldstein. " Surely this is a 
 perfectly respectable place ? " 
 
 " Oh, perfectly ! " 
 
 " Well, then ? " 
 
 She challenged him with her eyes for an expla- 
 nation. 
 
 Oliver was unable to give one, except that Soho 
 was " a far cry " from Pont Street, and not nearly 
 so elegant. 
 
 " My dear child," said Lady Goldstein, who 
 perhaps was two years older than Oliver himself, 
 "don't you think I may sometimes be allowed to 
 escape from my husband's flunkeys and from the
 
 A Lady of Quality 105 
 
 French maid my husband provides for me, and 
 from my husband's Chippendale and Sheraton 
 furniture, and from the amiable but somewhat dull 
 society of my husband's German relatives ? " 
 
 She spoke with a serious air, as though demand- 
 ing a serious answer, but as she blew a puff of 
 cigarette smoke through her fingers she laughed at 
 her own words. 
 
 " Oh, those flunkeys ! It is a tremendous relief 
 not to have them standing behind one's chair, and 
 handing things over one's shoulder, and saying, 
 'Yes, my lady — No, my lady.' One of them is 
 named Smithers, and the other Brown. I think 
 I hate Smithers worst. He was once butler to 
 a bishop, and has such portentous solemnity. I 
 feel I shock him by my levity every time I laugh. 
 I can feel his hard, grave eyes fixed upon my back- 
 bone every time I sit down to table in evening 
 clothes." 
 
 It was a habit of Lady Goldstein to indulge in 
 little monologues of excitable eloquence, and she 
 ignored such interruptions as Marcroft's " By Jove, 
 now, really ? " 
 
 " Before I married Goldy, and when I wrote 
 Society paragraphs for the papers, I used to come 
 to some of these restaurants in Soho with the 
 Fleet Street boys. Hardy was one of them ! " 
 
 She gave a long-drawn sigh, and looked round 
 the stuffy little restaurant, and away to the red- 
 baize window blinds, beyond which there was the
 
 io6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 liojht of street lamps and the noise of cabs and 
 nnotor-cars. 
 
 '• 1 feel like a bird escaped out of a gilded cage 
 into the ragged old nest in the hedge-row. It is 
 much more fun in the hedge-row." 
 
 Then she laughed and said, " How is that for a 
 simile? " 
 
 " Good Lord ! " said Oliver, " you were never in 
 Fleet Street, were you ? Hardy never told me." 
 
 He was astonished beyond measure, and filled 
 with a curious sense of disappointment. He had 
 always thought that Katherine Goldstein belonged 
 to an old aristocratic family. 
 
 " Of course I was ! And a very smart journalist 
 I made, though I say so as shouldn't. I used to 
 dream of 'scoops,' and when I earned three pounds 
 a week I thought I was on the high road to fortune. 
 As it happened, I was not wrong, for at the end 
 of the road I met Goldy. Hence these glittering 
 baubles." 
 
 She flashed the rings in the light of a candle on 
 the table, and said, " Silly trash ! " 
 
 Lord Hugh Marcroft was willing to bet her any 
 money that she would not like to return to the 
 squalor of Fleet Street. As for those bits of 
 glittering stone, he knew from Goldy himself that 
 she had a barbaric passion for them. He was 
 sorry to see a young lady so deliberately insincere. 
 
 Gilbert Verney — whom Oliver had met at the 
 Wastrels Club on the famous Thursday nights —
 
 A Lady of Quality 107 
 
 chuckled in his hoarse way, and gave one of his 
 portentous winks. 
 
 " Funny thing. People who have captured the 
 oof bird always despise the creature. I have been 
 setting snares for it these ten years past. It always 
 hops beyond my reach. Sad I Sad ! " 
 
 " You raven ! " said Lady Goldstein, " I'm tired 
 of your croaks. I have introduced you to dozens 
 of rich girls with a view to matrimony." 
 
 " My face frightens 'em," said Gilbert Verney. 
 " They flutter away to high perches." 
 
 He gazed mournfully into his tankard of beer. 
 
 " We all owe a deep debt of gratitude to our 
 dear Lady Katherine here," said Halliday Wing, 
 the black-and-white artist. 
 
 " Explain ! " said Lady Goldstein. " I adore 
 gratitude." 
 
 " She invites the children of poverty to her 
 sumptuous tea-parties. In our muddy boots we 
 are able to stroll upon velvet pile carpets. In our 
 threadbare trousers we sit upon real Chippendale. 
 The noble condescension of her flunkeys is like 
 a benediction to our half-starved souls." 
 
 Gilbert Verney chuckled in the depths of his 
 big tankard, and young Marcroft laughed in his 
 high-pitched boy's voice. 
 
 " Is that sarcasm ? " asked Lady Goldstein 
 severely. " Don't forget, young man, that owing 
 to my influence Goldy has bought three of your 
 feeble paintings at exorbitant prices."
 
 io8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 "Which now hang in the butler's pantry and 
 the French maid's bedroom," said Mr. Halliday 
 Wing, stroking his silky Vandyke beard. 
 
 So they rattled on, talking sheer nonsense Hkc 
 children in the big nursery of life. Under cover 
 of a mock quarrel between Halliday Wing and the 
 Marcroft boy, Lady Goldstein had some private 
 conversation with Oliver. 
 
 " That is a pretty sister of yours, Roly." 
 
 " How did you know it was my sister ? " 
 
 Oliver was abashed by Lady Goldstein's know- 
 ledge. He was tempted to deny that he had any 
 blood-relationship with his guests at the other 
 table. His old shame about their shabbiness crept 
 over him again. 
 
 " Hardy told me. He is tremendously taken 
 with her. You must bring her to tea with me. 
 And your father and mother too." 
 
 " They lead very quiet lives," said Oliver. 
 
 Lady Goldstein's frank eyes were fixed upon 
 him with a searching look. 
 
 " You are a strange boy," she said. " I cannot 
 make you out." 
 
 She turned to Lord Hugh Marcroft and Halliday 
 Wing. 
 
 " It is time to go back to my golden cage. The 
 male bird will have ruffled feathers. 
 
 Gilbert Verney closed the lid of his tankard and 
 said, "Sad! Sad I " 
 
 Halliday Wing put on her cloak. M. Michel
 
 A Lady of Quality 109 
 
 bowed low before her as she passed, as though a 
 Queen had visited his restaurant. 
 
 She stopped at Oliver's table, where Hardy was 
 still sitting. 
 
 The Lumley family had brightened up. Galatea, 
 with deep roses in her cheeks, was laughing at 
 Hardy's whimsical anecdotes. Horace was puffing 
 at his pipe with a quiet smile of thorough enjoy- 
 ment. Mr. and Mrs. Lumley were beaming at the 
 handsome fellow who was entertaining them with 
 his stories of life up and down the world. They 
 were surprised when Lady Goldstein bent forward 
 to Galatea and said : 
 
 " I should be so glad to know Oliver Lumley's 
 sister. Has he ever spoken to you of Lady 
 Goldstein ? " 
 
 '' Shall I make the formal introduction ? " said 
 Hardy, laughing at this somewhat unconventional 
 approach. 
 
 " Oh, your ladyship," said Mrs. Lumley, " you 
 have been very kind to my dear boy." 
 
 " No. He has been kind to me." 
 
 Mr. Lumley had stood up, and was bowing in an 
 old-fashioned way. Lady Goldstein shook hands 
 with him, and as she released his hand one of his 
 frayed cuffs, which was fastened on to his shirt 
 with a button, fell on to his plate. 
 
 " Pardon me, my lady ! " said the poor gentleman, 
 immensely embarrassed by this accident. He 
 picked up the cuff and put it into his tail pocket,
 
 no Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 and Oliver, who stood by, saw that young Marcroft 
 was struggling to preserve a decent gravity, and 
 that the right side of Gilbert Verney's face was 
 contorted by a grotesque wink. 
 
 Oliver prayed that the floor of Michel's restaurant 
 might open up and swallow him — but his prayer 
 was not granted. 
 
 Lady Goldstein herself seemed to be entirely 
 oblivious of this little incident, and speaking in a 
 gracious way to Mrs. Lumley hoped that she 
 would bring her daughter to 31, Pont Street one 
 afternoon. 
 
 " Your ladyship is most kind," said Mrs. Lumley. 
 " But we are very humble folk." 
 
 " I hope I am not without humility myself," said 
 Lady Goldstein, and then laughed in the simplest 
 way at her own words. Her laughter was infec- 
 tious, and all but Oliver, who stood on one side, 
 getting hot and cold, joined in her gaiety. Then 
 putting her hand on young Marcroft's arm, and 
 with a smiling bow which included all the Lumley 
 family, she passed out of the restaurant, leaving 
 behind an effect of radiance and charm.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Mental Arithmetic 
 
 Oliver found that life as a bachelor in London 
 was amazingly expensive. He discovered also 
 that the career of a man of letters is not a high- 
 way paved with gold between a hedge-row of 
 roses. 
 
 On the contrary, it was a pebbly road which 
 wore out his patent-leather boots literally and 
 symbolically, and there were many spiky thorns 
 along the way which pricked him most horribly. 
 At first he had started out with a fair amount 
 of luck. A good many of his short stories had 
 been accepted, and editors had asked for more. 
 What encouraged him still further was the ac- 
 cepting from time to time of essays on life by a 
 new Review. Reckoning his earnings for the 
 first nine months at Barton Street he worked them 
 out on paper as very nearly a hundred and fifty 
 pounds. With his father's allowance of a pound 
 a week it should have been enough to live on 
 with some comfort, (He left Virginia Garland's 
 bounty out of his reckoning.) But the figures on 
 paper were not realised in fact. It was necessary 
 to wait for the publication of his stories until he 
 III
 
 112 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 received payment, and in many cases he had to 
 wait a good long time. 
 
 Worse still, the new Review had printed his 
 essays, but they had not paid for them. His 
 numerous visits to the office had resulted in one 
 audience by the editor, who was charming and 
 most appreciative of his work, by whom he was 
 referred to the cashier. The cashier, being a busy 
 man, was invariably " engaged " or " out," when 
 Oliver called again. The office boy, though a 
 youth of some haughtiness, admitted that he was 
 powerless to make literary payments out of the 
 petty cash. Oliver's letters remained unanswered. 
 
 Ten pounds for writing an advertisement of a 
 new restaurant — Hardy had put it in his way — 
 saved him from imminent ruin. Another twenty 
 pounds for a series of lurid detective stories for 
 The Boy's Budget gave him a few weeks' respite 
 from the pressing demands of numerous creditors, 
 of whom his landlady was the most vexatious. 
 He borrowed ten pounds from Hardy, and five 
 pounds from Gilbert Verney, and he owed several 
 half-sovereigns to other members of the " Wastrels," 
 besides having a fairly heavy account against him 
 at the club on account of liquid refreshment. 
 
 It would be wearisome to analyse other debts 
 incurred by this rising young literary man, but 
 they were numerous and pressing enough to make 
 him start rather violently if any friend happened 
 to touch him on the shoulder in the street.
 
 Mental Arithmetic 113 
 
 High-spirited though he was by nature, and of 
 a sanguine temperament, he was haunted by a real 
 anxiety when his creative gifts showed signs of 
 flagging. Plots did not come so easily to him, 
 and he found it increasingly difficult to ring the 
 changes on the familiar situations used and used 
 again by magazine story-tellers. He had got into 
 hot water more than once for going too close to 
 the original. One letter from an editor used an 
 ugly word. It was " plagiarism," and the editor 
 was "almost of opinion that he could indict him 
 for obtaining money under false pretences." This 
 closed one magazine against him, and made him 
 more careful of the source from which he obtained 
 his suggestions. 
 
 Then he was tempted by a painful dislike of 
 literary labour. He quarrelled with his pen. A 
 block of white paper lying on his desk with a 
 silent invitation made him annoyed at the mere 
 sight of it. He had always been bad-tempered 
 and irritable in the morning, having a sluggish 
 liver ; and to sit down after a late breakfast to do 
 imaginative work was putting too great a strain 
 upon his nature. The sun was shining out-of- 
 doors. There were pretty women in the streets 
 and parks. He had young blood and the zest of 
 life. It was impossible to sit in a httle stuffy 
 room, working up a sensation, or sentimentalising 
 over a love-story in the garish light of day. Life 
 called to him, and he answered the invitation,
 
 114 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 deciding that his imaginative faculties were quicker 
 and keener late at night, when the brain becomes 
 less trammelled by the flesh. 
 
 He made that a new rule — to enjoy social 
 pleasures during the day, and to work at night. 
 Unfortunately his day was often so prolonged that 
 when he returned to his rooms at one o'clock in 
 the morning he was too tired to do anything but 
 tumble off his clothes and go to bed. Then the 
 next morning he would wake with a headache, and 
 curse his temperament — and so it happened that 
 often two weeks would go by without a line of 
 writing to the credit of our young man of letters. 
 
 He was sinking deeper and deeper into the mire 
 of debt, and he was threatened by a severe financial 
 crisis. 
 
 He saw it coming, and occasionally it made him 
 go cold with fear. But these moments were rare. 
 He still had faith in his Luck, and he still believed 
 that the Muse would give him, one day, divine 
 inspiration, in the style of " Sherlock Holmes " 
 or " The Second Mrs. Tanqueray " (he would not 
 quarrel with the exact form it might take), which 
 would endow him with fortune, and lift him above 
 the miserable struggle with poverty. " All great 
 writers," he said, " have been through this phase." 
 That thought comforted him a good deal. It 
 seemed to him the proof that he had the true 
 spark of genius.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 The House in Pont Street 
 
 It was astonishing how his temperament enabled 
 him to slip off his cares. He forgot all his debts 
 when he was among his friends, and he did gener- 
 ous little deeds without counting their cost. The 
 generous instincts of this young man, and his real 
 kindness of heart (in spite of some faults), are not 
 to be questioned at this stage of his career. 
 
 For instance, though he went often to Lady- 
 Goldstein's house in Pont Street (there was hardly 
 an afternoon on which he did not take tea with 
 her), he seldom called without bringing a little 
 present for her. They were simple gifts, and to 
 a young man with a good income the few shillings 
 they cost need not have been considered. But to 
 Oliver, whose earnings were so precarious, they 
 were the cause of additional debt. 
 
 Lady Goldstein was so accustomed to these 
 tributes that it never occurred to her that Oliver 
 was buying them with borrowed money, for which 
 one day there would come a reckoning. 
 
 Yet she was always grateful. When Oliver 
 presented her with a beautiful bouquet of flowers 
 (which she adored), she would say, " Roly, how 
 
 "S
 
 ii6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 good and kind of you ! " One day she mentioned 
 that she had never read " The Cloister and the 
 Hearth." Oliver made a mental note of it, and 
 on the following afternoon he gave her a beautiful 
 edition of the story, which had cost him a guinea. 
 
 Lady Goldstein, or Katherine, as she now 
 allowed him to call her, was genuinely pleased 
 with this. She blushed a little, and said, " Roly, 
 I shall be afraid to mention any of my wishes. 
 You are like the fairy godmother. Hey, presto ! 
 The gift flies into my lap." 
 
 She tapped him on the arm with a golden 
 paper-knife with which she had begun to cut the 
 pages, " Young man, I am afraid you are too 
 extravagant." 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Oliver, laughing. " It is poor 
 payment for my lady's hospitality and gracious- 
 ness." 
 
 He was quite sincere in saying that. Thinking 
 the matter out, it seemed to him well worth His 
 while to make these small gifts in return for the 
 privilege of the open door in Pont Street. Hardy 
 had done him a very good turn in taking him 
 one evening to the Goldsteins'. Since that evening 
 he had been admitted into what he believed must 
 be the most charming society in London. 
 
 Lady Goldstein herself was bewitching. Oliver 
 had been startled by her beauty and delightful 
 gaiety when Hardy had first brought him to one 
 of her receptions. On that night he had been
 
 The House in Pont Street 117 
 
 overwhelmed with the magnificence of the house, 
 and utterly scared by the powdered footmen. 
 Never before had he been in a room so splendidly 
 furnished. It was an " Adams " room, and its 
 white panelled walls were hung with full-length 
 portraits. Among them was a portrait of Lady 
 Goldstein herself by the most famous of modern 
 painters. She was in a flowered muslin gown, 
 holding the strings of a garden hat. Her hair 
 seemed to have caught the sunlight and made a 
 kind of golden aureole round her laughing face. 
 
 Oliver saw that the painter had caught the spirit 
 of the face, for when Hardy brought him forward 
 she was laughing in just the same way among her 
 friends. There was some statuary about the room, 
 and on the rosewood piano a bronze head of 
 Minerva. That evening Oliver Lumley, who was 
 familiar with a horsehair sofa and cheap mahogany 
 furniture, sat for the first time on Chippendale, and 
 was very uncomfortable. 
 
 But Lady Goldstein's vivaciousness and sim- 
 plicity soon put him at his ease, and in spite of his 
 suburban upbringing he was not gauche in her 
 society, but, on the contrary, obtained the favoured 
 interest of his hostess, on account of his good looks 
 and boyishness. 
 
 Yet there had been other good-looking men in 
 the room, and Oliver came to know them very 
 well. For though Lady Goldstein had a crowded 
 drawing-room when she was " at home " and
 
 1 1 8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 received many distinguished people, including at 
 least one member of the Ministry (he was a Junior 
 Lord of the Treasury), several well-known poli- 
 ticians, mostly on the Conservative side, a Canon 
 of St. Paul's, and a number of rich financiers, she 
 had a little court of favourites who paid homage 
 to her by almost daily attendance. At least one 
 or two of them were sure to be found at her house 
 on any afternoon or evening of the week. They 
 included Halliday Wing the painter, Lord Hugh 
 Marcroft the Oxford boy, Bertram Ordish, an 
 eccentric dramatist who continually advertised his 
 desire for a wife but still remained a bachelor, Mr. 
 Francis Luttrell, and Mr. Edmund Grattan — both 
 of Fleet Street — and a little Russian musician 
 named Frolenko, who spoke, on the violin, words 
 of witchery and love and dream-beauty. 
 
 Katherine Goldstein, who had once been Kitty 
 Halstead, and a journalist in Fleet Street on three 
 pounds a week, was happiest when she had only 
 these friends in her drawing-room and was relieved 
 of the duty of entertaining her husband's " pom- 
 posities," as she called them. 
 
 Oliver thanked the stars which had brought him 
 to her drawing-room. For they were merry hours 
 on dull afternoons and evenings when Lady Kitty 
 sat on the carved oak coal-scuttle, or on a tapestried 
 footstool four inches high, or on the carpet with 
 her hands clasped round her knees (anywhere but 
 on a chair), while Frolenko was fiddling softly
 
 The House in Pont Street 119 
 
 through vague dream - worlds, while Edmund 
 Grattan, who was an Irishman and a war 
 correspondent, was telling whimsical stories of 
 adventures in many countries, or in a street of 
 adventure nearer at home, and while Bertram 
 Ordish was telling fairy-tales invented on the 
 hearth-rug, as he lay there at full length with the 
 firelight flickering upon his long, clean-shaven 
 face, and gleaming upon the bald patch above his 
 forehead. 
 
 One of the footmen — it was generally Smithers, 
 whose solemnity was imperturbable — would come 
 into the drawing-room with a tea-tray, or, if it were 
 evening, with coffee - cups, and at his coming 
 Katherine Goldstein on the coal - scuttle, and 
 Bertram Ordish on the hearthrug, and Edmund 
 Grattan, who was smoking a pipe, with the kind 
 permission of his unconventional hostess (he would 
 hide it in his pocket when Smithers came in), 
 would pretend to be entirely unaware of the 
 intrusion of this tall, grim person in crimson 
 livery and white stockings. 
 
 But if a tale were being told it came to a sudden 
 pause, or if an argument were in progress — and 
 they argued upon every subject 'twixt heaven and 
 earth — it languished and fell flat until the majestic 
 figure of the flunkey retired. Then Lady Gold- 
 stein permitted herself to make a little grimace at 
 his back. Only Frolenko was undisturbed. He 
 would go on playing dreamily. Sometimes, how
 
 I20 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 ever, he would play Smithers out with a slow and 
 stately tune like a funeral march, 
 
 Frolenko was not one of the long-haired 
 fiddlers. He had short-cropped hair on a little 
 bullet head, and was remarkably like a good-looking 
 monkey, and just as mischievous. He was twenty- 
 two years of age, earned three thousand a year by 
 his concert performances, and spent every penny of 
 it with the wildest extravagance. But he had the 
 heart of a schoolboy, and in Katherine Goldstein's 
 drawing-room he played the fool about as delight- 
 fully as the fiddle. He could imitate all the 
 animals of the farm-yard and all the birds of the 
 air, so that any one passing the open windows of 
 31, Pont Street would imagine that a menagerie 
 was inside the house. He was a source of real 
 delight to the errand boys. 
 
 It was Frolenko also who organised a pillow- 
 fight in the billiard-room, which resulted in an easy 
 victory for himself and Lady Goldstein against 
 Oliver and Edmund Grattan's wife — a beautiful, 
 joyous-hearted woman who went by the name of 
 " Mother Hubbard " — the destruction of an electric 
 lamp, and a carpet strewn with feathers. 
 
 Such rowdiness, however, was only of rare occur- 
 rence, and the evenings were quiet enough, except 
 for the passionate and excitable music with which 
 Frolenko was sometimes inspired, and for the 
 laughter of people who were such good friends that 
 they could quarrel with each other in the most
 
 The House in Pont Street 121 
 
 agreeable manner possible. Lady Goldstein had a 
 habit of quarrelling particularly with Mr. Francis 
 Luttrell, a tall, pale, good-looking young man, who 
 had been one of her colleagues on a paper in Fleet 
 Street in her journalistic days. They were like 
 Beatrice and Benedick, and " huddled jest on jest," 
 each one barbed with satire. Did Mr. Luttrell 
 come in the afternoon, she vowed that he had 
 played truant from the office in order to get a free 
 tea. Did he come in the evening, she protested 
 that the world would be dull to-morrow because 
 Mr. Luttrell had not written his prose-poem for 
 the news columns of The Morning. Frank 
 Luttrell, who was a young man with an old- 
 fashioned gravity beyond his years, inquired very 
 courteously how many new frocks my Lady Kitty 
 had ordered since yesterday afternoon, and how 
 many yards of pearls she had bought lately in 
 Bond Street. That would make a beginning of a 
 nice little quarrel, ending in a unanimous verdict of 
 guilty against Lady Katherine Goldstein, charged 
 with a passion for millinery and jeweller's toys. 
 
 Yet all their talk was not so childish, for Bertram 
 Ordish was not only a composer of fairy tales, but 
 a tremendous student of philosophy, and Halliday 
 Wing, the black-and-white artist, knew not only 
 the whole history of painting, but was a prophet 
 of its future, and Edmund Grattan had seen all the 
 big events of modern history and modern wars up 
 and down the world, and little Frolenko, who
 
 122 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 besides being a famous violinist, was an intellectual 
 anarchist, had many tales to tell of Russian tyranny 
 in Russian prisons, and spoke an epic poem about 
 the divine spirit of revolution. 
 
 Oliver, who had not the knowledge of these 
 journalists and their friends, had to sit silent some- 
 times, unable to contribute much to the general 
 conversation. At such times a sense of his own 
 ignorance and of his narrow upbringing wounded 
 his self-pride and humiliated him. Yet he com- 
 forted himself somewhat by the thought that not 
 all the sons of poor City clerks could bask in the 
 splendour of this handsome room and enjoy the 
 friendship of a lady of quality.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 In Disguise 
 
 With Katherine Goldstein's husband Oliver never 
 found himself perfectly at ease. But Rudolf Gold- 
 stein was too busy to spend many hours at home, 
 and there were times when Oliver forgot that Lady 
 Katherine had a husband of her own. It occurred 
 to him that she herself sometimes forgot this detail, 
 and that she was glad to forget. He suspected, 
 though without much evidence, that she had made 
 an unhappy marriage, and was utterly out of sym- 
 pathy with this tall, stolid young man of German 
 parentage, who was the head of a great firm of 
 electrical engineers, founded by old Otto Goldstein, 
 his father, who had been made a baronet for his 
 big donations to the Conservative party funds. 
 He had the appearance and manner of a German 
 officer. His square, florid face, which had a little 
 bristling moustache, was marked on the right 
 cheek by the deep cuts received at Heidelberg 
 from the duelling swords of German students. He 
 bowed stiffly and clicked his heels together when 
 one of his wife's friends was presented to him, 
 and though he spoke perfect English, it was rather 
 guttural. He was an indefatigable worker, and 
 
 123
 
 124 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 made money quicker than even Katherine could 
 spend it. 
 
 Yet he seemed a simple fellow and, apart from 
 electrical engineering, rather slow-witted. When 
 Katherine's literary friends were in the room he 
 took but little part in the conversation, and was 
 evidently perplexed by their bookish slang and 
 ingenious wit. He would sit twisting the few 
 hairs on his upper lip and glancing from one to the 
 other with an amused smile, but was rather restless 
 until he had persuaded one of them to join him in 
 a game of billiards, which he played with scientific 
 skill. 
 
 Sometimes, when he came in unexpectedly to 
 the room where his wife was chatting in her spark- 
 ling way with some of those unconventional men 
 like Halliday Wing, Bertram Ordish, and Edmund 
 Grattan, he would stand for a moment in the door- 
 way in a hesitating manner, as though wondering 
 whether he could go back unobserved, 
 
 Oliver fancied that he disapproved of his wife's 
 intimacy with these friends, and once or twice, 
 when Katherine looked up and saw her husband, 
 Oliver noticed that the laughing light went out of 
 her eyes and that her face flushed a little, as though 
 conscious of his displeasure. But always she would 
 spring up from the hassock or the hearthrug and go 
 over to him with a word of gladness at his coming, 
 and, putting her hands on his broad shoulders, 
 lift her cheek to him for a kiss. Then he would
 
 In Disguise 125 
 
 put an arm round her waist and touch her cheek 
 with his lips, and no man could doubt that he 
 had a sincere love for this beautiful girl who was 
 his wife. But Oliver could not get it out of his 
 head that she was more pleased with the society 
 of other men, and that, in spite of her affectionate 
 caresses to her husband, she was, unconsciously 
 perhaps, rather bored and constrained when he 
 came home to her. 
 
 She seemed to have married into a different life 
 to that of her girlhood, and to be filled always with 
 a sentimental regret for the little world to which 
 she had previously belonged ; or, rather, she stood 
 between both worlds, and did not quite belong 
 to either of them. She cherished the fondest 
 memories of a Liberty Hall where as a journalist 
 she had lived in lodgings with a comrade who was 
 now Edmund Grattan's wife, and who went by the 
 nickname of Mother Hubbard. To Mrs. Grattan 
 she said one day in Oliver's presence, " My dear, 
 you are still poor and the wife of a newspaper 
 man. I think I envy you. Do you know how I 
 sigh sometimes for the days when we were both 
 poor together and in the rush and squalor of ' the 
 Street'?" 
 
 "Kitty," was Mother Hubbard's answer, "you 
 were never born to be satisfied. How you used 
 to hate poverty ! How you yearned for all 
 the beauty that wealth brings ! For this, and 
 this ! "
 
 126 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She touched Katherine's arm with its diamond 
 bracelet, and her neck with its diamond collar. 
 
 " Rudolf works hard to buy you those trinkets. 
 Ungrateful minx ! " 
 
 " Oh, I know I was born bad. I have a rest- 
 lessness here." She put her hand to the place 
 where the heart is supposed to be. " I know I 
 could not go back to the old rush and squalor, 
 even with its liberty ; and I am wildly extravagant 
 with Rudolfs money. But, all the same, I get no 
 real satisfaction out of all this kind of thing" — 
 she looked round the splendour of her drawing- 
 room. "There is something hollow in my heart 
 that has not been filled up. I have a great hole 
 here." She put her hand to her side again. Then 
 she made a little grimace, and lowered her voice to 
 a whisper, as though about to say something really 
 and desperately wicked. It was, in fact, quite 
 indiscreet. 
 
 " Above all, I hate Rudolf's relatives. They are 
 all rich, and all respectable, and all German. I 
 believe Rudy is intimately related with the whole 
 German colony in London. I have never been 
 able to count his cousins. There are the Gold- 
 steins of Grosvenor Street, and the Goldsteins of 
 Bruton Street, and the Berensteins of Sydenham, 
 and the Ecksteins of Hampstead — Steins to the 
 right of us, Steins to the left of us. They are all 
 stuffy and stodgy, and Lutherans of the strictest 
 sect ! They regard me as a dangerous mistake in
 
 In Disguise 127 
 
 the family, and they weary me till I could weep 
 for weariness." 
 
 She put her arms about Mother Hubbard and 
 laid her head on her breast, as though she would 
 weep then and there. But she laughed instead. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Mrs. Grattan, in her sweet, 
 motherly way ; " hush ! You must not talk like 
 this before strangers." 
 
 " Oh, Oliver is all right," said Lady Kitty. " He 
 is one of the Fleet Street boys. They know that 
 I talk nonsense just for the sake of talking. That 
 is why I love them to come here. Rudolf's relatives 
 always take me seriously." 
 
 Oliver, who had not known the lady so long as 
 Mr. Francis Luttrell and others, took her seriously 
 also, and he believed quite honestly that this 
 beautiful girl was the victim of something very 
 like a broken heart. 
 
 He was filled with pity for her, and decided that 
 he, Oliver Lumley, would do all in his power to 
 bring happiness into her life. That decision cost 
 him more time and money than he could afford, 
 led him into an unfortunate quarrel with Charles 
 Hardy, Edmund Grattan, Bertram Ordish, Halli- 
 day Wing, and Gilbert Verney — a formidable 
 coalition — and finally to a most unhappy crisis. 
 
 Those other men — Hardy and the rest of them — 
 had their work to do, and with some of them it 
 was work which took them away for days together 
 on journalistic adventures or kept them close to
 
 128 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Fleet Street. Exciting events happened in English 
 history — a general election, a big murder mystery, 
 an anarchist plot, a frightful railway smash, and 
 a series of mine disasters- — so that newspaper men 
 were busy and newspapers raking in revenue. 
 Frolenko was away, fiddling in Paris, and Halli- 
 day Wing was painting the portrait of a brewer 
 in the Midlands. This resulted in loneliness for 
 Lady Kitty. Her little court of favourites was 
 broken up for a time. She had only the German 
 relatives left — and Oliver Lumley. 
 
 Oliver did not, of course, deal with anything so 
 stupid as facts, but wrote only the purest fiction, 
 and that, as we have seen, late at night. He, 
 therefore, was the one man left to console a rather 
 disconsolate lady. It put him into a position of 
 advantage over the other men, who, ordinarily, left 
 him in the shade and made him feel an outsider. 
 He was not slow to profit by it. 
 
 Often he would go to Pont Street in the after- 
 noon and find himself quite alone with Lady 
 Goldstein. Nobody but Smithers the footman 
 interrupted their conversation, and then it was 
 only to bring in the tea-things. For an hour or 
 two they would talk together in that quiet tone 
 of voice, and with those little silences, which 
 show that mere acquaintanceship has passed into 
 friendship. 
 
 Katherine Goldstein, in one of her remarkable 
 gowns (Oliver had seldom seen her in the same
 
 In Disguise 129 
 
 one twice) tucked up a little, would sit with her 
 feet on the fender rail (she insisted on having a 
 fire even on a bright spring day), and with her 
 hands clasped in her lap, would talk of her adven- 
 tures as a journalist, her "scoops" as she called 
 them — there was one famous one in connection 
 with a Bourbon wedding— and would get excited 
 and laugh with ripples of merriment at the old 
 fun and rattle and rush of the newspaper, now 
 dead, where formerly she used to work. Some- 
 times after these anecdotes she would sigh and 
 say " Well, it is all over now ! " as though there 
 could be no more interest in life for her. 
 
 In these moods of pessimism and regret, when 
 there was a rather tired, wistful look in her eyes, 
 Oliver found her most charming and most alluring. 
 He would speak words of sympathy and consola- 
 tion, or try to cheer her up by jokes which he 
 found he could make more easily and more wittily 
 when her other friends were not present. Some- 
 times she jeered at him in a pretty, mocking way 
 for his obvious attempts to brighten her. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, my dear child, do not 
 imagine that I am suffering from heart-sickness. 
 I have everything the heart of woman could wish 
 — except one thing." 
 
 She did not say what that one thing was, but 
 Oliver believed that she grieved at being childless. 
 She would have made a beautiful mother, he 
 thought 
 9
 
 130 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Once he angered her, and was startled when she 
 turned on him with flushed cheeks and a sharp 
 rebuke. It was when he made some slight jest 
 about Rudolf Goldstein. He had not meant to be 
 deliberately disparaging, but he regretted having 
 spoken the words. 
 
 "You forget yourself," she said. "Rudolf is my 
 husband." 
 
 He smoothed over his unlucky speech, though 
 afterwards he excused himself to his own con- 
 science by remembering that Lady Kitty had 
 often spoken rather freely herself about her 
 German baronet, as she called him. 
 
 However, she forgot and forgave his slip, and 
 that afternoon he really did succeed in raising her 
 spirits, which had been down in the dumps, by 
 suggesting that she should write a novel. 
 
 The idea caught hold of her. For the next 
 week or two she talked incessantly of " plots " and 
 " situations " to Oliver. Very good they were, in 
 Oliver's opinion, and he found himself wishing that 
 such ideas would jump so quickly into his own 
 brain. So he told her one afternoon in a moment 
 of candour, and then at once she abandoned the 
 idea of a novel, and insisted upon his working out 
 some of her ideas as short stories. 
 
 " I shall never have the pluck or the industry to 
 write a novel. You see I have no spur. Rudolf 
 makes me wallow in luxury. It is only poor 
 people who may write good things."
 
 In Disguise 131 
 
 " Then I must write good things," said Oliver. 
 " For I am very poor ! " 
 
 Lady Goldstein looked at him with curious 
 eyes, as though to test the truth of his words. 
 
 " I don't suppose you are indecently rich like I 
 am — thanks to Rudolf. But I don't think you are 
 very poor. You make a good bit by your writing, 
 don't you?" 
 
 Oliver was tempted to pour out his troubles into 
 her lap, to confess that he was so overwhelmed in 
 debt that he was becoming seriously scared, that 
 he owed money to Charles Hardy, and to several 
 of his other friends, and that he was weeks behind 
 with his landlady's rent. 
 
 But her belief in his success flattered him. He 
 was glad of her good opinion of him as a literary 
 man, and he did not care to disillusion her. So he 
 answered lightly, " Oh, I do pretty well. I earn 
 my bread-and-butter, and sometimes can afford a 
 little jam ! " 
 
 " How good the jam is when one is earning the 
 bread-and-butter ! " said Katherine Goldstein. 
 
 She kept to her point about his writing up some 
 of the plots she had invented, and she was tremen- 
 dously pleased when he handed her three of them 
 neatly typed. They had worked out rather well, 
 and again Kitty was tremendously pleased when 
 they were accepted by one of the magazines. 
 
 " I must pay you half the proceeds," said Oliver. 
 " This has been a collaboration."
 
 132 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Katherine protested that this was all nonsense, 
 and that he had a right to every halfpenny of the 
 money. But she yielded when he said that he 
 would " stand treat " out of what was morally and 
 legally due to her. She did not remember that 
 the money would not be actually in his pocket 
 until the stories were printed, and Oliver, who 
 always forestalled his earnings, did not give a 
 thought to this side of the business. 
 
 So Oliver " stood treat," and Katherine was like 
 a schoolgirl in her desire for a little fun and a little 
 adventure when he came to fetch her one evening 
 to a Fancy Dress Ball at the Artists' Club. 
 
 Oliver was in the costume of David Garrick. 
 It cost him a guinea at Clarkson's, and a big 
 mirror had told him that he looked a gallant 
 fellow in it. His finely cut, clean-shaven face, with 
 his black brows and dark eyes, looked very striking 
 under the white peruke. The sky-blue satin coat, 
 the long Waistcoat with little pink roses embroi- 
 dered on it, the knee breeches and white silk 
 stockings, the frill at the throat, the ruffles at the 
 wrist, and the high-heeled shoes with silver buckles 
 became him wonderfully. As he jumped out of 
 the hansom cab in which he had driven from the 
 costumier's, he felt like a fairy prince coming to 
 fetch Cinderella to the ball. 
 
 The footman at the door grinned at him deferen- 
 tially, and gave a little cough behind his hand. In 
 the drawing-room Oliver paced up and down and
 
 In Disguise 133 
 
 bowed to his own image with his hand on his 
 heart in an oval mirror on the wall. He wished 
 that he might always wear such clothes in the 
 streets of London, so drab and ugly now with the 
 hideous dress of modern men. From a Chippendale 
 writing-table he picked up another mirror, and was 
 admiring the effect of the black patch upon his 
 left cheek when Katherine Goldstein came in. 
 
 He dropped the glass with a little clatter on the 
 table, and then bowed very low and humbly before 
 a beautiful lady who seemed to have stepped 
 straight from a painting by George Morland. She 
 wore a white muslin frock with a high waist and 
 puffed sleeves, and a big pink sash. The dress was 
 cut lov/ at the neck, and round her throat was a 
 circlet of pearls. Her fair hair was uncoiled, and 
 fell in ringlets about her face, from beneath a broad 
 straw hat with a white ostrich feather. She had 
 put a touch of colour upon her cheeks, and, with 
 her bright brown ej'es and smiling lips, she was 
 just the image of that famous portrait of "Delia in 
 Town," of which a coloured mezzotint hung over the 
 rosewood piano, with its legend in flowing script : 
 
 " With beauteous form and sparkling Eyes 
 To Town the rural Delia flies, 
 List, gentle Nymph, to what I say, 
 Let Prudence guard thee on thy way. 
 Alas ! too many a simple Maid 
 Hath been by cruel Arts betray'd, 
 Then quickly seek thy native Grove, 
 The seat of Innocence and Love."
 
 134 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She dropped a deep curtsy to Oliver, and sank 
 for a moment between the white billows of her 
 gown. Then she rose with a deeper colour in her 
 cheeks, and, holding out her hand to him, said : 
 
 " My lord, you look rarely well to-night, i' faith!" 
 
 Oliver permitted himself to touch her hand with 
 his lips. 
 
 " Lady, you put a spell upon my eyes." 
 
 Then they both laughed, and stood looking at 
 each other with just a trace of self-consciousness. 
 
 " You are wonderful ! " said Oliver, " What 
 does your husband think of the vision ? " 
 
 " Rudolf is glumpy," said Katherine. " This 
 * play-acting,' as he calls it, has stirred up all his 
 Lutheran instincts. He went off to a public 
 dinner rather huffy with me, poor boy." 
 
 For a moment she looked as if she half repented 
 of her adventure. But when Smithers came into 
 the room and said " The car is ready, my lady," 
 the look of sad and sombre reproach with which 
 he regarded her restored her good spirits, and, 
 putting her hand lightly on Oliver's arm, and hold- 
 ing up her full white gown, she went out, laughing, 
 to the great car with its glaring head-lights. 
 
 As they drove to the Artists' Ball Oliver's knees 
 were half covered with the fluffy waves of her 
 muslin frock, and her fair ringlets strayed upon his 
 shoulders. She had used some beautiful perfume 
 of roses, and the subtle odour of it stole into his 
 senses. It seemed to him wonderful — like the
 
 In Disguise 135 
 
 magic of the " Arabian Nights " — that he should 
 be driving in this way, and dressed as a beau 
 of olden times, with a lady of quality by his side. 
 
 For a moment he had a vision of the parlour at 
 home in Rosemary Avenue, where his mother sat 
 mending socks, and his father reading in the horse- 
 hair arm-chair with its broken springs, and Galatea 
 just returning from the office with a headache and 
 a bad temper. He had got away from all that. 
 He was in a new and brighter world. He re- 
 membered that a week ago he had had a postcard 
 from Galatea — " Is there any possible chance of 
 your getting tickets for the Artists' Ball ? I would 
 give my heart to go. I hear that Mr. Hardy will 
 be there." So she had written, and he had 
 wondered then how she knew about the ball and 
 about Hardy's proposal to go. He had written 
 back a postcard — " Impossible, my dear," but his 
 sister's request had put the idea into his head of 
 taking Lady Goldstein. Poor Galatea ! She was 
 the Cinderella of the family. 
 
 " A penny for your thoughts ! " said Katherine 
 and Oliver, giving a start, smiled and said : 
 
 " I was thinking how beautiful you look in that, 
 sweet, old-fashioned dress." 
 
 It was not strictly true, but a charming com- 
 pliment, and Katherine was pleased with it. 
 
 " David Garrick would be flattered by his living 
 portrait. He was an ugly little man." 
 
 She had returned the compliment prettily.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 A Pageant of History 
 
 As they drove up to the entrance-way of Covent 
 Garden Opera House they were held up in a block 
 of carriages. Through the windows they could 
 see the flashing lamps of many motor-cars. From 
 some of them which had come to a standstill there 
 jumped down strange figures like the characters of 
 a fairy world, little Columbines, as light as puff- 
 balls, scarlet devils, white-faced pierrots, a knight 
 in armour, a Jacobite gentleman, a white pig with 
 a curly tail, two Spanish dancers, and a group of 
 Red Indians in war-paint, with their squaws. 
 
 " Let us get down too," said Katherine ; " it will 
 save time, and I am longing to see the wonderful 
 picture inside." 
 
 Oliver got out of the car, and gave his hand to 
 Katherine. 
 
 She held to his arm as they made their way, in 
 strange company, into the great hall. 
 
 Then Katherine held her breath for a moment, 
 and clasped her hands, and said " Oh, wonderful ! " 
 
 It was certainly a brilliant pageant beneath the 
 glittering candelabra, which shed pools of soft light 
 upon the great polished floor. Out of the coloured 
 136
 
 A Pageant of History 137 
 
 picture-books of history had stepped Hving figures 
 — the Kings and Queens of England, Saxon 
 warriors, ladies of Arthur's court. Gentlemen of 
 France, of those days when the Three Musketeers 
 swaggered arm-in-arm through the narrow streets 
 of old Paris, Italian nobles of the Renaissance, 
 like Benedick and Mercutio, Elizabethans, like 
 Robin Devereux, Spenser, and Sidney, the wits 
 and bloods of the Queen Anne coffee-taverns, 
 Georgian dandies, and Early Victorian ladies in 
 the flowered gowns of our great-grandmothers. 
 
 And out of a world of dreams, fantastic, beautiful, 
 hideous, alluring, had come many fairy characters, 
 such as children see between sleep and waking — 
 the heroes and heroines of their nursery rhymes, 
 the gorgeous figures of the " Arabian Nights," 
 flower-fairies, demons, wood-nymphs, and evil genii, 
 animals with speaking voices, and chanticleers 
 that crowed before the dawn. 
 
 The wardrobe of all nations had been ransacked, 
 and here were Dutch girls with their striped 
 petticoats and wooden shoon, Dutch fishermen 
 with their monstrous breeches, Bohemian gipsies 
 with tambourines, Italian contadine, Spanish 
 dancers and Spanish toreadors, Swiss peasants, 
 Chinese, and Arabs — a human phantasmagoria. 
 
 Oliver and Katherine threaded their way through 
 this many-coloured throng. Katherine was excited 
 now, and at every moment she would touch 
 Oliver's arm and say, "Look, how absurd! how
 
 138 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 amusing ! " or turn with a gay laugh to stare after 
 some ill-assorted couple. Her sense of humour 
 was stirred by the sight of Henry VHI. with a 
 white-robed nun on his arm ; by the Devil pacing 
 across the floor with a pretty Pierrette in her 
 fluffy white skirt and long white stockings ; by 
 Louis XIV. teasing the love-locks of a Stuart 
 cavalier ; by Marie Antoinette hand in hand with 
 a Prehistoric Peep. 
 
 Oliver and Katherine did not escape comment. 
 Oliver was conscious that many of these dream- 
 figures turned to look at him. A pretty girl 
 dressed as Bo-peep gave him the full admiration 
 of her eyes, then, turning to Boy Blue, said, " My 
 word ! what a handsome young man ! " 
 
 An Elizabethan, with a spade beard and jewelled 
 doublet, touched him on the arm and said, " Well 
 done, Roly ! You look perfect ! " 
 
 Oliver stared at this man, who was surely the 
 ghost of Sir Walter Raleigh in his spring-time. 
 Something about the eyes seemed familiar to him, 
 but he could not identify his friend. Probably 
 it was one of the Wastrels nobly disguised. 
 
 A girl's voice over his shoulder said, " Why, 
 there is Lady Goldstein ! " He looked round to 
 see a pair of laughing eyes above the veil of a 
 Turkish lady. She tripped away on the arm of 
 a white-clad clown. 
 
 Several times he heard Lady Goldstein's name 
 mentioned, and every time he had a little thrill
 
 A Pageant of History 139 
 
 of pride as being the cavalier of this distinguished 
 lady. Many mysterious people bowed to her, or 
 stopped to pay homage to her. There was a 
 young Lancelot in shining armour of gold who 
 bowed low before her, and lifted her hand to 
 his lips. 
 
 " You here, Kitty ! " 
 
 It was Mr. Francis Luttrell, the young journalist 
 who came to Pont Street. He looked round at 
 Oliver and nodded to him rather curtly. 
 
 Lady Goldstein blushed a little. 
 
 " I did not know you were coming, Frank. You 
 look a very parfit, gentil knight. Where is your 
 fair lady ? " 
 
 " I had a dream-lady once," said Sir Lancelot, 
 " but I was poor, and she became a queen. So I 
 wander alone in the world." 
 
 Lady Goldstein's blush was deeper now. 
 
 " Hush, Frank. Do not talk nonsense. . . . You 
 might have told me you were coming." 
 
 " I did not know until this evening. I am here 
 on duty. The ofifice pays for this fine suit." 
 
 Oliver was glad when he moved away. He had 
 an uneasy feeling that between Katherine Gold- 
 stein and Francis Luttrell there was the memory 
 of an old love-story. He saw him again in the 
 evening. In his golden armour he was sitting 
 outside the throng, writing hard, with a note-book 
 on his knee-piece. 
 
 The hours passed by swiftly. Several times
 
 140 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Oliver lost Lady Katherine. She was taken away 
 from him by a Cardinal in his long silken robes, 
 which swept the floor ; by a Falstaff, in whom 
 he recognised Bertram Ordish ; by a Henry of 
 Navarre, who was Halliday Wing the artist — he 
 was taking a holiday from his brewer in the 
 Midlands ; by a Jester with jingling bells on his 
 cap ; by many other splendid or fantastic people, 
 who were all astonished and delighted to find 
 Katherine at the ball, and, as it seemed to Oliver, 
 rather surprised that she should have come without 
 her husband and with this young David Garrick, 
 who could not dance. 
 
 That was Oliver's tragedy. He had to stand 
 apart on the outside circle of the gay crowd 
 because his education at Denmark Hill had not 
 included dancing-lessons. He cursed his fate, 
 which did not allow him to take Lady Goldstein's 
 hand and lead her into the heart of the revels. 
 Silent and moody, with folded arms, he leant 
 against a pillar, his eyes rather dizzy with all this 
 swift movement of colour, his senses swimming 
 in the heat, in the mingled scents, in the swish 
 of women's skirts, the jingle and clatter of swords, 
 shoulder-knots, bells, false jewels and metal 
 ornaments, in the laughter and little cries, and 
 the murmur of many voices. 
 
 But always he watched for Katherine Gold- 
 stein's muslin frock, and for her big straw hat, 
 and for her fair ringlets, as she came dancing
 
 A Pageant of History 141 
 
 round the room. He caught swift glances of her 
 appearing for a moment among the great crowd of 
 dancers, and then disappearing in the human tide. 
 Once her eyes flashed into his as she glided 
 swiftly past. She seemed to be laughing at his 
 solemn face. He felt out in the cold. There 
 were moments when he accused her in his heart of 
 outrageous cruelty. Had he not paid for her 
 ticket and brought her to the ball ? Why should 
 these other men pluck her away from him ? Yet 
 he recovered his spirits when he regained her 
 during the supper hour. She was flushed and 
 tired, but still excited. 
 
 " I crave for an ice ! " 
 
 He fetched her one quickly, and they sat at 
 a little table and watched the procession of people 
 passing them. She took an endless interest in 
 their costumes. 
 
 " Strange, how we like to dress up ! We are all 
 children at heart." 
 
 " It is the game of make-believe," said Oliver. 
 " The best thing in life. Here to-night we are 
 princes, and nobles, and merry clowns, and colum- 
 bines. To-morrow we are just ordinary mortals in 
 a drab world." 
 
 He touched her wine-glass with his own. 
 
 " To the spirit of divine youth ! Let us play the 
 game to-night, and laugh while we may. If only 
 the dream would last without a waking ! " 
 
 She laughed at him then.
 
 142 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " You are a funny boy, Roly ! Any one would 
 think you were living on the brink of a tragedy." 
 
 She touched his hand as it rested on the table, 
 and fingered his ruffles. 
 
 " It was good of you to bring me here. It has 
 taken me back to the old days before I was the wife 
 of a rich man. I seem a girl again to-night ! " 
 
 She was not much more than a girl at any time, 
 and half an hour later she was with a group of 
 mediaeval knights and ladies in a box on the upper 
 tier, flinging confetti to the crowd below. 
 
 Oliver had lost her in the throng. He went 
 in quest of her rather angrily. He almost believed 
 that she had given him the slip intentionally. He 
 was walking down a corridor with searching, 
 sombre eyes, when a light hand was laid on his 
 arm, and a girl's voice said, " We have been looking 
 for you everywhere, Roly ! " 
 
 He saw a tall girl, dressed in a flowered muslin 
 gown, with a lace cap on her hair. For a moment 
 he did not recognise her. Then he was amazed. 
 
 " Galatea ! " 
 
 It was his sister, and she laughed at his surprise. 
 
 "You see Cinderella has come to the ball after 
 all ! " 
 
 " How on earth did you get here ? " asked Oliver. 
 Then he saw that the Persian Prince by her side 
 was Charles Hardy, 
 
 " I had the pleasure of taking tea with your 
 family yesterday," said the Persian Prince, "and
 
 A Pageant of History 143 
 
 your sister was good enough to accept my invi- 
 tation to the ball. By good luck I had two 
 tickets." 
 
 He was magnificent in a long robe of shot silk, 
 and his face was stained a golden-brown. He 
 handled a long carved scimitar with a painted hilt, 
 and he looked at Oliver with a whimsical smile, as 
 though pleased with his astonishment, 
 
 Oliver was not only astonished. He was annoyed. 
 He could not understand why Hardy should have 
 gone to the house in Denmark Hill without saying 
 anything to him about it. And it did not seem to 
 him quite right that his sister should come with 
 him alone to the ball. He was not quite sure 
 whether Hardy was a fit companion for Galatea. 
 
 " Did the mater allow you to come ? It is rather 
 unconventional, isn't it?" 
 
 " My dear Roly," said Galatea very calmly, " I 
 am not a child. Please don't be absurd." 
 
 " I hear you have come with Katherine Gold- 
 stein," said Hardy. " Is that strictly according to 
 convention ? " 
 
 He gave a straight look at Oliver, and for some 
 reason Oliver's eyes dropped before that gaze, and 
 a slight colour mounted into his cheeks. 
 
 " Anyhow," he said to Galatea, " I am very glad 
 you are here. I simply couldn't afford another 
 ticket. . . . What do you think of it all ? " 
 
 " I cannot think ! " said Galatea. " I am bewil- 
 dered by the joy of it."
 
 144 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 A party of Red Indian braves came flourishing 
 tomahawks down the corridor, and shouting a war- 
 song of " Hu ! hu ! hu ! " They were lusting for 
 the blood of the Prehistoric Peep, who was flying 
 from them. Laughter rang out on either side, 
 people scattered down the passages, little screams 
 came from a bevy of pretty girls — the beauties of 
 the nations — as though they were scared by those 
 painted savages with their tomahawks, A new 
 party of revellers came rushing by, and when they 
 had passed Oliver looked round for Hardy and his 
 sister, but they had disappeared. 
 
 It was three o'clock in the morning before the 
 attendants under the portico of the Opera House 
 shouted " Lady Goldstein's carriage ! " It was 
 twenty past three before Oliver stood with Katherine 
 on the steps of 31, Pont Street. Smithers opened 
 the door, stifling a yawn. 
 
 " Well, good night ! " said Oliver. " I shall never 
 forget this evening." 
 
 " Come in for a glass of hot milk and some 
 biscuits. It seems ages since we had anything to 
 eat I am. starving." 
 
 She caught him by the wrist and led him inside. 
 
 " Smithers, if you are faithful to me, you have 
 not forgotten my request about the milk." 
 
 " My lady, it is not my habit to forget." 
 
 Lady Goldstein smiled at his imperturbable con- 
 ceit, and went into the dining-room with Oliver. 
 Then she uttered a sharp exclamation.
 
 A Pageant of History 145 
 
 " What, Rudy, haven't you gone to bed ? " 
 
 Rudolf Goldstein was standing with his back to 
 the fire, with his hands behind his back, very stiffly. 
 
 " I do not care to go to bed when my wife stays 
 out so late with comparative strangers." 
 
 " Comparative fiddlesticks, my dear ! " said 
 Katherine very coolly, but with a sudden pursing 
 up of the lips. 
 
 She turned to Oliver. 
 
 " We have had a lovely time, haven't we ? " 
 
 " Ripping ! " said Oliver. 
 
 But he lowered his eyes before the hard, unfriendly 
 looks of Katherine's husband. 
 
 " I wished you had been there, Rudy ! " said 
 Katherine, going up to her husband, and putting 
 her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 He held himself very straight, and did not bend 
 to kiss his beautiful wife. 
 
 " If you had thought of me at all," he said 
 gravely, " I think you would have come back 
 earlier, Katherine. I have been anxious." 
 
 "Oh, now your Lutheran instincts are coming 
 out ! " said Katherine. 
 
 He did not answer that shaft of satire. 
 
 He stood twisting his little fair moustache 
 while Katherine served Oliver with hot milk and 
 biscuits, which Smithers brought in on a silver 
 tray. Katherine chatted gaily, but Oliver could 
 see that she was conscious of her husband's silence, 
 and annoyed by it. 
 10
 
 146 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " As you are so tired, Rudolf, perhaps you had 
 better go to bed," 
 
 " I am not tired. I will wait until Mr. Oliver 
 Lumley has satisfied his hunger." 
 
 Katherine laughed very merrily at that. 
 
 " What a German way of expressing a hint ! 
 Rudy, don't be so absurd ! " 
 
 Needless to say, Oliver did not linger over that 
 refreshment. He took his leave quickly now, and 
 after Katherine had given him her hand and said, 
 " Thanks again, Roly, for a beautiful evening," he 
 said " Good night, sir," to Rudolf Goldstein. 
 
 Katherine's husband nodded to him, and it was 
 Smithers who showed him out. 
 
 As he stood in Pont Street looking up and down 
 for a cab, the sky was just faintly flushed with the 
 appearance of dawn. A moist wind flapped his 
 silk coat. He felt as if he were dressed in tissue 
 paper. He had to walk home to Westminster as 
 David Garrick, and the policemen on their beats 
 grinned at him. 
 
 On the way his mind dwelt upon the details of 
 Katherine's home-coming in Pont Street. He was 
 convinced now that she was the victim of a 
 miserable marriage. 
 
 " Poor little lady ! " he said. " I wish to Heaven 
 I could comfort her I "
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 An Accusation 
 
 Oliver had several surprises during the next few 
 weeks which left him with a rather chastened 
 spirit. The first of these was when he paid a 
 flying visit home and found Charles Plardy down 
 on his knees on the hearth-rug toasting muffins 
 with Galatea, 
 
 Galatea's cheeks were red-hot, and when Hardy 
 burned one side of a muffin as black as his hat she 
 rebuked him with a little slap on the arm, which 
 showed that they had reached the stage of fami- 
 liarity in friendship, though without contempt. 
 
 Oliver was astonished indeed to find how much 
 Hardy was at home in Rosemary Avenue. He 
 took possession of that arm-chair which had been 
 Oliver's by right of tenure, the tabby cat curled 
 itself up in his lap as though he were a tried 
 and trusty friend, and Horace — never quick to 
 cultivate an acquaintance — called him " old man." 
 
 It appeared that after the night at the theatre 
 Mrs. Lumley, at Galatea's prompting, had invited 
 him to tea (they found his address in the tele- 
 phone book), and he had not only accepted, but 
 came, and stayed for several hours. They had 
 147
 
 148 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 had a musical evening, for Hardy had a good 
 baritone voice, and sang " Sally in Our Alley," 
 " Tom Bowling," " Kathleen Mavourneen " and 
 other songs from a shilling album, to Galatea's 
 accompaniment. 
 
 Since that evening he had called three times 
 after supper, and into the small household of 
 Denmark Hill he brought a new spirit of happi- 
 ness and gaiety. He told the most interesting 
 stories of newspaper life ; he had a fund of quiet 
 humour which delighted them all, and he behaved 
 with the greatest courtesy to Mr. Lumley, even 
 listening with patience to his views on the political 
 situation from a Conservative poin*" of view. 
 
 But to all of them the object of his visit was 
 clear enough. His tenderness to Galatea was not 
 concealed It was to her that he turned most 
 often when he was telling his stories. He was 
 always quick to spring to the door when she went 
 out into the kitchen ; he had even insisted upon 
 helping her ' wash up " the supper things one 
 night when the maid had gone out. 
 
 That last act of chivalry endeared him to them. 
 Mr. Lumley quoted the old proverb " Noblesse 
 oblige," but Mrs. Lumley vowed that she would 
 never have believed in such humility by a dis- 
 tinguished young man unless she had seen it with 
 her own eyes. 
 
 She angered her husband very much one night 
 by stating her belief that Mr. Hardy was in love
 
 An Accusation 149 
 
 with Galatea. He rebuked her severely for in- 
 dulging in such foolish ideas, and forbade her 
 to mention such a thing to the girl herself. She 
 accepted the rebuke more meekly than was her 
 wont, guessing intuitively that her husband had 
 exactly the same idea, though he did not dare 
 to express his hope. She lay awake at night 
 hoping and praying that Galatea might win such 
 an admirable and well-to-do young man, and her 
 thoughts flew so fast that she forgot that Charles 
 Hardy had spent only three evenings with them. 
 
 Galatea herself seemed to have acquired a new 
 beauty. There was a softer light in her eyes and 
 a richer colour in her cheeks. She was conscious 
 that her family were watching her, and often she 
 blushed to find their eyes upon her, or to see a 
 smile about their lips when Hardy's name was 
 mentioned. 
 
 Oliver was disconcerted to find his friend so 
 securely established at home. For the first time 
 in his life he played second fiddle in that barely 
 furnished parlour. The attentions of his father 
 and mother were all for Hardy. His conversation, 
 not Oliver's, interested them most deeply. Even 
 Horace said a blunt word of displeasure when 
 Oliver interrupted one of Hardy's stories by an 
 ironical laugh, as though he were pulling the long 
 bow. 
 
 Oliver became moody and silent, and then 
 savage, because his moodiness and silence ^vere
 
 150 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 quite unobserved by his people, and therefore had 
 no effect upon their spirits. He began to feel 
 strangely jealous of this young man, whose lightest 
 word would arouse the gaiety of the family group. 
 He had a miserable sense of being neglected by 
 those who had admired him as their hero, and 
 who had been abashed by his social success. 
 
 Then later in the evening a thunderbolt fell 
 upon him. Hardy had gone, and Mr. Lumley 
 beckoned his son into the little room he called 
 his study. He seemed somewhat embarrassed, 
 as though he had something unpleasant to say, 
 and Oliver had an instinctive feeling that he was 
 about to discuss financial matters. 
 
 He was right. After some hesitation, and a 
 slight attack of coughing, his father explained that 
 he was under the painful necessity of withdrawing 
 his allowance of a pound a week. 
 
 " But, my dear guv'nor," said Oliver, more 
 startled than he cared to show. 
 
 " It is like this," said his father, " my chiefs have 
 taken an objection to my earning so much over- 
 time. They say it is not fair on the younger men. 
 They advise me, for my own sake, to return to my 
 ordinary hours." 
 
 " And that means ? " 
 
 " That means I cannot possibly make those 
 monthly advances to you." 
 
 Oliver was silent. He knew that this with- 
 drawal would be a serious thing for him.
 
 An Accusation 151 
 
 " As a matter of fact," said Mr. Lumley, speak- 
 ing nervously now, " I was wondering, Roly, 
 whether you could see your way to pay nne back 
 some of that money. I have to stint and scrape 
 to make both ends meet. It is telling on my 
 health, and it is not fair on your mother and sister. 
 Galatea may need a few pretty frocks to wear now 
 that she is— er — getting into good society." 
 
 "Good Lord !" said Oliver, laughing scornfully, 
 "you are not counting upon Hardy's flirtation, I 
 hope ! " 
 
 He made use of this as a safety-valve for his 
 annoyance, and he saw with satisfaction that his 
 father was angered. 
 
 " I made no reference to Mr. Hardy," he said 
 with dignity. " Nor do I like the word ' flirta- 
 tion ! ' Mr. Hardy is a perfectly honourable young 
 man." 
 
 " So are they all — all honourable men ! " 
 
 " I trust you know nothing against his character, 
 for dear Galatea's sake." 
 
 Mr. Lumley was anxious now ; and Oliver 
 alarmed him when he said that Hardy was a weak, 
 amiable fellow, whose vanity was stirred by any 
 woman's admiration. 
 
 " At the Wastrels," said Oliver, " they laugh at 
 his insufferable conceit." 
 
 Mr. Lumley waved the matter on one side, as 
 though it were not worth discussing. 
 
 " Let us get back to business, ' he said.
 
 152 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 There was a rather rasping tone in his voice. 
 To Oliver's astonishment, his father spoke with a 
 bitterness and a sarcasm which were quite unpre- 
 cedented in his character. Evidently he had been 
 brooding over things, and had worked himself up 
 into a state of excitement. For the first time in 
 his life Oliver caught a glimpse of the struggle, 
 and disappointment, and revolt in his father's 
 heart. 
 
 He spoke of his long years of toil for his family, 
 of his mean little economies, of his daily drudgery 
 at the office. He had never been able to afford 
 those things which would have relieved the mono- 
 tony of life for himself and his wife. They had 
 devoted themselves to the children, and now they 
 looked for some reward. Oliver had promised 
 them help. They had expected him to contribute 
 to the household expenses, to relieve them of the 
 haunting fear of debt, and to lighten the burden 
 of their declining years. But what had happened ? 
 None of his promises had been fulfilled. On the 
 contrary, he had made heavy demands upon their 
 poor income. He had borrowed money continu- 
 ally, not only from his father, but from Horace. 
 Yet he himself was living a life of ease and luxury. 
 He was enjoying himself in high society. 
 
 " It is not fair ! " said Mr. Lumley, " It is unfair 
 to your mother, to Horace, to Galatea, and to me. 
 As a successful literary man you have no right to 
 lay this burden upon us "
 
 An Accusation 153 
 
 " Successful literary man ! " said Oliver. " Good 
 God ! I am a dead failure." 
 
 It was the first time that he had made a con- 
 fession of failure. And he saw, with a sense of 
 bitter irony, that his father did not believe him. 
 He had talked so often of success that now his 
 father took it for granted. 
 
 Oliver was pale. His dark eyes had a smoul- 
 dering fire in them. 
 
 " Who has been talking to you ? " he asked, 
 almost violently. " Who has been putting all these 
 ideas into your head ? I believe Hardy has been 
 meddling with my affairs. By the Lord, if he has, 
 I will break his head ! " 
 
 " You are entirely in error," said Mr. Lumley. 
 " Mr. Hardy does not discuss you in any way. 
 The truth about you gradually dawned upon me." 
 
 " The truth about me ? " 
 
 "The truth about your selfishness." 
 
 Oliver rose from his chair, and a flame of colour 
 swept into his face. 
 
 " By Heaven, I did not think my own father 
 would ever speak to me like this ! " 
 
 "It has not been easy. It was only the sternest 
 sense of duty that impelled me to do so." 
 
 A silence fell upon them, and then Oliver said, 
 " It is late. I will go." 
 
 He went into the next room, and said Good-night 
 to his mother. She guessed that something un- 
 pleasant had been happening between her husband
 
 154 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 and son. She kissed him upon the forehead, and 
 said, "What is the matter, my dearest boy? " He 
 did not answer, but went out into the hall and put 
 on his things. His father still stayed in his study. 
 Horace came out into the passage, and shut the 
 dining-room door. 
 
 " I say, old man, could you possibly return a 
 little of that brass I have lent you from time to 
 time ? I am frightfully shabby and as hard up as 
 usual. If it wouldn't be troubling you. . . ." 
 
 " What, you, too ? " said Oliver. " I believe 
 there is a damned conspiracy against me ! " 
 
 He went out of the house without another word, 
 and slammed the front door after him. 
 
 He walked to the tramcar with a white face 
 and burning eyes. It seemed to him that his 
 family had turned against him. After all his 
 kindness to them, after all his promises, and his 
 generous intentions, they had become hostile to 
 him. He could not understand it. He honestly 
 believed that Hardy must have poisoned their 
 hearts against him. 
 
 " By the Lord, I will be even with him ! " he 
 muttered ; but on the way home a sense of misery 
 settled down upon him. His father had spoken 
 outrageous things. He had accused him of selfish- 
 ness — though if there were any fault with him, he 
 thought, it was his almost reckless desire to do 
 good to other people. Man as he was, he could 
 have shed weak tears at this injustice.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 The Charity of Women 
 
 Oliver had a great need of sympathy, and he 
 turned with his trouble to that fount which never 
 fails — at least, hardly ever — the heart of woman. 
 
 He wrote a long letter to Virginia Garland, that 
 lady in the country from whom he still received 
 little remembrances — the first snowdrops that had 
 poked up their heads in the January garden, and 
 afterwards the first violets, a book of poems by 
 Francis Thompson, a small engraving of Raphael's 
 " Madonna and Child," a pot of cream, a basket 
 of primroses lined with moss. 
 
 The letter was written late at night, and it 
 seemed as though he dipped his pen in tears. He 
 confessed that his struggle with poverty was wear- 
 ing him down. It was turning his blood to water. 
 It was robbing him of his inspiration. Always 
 the wolf sat upon his door-step with open jaws. 
 He was bitter with the folly of the time. Only 
 the impostors of literature obtained recognition, 
 the sensationalists and the slap-dash humbugs of 
 shoddy trash. The men who took their art seriously, 
 who went to life for their models and to the old 
 moralities for their ideals, were ignored or flouted. 
 155
 
 156 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 He hinted that for art's sake he had lost the 
 affection of his family and friends. If only he had 
 gone into business, with money for his god, he 
 would have been honoured and loved. But be- 
 cause he had given his soul to higher things he 
 was despised and wounded. 
 
 Worse than all was the feeling of staleness and 
 weariness that was creeping over him and deaden- 
 ing his sensibilities. He felt that he must escape — 
 escape from this cruel, callous London and bathe 
 his spirit in the pure springs of some fairer, quieter 
 spot. 
 
 It was a rather good letter, and Oliver admired 
 it when he read it through to himself He was 
 moved to self-pity by the analytical study of his 
 own misery. 
 
 Two days later he had an answer from Miss 
 Virginia Garland. He opened the letter eagerly, 
 and held the envelope upside down, in case there 
 should be an enclosure. The thought had jumped 
 into his brain that perhaps Miss Garland might 
 have sent another gift. He was mistaken. Her 
 words were full of womanly sympathy. She 
 thanked him for telling her of his unhappiness, 
 and she begged him to believe that his confidence 
 would be respected. She could say only one 
 word to him — courage. She would say it now. 
 " Courage ! " Poverty must be hard to bear when 
 it became wearing to the nerves and spirits, most 
 hard wher- it alienated the affections of those most
 
 The Charity of Women 157 
 
 dearly loved. But genius had always flourished 
 best in poorest soil. All the struggles of a literary 
 man, all his disappointments, must surely bring 
 him closer to the great truth of life and make his 
 work strike deeper down into the heart of truth. 
 
 It was a short and serious letter, but the last 
 paragraph had a charming simplicity. 
 
 "Can you not get away from town, as you suggest, 
 to a quiet spot ? Here in the country living is very 
 cheap. I know a cottage — a hundred feet from my 
 garden wall — as pretty as a picture in a fairy tale. 
 It is only six shillings a week, and my kitchen 
 gardens and poultry runs are so well stocked that 
 I hardly know what to do with the produce of them. 
 Perhaps in such a cottage you might write your 
 great novel." 
 
 Oliver was touched by that. Those lines con- 
 jured up a pleasant vision. Even to have Virginia 
 Garland for a next-door neighbour would surely be 
 delightful. Supposing he were to set off on that 
 adventure, and shake the dust of London from his 
 shoes ? For a moment he was tempted , but the 
 face of Katherine Goldstein came between his 
 eyes and the picture of that country cottage. 
 
 There were other faces, too, which he would miss 
 if he confessed to failure and tramped off to the 
 country-side. He would miss the laughing faces 
 of Livvy and Doris, those two actress girls who 
 were always ready for a little fun and frolic with
 
 158 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 him, and all the boys at the Wastrels, and all those 
 people up and down the streets of London who 
 had given him their friendship and their smiles. 
 
 He went to Livvy O'Brien and Doris Fortescue 
 for sympathy, and afternoon tea, in the Kennington 
 Road. They gave him the tea willingly enough, 
 and also some cake (made by the landlady, and 
 rather heavy), but they pretended to hesitate about 
 the sympathy. 
 
 Oliver began with a lurid account of his woes. 
 
 " I ,am stony-broke," he said ; " I am absolutely 
 up a gum-tree, my dear girls. There will be no 
 more of those nice little dinners in Soho, Livvy. 
 I can't afford to bring you any more boxes of 
 chocolates, Doris. That delightful week-end at 
 Brighton must not be repeated, dear children. It 
 cost too much money, and I must effect rigid 
 economies. No more taxis. No more Sunday 
 afternoon concerts. I have nothing to give, but 
 only a lot to ask. I want your comradeship, your 
 laughter, and the goodness of your hearts." 
 
 The speech was not received in the manner he 
 had expected. The girls did not burst into tears, 
 or throw their arms about his neck. 
 
 " Goodness gracious ! " said Livvy. " All this is 
 very serious." 
 
 She turned to Doris. 
 
 " Doris, darling, we shall have to be very careful 
 about this young man. We shall have to reconsider 
 our position towards him." 
 
 SAiNT ANTHONY'S SEMINARY 
 SANTA BAR.BARA. CALIF.-
 
 The Charity of Women 159 
 
 " We shall, indeed ! " said Doris. " No more 
 dinners in Soho, did you say, Roly?" 
 
 " No more dinners in Soho ! " said Oliver 
 gloomily. 
 
 " No more boxes of chocolates. Did I under- 
 stand you to say that, Roly ? " said Doris. 
 
 " That is so," said Oliver, still more gloomily. 
 
 " Not another week-end at Brighton ? " asked 
 Livvy with an air of anxiety. 
 
 " Absolutely not," said Oliver. 
 
 " No more taxis ? No more Sunday concerts ? " 
 
 " You speak the truth," said Oliver. 
 
 " Sure, then," said Livvy, in the absurd brogue 
 which she sometimes affected, " what is the good of 
 this young man at all, at all ? " 
 
 " What is there to be got out of him ? " asked 
 Doris. 
 
 " Why have we wasted so much of our time 
 and affection upon this impecunious young fellow ? " 
 asked Doris, 
 
 " Where is the exalted marriage which one of 
 us hoped to make with him ? " asked Livvy. 
 
 " Our hopes are dashed ! " said Doris. 
 
 " We are undone ! " said Livvy. 
 
 Oliver looked very miserable indeed. He did 
 not know how much of truth there was in the words 
 of these two girls who had been good chums with 
 him. They both looked at him searchingly, and 
 they both laughed and laughed. 
 
 " What a boy it is ! " said Livvy, wiping a little
 
 i6o Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 tear out of one of her eyes. " He has taken us 
 quite seriously." 
 
 She went over to OHver, and took both his 
 hands and looked up into his face. 
 
 " Are you really hard up, Roly ? " 
 
 " Really and truly ! " 
 
 " I'm sorry ! " said Livvy. 
 
 *' So am I," said Doris, eating a bit of cake, 
 " Beastly sorry." 
 
 "You have been a real good pal to us," said 
 Livvy. 
 
 " I'm glad," said Oliver. " I am glad it will 
 make no difference to you because I can't bring 
 pretty things and give you any more fun for a little 
 time," 
 
 " So am I," said Doris, still eating the cake. 
 " Beastly glad." She corrected herself, and said, 
 " Beastly sorry, I mean. At least, I don't know 
 what the dickens I do mean," 
 
 Livvy released Oliver's hand and went to the 
 chest of drawers and brought out a bag of green 
 silk. 
 
 *' Doris," she said, " how much have you got in 
 that cash box of yours ? " 
 
 " Two pounds eight and a penny," 
 
 Livvy opened the bag and poured on to the 
 table a number of silver pieces, and a few bits of 
 gold. 
 
 " Five pounds odd," she said. Then she looked 
 up at Oliver.
 
 The Charity of Women i6i 
 
 " If that is any good to you, Roly, it is yours. 
 Now you are not going to be proud and 
 haughty ? " 
 
 " Good God ! " said Oliver. " Good God ! " 
 
 " I stand in with Livvy," said Doris, " though I 
 shall have to give up eating cake." 
 
 " My dear girls ! You are the best in the 
 world. But I wouldn't dream of touching a penny 
 of your little earnings. I did not come here to 
 beg.' 
 
 " Now, didn't I say he was proud and haughty ! " 
 said Livvy, glaring at him. " What ridiculous 
 nonsense ! As if friends should not help each 
 other when they're down on their luck ! " 
 
 Oliver would not touch the money, but his heart 
 was softened more than he could remember, and 
 when he said good-bye that night he caught hold 
 of Livvy's hands and kissed her. 
 
 " You are a brick ! " he said, " a perfect 
 brick ! " 
 
 She blushed furiously, and said that he really 
 must not do that again or she would be very 
 angry with him. Doris said that if he tried the 
 same thing on with her she would give him " what 
 for." 
 
 But they were both laughing when he went 
 down the stairs from their lodgings, and the next 
 morning when Oliver opened his letters there was 
 one from which fell five postal orders for a pound 
 each. They were wrapped round in a sheet of 
 II
 
 1 62 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 notepaper on which were the words, " With love 
 from Livvy and Doris." 
 
 Oliver did not send back the money. He used 
 it to pay Mrs. Trant, his landlady, a sum on 
 account of sixteen weeks' lodging and washing. 
 It mollified her a little and checked her threats 
 of immediate eviction.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Gay Adventures 
 
 We have seen that in the troubles clouding his 
 young career Mr. Oliver Lumley turned for com- 
 fort to his women friends and received from them 
 consolation and charity. 
 
 But he did not forget his resolution to brighten 
 the spirits of a lady whose heart was bleeding, he 
 believed, in a most unhappy home-life. He became 
 the knight-errant and faithful servant of Katherine, 
 Lady Goldstein. He devised merry adventures 
 for her, and she, glad to escape from what she 
 called the Dismal Dumps (these evil creatures 
 sometimes waylaid her when she was left alone), 
 accepted his invitations willingly. 
 
 For a lady living in Pont Street (with a front 
 door guarded by Smithers) and dressing in most 
 expensive frocks, and related by marriage to 
 many wealthy Germans residing at Sydenham and 
 Hampstead, in big white houses in which pro- 
 priety sat enthroned, these expeditions with Oliver 
 were rather strange and somewhat indiscreet. 
 
 Their visit to the Tower, however, was quite 
 harmless. There was no reason why Lady Gold- 
 stein should not, as she did, conjure up the fair 
 
 163
 
 164 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 ghosts of history whose heads had been chopped 
 off within those grim old walls, pretend to be 
 Lady Jane Grey in the Bloody Tower, as Queen 
 Elizabeth order the instant decapitation of Oliver 
 Lumley on a charge of high treason, and dab her 
 eyes with a lace pocket-handkerchief in the Church 
 of St. Peter ad Vincula at the thought of all the 
 gallant men and beautiful women whose dust lay 
 beneath those stones. 
 
 No soul alive could take exception to their visits 
 to the National Gallery, where Katherine and Oliver 
 stood entranced before the glories of Raphael 
 and Titian, or, on students' days, laughed with 
 suppressed merriment at the long-haired boys, the 
 red-haired ladies in blue pinafores, the old ladies 
 and gentlemen, who, on high ladders, made careful 
 copies of little masterpieces and talked Art while 
 they munched theirsandwiches in the luncheon hour. 
 
 But things began to go a little too far when 
 Lady Goldstein went with Oliver one evening to 
 Barnet Fair, and in the glare of the paraffin lamps, 
 in the raucous din of clanging bells, steam-trumpets, 
 mouth-organs, and hoarse-voiced mirth in a jostling, 
 eddying crowd of costers, East-End Jews, horse- 
 dealers, gipsies, tramps, and thieves, wandered from 
 booth to booth, and watched this drama of low- 
 class humanity. 
 
 Even Oliver became rather nervous. 
 
 " This is too rough," he said. " I think we had 
 better get out of it."
 
 Gay Adventures 165 
 
 Katherine had her hand tucked through his arm 
 and kept close to him, but she would not hear of 
 going until she had seen all the sights. 
 
 " It has been the one ambition of my life," she 
 said, " to see a Fat Lady. I have never had the 
 pluck to go through the curtain. . . . Don't be in 
 a hurry to go, Roly. This is Life. This is the 
 Real Thing. I am tremendously interested. We 
 don't do this sort of thing in Pont Street." 
 
 " What would Smithers say if he saw us ! " 
 
 They both laughed like children who were play- 
 ing truant and enjoying stolen fruits. 
 
 Strange smells were wafted to their nostrils, 
 smells not pleasant, one would imagine, to a lady 
 of quality. They came from fried-fish stalls, from 
 oil lamps, from onions frizzling in boiling grease. 
 There was the subtle, acid smell of humanity in 
 damp and dirty clothes. 
 
 Katherine was rather wild. She insisted upon 
 trying her skill in the rifle range, and had such a 
 pretty skill that she smashed several of the bottles 
 put up as targets, and called forth admiring com- 
 ments from a crowd of men in flat caps with 
 scarves round their necks, and from frowsy young 
 women in velveteen dresses and big hats with 
 feathers. 
 
 " Gord's troof ! She do knock 'em abaht ! " said 
 one young woman, staring into her face. 
 
 "She's giving 'em 'Ounsditch!" said a youth 
 with a big greasy curl in the middle of his fore-
 
 1 66 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 head and a bowler hat thrust to the back of his 
 head. 
 
 The crowd showed a rather embarrassing interest 
 in the pretty lady and the handsome young man 
 who had come to Barnet Fair in a silk hat and 
 a well-cut morning suit and doeskin gloves. 
 
 Oliver touched Katherine's arm. 
 
 " Let's move on. It's getting late. We ought 
 to get back." 
 
 " I insist on seeing the Fat Woman ! " said 
 Katherine. " I decline to go until I have gazed 
 upon her." 
 
 So they paid their pennies and went through 
 the curtain of a booth. Outside a red-faced man 
 was shouting as though he were deliberately trying 
 to break a blood-vessel, " Walk up, walk up, and 
 see the Fattest Woman on earth. The greatest 
 sight in the world. The hadmiration of King 
 George and all the Roile Family ! " 
 
 Inside was a crowd of giggling girls and foul- 
 mouthed young men. Some dirty straw was on 
 the ground, trampled with mud, and exhaling a 
 fetid stench. From behind a curtain came — not 
 the Fat Lady, but a filthy negro, half naked, and 
 with an apron of feathers. He went through a 
 pantomime of offering up a human sacrifice, 
 growling and roaring like a wild beast, and rolling 
 his eyes horribly. Then he danced himself into a 
 kind of maniacal ecstasy. It seemed to be the last 
 degradation of humanity. This negro, "^ for a few
 
 Gay Adventures 167 
 
 coppers, had abandoned all dignity of manhood 
 and lowered himself below the level of a brute. 
 Oliver felt Katherine's hand clasping his arm 
 tightly. He felt a shudder run through his lady. 
 
 " Let us go 1 " he said. " This is too low." 
 
 " No, no ; wait for the Fat Lady." 
 
 Three or four men pressed closely round 
 Katherine. They were looking at her with curious, 
 shifty eyes. Oliver glared round upon them. 
 
 " Stand back a bit ! " he said. " There's no need 
 to push ! " 
 
 " All right, guv'nor ! " said one of the men. He 
 winked at his companions, and presently all of 
 them left the tent. 
 
 Then the Fat Lady appeared from behind the 
 curtain, and instantly there was a lot of giggling 
 among the young women, and the boys whispered 
 and chuckled and gurgled with horrible mirth. 
 
 The Fat Lady was enormous. She wore evening 
 dress and a short skirt, and was an amazing and 
 awful figure. Yet she had a pleasant, amiable 
 face, and she looked round upon the people in 
 the tent with serious eyes, in which there was a 
 melancholy smile. 
 
 " Poor creature ! " said Katherine, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 The woman heard, and came up to her, holding 
 out her banc'. 
 
 " Thank you for that ! " she said. " Most 
 people laugh, and do not pity me. Will you
 
 1 68 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 shake hands with me ? I will not hurt you, pretty 
 one." 
 
 She held out her hand. But Katherine shrank 
 back. 
 
 "1 — I would rather not" she said. "Forgive 
 me. 
 
 The Fat Woman sighed, and then a rough man 
 took her hand and burst out laughing, as if it were 
 a great joke. 
 
 Katherine slipped out of the tent, and Oliver 
 followed her. 
 
 " How awful ! " she said. " Poor wretch ! " 
 
 She had gone rather white, and did not object 
 now when Oliver suggested the homeward 
 journey. 
 
 But suddenly she put her hand to her throat and 
 said, " Good heavens ! " 
 
 " What's the matter ? " 
 
 " My diamond brooch ! It has gone." 
 
 Not only her diamond brooch had gone, but 
 when she put her hand into her muff, which was 
 suspended from her neck by a little gold chain, 
 she found that her purse had gone also. 
 
 Evidently the four men who had pressed against 
 her in the tent had done a successful night's work. 
 
 Katherine was distressed. 
 
 " Rudolf gave me that brooch. It cost a lot of 
 money, and I shall have to tell him." 
 
 " Good God ! " said Oliver. " Let us go to the 
 police."
 
 Gay Adventures 169 
 
 The police were polite, but rather satirical. 
 
 "Very sorry, ma'am," said the Inspector, "but 
 Barnet Fair isn't the place to wear diamond 
 brooches. There are very nimble gentlemen round 
 the booths." 
 
 They went round the fair with him, looking this 
 way and that for the thieves. But obviously they 
 had departed with the plunder. 
 
 Then Oliver remembered that he had spent all 
 his money except a few coppers. 
 
 "How on earth shall we get back? We have 
 not enough between us to buy our railway 
 tickets." 
 
 They stared at each other in real dismay. 
 
 Then Katherine laughed. 
 
 " We must make the best of a bad bargain. Get 
 a cab, Roly." 
 
 It was a long drive back, and a cold one. 
 Katherine kept rather close to Oliver, with her 
 hand tucked through his arm again. 
 
 " All the same, it was fun," she said. 
 
 " I am sorry I took you," said Oliver, who was 
 still depressed and anxious about the loss of the 
 brooch and purse. 
 
 He was wondering what Rudolf Goldstein would 
 say when he heard of the adventure. 
 
 " The place was too low for a lady of your 
 position. I was indiscreet ! " 
 
 " I love being indiscreet ! " said Katherine. " Be- 
 sides, I am not a child."
 
 170 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She indulged in a little philosophy. 
 
 " It is good to see the seamy side of life now 
 and then. It is good to see even the coarse side 
 and the vile things." 
 
 " Why ? " said Oliver, 
 
 " It makes one think. It makes one realise the 
 tremendous contrasts. Look at me, with every- 
 thing that life can give. I live in luxury and 
 idleness. For the sake of a little excitement I buy 
 a new frock, which I shall wear just once or twice. 
 Is there anything which money can buy that I 
 could not have ? " 
 
 " A few things," said Oliver. " A Dreadnought, 
 for example." 
 
 " Nothing that I want. Rudolf says I am 
 extravagant, yet it pleases him. I have nothing 
 to do but spend money and search about for new 
 luxuries and new toys. Yet those people of 
 Barnet Fair could live for a year on what I spend 
 in a day. That is awful to think of, isn't it ? It 
 ought to make me feel pretty wicked ; don't you 
 think so?" 
 
 " No ! " said Oliver. " Those people are happy 
 enough. They're all right." 
 
 " Did you see the pinched faces and the sunken 
 eyes of those men and women ? They looked 
 half-starved. I think they do not have enough to 
 eat. No wonder they are brutal, and take their 
 pleasures coarsely. No wonder they are thieves. 
 If I lived that life I should be a thief, and an
 
 Gay Adventures 171 
 
 anarchist, and everything that is violent and 
 desperate." 
 
 " You would make a charming little anarchist," 
 said Oliver. 
 
 " It is so easy to be good and clean and nice 
 when one is rich. I am not angry even with those 
 men who took my brooch. I dare say it will be of 
 more good to them than it was to me. In a day 
 or two Rudolf will buy me another one." 
 
 She sighed, and said, " How I pity all the 
 children of poverty ! How I despise myself for 
 being rich ! " 
 
 " I am one of the children of poverty," said 
 Oliver. 
 
 He hesitated, and then said, " Katberine, do you 
 know that I am very poor? Do you know that 
 I can see the day when I shall not have enough 
 to eat ? " 
 
 He put his hand in his pocket, and pulled 
 out eight pennies, and jingled them in his open 
 hand. 
 
 " That is all the money I have in the world, and 
 I am up to the ears in debt." 
 
 Lady Goldstein was startled. 
 
 " Are you joking ? " 
 
 " I was never more serious. I am * broke ' to 
 the world." 
 
 He laughed, but it had not a mirthful sound. 
 
 " I am beginning to be hunted. The tradesmen 
 are after me. I have to dodge them in the street
 
 172 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Presently I shall not be able to dodge them any 
 more." 
 
 " My poor boy ! " said Katherine Goldstein — as 
 if she were a very elderly person — " I did not know 
 it was like that." 
 
 She stared at him with wondering eyes. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " 
 
 " The Lord knows." 
 
 He hesitated again. 
 
 "Perhaps if somebody would lend me fifty 
 pounds or so, I might carry over the bad time, 
 and get a run of luck by writing. That is my 
 only chance." 
 
 " Do you know anybody who would lend it to 
 you ? " 
 
 " Not a soul. Most of my friends are almost as 
 impecunious as I am." 
 
 Katherine was silent. She stared out of the 
 window of the four-wheeled cab, and Oliver 
 watched how, at every lamp-post they passed, 
 the light put a glamour upon her face, and then 
 left it vague and pale in the darkness. 
 
 She was very serious now. He wondered 
 whether the loss of the brooch was still worrying 
 her or whether she was thinking over his confession 
 of poverty. He had a kind of horrible hope that 
 his appeal for help would be heard by this girl, 
 who had only to ask for money to get her purse 
 filled. But as the cab jogged on he forgot his 
 want of money, and thought only of the joy of
 
 Gay Adventures 173 
 
 driving like this in the darkness with a woman 
 whose face, as he looked sideways upon it, had 
 a haunting and mystical beauty in the passing 
 gleams of light from the gas-lamps. He wished 
 that this night ride might never end, and that 
 always he might go travelling along an inter- 
 minable road, in the gloom, with Katherine by his 
 side, speaking in her low voice, speaking wistful 
 things, revealing the thoughts that lay hidden in 
 her heart, taking him into her confidence because 
 they were alone together, and the solemnity of 
 night was about them, and the busy traffic of the 
 world was close to them, yet not troublesome. 
 Her hand was upon his coat-sleeve ; he could feel 
 the rhythm of her quiet breathing ; the fragrance 
 of her hair was like the perfume of flowers. 
 
 There was no other woman within the circle 
 of his life who stirred in him an emotion which 
 made him a little afraid, distrustful of his own 
 character, and conscious of his own failings. He 
 would like to be more her equal in simplicity and 
 sincerity, more faithful to the ideal which he had 
 adopted in her presence. Outwardly he was a 
 handsome fellow (he knew that), but looking into 
 his heart he saw a good deal that was rotten 
 and false and weak. If only he had a girl like 
 this to take him by the hand and go with him 
 along the road of life ! He would be a nobler 
 man. He would walk straight with her. He 
 thought of that stiff young German husband of
 
 174 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 hers, a good fellow perhaps, but utterly unsuited 
 to a girl of her mercurial temperament, of her 
 bright imagination and restless, active brain. Such 
 a man would never understand her. This marriage 
 was one of two unmated souls. What cruelty 
 there was in life ! What blind and senseless 
 blunderings of fate ! A flood of pity possessed 
 him for this wife of Rudolf Goldstein, who found 
 no happiness in her wealth. 
 
 " Oliver, would you allow me to lend you a little 
 money ? " 
 
 Katherine Goldstein's face was in shadow now, 
 and her voice was timid. 
 
 " No, no. I could not dream of that ! " 
 
 He spoke passionately, as though her words 
 had hurt him. 
 
 " It would humiliate me to the dust." 
 
 " I do not see why. I know what the desperate 
 need of money means. In the old days there were 
 times when the loan of a few pounds from a friend 
 would have been a tremendous boon. Because I 
 am a woman that is no reason " 
 
 "Yes, that is a reason. Such a thing is 
 impossible ! " 
 
 He repeated the word. 
 
 " Impossible, Katherine." 
 
 " Fifty pounds would not mean much to me. 
 I have my own cheque-book." 
 
 He raised his hand, and said, " Don't ! " almost 
 as though she had threatened to strike him.
 
 Gay Adventures 175 
 
 Yet those words " Fifty pounds " made his heart 
 beat and set his pulses jumping. With fifty 
 pounds he could rise above that quagmire of debt 
 into which he had sunk. It would enable him 
 to breathe again. He would make a fresh start, 
 and settle down to work with a new hopefulness. 
 He would soon pay her back. He would pay 
 her back a hundredfold, and devote his life and 
 his writings to her. 
 
 Katherine Goldstein argued the matter out in 
 her persistent, logical way, and with that touch of 
 humour which always played about her words 
 even when she was most serious. 
 
 " I have my own account. It would be a private 
 bond between you and me. As all you men are 
 proud, I would not tell even Rudolf, so you would 
 not have to play billiards with him and let him 
 beat you every time. I am not a woman to 
 brandish a carving-knife and say, ' My money, or 
 a pound of your prime flesh ! ' You need not 
 pocket any pride, Oliver. I should be the favoured 
 one, for I should have the pleasure of knowing that 
 I am saving a genius from imminent ruin. At 
 least, I hope you will turn out a genius, and do 
 credit to my foresight and shrewd instincts. Fancy, 
 ten years hence, when you are rich and famous, I 
 shall say to myself — only to myself, ' I helped that 
 young man when he was in a tight corner.' Isn't 
 that the best thing a woman can do — to get a 
 man out of a tight corner ? "
 
 176 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Oliver took her hand, and bent his head low and 
 kissed it. 
 
 " Katherine ! " he said, "you are too good to me. 
 I am unworthy of your beautiful friendship. I am 
 a wretch — a worm." 
 
 She took her hand away, and put it into her 
 muff. 
 
 " Hush I No sentiment, Oliver. No foolish- 
 ness." 
 
 Oliver could see that she was blushing. Even 
 through the gloom inside the cab he could see 
 that. 
 
 She began to scold him. Not for kissing her 
 hand, but for being a foolish boy. and getting 
 into debt, and being slack with his work, and not 
 taking himself seriously. As an old woman who had 
 been through Fleet Street and seen the ruin of 
 many young men who preferred the gaslight of 
 the club to the midnight oil of their rooms, she 
 warned him that he would have to pull himself 
 together. 
 
 " That is my advice to you, young man. Pull 
 yourself together, and let the water run down your 
 back." 
 
 Oliver laughed at that. It was the strangest 
 thing to hear Katherine playing the wise old 
 woman to him, this girl, who was not much older 
 than himself in years, and much younger in mind 
 and heart. 
 
 Towards the end of the journey his voice dropped
 
 Gay Adventures 177 
 
 again, and he told her that she was the good fairy 
 of his life. But she put her muff to his mouth and 
 said : 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense, Oliver. If there is one 
 thing I hate, it is nonsense ! " 
 
 " But I am talking truth. My words come 
 straight from my heart. I would pour out all 
 my heart to you, if I dared — if I had the pluck." 
 
 " Hush ! Here we are in Pont Street," said 
 Katherine, as though she were rather relieved that 
 the time was too short for further outpourings from 
 the heart of Oliver Lumley. 
 
 12
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Deliberate Insults 
 
 Upon the morning following Barnet Fair Oliver 
 received a note from Lady Goldstein. But before 
 reading it he handled a piece of pink paper which 
 fluttered out of the envelope. It was an open 
 cheque for fifty pounds, signed in a fine, pointed 
 handwriting, " Katherine Goldstein." He flushed 
 crimson to the temples, and, for a few minutes, sat 
 at his desk with his face in his hands, staring at 
 that document as though it had put a spell upon 
 him. Then he read the note. It contained only 
 a few words. 
 
 "Dear Oliver, 
 
 " I send you the cheque. Do not acknowledge 
 it. If you send me anything like an lOU I shall 
 quarrel with you. We are friends, are we not ? I 
 have confessed the loss of the brooch to Rudolf. 
 He was quite vexed, but more angry when he heard 
 of our adventure in the fair. He thought that it was 
 not respectable. Foolish, dull old word ! We had 
 the greatest fun. 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " Katherine Goldstein." 
 178
 
 Deliberate Insults 179 
 
 Oliver paid some of his debts out of the fifty 
 pounds from Lady Goldstein and the five pounds 
 from Livvy and Doris, and he marvelled why 
 women were so good to him — marvelled, and was 
 glad. But it was astonishing what a little way 
 this fifty-five pounds went in paying a clamorous 
 landlady, and importunate tradespeople, and club- 
 friends whom he had " touched," as they would 
 say, for odd half-sovereigns and odd half-crowns. 
 It was impossible to satisfy all their demands. 
 Indeed, it was rather disgusting to Oliver to find 
 that they spread among themselves the news of 
 his new wealth. Because he paid one man, another 
 came along with gentle reminders. Even at the 
 Club some of his friends said : 
 
 " I say, old man, I hear you have got over your 
 lean days. That half-sov. Quite convenient ? " 
 
 Of course it was damnably inconvenient, and 
 Oliver had to protest that they showed unseemly 
 haste in calling up their loans, and a memory more 
 accurate than was allowed by true comradeship. 
 Into the open jaws of the most ravening wolves he 
 flung something to go on with, from the others 
 he escaped, with tact. But he was still in a perilous 
 situation, and the money received from good women 
 only postponed the evil day when he would have 
 to settle with bad men. 
 
 Another thing troubled him and excited him 
 more than his financial embarrassments, for his 
 spirit easily — too easily — shook itself free from
 
 i8o Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 those responsibilities. In spite of working more 
 regularly and industriously, he still had his after- 
 noons and some of his evenings free, in which to 
 enjoy the charming society of Lady Goldstein. Two 
 afternoons, at least, in each week, found him saying 
 " Good day " to Smithers, before clasping hands 
 with the lady whose manners seemed somewhat 
 too frivolous to the late butler of the Bishop 
 of Barchester. 
 
 That lady rebuked Oliver more than once for 
 wasting his time in drawing-rooms (it was, after 
 all, only one drawing-room), but did not shut her 
 door against him. On the contrary, with the 
 benevolent idea of inspiring him, she talked of 
 " plots," during hours when he would have been 
 more profitably employed in writing them. Nor 
 did she refuse his pleadings for pleasant excursions 
 now and then to such places as Richmond Park, 
 Kew Gardens, the Zoo, the Jewish Quarter of the 
 East End, and to Stratford-on-Avon (where Sir 
 Herbert Tree was on a flying visit), which he put 
 forward as the best method of recuperating a brain 
 overfagged with midnight labour. 
 
 " If the bowstring is always taut it snaps," said 
 Oliver. " Surely you don't want to see my 
 brain go snap? A fellow must have a little 
 recreation ! " 
 
 Lady Goldstein agreed, and said that as she 
 had to air her new spring frocks they might as 
 well go together.
 
 Deliberate Insults i8i 
 
 One thing was awkward. On all these jaunts 
 Katharine insisted on paying expenses for Oliver 
 and herself; and at first that was extremely galling 
 to a young man of pride and sensibility. But as 
 she explained to him in her candid way, what was 
 the good of lending him a little money to tide him 
 over evil days if he paid for her railway fares, 
 luncheons, and other expenses out of that loan ? 
 This argument was unanswerable, so that Oliver 
 had to consent to her plan or be deprived of her 
 company. After his first humiliation, the arrange- 
 ment came quite naturally to him. 
 
 They had many pleasant jaunts together in this 
 way, and many amusing and delightful adventures, 
 during which they learnt to know each other more 
 intimately. There were one or two mishaps, as, 
 for instance, when they lost the last train home 
 from Windsor, where they had sat talking over 
 the fire at the White Hart after rambling over 
 the old castle, and picnicking in the Forest. They 
 took a taxi-cab home at tremendous expense 
 (Lady Goldstein paid again), and that night 
 Katherine, with a laugh that did not ring quite 
 true, said that Oliver had better not come in. She 
 could handle Rudolf better alone. Oliver agreed 
 with extreme readiness, for even now he did not 
 care to face a young man who had an unpleasant 
 habit of looking straight down his nose, pulling 
 his fair moustache, and saying nothing. 
 
 It was at this time that Oliver began to notice
 
 1 82 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 a change in the behaviour to him of Katharine's 
 literary and artistic friends. A coldness crept 
 over them. They seemed to resent his appearance 
 in Lady Goldstein's drawing-room. If they had 
 been laughing and joking with Katherine in their 
 old way, the fire of their conversation became 
 fitful, smouldered, and went out, as soon as Oliver 
 joined the circle. 
 
 It was some time before he realised this. He 
 first began to wonder what frost was in the air 
 when Francis Luttrell "cut" him deliberately in 
 the Strand one day, and when on the same after- 
 noon Halliday Wing ignored the hand which 
 Oliver held out to him in Lady Goldstein's house. 
 Upon an evening in the same week — it was the 
 night before his adventure at Windsor — when 
 Gilbert Verney, Edmund Grattan, Bertram Ordish, 
 and the little musician Frolenko, were discussing 
 the latest novels with their hostess, they left 
 Oliver out of the conversation, in a pointed way, 
 and made him feel extremely uncomfortable. He 
 became angry, and was bold enough to challenge 
 the opinion of Edmund Grattan upon the lit:rary 
 art of H. G. Wells. 
 
 The whimsical Irishman, who had been a war 
 correspondent in all parts of the world, stared at 
 him as though he were some buzzing insect that 
 had become annoying. 
 
 " I am not troubling to answer your opinion, 
 Mr. Lumley," he said quietly. "When you have
 
 Deliberate Insults 183 
 
 been about the world a little more your ideas may 
 be worth hearing." 
 
 It was a deliberate insult, and emphasised by 
 a chuckle from Bertram Ordish, who had had his 
 eyes shut and appeared to be sleeping, and by 
 an amused smile which curved the thin lips of 
 Halliday Wing. 
 
 " I have a perfect right to express my opinion," 
 said Oliver rather hotly. " I do not attempt to 
 monopolise the conversation like some people 
 here." 
 
 "Meaning me?" said Grattan. 
 
 He leant forward in his chair, and looked as 
 though he might make a pounce on Oliver. There 
 was a glitter of light in his grey eyes. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Lady Goldstein. " Little children 
 love one another. I will have no quarrelling here.'' 
 
 She called to Oliver to look at some engravings 
 she had bought in an old print-shop. She spread 
 them out on the rosewood piano, away from the 
 men grouped round the fire. Oliver turned them 
 over, and Katherine, leaning over the piano with 
 her chin in the palm of her hand and her little 
 pointed elbows on the polished wood, had turned 
 her back upon her guests. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Oliver in a low 
 voice. "What have I done to offend these fellows? 
 They treat me as if I were a pariah dog." 
 
 " They were only a little snappy. It is the East 
 wind. Don't pay any attention to it."
 
 184 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She seemed more agitated than her words sug- 
 gested. For the rest of the evening she was 
 rather silent, but addressed most of her remarks 
 to Oliver, as though to rebuke these friends who 
 had been rude to him. Once when she caught 
 Bertram Ordish's gaze fixed upon her with a 
 puzzled and rather anxious look, she blushed 
 deeply, and then to hide her confusion turned 
 to Frolenko and asked him to play something 
 merry and bright. 
 
 " We all seem horribly dull to-night." 
 
 Frolenko played some wild Bohemian dances. 
 The room throbbed and quivered with fantastic 
 melodies. But presently he fell into another 
 mood, and played a wailing lament full of tears. 
 His fiddle seemed to sob like a woman with a 
 bleeding heart. 
 
 In the middle of it Katherine sprang up with 
 a sharp cry of " Don't ! . . . That's a horrible thing 
 you are playing." 
 
 Frolenko grimaced in his monkey-like way. 
 
 " I thought you wouldn't like it. It is the cry 
 of women to whom love has been denied. I made 
 it up myself after spending a morning in the 
 Divorce Court," 
 
 " You morbid little wretch ! " said Katherine. 
 
 " Music strips the soul naked," said Bertram 
 Ordish. 
 
 That evening Ordish and Oliver left the house 
 together. The older man hailed a cab. " I must
 
 Deliberate Insults 185 
 
 get back to Battersea," he said. They were the 
 first words he had spoken to Oliver for the last 
 couple of hours. But now he put his hand on 
 Oliver's shoulder in a friendly way, and said, 
 "Lumley, I am old enough to be your father. 
 Will you let me give you a word of advice ? " 
 
 " I will listen," said Oliver, rather haughtily. 
 
 "It is not good for a young man to go about 
 too much with a married woman. It leads to 
 trouble. The husbands don't like it. Funny, but 
 true." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Oliver was very angry. He jerked out the 
 sentence like a revolver shot. 
 
 Ordish still had his hand on Oliver's shoulder. 
 He pressed it almost affectionately. 
 
 " Katherine is a dear, sweet girl, but rather self- 
 willed and indiscreet. We must take care of her, 
 Lumley. See ? " 
 
 The cab rattled up, and he jumped in with a 
 " Good night ! " 
 
 Oliver stood on the pavement. He stood there 
 for a minute or two, staring at the ground. 
 
 " Confounded impudence ! " he said.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 'The End of an Idyll 
 
 Upon the morning after the expedition to Windsor 
 when they had driven back to town very late, 
 Oliver lay in bed thinking over the incidents of 
 that day with Katherine. 
 
 It had been the most beautiful day in his life. 
 They had played games of make-believe together, 
 in the Castle and in the Park. He had pretended 
 that Katherine was a queen and that he was her 
 faithful knight. In the Castle grounds the spring 
 flowers were blowing. There were hyacinths and 
 jonquils in the long grass of the moat. He said 
 that they were flower-fairies, who had come to 
 dance upon the greensward in her honour. A 
 soldiers' band was playing outside the gateway, 
 and he said that this was the guard of honour for 
 Queen Katherine. Together they wandered under 
 the grey old walls and passed beneath Norman 
 archways and strolled about the quadrangles and 
 went into the dim aisles of Henry VI I. 's chapel, 
 and they told each other scraps of history, and con- 
 jured up old ghosts, and fell into a romantic mood. 
 
 Then after midday they went into the town 
 and bought some sandwiches, and passing down 
 i86
 
 The End of an Idyll 187 
 
 the Long Walk struck straight into the heart of 
 the Great Park, among the grand old oaks, where 
 the quiet deer flung back their antlers and stared 
 at them with mild, curious eyes. There was the 
 sound of a distant motor-horn, and Katherine said 
 it was old Heme the hunter winding his horn in 
 far-off glades. 
 
 All the trees and twigs of Windsor Forest were 
 jewelled with the first buds of spring, and there 
 was wine in the air, and sunlight touched each 
 tree-trunk and gnarled old branch with a shaft of 
 gold, and glinted upon the dead bracken of last 
 year's autumn and upon the green fronds of the 
 new shoots. 
 
 They were quite alone in the Forest. Not a 
 soul passed them. Oliver spread out his overcoat 
 under one of the biggest oaks, and Katherine sat 
 upon it with her back to the tree, and they had 
 a merry luncheon with the sanduiches. After- 
 wards Oliver wandered off to find a brook for 
 drinking water. He failed in the quest, and when 
 he came back Katherine was fast asleep, with her 
 head leaning sideways against the trunk. 
 
 She had taken off her hat and her fair hair was 
 touched with the golden light of the afternoon 
 sun. She was smiling in her sleep, and Oliver 
 sitting down in front of her had a new revelation 
 of her beauty. She seemed to him like some 
 wood-nymph who had strayed out of fairy-land 
 into this old forest.
 
 1 88 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 It was getting chilly now, and very softly he 
 took off his Norfolk jacket and put it over her, 
 hardly breathing, lest he should wake her. For an 
 hour he sat watching her, and strange thoughts 
 came into his head, and curious little dreams, in 
 which he seemed to be wandering hand-in-hand 
 with Katherine through endless woods. Presently 
 as he sat there in his shirt-sleeves he sneezed 
 irresistibly and loudly. Katherine awakened with 
 a start, and when she saw him there without his 
 coat, and realised that she had been sleeping and 
 that he had covered her with his own jacket, she 
 started up, blushing, and rather angry with herself 
 and him. 
 
 " You will catch your death of cold ! What an 
 utterly absurd thing to do ! How long have I 
 been dozing?" 
 
 She could hardly believe that she had been 
 asleep an hour, and she protested that he had not 
 played the game. He ought to have wakened 
 her. So they quarrelled, but made it up again, 
 and walking back to Windsor had dinner at the 
 White Hart, and then, as I have said, talked so 
 long that they missed the last train back to town. 
 
 Oliver did not regret that until the next morn- 
 ing when, as he lay in bed, the maid-servant 
 brought a letter on the tray with his early cup of 
 tea. It was addressed in a handwriting strange 
 to Oliver, a bold, pointed script, with a tremendous 
 flourish to the tail of " Lumley."
 
 The End of an Idyll 189 
 
 " Good Lord, another bill ! " 
 
 But when he broke the seal and read the letter, 
 he went quite pale. It contained but a line or 
 two. 
 
 "Sir Rudolf Goldstein requests Mr. Oliver Lum- 
 ley to discontinue his visits to 31, Pont Street. The 
 servants have been given orders in accordance with 
 this request." 
 
 That was all, and it was enough to send the 
 world crashing under the feet of the young man 
 to whom that house in Pont Street had been a 
 little heaven. 
 
 " The servants have been given orders." That 
 phrase stung him. It was deliberately insulting. 
 It was an outrage. 
 
 Oliver rose and dressed himself. He was trem- 
 bling with nervousness, and as the meaning of the 
 letter burnt itself into his brain he was tortured. 
 The house was closed to him. Never again would 
 he enjoy those hours which for nearly a year now 
 had been the best and happiest in his life. A 
 jealous husband was playing the tyrant. Goldstein's 
 German traditions had mastered him, and he in- 
 tended to prevent his wife from enjoying a friend- 
 ship with a man who understood her tempera- 
 ment and had satisfied some of her desires — for a 
 little liberty, for harmless adventures, for innocent 
 mirth. 
 
 As Oliver thought over the matter a furious
 
 iQO Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 anger stirred in him. He could see it all now. 
 Those friends of Katherine, the priggish Luttrell, 
 Halliday Wing the poseur, gruff old Bertram 
 Ordish, the wild Irishman Grattan, the whole 
 crowd who had frequented Katherine's drawing- 
 room, had poisoned Goldstein's mind against him. 
 They were jealous of him. . . . But he would not 
 be shut out like this. He would not surrender 
 his friendship because of a jealous German and a 
 pack of scandal-mongering rivals. He would go 
 to her through fire and blood. 
 
 All his youthfulness throbbed at his pulse, and 
 put fire into his heart. 
 
 " Good God ! My love for Katherine is the vital 
 spark in me. Without it I go out." 
 
 He had never used that word " love " before in 
 relation to Katherine Goldstein. But now it took 
 possession of him. It prompted him to do wild 
 things. It filled him with self-pity, with a strange 
 passion, with a hatred of Katherine's German 
 husband, who was spoiling her life and breaking 
 her spirit. 
 
 He paced up and down the room breathing out 
 her name, like the young Dante to his Beatrice. 
 " Katherine ! my pretty Katherine." 
 
 But that did not alter the grim facts. The 
 house in Pont Street was closed against him. The 
 servants had been given orders, and he dared not 
 go there. He wrote a letter to Katherine, enclosing 
 her husband's note.
 
 The End of an Idyll 191 
 
 *' Do you approve of his cruelty ? I cannot be- 
 lieve that. I have faith in your friendship. I am 
 conscious of having done nothing, of having said 
 nothing that justifies your husband in dealing me 
 this blow. I acknowledge only that to you I owe 
 the best gift a man may have, the charity and gracious 
 sympathy of a good woman. Please send me one 
 line explaining this mystery, which bewilders me." 
 More than a line came by the next morning's post. 
 "My poor Boy, 
 
 " We are both in trouble. Rudolf is unreason- 
 able, absurd, and terribly German. I did not know 
 till now how very German he may be at times. It 
 seems that we have been together too often and 
 too long. He objects to our little adventures and 
 excursions. Nothing that I say will make him 
 alter his opinion that what I call right is wrong. 
 Of course we have quarrelled, and I hate quarrelling. 
 I am very angry with him for forbidding any more 
 visits from you. I cannot pardon that, and I will 
 not obey his command — he used the word command 
 — to break off my friendship with you. I do not 
 find it in my nature to obey, at any time, and I permit 
 myself the liberty of choosing my own friends and 
 keeping them. It is Rudolf's house, and therefore 
 I cannot invite you here again, until he has asked 
 my forgiveness, but there are many places in London 
 where two friends may chat. I propose going to 
 the National Gallery to-morrow afternoon, to study 
 the pictures in the Venetian room. 
 " Always yours sincerely, 
 
 " Katherine Goldstein."
 
 192 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 To the Venetian room of the National Gallery 
 went Oliver Lumley next day, and he found 
 Katherine Goldstein, in a very charming cos- 
 tume, gazing at a picture of the Madonna, by 
 Bellini. 
 
 " Katherine ! " he said, with tenderness in his 
 voice. 
 
 She gave the tips of her fingers to him. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do ? . . . That is a wonderful 
 picture, isn't it? The colouring is very fine." 
 
 He was taken aback by her politeness. He had 
 expected a different greeting, something more in 
 harmony with his own mood, which was vibrant 
 and romantic. 
 
 "Don't bother about the pictures. Let us 
 talk." 
 
 " But I have come here for the pictures ! " 
 
 She wandered round the gallery, seeming to take 
 a deep interest in the works of those Venetian 
 masters, to whom she gave tributes of praise. 
 
 Oliver followed her, chilled and gloomy. In 
 this great crisis of their lives it was strange for 
 Katherine to be playing the art critic. 
 
 " Katherine, what are we to do ? " 
 
 "Do? " She did not notice his burning eyes. 
 
 " I must see you — often. I cannot let our — our 
 friendship be smashed up." 
 
 A smile flickered about her lips, 
 
 " There is no reason for anything so dreadful. 
 You are one of my friends. As long as you
 
 The End of an Idyll 193 
 
 behave nicely, our friendship stands where it 
 stood." 
 
 She was cool and self-possessed. She did not 
 blush nor show any signs of emotion. Oliver 
 was surprised and disappointed. Again he felt 
 chilled. 
 
 " If 1 cannot come to your house I am an 
 exile and an outcast. I cannot understand your 
 husband's action, and he does not deign to give me 
 an explanation. What is the meaning of it ?" 
 
 " My dear child, husbands are still in the position 
 of being able to do unreasonable things without 
 explanation. When you are a husband, you will 
 claim the same privilege." 
 
 Oliver's answer came from the depths of gloom. 
 
 " I shall never be a husband." 
 
 Katherine was amused with that, and reminded 
 him of a certain Benedick. 
 
 They had tea together in a shop near Trafalgar 
 Square, and Katherine talked of pictures, of Oliver's 
 latest magazine story (she did not like it), and of 
 the people at the table near them. 
 
 Afterwards she said, " Please get me a cab," 
 and then, before driving away, she looked up at his 
 woebegone face and seemed to be sorry to see him 
 so miserable. 
 
 " Silly boy ! Don't take things too seriously. 
 Where's your sense of humour ? " 
 
 " The fun has gone out of things." 
 
 "Oh no! It is all very amusing. Rudolf has 
 13
 
 194- Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 made me angry, but he makes me laugh too. He 
 cannot help his German ancestors ! " 
 
 When she had driven away, leaving Oliver on a 
 refuge in the middle of Trafalgar Square, he said 
 rude and unkind things about Rudolf Goldstein's 
 ancestors.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 In the Enemy's Camp 
 
 During the next four weeks Oliver had the 
 felicity of seeing Lady Goldstein eight times. He 
 grumbled miserably, considering this to be short 
 commons for a man who was starving for love. 
 (He used that word " love " now habitually in his 
 self-communings, and it gave him a sense of 
 romantic tragedy.) Nevertheless he made the 
 most of those meetings, which had the piquancy of 
 stolen fruit. 
 
 Generally it was Katherine who arranged them. 
 From her friends she found it easy to get theatre 
 tickets. She had but to ring up Francis Luttrell, 
 Edmund Grattan, or Gilbert Verney, and mention 
 her wish to see any piece at any theatre. As 
 journalists and dramatic critics, they seemed to 
 command the front rows of the stalls. 
 
 So it was that in four weeks Oliver saw six bad 
 plays. He enjoyed them vastly, because it was 
 delightful to sit in his evening clothes (which were 
 getting a little shabby now) next to the most 
 elegant and most beautiful woman in the theatre, 
 who attracted all eyes when she came in to take 
 her seat, and who invested Oliver in some of her 
 own glamour. 
 
 195
 
 196 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 It was delightful, but not entirely satisfactory. 
 While the plays were in progress he could make 
 little jokes to her, and keep her amused, but he 
 could not say those private things which he 
 yearned to say. Nor between the acts, when the 
 lights went up, could he pour out his heart to her. 
 He needed more elbow-room and less publicity. 
 After the theatre he had to see her straight into 
 her cab, or into her own car, because she would not 
 listen to his invitations to supper. 
 
 *' Lazy Oliver ! You must go back to work. I 
 am sure you are not getting on with your writing. 
 Remember your promise." 
 
 Never once did she remind him of the fifty 
 pounds she had lent him, and there were times 
 when he quite forgot that loan. Love is not to be 
 alloyed with dross. 
 
 Upon each night at the theatre some of Lady 
 Goldstein's friends were present, and greeted her 
 from boxes, stalls, or balcony. Francis Luttrell 
 was there one night, and when he saw Katherine 
 he came towards her and his tired grey eyes 
 suddenly lighted up. But then he caught sight 
 of Oliver, and instead of coming to speak to 
 Katherine he merely bow^ed and passed through a 
 swing door. By a slight flush that crept into 
 Katherine's cheeks Oliver thought that she had 
 noticed this sudden change in Luttrell's manner. 
 
 Once she put her hand on his sleeve and 
 said :
 
 In the Enemy's Camp 197 
 
 " Do you see that fat lady staring at us from the 
 box over there — the upper box ? " 
 
 " Yes. That old harridan with the osprey feather 
 and the diamond dog-collar. The old boy with 
 her is staring now. Who are they ? " 
 
 " The Ecksteins of Hampstead. To-morrow the 
 Berensteins and the Rosenbaums will know that I 
 was here to-night. It is wonderful how they 
 spread the news." 
 
 She seemed rather disconcerted by the presence 
 of her husband's relations, and while the play was 
 going on she glanced over at their box several times. 
 Oliver had a mind to suggest to her that they 
 should not meet in such public places ; but, for 
 some reason, he had not the courage to hint at this. 
 Katherine's candid eyes rebuked any idea of secrecy. 
 
 So he developed his knowledge as a dramatic 
 critic until one evening he received an invitation 
 from Halliday Wing. It was curiously worded : 
 
 " My dear Lumley, 
 "I desire to see you on an important and 
 private matter. I shall be glad if you will call at 
 my studio here at nine o'clock to-morrow evening, 
 without fail, when you will hear something to your 
 advantage. It does not, of course, refer to that 
 small loan for which I hold your lOU." 
 
 Oliver was startled by that letter. He wondered 
 whether it announced a piece of good luck or con- 
 cealed a threat.
 
 198 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 He took an omnibus to Chelsea on the following 
 evening, and at a few minutes after nine walked 
 down a long dark passage in a block of studios 
 until he came to a door over which in black letters 
 on a small pane of glass, illuminated from within, 
 was the name HalHday Wing. 
 
 He tapped at the door, and a voice called out 
 " Come ! " 
 
 Oliver walked into a large studio, littered with 
 canvases and an artist's paraphernalia. Wing 
 himself was standing by his easel, playing about 
 with a pencil on a square of cardboard. He 
 glanced over to Oliver and said, " I am glad 
 you have come. You will find a chair and some 
 cigarettes." 
 
 Then Oliver saw that Francis Luttrell was in 
 the room, and Edmund Grattan, and Charles 
 Hardy, and Bertram Ordish, and Frolenko the 
 fiddler. They were all smoking, and Grattan had 
 a glass of whisky at his elbow. Hardy was the 
 only one who spoke to Oliver as he entered. He 
 said, " Hulloh, Lumley ! I haven't seen you for 
 some time." 
 
 " No." 
 
 Oliver looked round at the men, whom he had 
 seen together fairly often in Lady Goldstein's 
 drawing-room. They smoked silently, and the 
 general atmosphere did not seem too friendly. 
 
 "Is this a committee meeting?" 
 
 Oliver asked the question with a nervous laugh.
 
 In the Enemy's Camp 199 
 
 He looked over at Hardy, but his friend avoided 
 his gaze. 
 
 " Something of the sort," said Halliday Wing 
 quietly. He seemed to be making studies of 
 Frank Luttrell's profile. 
 
 Oliver took a chair at a deal table, and helped 
 himself to a cigarette. 
 
 " Anybody got a light ? " 
 
 It was Ordish who passed over a box of matches. 
 
 Hardy began to whistle a tune with an air of 
 being perfectly at his ease. 
 
 Frolenko said, " You have not an ear for music, 
 my friend." 
 
 Then there was silence, until Bertram Ordish 
 stretched out his large legs, put his hands into 
 the pockets of his Norfolk jacket, and said, " Look 
 here, Wing ; you have brought young Lumley 
 over to this dog-kennel of yours. You had better 
 get straight to the point, hadn't you ? " 
 
 Halliday Wing stroked his Vandyke beard and 
 stared at Oliver thoughtfully. 
 
 " Yes. It is no use beating about the bush," 
 
 Oliver shifted in his seat. What was this extra- 
 ordinary business ? Why was he brought into the 
 presence of all these men, like a prisoner at the 
 bar ? He appealed to Hardy, whom he knew best. 
 
 " Look here ! What the devil is the meaning of 
 all this?" 
 
 But Hardy was examining the bowl of his pipe, 
 and did not answer.
 
 200 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 HalHday Wing was still stroking his beard. 
 Then he lit a cigarette, and, turning to Ordish, 
 said, "You are the oldest among us. You can 
 have the word." 
 
 Bertram Ordish, a big man, loose-limbed, with 
 a strong, clean-cut face and dreamy eyes, sat up 
 in his chair. He looked at Oliver with a pleasant, 
 frank smile. 
 
 " Look here, Lumley. All this seems very mys- 
 terious to you, and I don't altogether approve of 
 this assembly. However, that was Wing's idea, 
 and here we are." 
 
 "What for?" cried Oliver. 
 
 " We are speaking within four walls, and we are 
 all friends here. Nothing will go outside. There- 
 fore you must forgive a little plain-speaking. We 
 want to talk about Lady Goldstein — our Katherine." 
 
 Oliver flushed hotly. 
 
 " I object to discussing Lady Goldstein in any 
 way whatever." 
 
 " My dear lad," said Ordish, " be reasonable. It 
 is a question of" — he paused for a phrase — "of 
 safeguarding a lady's reputation and happiness." 
 
 " Katherine's reputation ! This is damned in- 
 solence ! " 
 
 Oliver sprang up and thrust his chair back. 
 
 Edmund Grattan went to the door and locked it. 
 
 " We do not want any intruders," he said. 
 
 Ordish went on speaking. His grey eyes seemed 
 to hold Oliver's gaze.
 
 In the Enemy's Camp 201 
 
 " Keep cool, Lumley. We are making no 
 accusation against you. We have too much faith 
 in Kitty for any accusation to be necessary." 
 
 " I see I am trapped here," said Oliver. " Come 
 to the point." 
 
 " I will. All of us here — Grattan, Verney, 
 Hardy, Wing, Frank Luttrell over there, Frolenko 
 and myself, have known Katherine for a good long 
 time, some of us for several years, and I think I 
 may say that we all " — his eyes strayed over to 
 Luttrell, the pale fellow who had been dressed as 
 Lancelot at the artists' ball — " that we all have a 
 very real devotion to her. So you see that when 
 we see her doing indiscreet things, rather danger- 
 ous things — dangerous, I mean, to her happiness 
 and reputation — we are anxious and troubled." 
 
 " What on earth does all this rhodomontade 
 mean ? " said Oliver. " Am I responsible for Lady 
 Goldstein's indiscretions ? " 
 
 "In a way," said Ordish. "You spend too 
 much time in her company. You have taken too 
 much advantage of her girlishness, of her good- 
 nature, and of her desire for a little excitement. 
 You have allowed yourself to forget that she is a 
 married woman, and that her husband has certain 
 claims which must be respected by any friend who 
 receives his hospitality." 
 
 " Her husband ! That German, with as much 
 sensibility as a block of wood ! " 
 
 Oliver gave a scornful laugh.
 
 202 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " You convict yourself," said Ordish gravely. 
 " You have eaten his salt, and you have no right 
 to insult him. I know Rudolf Goldstein to be a 
 simple, good fellow, perfectly devoted to his wife. 
 Isn't that so, boys ? " 
 
 He looked round to his friends. 
 
 " Rudolf is one of the best," said Grattan, 
 
 " Very well," said Oliver. " What then ? " 
 
 It was Frolenko who took up the speech. 
 
 " I will tell you what then," he said excitedly, 
 his little black eyes glaring at Oliver. " It is your 
 damned cheek to go about always with that lady 
 which we speak of People talk. They say Lady 
 Goldstein is too much with one young man — one 
 boy who whisper in her ear, who hold secrets with 
 her, who burn her with his eyes. People shake 
 their heads and say, 'Poor Rudolf!' Lady Gold- 
 stein's husband go about hang-dog. His wife 
 laugh at him, a little mocking. Yet when I play 
 to her she no longer laugh. I bring the tears out 
 of her heart. We, her old friends, suffer because 
 she lose her gaiety, her beautiful spirit. That is 
 what then, my friend. We say this goes on no 
 more. We will stop that young man who play 
 the dash fool with our dear lady. If he go on we 
 take him by the throat. We use a horsewhip to 
 him. I myself will whip him with my bow-string. 
 Now you know what then ! " 
 
 Ordish got up, and taking Frolenko by the 
 shoulders thrust him down into his seat.
 
 In the Enemy's Camp 203 
 
 " Monkey-man, you get too excited. We have 
 no quarrel with Lumley. He is a good fellow. 
 He will listen to reason." 
 
 " I am listening to lunatics," said Oliver. 
 
 " I should not speak like that," said Grattan. 
 " I advise you to keep a civil tongue. We ask 
 only one thing of you. If you have any work, 
 stick to it and do not come hanging round a lady 
 who has a good fellow for a husband, and friends 
 who will protect her good name." 
 
 Frank Luttrell spoke for the first time. 
 
 " I think we are not justified in adopting a 
 hostile attitude to Mr. Lumley. Katherine has 
 given him her friendship. He is therefore one of 
 our friends. The only thing we may ask him is to 
 be a little more careful, and to guard Katherine 
 wisely from indiscretions into which she is apt to 
 fall on account of her high-spirited nature and sense 
 of humour." 
 
 " I agree," said Ordish. " We ask this as a 
 favour of Lumley." 
 
 He went over and put his hand on Oliver's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " My dear lad, you will help us, I know. It 
 would be very painful if there were strained 
 relations between Lady Goldstein and her husband. 
 Things have gone a little too far already. Do you 
 understand ? " 
 
 Oliver shook off Bertram Ordish's big hand. 
 
 '• I understand nothing," he said, " except that
 
 204 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 you are all damnably jealous of my friendship with 
 Lady Goldstein. The character of that friendship 
 does not depend upon the good pleasure of Fleet 
 Street journalists and Chelsea artists." 
 
 He took up his hat and stick, and went towards 
 the door. 
 
 " Do you keep me prisoner ? " he asked, re- 
 membering that the door was locked. In his 
 heart he felt that he was playing a difficult part 
 with dignity. 
 
 Frolenko was like a cat about to make a spring. 
 His little bullet head was poised on one side. His 
 eyes had a reddish light in their blackness. Ordish 
 leant over to him and put his hand on his knee. 
 
 Edmund Grattan laughed. 
 
 " It seems we might have saved our breath to 
 cool our porridge," 
 
 To Oliver he said, " The key turns in the lock." 
 
 Then he lit his pipe, and puffed out a long cloud 
 of smoke. 
 
 Oliver unlocked the door and went out of the 
 studio with his head held high and his lips tightened 
 to a hard line. As he strode down the King's 
 Road people turned to glance round at that tall, 
 handsome young man who looked as if he were 
 defiant of fate.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Sharp Arrows 
 
 Another week passed, during which he did not 
 see Katherine again. She answered his long letters 
 by short notes, kind, but not glowing. He did not 
 tell her of that scene in Halliday Wing's studio. 
 
 He was in a desperate mood. As he had said 
 to Katherine, the fun had gone out of things. 
 
 Then one evening, as he was sitting in his 
 rooms scratching a criss-cross pattern on his 
 writing-block, attempting to start a new story, but 
 starting always on long journeys with Katherine 
 through fields of fancy, there was a tap at his door, 
 and Mrs. Trant put her head inside his room. 
 
 " There's a lidy in the 'all, Mr. Oliver. Shall I 
 let 'er in ? " 
 
 " A lady ? " 
 
 Oliver made a stride to the door, and saw 
 Katherine standing there studying a large engraving 
 of "The Huguenot" by Millais. 
 
 She turned to him as he came out, and said, 
 "Are you busy? Am I interfering with your 
 work ? " 
 
 " Not a bit ! This is splendid of you. Mrs, 
 Trant, will you make some coffee ? " 
 205
 
 2o6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Mrs. Trant said, " If it is your orders, Mr. 
 Oliver " ; but she stared at Lady Goldstein with a 
 grim look, as though she were doubtful of the 
 character of this lady in evening dress with glitter- 
 ing jewels in her hair. 
 
 It was nine o'clock, and Oliver's supper-things 
 still lay on the table, and his arm-chair was heaped 
 up with papers. He removed the papers, and 
 drew the chair up close to the fire. 
 
 " How tremendously good of you to come like 
 this ! " 
 
 His voice shook with excitement, and his heart 
 was beating like a sledge-hammer. 
 
 Katherine sat down, and let her cloak slip from 
 her shoulders. She was in a white evening gown, 
 and her arms were bare to the elbows. She 
 warmed her hands at his fire. 
 
 " So this is your den ? I have often wanted to 
 see you in it. I slipped away from a reception in 
 Brooke Street." 
 
 " I have been craving to see you. It is a life- 
 time since I last met you." 
 
 " It is a week," said Katherine. 
 
 She looked over to him with a whimsical 
 smile. 
 
 " I ought not to be here now. I am risking the 
 severe displeasure of my lord." 
 
 " You take the risk for my sake ? I am very 
 grateful." 
 
 " Not for your sake. Oh, dear no ! " said Lady
 
 sharp Arrows 207 
 
 Goldstein provokingly. " I was terribly bored 
 with my husband's second, third, and fourth cousins. 
 The}^ have all relapsed into the German language. 
 I could not stand it any more. I felt myself 
 sinking into gibbering idiocy." 
 
 Mrs. Trant brought in the coffee-things. She 
 put them on the table with a clatter, and walked 
 out of the room, clothed in austerity. She 
 suspected scandal, and was jealous for the good 
 name of her lodging-house. 
 
 Katherine sipped the coffee and smoked a 
 cigarette. Oliver watched her and could find 
 very little to say. His eyes were burning, and 
 there was a dryness in his throat. But Katherine 
 chatted quietly and as though thoroughly at home, 
 and afterwards went to his bookshelves and took 
 down one or two volumes and reproved him for 
 his interest in second-rate novels. 
 
 Oliver went to the door and turned the key. 
 Perhaps the idea was suggested to him by 
 Grattan's action in the studio. At the click 
 Katherine looked round and said, " Why do you 
 do that?" 
 
 " I don't want Mrs. Trant to bother us again." 
 
 She searched his face, and seemed to read 
 something strange in its expression. The book 
 in her hand trembled slightly. 
 
 Oliver went over to her and said, " Katherine, 
 sit down again. I want to speak to you." 
 
 " It is getting late. I must go now."
 
 2o8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She went over to the chair and picked up her 
 cloak. 
 
 But Oliver took it from her hands, 
 
 " I must talk to you. Please sit down. Please ! " 
 
 His voice was so emotional, his face so grave 
 and pleading, that Katherine was startled. She 
 sat in the big arm-chair and tried to laugh. But 
 there was a scared look in her eyes. 
 
 " What do you want to tell me, Roly ? Be 
 quick, for it is time to go." 
 
 He sat on the edge of the table, leaning forward 
 to her. 
 
 " Katherine, why is the world so cruel to us 
 both ? " 
 
 " Is that a riddle ? " 
 
 She laughed again, but nervously. 
 
 " Yes. It is the riddle of life. I cannot find 
 the answer to it." 
 
 He slipped off the edge of the table, and then 
 suddenly knelt down by her chair and took her 
 hand. 
 
 " Look here, it is no use beating about the 
 bush. I love you. I am on fire with love for 
 you." 
 
 She went very white, and tried to take her 
 hand away, but he held it fast. 
 
 " Oliver — you must not " 
 
 " I must. Katherine, listen to me. You and 
 I were made for each other. Something stronger 
 than ourselves has brought us together — we cannot
 
 Sharp Arrows 209 
 
 get away from it. What are we to do? Are 
 you going to submit to this brutal tyranny of 
 your husband ? " 
 
 " I think you are mad." 
 
 Katherine spoke the words sharply. She tore 
 her hand away from his grasp, and tried to stand 
 up. But Oliver held her to the chair. 
 
 " Yes, I am mad ! I am mad to think that 
 you should suffer so much unhappiness in your 
 married life." 
 
 " This is horrible ! " 
 
 Katherine spoke in a whisper. Her face was 
 deadly white now, and, pinioned in Oliver's grasp, 
 she threw her head to right and left, like a 
 trapped animal seeking a way of escape. 
 
 " Katherine, I shall go to the devil if you do 
 not let me love you. Your husband shall not 
 keep you a prisoner from me. See, I dare to 
 kiss your lips ! " 
 
 He put his arm about her neck and put his 
 head down to her face. But she jerked her head 
 on one side violently, and struck him with her 
 hand across the face. 
 
 She was standing now, panting a little, and 
 with a flushed face. 
 
 " I thought you were a gentleman." 
 
 " My dear girl, I love you. Forgive me for 
 being rough." 
 
 " I believed I could trust you ! " said Katherine. 
 
 " You shall trust me," said OHver ; but he was 
 14
 
 2IO Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 frightened now. He did not like that look on 
 Katherine's face. It was a look of contempt. 
 
 " My husband was right after all. You are a 
 man to take advantage of a woman's friendship." 
 
 " Good God ! Katherine ! " 
 
 He stood trembling before her. 
 
 " My husband. . . . You call him brutal ! He 
 has been kinder than any one in life to me," 
 
 " Rudolf? " said Oliver. He was angered. " He 
 has played the petty tyrant. He has crushed 
 your spirit." 
 
 " Nonsense ! He has spoilt me and pampered 
 me. 
 
 " Why did you jeer at him, then ? You have 
 always scoffed at him. You cannot deny that, 
 Katherine." 
 
 It was an attempt to justify himself. 
 
 " Yes ; I have laughed at him," said Katherine. 
 *' I have made fun of his German ways. I have 
 been unkind to him. . . . Oh, this is my punish- 
 ment. These insults. This outrage ! " 
 
 She cried a little, and Oliver sat upon his 
 window-sill, bewildered, abashed, and silent. 
 
 " Why did you lead me on, then ? " he said 
 presently, in a hard voice. " Why have we been 
 playing the fool together ? " 
 
 " I took pity on you." 
 
 " Pity ! Good Lord, I did not want your 
 pity!" 
 
 His face flushed with anger and shame.
 
 sharp Arrows 211 
 
 '* I pitied you because of your boyishness and 
 poverty, and because my friends treated you 
 slightingly. . . . They were right. Rudolf was 
 right. You have not learnt to play the game." 
 
 Oliver was blanched now. It seemed that her 
 words were giving him mortal wounds. 
 
 " I thought you were nice-minded. I was angry 
 with my husband because he disliked you and 
 warned me against you. My generous husband, 
 whom you have dared to abuse ! " 
 
 " It is a pity you did not tell me before how 
 much you loved your dear husband ! " 
 
 His sneering words brought a flame to Kathe- 
 rine's face now. She put on her cloak, 
 
 " Unlock that door. I will never speak to you 
 again." 
 
 Oliver was no longer pleading. He laughed 
 bitterly. 
 
 " So women break men's hearts and fling the 
 pieces away ! I was a fool. I ought to have 
 known. Did you not teach me to love you? 
 By God, you went out of your way to tempt me ! 
 Do you forget all our excursions together ; all 
 our adventures when you came alone with me ? 
 I am no boy. I am a man with human passions 
 and qualities. How could I resist your beauty ? " 
 
 Then his anger went out, and he put his hands 
 to his face and hid his tears. 
 
 A little pity stole into Katherine's eyes. 
 
 " I am partly to blame. I have been frightfully
 
 212 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 foolish. I ask you to forgive me for that. I had 
 no idea . . ." 
 
 She went to the door and unlocked it. 
 
 " Anyhow, we must not see each other again." 
 
 She went back and put her hand on his 
 shoulder 
 
 " Oliver, I am sorry." 
 
 He raised his head. 
 
 " I am a broken man. You ought to be sorry." 
 
 " We must both be sorry. We have behaved 
 like children." 
 
 She gave a little sob, but checked it, and said, 
 " Please show me out." 
 
 He took her to the door, and called a cab for 
 her. 
 
 She did not hold out her hand to him, or say 
 good-bye. Her eyelashes were wet with tears. 
 As she drove away he had a last glimpse of her 
 white face. 
 
 He went back to his room, stumbling like a 
 drunken man. For hours he sat hunched up 
 before his fire, long after it had burnt out and left 
 cold ashes in the grate.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 The Fugitive 
 
 "There is a damned conspiracy against me ! " 
 
 Oliver, sitting in the midst of ruined hopes and 
 with a bruised and bleeding pride, made this accu- 
 sation against the world, and cried out in self-pity. 
 
 It seemed as if Katherine's abandonment had 
 given the signal to all the gods or devils of fate 
 who had a grudge against him. All the difficulties 
 and troubles which had been thrust on one side 
 with reckless courage now fell upon him in a heap, 
 and he was beaten to his knees. 
 
 Stories and articles which he had sent out with 
 the sure hope that they would reach havens of 
 prosperity came fluttering back, dirty and dog's- 
 eared, like birds with broken wings. All the 
 editors in London had conspired to beggar him. 
 The postman's double knocks, which heralded the 
 return of these unfortunate children of his brain, 
 were like the hammering of coffin-nails. There were 
 times when he would have liked to muffle the 
 knocker, so that the noise of another disappointed 
 hope should not beat so horribly upon his brain. 
 
 The postman himself seemed in league with the 
 devil. No longer did he bring gay little letters 
 213
 
 214 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 from Katherine Goldstein. She was silent now. 
 She had not answered his last entreaties. But the 
 postman was the messenger of all his enemies, 
 and every envelope thrust through the letter-box 
 contained a threat. 
 
 Tradesmen demanded settlement of their ac- 
 counts " by return." His tailor wrote with de- 
 liberate insolence. The secretary of the club 
 warned him that his name would be posted up 
 unless he paid his subscription. But worse than 
 this was the combined attack of those whom once 
 he had believed to be his friends. Halliday Wing, 
 Gilbert Verney, and Edmund Grattan reminded 
 him that he was in their debt for various small 
 sums. "If you have any sense of honour," wrote 
 Wing, "you will now redeem your lOU." 
 
 That was sheer revenge for the quarrel in his 
 studio. Other demands for money growled at him 
 from every quarter, as though hungry wolves were 
 yapping about his heels. 
 
 Even his family joined in the hunt. His father 
 hoped that he might soon rely upon his son for the 
 repayment of the monthly allowance which had 
 been advanced with so much difficulty, and had 
 drained him perilously. 
 
 " You will realise, my dear Oliver, that I am still 
 struggling with that arithmetical problem which has 
 troubled me all my married life — the way to make 
 both ends meet. The strain is getting too much for 
 me in my declining years."
 
 The Fugitive 215 
 
 Horace wrote twice. 
 
 ** Dear old Boy (he said), 
 
 " Surely as a successful man of letters you can 
 see your way to pay back those few pounds which I 
 have lent you from time to time. The mater is 
 pining for a little holiday, and Galatea wants a 
 change of air badly. If you could send me a 
 cheque for ten pounds I would take them away for 
 Easter — to Bournemouth or somewhere." 
 
 Oliver laughed with a frightful bitterness over a 
 phrase in that letter : " As a successful man of 
 letters." The irony of it was deadly. 
 
 But the last blow which bludgeoned him to his 
 knees was a letter from Rudolf Goldstein. It 
 brought a whimper to his lips. He knew that he 
 was broken utterly when he read those words. 
 
 " It has come to my knowledge that my wife has 
 lent you the sum of fifty pounds. As, in my opinion, 
 it is an impossible thing for a man of your age and 
 position to be in debt to a married lady, I take the 
 liberty of advising you to return this money imme- 
 diately. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that 
 a man who borrows from any woman not intimately 
 related to him runs a grave risk of accusations 
 against his honour. It is right to say that Lady 
 Goldstein does not take this view, and does not 
 wish the money to be returned. But I write to 
 you as man to man, and entirely in your own 
 interests,"
 
 2i6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 This letter from a man who had closed his door 
 against him filled Oliver with a sense of such 
 bitter humiliation that he was covered with dust 
 and ashes. At twenty-four years of age he felt 
 like an old man whose hopes have crumbled about 
 him, and for whom there is nothing to look forward 
 to but death. He obtained a kind of fierce conso- 
 lation by wallowing in self-abasement and self- 
 reproach. He exaggerated his follies, and piled up 
 mountains of shame upon his own head. 
 
 But always he came back to his position. He 
 was trapped, he could not find a way out. It 
 would be as easy for him to find the Philosopher's 
 Stone as the money to pay back Lady Goldstein, 
 or those other people from whom he had borrowed 
 small sums. There came to him, in an overpower- 
 ing craving, a desire to escape — to escape from the 
 tangle in which he was coiled, from London, in 
 which he was a miserable failure, from himself 
 most of all. 
 
 He became morbid, and believed that the only 
 way of this escape was through the gates of Death. 
 Suicide tempted him devilishly and seductively. 
 Newspaper headlines thrust themselves before his 
 mental vision, "Sad Death of a Well-known 
 Writer." " Shocking Discovery in Westminster," 
 " Remarkable Letter before Death," He com- 
 posed the text of that letter, and filled it with 
 bitter irony. He thought out keen-edged epigrams 
 to stab the breast of a cultured world. Sonorous
 
 The Fugitive 217 
 
 sentences breathing a spirit of sombre melancholy 
 came into his brain, and he murmured them to 
 himself with a miserable kind of satisfaction. His 
 eyes became moist at the picture of himself lying 
 stark and stiff upon the hearthrug. He wept over 
 his own dead body. He saw Mrs. Trant come 
 into his room in the early morning. She crossed 
 the floor, called his name twice, bent down and 
 touched him, and gave a piercing shriek at her 
 frightful discovery. 
 
 He would leave one line for Katherine. " With- 
 out your love I cannot live ! " She would be sorry 
 for him then. Perhaps she would weep for him. 
 She would remember their adventures, those fire- 
 side hours, when they had talked about books and 
 plots. That would be his revenge for her abandon- 
 ment. Her friends would talk of him in whispers. 
 They would regret having hounded him to his death. 
 
 And here and there in the world people who had 
 read his stories would remember his name, would 
 recall some of his tales, and would sigh at this end 
 to a bright and promising career. Women like 
 Virginia Garland, who had followed his work with 
 sympathy, would mourn this loss to English 
 literature. 
 
 Virginia Garland. He had almost forgotten that 
 dream-woman. Her name called to him. There 
 was the sound of Spring in it. Outside the 
 windows, even in Westminster, there was the glint 
 of spring sunshine, and Oliver stared at two
 
 2i8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 sparrows twittering and flirting on the railings 
 opposite. It would be a pity to die in the spring, 
 when life was throbbing everywhere. Down in the 
 country, where Virginia Garland lived, the flowers 
 would be spangling the grass. In her garden she 
 would walk in beauty and fragrance. It would be 
 good to escape from London, with all its noise and 
 cruelty, into the peace of such a garden. Perhaps 
 there he would find healing for his bleeding heart. 
 Peace, anyhow, and perhaps a new birth. If 
 Virginia Garland would give him her sympathy 
 — such sympathy as had breathed through her 
 letters — he might build himself up again — his 
 pride and his career. 
 
 During several days the idea grew upon him. 
 He put aside his suicidal thoughts and yearned to 
 get away into the country. He would slip away 
 quietly, without farewells. Nobody would miss him. 
 Not Katherine. Not even his family. That 
 brought bitterness again, and pity for himself. 
 Then one night he made his resolution. He 
 would go down to Worcestershire with the ten- 
 pound note which still remained out of Katherine's 
 loan, the only wealth he could collect. Perhaps he 
 might get that little cottage which Virginia Garland 
 had pictured in one of her letters — the cottage 
 below her garden wall. He could live cheaply 
 there, and in the country-side ideas would come. 
 His brain would be freshened and strengthened. 
 He would write a big novel, and rebuke his enemies
 
 The Fugitive 219 
 
 with his fame. The day would come when they 
 would have to give him their admiration. 
 
 Oliver became surprisingly cheerful for a young 
 man who had been so near to the black abyss. 
 He wrote several letters to creditors, explaining 
 that he was called away and would settle their 
 accounts at a future date. One letter was to his 
 landlady. He told her to sell his few belongings — 
 they were worth a few pounds — to pay for his 
 board and lodging. 
 
 To his mother he wrote a longer letter, very 
 tender and affectionate. He was sorry, he said, for 
 all the anxiety he had caused her since boyhood, 
 and for the poor way in which he had repaid her 
 love. But one day he hoped to come with honours 
 and riches in his hands. Not one member of his 
 family would have cause to blame him then. He 
 would be generous to all of them. He would help 
 the old governor in his poverty, and lift old Horace 
 out of the ruck, and give Galatea a good time in 
 life. But the best of gifts would be to his mother. 
 . . . They must not expect to hear from him for 
 some time. He was going away into the country 
 to write his masterpiece. 
 
 Oliver's old optimism, his rosy dreams, shone in 
 every sentence of that letter. 
 
 To Katherine he wrote last of all. 
 
 " I am going away. I cannot bear to stay in 
 London now that you have cast me out of your
 
 2 20 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 life. The remembrance of joyful hours when I could 
 claim your friendship cuts into my heart like a sharp 
 knife. I cannot pass the National Gallery, even, 
 without a sense of weakness and misery. The very 
 advertisements of the theatres, in which you and 
 I sat so merrily, bring back memories which 
 mock at me. So I go in search of forgetfulness, 
 to other scenes not haunted by your spirit. I 
 cannot lie and say I do not love you still. But my 
 heart is like the flower which peasants call Love- 
 lies-bleeding. Katherine, I say good-bye, and think 
 I kiss your hand. I hope you may be as happy 
 always as I am miserable." 
 
 On the night he -wrote that letter Oliver took the 
 tramcar along the Kennington Road. He went 
 to say good-bye to Livvy O'Brien and Doris 
 Fortescue. They w^ere the only friends with whom 
 he would clasp hands before his going. 
 
 It was very late at night, and he guessed they 
 would just have returned from the theatre. 
 
 But only Livvy was in the rooms. 
 
 " Doris is on tour," she said. " She has got a 
 part in ' The Little White Mouse.' I feel fearfully 
 alone." 
 
 Livvy wore a blue dressing-jacket, and her hair 
 was uncoiled. Oliver had never seen her looking 
 so pretty, he thought, and he was amused to see 
 her blush, as shyly as a schoolgirl, when he came in. 
 
 " You must go in twenty minutes. We keep 
 the proprieties here, you know."
 
 The Fugitive 221 
 
 She smiled in her coy, impudent way, and her 
 soft black Irish eyes sparkled at him. 
 
 " Twenty minutes ! And I have such a lot to 
 say ! " 
 
 " You look pale," said Livvy. " Have you been 
 ill?" 
 
 He put down his hat and gloves, and warmed 
 his hands at her fire. 
 
 " I think I have. I have been worried almost to 
 death." 
 
 " About money ? " 
 
 " Yes ; that and other things. I have to cut 
 everything. I am going away — into the country." 
 
 "A flitting?" 
 
 She smiled whimsically at that. 
 
 " Sure, and I am sorry. We shall miss you, 
 Roly." 
 
 " You will be the only one to miss me, Livvy. 
 I haven't another friend in the world." 
 
 He sat on the edge of the table and heaved a 
 tremendous sigh. 
 
 " Melancholy Jacques ! " said Liwy. 
 
 " Yes, life is a melancholy business. It's this 
 cursed poverty, and the general cussedness of 
 things. How do you manage to keep so cheerful, 
 Livvy ? Teach me the secret ! " 
 
 " Smiling hurts less than crying. Don't you 
 know that ? " 
 
 " Yet I expect you have rough times sometimes, 
 don't you?"
 
 22 2 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 « Pretty rough." 
 
 She put her arms across the table, and played 
 with some ink-spots on the red cloth at the tips of 
 her fingers. 
 
 " It's not so much the present. It's the future 
 that scares me." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " The future of a third-rate actress is a hopeless 
 kind of thing. Every day makes me a little older. 
 I get the creeps when my birthdays come round 
 and tell me that I am a year older than the one 
 before. We don't last very long after the first 
 grey hair and the first sign of crowsfeet about the 
 eyes." 
 
 " You needn't worry, Livvy. You have got 
 neither of those things yet." 
 
 Livvy took a coil of her hair, and held it over 
 the sleeve of her blue bed-jacket. 
 
 " Look ! Isn't that a silver thread ? " 
 
 Oliver bent over her and lifted up her beautiful 
 coil. With quick fingers he plucked out the grey 
 hair. 
 
 " It is gone now, anyhow." 
 
 She gave a little laughing cry, and said that she 
 had pulled out six like that. 
 
 " I am getting old. I am twenty-nine." 
 
 " By Jove ! You look about eighteen ! " 
 
 Oliver was astonished. He had never guessed 
 that she was five years older than himself. 
 
 " I have a terror of getting old. The thought
 
 The Fugitive 223 
 
 of it makes me shiver. I lie awake at night 
 wondering what I shall do when I am withered 
 and ugly. Funny, isn't it ? " 
 
 She laughed with a strange gaiety at her own 
 melancholy thoughts. 
 
 Then she put her hand on Oliver's sleeve and 
 said, " Can you think what it will feel like when I 
 go to a call for chorus girls and hear the manager 
 say, ' Nothing for you, miss ; we asked for young 
 girls'? Have you ever heard those words and seen 
 the awful look in the eyes of the poor creature 
 who is turned away ? " 
 
 "No," said Oliver. "But it will never come to 
 that with you, dear girl." 
 
 " Oh, it is bound to come. Unless " 
 
 She sighed, with a " Heigh-ho, poor little me." 
 
 " I used to hope I should get married. But 
 that little dream is fading." 
 
 " Oh, surely not ! " said Oliver. " There are 
 heaps of fellows who would be proud to have 
 you." 
 
 Livvy laughed again. 
 
 " Oh, I have had heaps of lovers. But, alack-a- 
 day, one by one they go away, you see. They flirt 
 with me on tour and then forget." 
 
 " Do you let them flirt with you ? " said Oliver. 
 
 She turned her head and looked into his eyes 
 rather proudly. 
 
 " I have never fooled about. I have always 
 played straight. I'm Irish, you see."
 
 2 24 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " You are an Irish rose," said Oliver. " You are 
 worthy of any man's love." 
 
 She put her hands on his shoulders and looked 
 up quite frankly into his face. 
 
 " I wish you loved me, Oliver. Sometimes 1 
 half hoped " 
 
 He touched her hair, and let his hand linger in 
 her tresses. 
 
 " If I were not so poor " 
 
 " Hush ! Don't think I want you to pretend. 
 I can read you like a book, Roly." 
 
 " Let us wait a bit. One of these days I may 
 come back with a little money — enough to make a 
 nest for you, Livvy." 
 
 She shook her head, and looked at him with 
 teasing eyes. 
 
 " What a boy you are ! Do you think I believe 
 that fairy-tale ? " 
 
 He put his arms about her, and kissed her on 
 the lips. At that moment he believed he loved 
 her, as once (a few weeks ago) he had loved 
 Katherine. 
 
 " That was wicked of you ! " said Livvy, blushing 
 deeply. " I have never let any man do that before," 
 
 She thrust him away, but was not angry. 
 
 "You must go now. It is much too late for any 
 young gentleman to sit in my rooms." 
 
 Oliver was not in a hurry to go. 
 
 " I should like to stay. I should like to stay 
 with you always. When I leave you I shall go out
 
 The Fugitive 225 
 
 into the cold, a very lonely man, Livvy. But I will 
 come back. One fine day I will come back." 
 
 " Maybe you will find me waiting," said Livvy. 
 " But, somehow — do you know? — I don't think you 
 will come back. You are going away like the other 
 boys I have known. . . . Good-bye, Roly. Good 
 luck to you." 
 
 She held out her hands to him, and he took both 
 of them, and pressed them together and kissed 
 them. 
 
 " Luck and I are strangers." 
 
 Livvy went to a drawer in a wooden cabinet, and 
 rummaged among some handkerchiefs and things. 
 
 " Here is a little charm. It will bring you luck. 
 Will you wear it in remembrance of me ? " 
 
 It was a silver medal — some religious token. 
 
 " It will help keep the old devil at bay," said 
 Livvy. 
 
 " Most useful ! " said Oliver, putting it in his 
 waistcoat pocket. 
 
 She almost pushed him out of her room, but 
 before closing the door again she pulled his head 
 down to her breast and kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 "Think of me sometimes — and be good." 
 
 As Oliver went down the stairway his heart was 
 quite melted. He did not know that he cared for 
 Livvy quite so much. He was tempted to alter all 
 his plans now and stay in London. With the little 
 Irish rose he would not be quite alone, nor utterly 
 miserable. 
 15
 
 226 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Yet the next morning at ten found him on the 
 railway platform, in a tweed suit, and with a new 
 Grladstone bag. 
 
 He whistled to himself softly as he stood by the 
 bookstall. On a spring morning, with the country 
 calling to him, a young man of twenty-four does 
 not find it easy to wear a hang-dog face. Oliver 
 Lumley left London and the scenes of his failure 
 with surprising cheerfulness.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 The Threshold of Fate 
 
 Oliver walked up the High Street of Windlesham, 
 staring in the shop windows of the small market 
 town in the heart of the Worcestershire wood- 
 lands. 
 
 In half an hour he learnt quite a lot about the 
 character of the town and the people, but was still 
 left wondering what freak of brain had impelled 
 him to come the long journey to a place in which 
 he was an absolute stranger, in which there was no 
 possible means of livelihood, and where he had not 
 yet found the house of Virginia Garland, his un- 
 known correspondent. 
 
 When he had found it, what then ? Doubtless the 
 lady would give him tea and hope that he was very 
 well. What good would that do to a young man 
 up against a brick wall of life ? 
 
 He had asked himself these questions early in 
 the morning, before taking his ticket at Paddington. 
 In the cold light of day he had lost the warm glow 
 of his imagination, in which the vague figure of 
 Virginia Garland beckoned to him as a lady of 
 good succour. But he took the ticket. 
 
 He had asked himself the same question when 
 227
 
 22 8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 sitting in the corner of a third-class railway carriage, 
 he watched the landscape fly past, with the silver 
 coils of winding rivers, with the sun gleaming on 
 the whitewashed houses of villages on the hillsides 
 and in the valleys, with meadows and woods so 
 brightly green on this first day of June that they 
 looked like oil-paintings by Royal Academicians, 
 freshly varnished, and quite unnatural. 
 
 When he stepped out of Windlesham railway 
 station, ignoring the genial signs of three cab- 
 drivers, he was mildly amused by his own 
 absurdity. This amusement increased so that he 
 laughed aloud when he stood outside a milliner's 
 shop in the High Street, staring at some hand- 
 made lace and elaborate tea-cosies. 
 
 A little old lady with white hair, who was dusting 
 her counter, watched the handsome young man 
 outside the window, and wondered why he should 
 laugh at her beautiful needlework. She could not 
 guess that the young man had not even seen her 
 tea-cosies, but was laughing, not in a mirthful way, 
 at his own folly. 
 
 He had luncheon at the White Bear, a noble 
 old inn with a square courtyard and timbered 
 walls and immense chimney-stacks and low- 
 ceilinged rooms panelled in dark oak. 
 
 As he was eating his cold beef and pickles, he 
 listened to the conversation of a dozen young 
 farmers in homespun suits and cloth gaiters, who 
 were making a prodigious meal and drinking beer
 
 The Threshold of Fate 229 
 
 out of pewter pots as bright as silver. Outside the 
 window Oliver could see in the market-square 
 their gigs with empty shafts. They spoke in a 
 broad, full-flavoured dialect, and laughed heartily 
 for no apparent reason. They roared with laughter 
 when one of them drank a pint of beer at one 
 draught, and then called for more. Oliver envied 
 their high spirits. 
 
 After the meal he went into the bar and spoke 
 to a buxom young woman with yellow hair, who 
 was reading The Windleshain Gazette with her 
 elbows on the counter. 
 
 " Can you tell me where Miss Virginia Garland 
 lives ? She calls her house ' The Rookery.' " 
 
 " Funny thing ! " said the young woman. 
 
 "What's funny?" 
 
 " I was just reading her name." 
 
 She pointed to a paragraph in the paper : 
 
 " Miss Virginia Garland entertained the Sunday- 
 school children of St. Ursula's in her beautiful 
 garden yesterday. The Vicar was present, and 
 made a brief speech, full of his accustomed wit and 
 humour. The children played games on the lawn, 
 including an egg-and-spoon race, in which the 
 Vicar was an enthusiastic competitor. We are 
 glad to learn that Miss Garland is in better 
 health." 
 
 '' Has she been ill, then ? " asked Oliver. 
 
 " She's always delicate," replied the young lady
 
 230 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 behind the bar. " We don't see her often in 
 the town, and never when the wind is in the 
 east." 
 
 She told Oliver the way to The Rookery. 
 
 " You can't mistake it. Straight up the street. 
 Last house on the right, with a high wall round the 
 garden." 
 
 Oliver would have been glad to ask more 
 questions about the lady whom he had travelled 
 so far to see, but the farmers now came into 
 the bar and monopolised the attention of the 
 young woman. 
 
 He went out of the White Bear, and walked up 
 the High Street in the direction of The Rookery. 
 But he stopped to look in the shop windows again, 
 overtaken by a strange nervousness. He was half 
 inclined to go to the railway station and take the 
 next train to town. He stared at the picture post- 
 cards of Gaiety actresses in a stationer's shop, and 
 tried to think out the line of his conversation with 
 Miss Garland. In his letters to her he had been 
 candid in self-revelation. It put him into an 
 awkward position. 
 
 A governess cart full of chattering children, with 
 a prim nurse, drew up at a confectioner's shop. A 
 pony-chaise driven by an old lady stopped at the 
 greengrocer's. 
 
 Oliver wondered if by any chance the old lady 
 might be Virginia Garland. The idea staggered 
 him. It was the first time he had ever pictured
 
 The Threshold of Fate 231 
 
 the woman with whom he had corresponded as 
 anything but young and beautiful. But it was 
 just as likely that she was old enough to be his 
 grandmother. 
 
 He became convinced that this lady with white 
 curls under a black bonnet giving orders to the 
 greengrocer, who had come out on to the pave- 
 ment and was stroking the pony's nose, was Miss 
 Garland herself. He was relieved when the man 
 said, " Yes, Miss Holiday. You shall have them 
 in half an hour. Miss Holiday. Certainly, Miss 
 Holiday." 
 
 A high dogcart came rattling round the market 
 square, and then with a clatter of hoofs pulled up 
 outside the stationer's shop. A smart little groom 
 held the horse's head, while the lady, who had 
 been driving, put one foot on the step and jumped 
 lightly down. 
 
 Oliver, standing at the shop window, turned to 
 look at her. She was tall, and in a tightly fitting 
 costume of light brown cloth, showing the lines of 
 a full and graceful figure. She wore a fawn- 
 coloured felt hat, turned up on one side, and 
 Oliver noticed the colour of her hair, which was 
 of a rich chestnut. She turned her face towards 
 him as she went into the shop, and their eyes met. 
 They were startling eyes, bold and challenging, 
 and her face was of an unusual type for a country 
 town. It was an oval face, with a long, full mouth, 
 and softly rounded chin. There was a flush of
 
 232 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 bright colour on her cheeks, not quite natural in 
 its glow, thought Oliver. Anyhow, she was a 
 striking figure as she jumped from the dogcart 
 and went into the shop. The bold glance of her 
 eyes left Oliver with an uncomfortable feeling 
 down his backbone. 
 
 Again the thought came to him, " Is that Virginia 
 Garland ? " If so, there would be an adventure at 
 his journey's end. 
 
 He waited in the doorway of another shop until 
 the lady came out again. She turned her head to 
 the right and left, as though searching for him, and 
 again their eyes met. Her long, full lips seemed 
 to soften into the faintest smile. Then she sprang 
 up again to her seat on the dogcart. He saw a 
 glimpse of a brown stocking and a well-shaped leg. 
 She jerked the ribbons, the little groom folded his 
 arms on the back seat. The lady with the chest- 
 nut hair drove at a very smart pace — in the 
 direction of The Rookery. 
 
 "Good Lord ! " said Oliver. " If that is Virginia 
 Garland, I shall have to be careful." 
 
 He walked slowly beyond the market-square 
 and beyond the few shops, along a wide street 
 lined with beech-trees. It was half-past three, and 
 the afternoon sun gave a rich colour to the dark 
 red-brick Georgian houses on either side of the 
 way. With their many-sashed windows and 
 square oak doors between fluted pillars, these 
 straight, plain houses had a fine, old-fashioned
 
 The Threshold of Fate 233 
 
 dignity. Nobody went in or out of them, but 
 their door-knockers were brightly polished, and 
 their steps were as white as snow. There was a 
 sense of perfect peace and quietude in this old 
 High Street — of comfortable security from all the 
 worries and troubles of modern life. To a man 
 who had come straight from the rush and roar 
 of London it was restful. 
 
 Oliver walked on until the line of houses stopped 
 abruptly, and gave place to three or four cottages 
 with thatched roofs and small front gardens. Not 
 yet had he seen The Rookery. 
 
 There was a young girl in the garden of the last 
 cottage. She was sitting on a wooden chair, 
 knitting so swiftly that her needles seemed like 
 quivering sparks of light. 
 
 "Can you tell me where The Rookery is, my 
 dear ? " asked Oliver, leaning over the gate. 
 
 The girl dropped her knitting into her lap, and 
 then, getting up, walked nearer to the gate. She 
 was a tall, plump lass of eighteen or so, in a cotton 
 frock, with cheeks blooming like roses, and a coil 
 of flaxen hair in which the sun glinted. 
 
 " Did you say The Rookery ? " 
 
 " Yes ; Miss Garland's." 
 
 She gave a giggle, as though amused by his 
 ignorance. 
 
 " Why, it's just yonder." 
 
 She pointed to a square grey house beyond a 
 high wall next to the cottage.
 
 2 34 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Everybody knows Miss Garland's." 
 
 "Well, I don't," said Oliver. "Anyhow, I am 
 much obliged to you." 
 
 He paused, and said, " You're a pretty girl. 
 What's your name ? " 
 
 " What's that to you ? " 
 
 The girl grinned up at him, a hand on her broad 
 hip. 
 
 "True," said Oliver, "it's nothing to me." 
 
 He smiled back at her, and, taking his arms 
 over the garden gate, turned away. 
 
 The girl called after him. 
 
 " Hi ! " 
 
 He looked back and said : 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " My name is Alice." 
 
 " Well, good-afternoon, Alice," said Oliver. 
 
 He walked the length of the high wall until he 
 came to the square, grey house. There, plain 
 enough on the wooden gate, was painted in white 
 letters, "The Rookery." 
 
 A broad drive, with not a weed in its gravel, 
 led up to a flight of steps and to the front door 
 beyond a stone portico. It was a big, solid house, 
 with a gabled roof and great chimneys. Every 
 window had a white muslin curtain. As Oliver 
 walked up the drive a strong, rich scent was 
 wafted to him. It was the fragrance of a sweet- 
 brier in the closely trimmed hedges. There was 
 an iron bell-handle at one side of the doorway!
 
 The Threshold of Fate 235 
 
 he pulled it, and as he heard the jingle of the bell 
 the tinkling music set his heart vibrating with a 
 queer emotion. At that moment Oliver knew 
 that he was on the threshold of a great adventure 
 in his life.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 Virginia Garland 
 
 To Oliver's inquiry, " Is Miss Garland at home?" 
 a young maid-servant in a black dress and spot- 
 less cap and apron said, " Yes, sir. Will you come 
 in?" 
 
 She led him through a square hall, in which 
 a log fire was burning, to a large room at the 
 back of the house. Oliver gave his name to the 
 maid, and then was left alone in the room. A 
 pair of tall French windows were wide open, and 
 he looked out into a big garden with a long 
 lawn below a terrace with an ivy-covered balustrade. 
 At the end of the garden was a rustic summer- 
 house, and in the centre of the lawn was a dove-cot. 
 Somewhere the doves were cooing with a gentle 
 murmur. The pathways were bordered with 
 standard roses, and the flower-beds were filled 
 with masses of delicate colour. The fragrance of 
 them stole into the room, and in a bowl on the 
 piano there was a bouquet of June roses which 
 were shedding petals upon the polished wood. 
 The room was panelled in white, and furnished 
 in an old-fashioned way, with its chairs covered 
 with flowered chintz. There were oval mirrors 
 236
 
 Virginia Garland 237 
 
 on the walls, and coloured engravings by Bartolozzi, 
 and over the mantelshelf was a large oil-painting 
 of a beautiful woman, like one of Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds's ladies. 
 
 Oliver's quick eyes had only just made the 
 survey of the room when the door opened, and 
 he knew that he saw Virginia Garland for the 
 first time. 
 
 She stood in the doorway for a moment, and 
 he saw that she was a woman of about thirty- 
 five, rather tall and frail, with a pale, delicate face 
 and large grey eyes. Her light brown hair was 
 parted in the middle, brushed smoothly down and 
 looped over the ears. She wore a soft grey dress, 
 with white lace about her shoulders. 
 
 "Mr. Oliver Lumley?" 
 
 She seemed to ask if it could be true that this 
 was really Oliver. 
 
 "Yes. Are you Miss Garland?" 
 
 Oliver went forward quickly. Then he noticed 
 that the lady leant on a stick, and that she 
 seemed lame. 
 
 She took his hand, and held it for a moment 
 clasped in her own, which was long and thin. 
 
 " I always hoped you would come to see me." 
 
 A slight colour had crept into her pale face. 
 
 " I did not guess you were so young," she said. 
 
 " Nor had I any idea that you were so " 
 
 " So old ? " 
 
 She smiled as she asked the question.
 
 238 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " So beautiful," said Oliver. 
 
 He had not meant to say that. He had just 
 blurted out his sense of surprise. The real 
 Virginia Garland was so different from his dream- 
 picture. Yet he was stirred with admiration for 
 the perfect delicacy and purity of her face. In 
 those grey eyes of hers there was the spirit of 
 peace and truth. 
 
 At his confession of her beauty she blushed 
 quite deeply now, but was not angry. 
 
 " No one has ever said that before ! I should 
 be glad to think I was beautiful ; but my mirrors 
 are two candid." 
 
 She spoke with perfect simplicity. 
 
 Then she said, "Will you get me a chair? I 
 am a little lame." 
 
 Oliver sprang to a chair, and brought it to 
 her with an apology. She sat down, and rested 
 her stick in the folds of her gown. Oliver sat 
 on the sofa, a little distance away. He wondered 
 what reason he should give for coming to 
 VVindlesham. 
 
 But she did not ask for a reason. She made 
 her own suggestion. 
 
 " Have you come in search of a country cottage ? 
 I have always thought that you ought to leave 
 London, and write in greater peace. From what 
 you told me, there were too many distractions, 
 and the noise of the town was too wearing to 
 your nerves."
 
 Virginia Garland 239 
 
 " Horribly wearing. It tore my nerves to 
 tatters. Besides " 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 Her large grey eyes rested steadily upon his 
 face. 
 
 " To tell the truth," he said, " I found life too 
 expensive. You see, I am frightfully poor. I 
 found myself getting into debt." 
 
 He was startled at his own candour. He had 
 not been a minute in the room with this woman, 
 yet in her presence his pose and affectation 
 seemed to fall from him. He could not lie or 
 pretend before those truthful eyes. 
 
 " You told me you were poor," said Virginia 
 Garland, 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and then said : 
 
 " It is strange. This is our first meeting, and yet 
 I seem to know you so well. It was good of you 
 to write me those long letters. I looked forward 
 to them very much. You see I am lonely here. I 
 cannot move about very much. My life is practi- 
 cally enclosed within the four walls of this house 
 and garden. So, when your letters came, telling 
 me of your struggles in London, it seemed to bring 
 me in touch with the great world outside. I have 
 always hoped for your success." 
 
 " Your sympathy has been very encouraging. 
 But I have been a failure." 
 
 " Oh, you are too young for such a word ! " said 
 Miss Garland. " And, indeed, your stories have
 
 240 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 been a success. My friends in Windlesham have 
 always looked out for them. The vicar likes them 
 very much. So does the doctor." 
 
 Oliver laughed. 
 
 " Evidently I have more friends here than I 
 guessed." 
 
 " You must write a novel," said Miss Garland — 
 " a successful novel. Is not that the way to make 
 money ? " 
 
 " If the novel is successful — yes. But that begs 
 the question." 
 
 " Oh, it must be successful ! " 
 
 Virginia Garland laughed now. 
 
 " You must take the little cottage I wrote about. 
 It is very quiet and pretty, and I am sure if you 
 write a novel there it will be a success. You will 
 have no interruptions, and the flowers in the garden 
 will give beautiful thoughts to you." 
 
 " It is not a bad idea," said Oliver, answering her 
 smile. " How much is the rent ? " 
 
 Virginia Garland became slightly embarrassed. 
 
 " It belongs to me. I have not let it since last 
 summer. We could decide upon the rent after- 
 wards — if the novel is a success." 
 
 Oliver understood that she offered it to him rent 
 free. 
 
 " It is immensely kind of you. It sounds 
 delightful." 
 
 " I will take you to see it after tea. Shall we 
 have that in the garden ? It is quite warm to-day.'
 
 Virginia Garland 241 
 
 " Your garden is like a dream," said Oliver. 
 
 " It is my little dream-world. Come, I will show 
 it to you ! " 
 
 She stood up from her chair, leaning slightly on 
 her stick. But for her lameness she would have 
 been an elegant and graceful woman. The light 
 from the French windows fell upon her face, and 
 touched her hair, and gave her a strangely spiritual 
 look. It was a pity, thought Oliver, that she should 
 have to hobble into her garden. 
 
 At the top of the stone steps leading down to 
 the lawn she said : 
 
 " I am afraid I shall have to ask you to lend me 
 your arm. Do you mind ? " 
 
 Oliver strode to her side, and she leaned quite 
 heavily upon his arm, and went down the steps one 
 at a time. 
 
 " I have been like this since childhood. I used 
 to pray that my hip would be cured. Now I pray 
 that I may bear it cheerfully." 
 
 " It keeps you a prisoner," said Oliver, with 
 pity in his voice. 
 
 " Ah, but it is a beautiful prison, is it not ? " 
 
 She looked round upon her garden, and there 
 was love in her eyes. A white dove came fluttering 
 down from the cot. It preened itself on the lawn 
 about her, puffing out its white breast. It seemed 
 to Oliver that as she went down the path by the 
 lawn the roses gave out a deeper fragrance, and 
 that as she passed a bank of sweet peas, rioting in 
 16
 
 2^2 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 colour, they nodded their heads to her. From the 
 summer-house two shaggy sheep-dogs came out, 
 stretching their limbs, and yawning. They sniffed 
 round Oliver, and then gambolled round their 
 mistress. She called to them : 
 
 " Lie down, Ranter. Down, Rory. Wicked 
 fellows ! " 
 
 A sun-dial was on the lawn, and she said how 
 often she had watched the shadow creep across the 
 hours here. 
 
 Four or five garden-chairs were arranged in a 
 half-circle in front of the summer-house, and from 
 one of them she picked up a book, lying face down- 
 wards. Oliver took the book from her — it was a 
 volume of Ruskin's " Modern Painters " — and 
 arranged the chair for her. 
 
 " You have not seen half my garden," she said. 
 " But this is the prettiest part. Behind are 
 kitchen gardens, and my herbarium and the glass- 
 houses. Winter and summer I find my pleasure 
 here." 
 
 " Don't you pine for a change sometimes ? " 
 asked Oliver. 
 
 " Not now. I have got over that. When I was 
 younger I used to go abroad. My father took me 
 to France and Italy. But it made me so tired. 
 Now that I am alone — my father died three years 
 ago and my mother when I was still a child — I 
 do not care to go about. So here I do my garden- 
 ing (at least I give orders to my gardeners), and
 
 Virginia Garland 243 
 
 when the weather is warm enough I sit here, and 
 read and read." 
 
 She laughed, and said that Oliver could not 
 guess how many books she read during a year. 
 Novels gave her most pleasure, yet for duty's sake 
 she read a great deal of history, and all the poetry, 
 of course, she could lay hands on. 
 
 " I am a faithful friend to minor poets," she 
 said. " I buy all their little books." 
 
 She asked Oliver whether he wrote poetry, and 
 was disappointed when he said that he could not 
 confess to a single verse. 
 
 The maid-servant came across the lawn with a 
 silver tea-tray, and placed it on a small wooden table. 
 The sun was glowing with a golden light. The 
 doves cooed with an incessant murmur. Birds 
 were twittering in the hedges, and from the tops 
 of the elm-trees at the far end of the garden rooks 
 were cawing — cawing in a drowsy monotone. A 
 church bell struck four. The silver notes chimed 
 sweetly beyond the high grey wall. There was 
 a great peace in the garden. Oliver felt its bene- 
 diction upon him. 
 
 After tea, during which Virginia Garland spoke 
 of books and flowers, she led him through the 
 kitchen garden, and past a long line of glass 
 houses, and then through an old-fashioned iron- 
 studded door in the high grey wall. It led out 
 into a narrow, winding lane — Whirligig Lane she 
 called it — and presently they came to a thatched
 
 244 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 cottage on the top of a steep bank, where ferns 
 and wild flowers grew luxuriantly. Some steps had 
 been cut into this bank, and a little white gate at 
 the head of them opened into the cottage garden. 
 
 Oliver had to give his hand to Miss Garland 
 to help her up the steps, and she panted a little 
 in the doorway of the cottage, and said, " Oh, I 
 am no good for climbing !" 
 
 " Why, it is furnished ! " said Oliver, peeping 
 through the window into the sitting-room. 
 
 "Of course! It has been a hobby of mine. 
 I had a married couple here once during the 
 summer months, and made it as dainty as possible 
 for them. But they were afraid of the owls which 
 hooted in the trees at night. Fancy being afraid 
 of owls ! » 
 
 She led the way inside, and told Oliver that 
 when a fire had been lighted for a few hours it 
 would be quite cosy. 
 
 " Look, here you can write your novel ! " She 
 pointed to a writing-desk in the sitting-room, 
 which was furnished simply enough, with rush- 
 bottomed chairs, a small oak table, an old oak 
 chest, and the writing-desk itself The kitchen 
 was a small place ; but on a high dresser was 
 plenty of china, and the grate was brightly polished, 
 with pots and pans upon the stove. 
 
 " We always keep the place clean and bright," 
 said Miss Garland. " Look, here is the bedroom. 
 Is it not a pretty place ? "
 
 Virginia Garland 245 
 
 It was a fairy-tale bedroom, with a great oak 
 beam across the plastered ceiling and a lattice 
 window looking out to a green field. On a white- 
 wood dressing-table was an oval mirror, and there 
 was a miniature chest of drawers, and a big cup- 
 board, a bed draped round with white muslin, 
 and a wash-hand stand with white china on which 
 red roses bloomed. 
 
 *' A man should have good dreams here ! " said 
 Oliver. 
 
 " I should be very happy if you cared to stay 
 here," said Miss Garland. 
 
 She sat on the edge of the bed, and told him 
 in a simple, practical way of how she would have 
 to get the bed aired for him, and the rooms warmed, 
 and of how, if he came, she would get a village 
 girl to wait on him. 
 
 " There is a girl named Alice, who wants some 
 work to do to help her people. She lives in a 
 cottage next to The Rookery wall. 
 
 " I think I know Alice," said Oliver. " She told 
 me the way here. A pretty girl." 
 
 " Yes, pretty — and good, I think. She sings 
 in the choir." 
 
 So it was all arranged. Oliver was to take up 
 his dwelling in Myrtle Cottage the very next night. 
 For one night he would stay at the White Bear. 
 
 He walked back with Virginia Garland to The 
 Rookery. The sun was beginning to lose its 
 splendour, and there was a beautiful rosiness in
 
 246 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 the garden and purple shadows in the paths be- 
 tween the hedges. He stayed talking in the 
 drawing-room until the dusk came, and he saw 
 Virginia Garland's face in a pale half-light which 
 gave a mystery to it. He was astonished how 
 completely her simplicity of manner had put him 
 at his ease. She was as sympathetic in her speech 
 as in the letters she had sent to Barton Street. 
 It seemed to him, curiously, that her lameness 
 made her more charming and beautiful. 
 
 As he said good-bye and thanked her with 
 boyish warmth for her great kindness, he noticed 
 the cool, soft touch and the transparency of the 
 hand that clasped his own. 
 
 " I am so glad to know you at last," he said, 
 " after all our letters to each other." 
 
 Her grey eyes smiled at him. 
 
 " Somehow I thought you would come here one 
 day. I seemed to be waiting for you."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 A Cockney in the Woods 
 
 Oliver, like the young married couple who had 
 lived in Myrtle Cottage, did not like the owls. 
 Their plaintive hooting, as he sat alone some 
 evenings, seemed to him like lost souls wailing in 
 the night. Sometimes it seemed to him that 
 witch voices were calling him, and he was afraid. 
 
 The silence also, and the impenetrable darkness 
 of country nights, got upon his nerves. The lane 
 outside his cottage was a black tunnel when no 
 moon was up, or, if the moon shone, the play of 
 light and shadow through the leaves startled him. 
 As a Cockney — or at least a Suburbanite, bred 
 and born — he did not understand the significance 
 of country sounds. Once when he was walking 
 back from The Rookery at night he had a shock 
 which gave him " goose-flesh," and made a coward 
 of him. It seemed that some human being was 
 asleep, close to him, across a hedge. He heard 
 the regular rhythm of its lungs, the deep, sighing 
 breath that was half a snore, but horribly loud 
 for an ordinary mortal. It was as though some 
 hulking giant were stretched out in drunken 
 slumber. Of course it was nothing but a harm- 
 247
 
 248 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 less cow, as he soon found out ; but it shocked his 
 nerves. 
 
 It was worse to sit alone at night, writing, in his 
 little sitting-room. The silence closed about him 
 as though his ears were stuffed with cotton- wool, 
 until suddenly some queer sound made his pulse 
 jump. It was the creak of a cane chair, or a 
 scratching at the woodwork of the wall, or the 
 movement of an invisible insect, like the ticking of 
 a watch. Once, when a big fat moth circled over 
 his oil-lamp and then flopped on to his paper, beads 
 of cold sweat broke out upon him, and he was 
 strangely unnerved. 
 
 For the first few nights he suffered real torture 
 when the darkness came, though he tried to grapple 
 with his cowardite and laugh at his terrors. One 
 night his brain reeled to the verge of madness. 
 
 He was sitting with his table drawn close to the 
 fire, when he suddenly jerked up his head, and 
 Hstened intently with strained ears. Surely there 
 were footsteps outside. He could hear the pad of 
 soft feet, up and down, up and down, on the cobbled 
 path leading from the garden gate. Then his head 
 was drawn round, as by invisible hands, towards 
 the window. There, looking in upon him, was a 
 white, leprous face, with two burning eyes. He 
 saw a glint as of fire in the eyes. A moment later 
 the face had disappeared. He sat motionless, 
 stone-cold, with the pupils of his eyes dilated, a 
 figure of fright. The face appeared again, and
 
 A Cockney in the Woods 249 
 
 stared at him horribly. He gave a strangled cry, 
 and seizing a wooden stool rushed to the door, 
 bursting it open with a kick. As he staggered 
 outside, a grey wolfish form slipped across the 
 cottage garden. In the moonlight he saw that 
 it was a lonely sheep-dog. Only that ! It was 
 ludicrous. But Oliver when he went back slowly 
 to his room did not laugh. His face was white 
 and drawn. He had a haunted look. He 
 wondered how long he could stand his life in 
 Windlesham with these night-alarms. 
 
 Undoubtedly his nerves were overwrought. He 
 suffered from dejection bordering on melancholia. 
 A thousand times he cursed himself for a fool for 
 having abandoned London. Remorse, self-accusa- 
 tion, and regret weighed him down, so that he sat 
 with his head in his hands, with bowed shoulders. 
 He had made a pretty idiot of himself! At the 
 outset he had blighted his career. His high, 
 fantastic hopes had ended in debt and dismal 
 failure. He had failed in his work and in his love. 
 He thought of Katherine and yearned for her. 
 He roamed over his adventures with her, he lived 
 again through the hours by her fireside, and his 
 soul cried out because he was cut off from that life, 
 which was now a memory and a dream. He shed 
 silly tears in his loneliness, and pitied himself in- 
 tensely. It was his cursed temperament that had 
 played him false — his temperament and his poverty. 
 Poverty was the root of all evil. As Katherine
 
 250 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 said, it was easy to be virtuous with a good bank- 
 ing account. 
 
 These miserable thoughts kept him in low spirits, 
 yet he did not quite lose his gift of laughter. He 
 laughed, and he felt it was good to laugh, when 
 Alice Featherfew, the cottage lass, came to clean 
 out his rooms and cook his meals. She was a 
 strapping wench, and as pretty as the Goose-Girl 
 at the Well (with the same flaxen hair and blue 
 eyes and milk-white skin), and as impudent as a 
 saucy child. 
 
 She had no reverence for a young man who 
 wanted waiting on, though she was glad enough 
 to earn his money. In the morning she would 
 come with a long broom, and make a great dust 
 and clatter with it, sweeping a room like a sturdy 
 gardener with loose weeds on the path. She swept 
 against Oliver's feet as he sat at his desk, and said, 
 " Hi, can't you get out of the way ? How do you 
 expect me to do my work ? " 
 
 She was filled with child-like astonishment at his 
 personal belongings. His patent boots with cloth 
 uppers provoked her laughter. 
 
 " They be fit for maids, not men," she said. " I 
 do fancy you walking in ploughed fields with 
 them ! " 
 
 He had hung out his dress-suit to air, and she 
 tiptoed to his trousers, and put a smudgy finger 
 down the silk stripe with a " Lor' now, an' dearie 
 me ! " She desired to know why his waistcoat
 
 A Cockney in the Woods 251 
 
 was cut with a hole in the middle, and why he 
 wore tails to his coat like a jackdaw. 
 
 If, obviously, he had nothing to do, and sat on 
 the kitchen table swinging his legs and watching 
 her with an amused smile, listening to her countri- 
 fied chatter, she invited him not to be a lazy-bones, 
 but to lend a hand with the work. So he got 
 into the habit of making the bed with her, and she 
 taught him how to fold the sheets round the 
 bolster and how to tuck the blankets in at the 
 bottom. 
 
 " Begin your bed at the foot," she said, " and 
 you'll sleep like a boog in a roog," — though it 
 puzzled her, she declared, how he had grown so 
 big without learning these simple things. 
 
 She gave him lessons in peeling potatoes and 
 chopping up carrots, and was amazed at his clumsi- 
 ness, and then when she had set him to work she 
 would stand with her hands on her hips, laughing 
 at him, or sit on a wooden stool, with her red 
 hands clasped in her lap, giving him the gossip of 
 Windlesham, and the characters of her neighbours, 
 whom she summarised as mostly bad. It seemed 
 that her father beat her with a broomstick when he 
 was in drink or " put out," and that her mother 
 scolded and bullied the livelong day. 
 
 " It be real peace to coom round here," she said, 
 " for all your nonsense." 
 
 For Miss Virginia Garland she had words of 
 praise, qualified by a little criticism.
 
 252 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " A kind body," she said, " and means well, but 
 just a poor frail thing." 
 
 According to Alice Featherfew, Miss Garland 
 had a nasty habit of poking her nose, as far as her 
 legs would carry it, into other people's cottages, 
 and she could smell a speck of dirt a yard away. 
 She told the mothers how to manage their babies, 
 and the children how to behave at school, and 
 how to say their prayers. She also conducted the 
 church choir, of which Alice herself was a member. 
 They put up with the fussy ways of Miss Garland 
 because she was open-handed with her money, 
 and did needlework all the year round for the 
 women and babes, and brought them medicines 
 and soups and blankets and goodies when they 
 " took ill." But her eyes made Alice skeery. They 
 looked one through and through, and she was very 
 " strict." Hot-tempered, too, at times. Alice had 
 seen her talk to a man who had been ill-using a 
 young girl until he was as white as a puff-ball, 
 and all of a tremble. Miss Garland's eyes were 
 two fires, and her voice like the high note in the 
 organ, the one that thrills down the backbone. 
 Alice would not like to go wrong with Miss 
 Garland's eyes within a mile of her. They 
 would search out a secret in the middle of a hay- 
 stack. 
 
 Oliver was interested in these sidelights on 
 Virginia Garland's character. They filled out his 
 own impressions as he came to know her better,
 
 A Cockney in the Woods 253 
 
 but always with a sense of mystery lurking behind 
 his knowledge. He was also interested in Alice, 
 this child of the countryside, with her candid 
 speech and her simple way of stating facts and 
 fancies. 
 
 He called her his Cinderella, and sometimes the 
 Goose-Girl, or Patient Griselda. She knew none 
 of those heroines of folk-lore, so he told the stories 
 to her, and she listened, wide-eyed, with her lips 
 parted. She asked for more, and more, but he 
 said that he must be paid for his trouble, a kiss 
 for each story, which was a cheap bargain for her. 
 She let him kiss her, shyly at first, with blushing 
 and giggling, but afterwards liked it, story or no 
 story. 
 
 Meanwhile Oliver went often to The Rookery 
 — every day at some hour of the afternoon or 
 evening — and the spirit of Virginia Garland be- 
 came entwined with his life during those weeks in 
 Windlesham. 
 
 She had begun her friendship with him by 
 charity. We have seen what use he made of it in 
 London, and now she sent many gifts to his 
 cottage. He was living rent free, and soon he 
 realised, not without relief, for he was practically 
 destitute, that he would never starve in Myrtle 
 Cottage. Chickens, nicely trussed, appeared 
 mysteriously in the small larder. One of the 
 gardeners would come to the cottage-door with 
 new-laid eggs and pots of cream, or with butter
 
 2 54 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 fresh from the dairy and loaves hot from the oven. 
 A podgy-faced boy of sixteen or so — he drove 
 Miss Garland's pony-chaise, and weeded the paths 
 under her vigilant eye — came down with jars of 
 honey or newly baked cakes or bottles of home- 
 made wine. This profusion of gifts was delightful 
 but embarrassing. Oliver complained to Miss 
 Garland that she had made a poor pensioner of 
 him, and that she was sapping his manhood by 
 such charity. 
 
 She declared that it was a charity of his to 
 relieve her store-cupboards and her kitchen- 
 gardens. 
 
 " If you do not take these things," she said, 
 "they will be wasted and spoilt." 
 
 " Then I take them," said Oliver, " with a 
 protest, and a grateful heart. Immensely grateful, 
 dear Miss Garland." 
 
 He told her that he felt like Jean Jacques 
 Rousseau with Madame de Warens, whom he 
 called his cJiere mainati. 
 
 Miss Garland blushed at this. 
 
 " She was not a very nice woman, was she ? " 
 
 " Oh, charming, and very kind to a poor devil of 
 a literary man." 
 
 " I have forgotten," said Miss Garland
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Rural Society 
 
 Miss Garland had good friends, who came to 
 see her often, and called her " my dear." Oliver 
 was introduced to them, and they said how 
 charmed they were to meet a distinguished 
 literary man. Although they lived in big old 
 Georgian houses in the town, and kept servants 
 and gardeners of their own, and drove up to The 
 Rookery in some state — at least, in a brougham 
 with a quiet, well-fed horse and a discreet and 
 well-fed coachman — they did not look down upon 
 him because he dwelt in a tiny cottage. They 
 took for granted that a literary gentleman should 
 be poor. 
 
 Most of them were elderly ladies, and when 
 they sat on Virginia Garland's lawn, taking tea 
 with her, they reminded Oliver of grey doves — 
 they were so gentle and so placid. There was 
 one old lady among them with silver hair, and 
 a delicate old face that must have been beautiful 
 in her girlhood. She was the Dowager Countess 
 of Buntingford, and lived in an old Jacobean 
 mansion a few miles away from VVindlesham. 
 She dressed always in lavender silk and a little 
 bonnet with silk ribbons, and she had the gracious 
 255
 
 2^6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 manner and exquisite courtesy of a French 
 marquise of the old regime. 
 
 Her first greeting of Oliver was characteristic, 
 and made him her friend. 
 
 " You are a very handsome young man, my 
 dear," she said. " Forty-five years ago I should 
 have fallen in love with you." 
 
 Oliver lifted her withered old hand — so white 
 and thin — to his lips, and said that he was sorry 
 he was forty-five years too young for such an 
 honour. That won her heart, and she patted him 
 on the hand, and said, " I am not too old yet 
 to love pretty boys." 
 
 When they met again in the garden, she took 
 him on one side, and said, " Young man, how 
 many hearts have you broken ? Tell me that. 
 You have wicked black eyes." 
 
 " Black, but not wicked," said Oliver. 
 
 " Well, do not break my dear Virginia's heart. 
 Promise me ! I see a strange light in her face 
 when you come walking across the grass. Oh, 
 I have very sharp eyes myself" 
 
 Oliver blushed like a schoolboy. 
 
 " Lady Buntingford, you embarrass me ! Please 
 do not say such things to Miss Garland." 
 
 She whispered into his ear. 
 
 " I can keep a secret ! " 
 
 Then she laughed — a silvery, tinkling laughter. 
 
 " Oh, I love to see young folks love one another. 
 I like to watch the mating of love-birds."
 
 Rural Society 257 
 
 There was another old lady who came to The 
 Rookery lawn. She came up Windlesham High 
 Street in a low pony-trap driven by a thin, clean- 
 shaven old man in rusty black and a silk hat that 
 had suffered in many rains and snows. He was 
 her butler, coachman, and gardener, and ruled her 
 with a rod of iron. Yet she was a sturdy and 
 strong-willed old woman of eighty-five, with a 
 lot of strength in her old bones still, as she 
 declared frequently with pride. Miss Purchase 
 was her name, and she had crinkled, rosy old 
 cheeks, like an apple laid up long in the store- 
 cupboard, and bright blue eyes. She always wore 
 a black gimp dress, and a white woollen shawl 
 over her shoulders, and as she came across the 
 lawn, clasping a big umbrella, she looked like an 
 old gipsy woman. 
 
 Miss Purchase probably owed her long life to an 
 intense interest in the affairs of her neighbours. 
 As she said, it kept her brain active. There was 
 no scandal in Windlesham but that she inquired 
 into the details of it and spread the news as an 
 awful warning to others. No baby shed its wings 
 before coming into the little world of Windlesham 
 without Miss Purchase having foreknowledge of 
 its coming. She seemed to know the secrets of 
 every cottage, and to keep a catalogue of skeletons 
 in the cupboards of Georgian houses. She dragged 
 them forth, and rattled their bones at the tea- 
 table. 
 17
 
 258 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Not often, however, at Virginia Garland's tea- 
 table. In the middle of a tit-bit of gossip she 
 would stop suddenly, and say, " My dear Virginia, 
 if you look at me with those sharp swords in your 
 eyes you will make me dumb." 
 
 Or Virginia Garland would hold up her finger 
 warningly, and say, " Hush ! No tittle-tattling ! " 
 
 "No fiddlesticks!" said the old lady. "If I 
 cannot narrate my little stories of human interest, 
 I shall creep into my coffin." 
 
 She reproached Miss Garland for her severity. 
 
 " My dear, you are like one of those mediaeval 
 saints who lived on a pedestal above the market- 
 place. I like people who come down to the 
 human level." 
 
 On to the lawn behind the grey old house came 
 other ladies, comfortable, complacent matrons, in 
 rustling silks — they had the latest information about 
 the dear vicar — and spinsters like Miss Garland her- 
 self, who had resigned themselves to unmarried life 
 but still warmed their hearts before little altars of 
 romance. In the distance, as Oliver walked to- 
 wards them sometimes from the gate in the garden 
 wall, he heard their quiet voices and silvery 
 laughter, and as the sunlight fell upon their silks 
 and satins, billowing upon the emerald carpet, 
 he thought they made a charming picture of 
 country peace. In the centre of them sat Virginia 
 Garland, with her smooth hair and delicate face, 
 serving at the tea-table, rather silent while the
 
 Rural Society 259 
 
 others talked, but smiling, and watchful for their 
 comforts. 
 
 One day, as he was handing tea-cakes round, 
 and bending towards old Lady Buntingford, he 
 heard a clear woman's voice ring out out in effusive 
 greeting to Miss Garland. 
 
 " My dearest Virginia ! Such an age " 
 
 Looking up he saw a tall woman in a close- 
 fitting fawn-coloured dress, with a felt hat turned 
 up on one side above her chestnut hair. It was 
 the lady whom he had seen driving in a high dog- 
 cart during his first afternoon at VVindlesham. 
 
 She kissed Miss Garland on both cheeks, and 
 hoped the " dear thing " was feeling ever so well. 
 
 "Very well, thank you, Mrs. Perceval," said 
 Virginia Garland, in her quiet way. Oliver, who 
 was quick to read the expression of her face, now 
 saw that she was slightly disconcerted at the visit. 
 
 Mrs. Perceval,as the lady was called, greeted some 
 of the other visitors with smiling condescension 
 and then turned her eyes full upon Oliver. He 
 had met that bold stare before. 
 
 " May I be introduced ? " 
 
 She had turned to Miss Garland, who said, 
 " Mr. Oliver Lumley, the Hon. Mrs. Perceval." 
 
 She gave him her hand, holding it high. 
 
 " The Lumleys of Westbrook ? " 
 
 " No," said Oliver. 
 
 He did not tell the lady that he belonged to the 
 Lumleys of Denmark Hill.
 
 26o Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 "Oh, I knew a Colonel Lumley once — a dear 
 man. Quite the best dancer in Simla." 
 
 She sank with charming grace into a garden- 
 chair, and said, " Bring me a cup of tea, Mr. 
 Lumley, lest I die. It is really quite warm." 
 
 He brought her the tea, and she desired him to 
 sit down and talk to her. 
 
 " It is so dull here in Windlesham. I meet so 
 few people worth talking to." 
 
 " I am afraid I am not one of them," said Oliver, 
 with mock humility. 
 
 " Oh no 1 I have heard all about you. You 
 are a literary man, and you live in dear Miss 
 Garland's cottage in the lane, and you take tea on 
 the lawn almost every day, and she sends you the 
 first fruits of her garden. I am so glad our dear 
 Miss Garland has become a patron of literature, in 
 the sweetest and most old-fashioned sense of the 
 word." 
 
 She looked across to the lady whose name she 
 had mentioned so often in one breath, and smiled 
 at her. 
 
 But Virginia Garland did not return the smile, 
 A slight flush crept into her face, and she said 
 quite seriously : 
 
 " Mr. Lumley is one of my tenants. That is all 
 the honour I may claim." 
 
 " A delightful honour ! It must be so nice to 
 have a literary man at the other side of one's 
 garden wall. So romantic 1 "
 
 Rural Society 261 
 
 She turned to Oliver. 
 
 " Tell me, what do you write about ? Love, I am 
 sure," 
 
 Oliver did not deny that love was often his 
 theme. 
 
 " And what experience have you had ? " asked 
 Mrs. Perceval. 
 
 She laughed vivaciously at his embarrassment, 
 and said, " Oh, you writing men ! " 
 
 A curious silence had fallen upon the other 
 ladies. Old Lady Buntingford sat very stiff and 
 straight, with her black-gloved hands in her lap. 
 It gradually dawned on Oliver, while Mrs. Perceval 
 was talking to him about her horrors of exile as the 
 wife of an invalid soldier, that this rather beautiful 
 woman with the chestnut hair was not a welcome 
 visitor on The Rookery lawn. 
 
 The lady herself seemed quite unconscious of 
 the silent hostility towards her, or quite careless of 
 it. She confined her conversation entirely to 
 Oliver, and then after a quarter of an hour she 
 sprang up and said, " I must positively go. But it 
 is so delightful here. Miss Garland, I am sure, has 
 the nicest tea in Windlesham." 
 
 She kissed Virginia Garland on each cheek 
 again. 
 
 " Good-bye. I am so glad to see you looking 
 stronger. Quite a colour in your cheeks, dear ! 
 The effect perhaps of having a literary gentleman 
 at the end of your garden."
 
 262 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She gave a high hand-shake to Oh'ver. 
 
 " You must come and dine with us. My hus- 
 band would be so glad to see you. And I crave 
 for a conversationalist." 
 
 With the greatest good-humour, and shading 
 her face with her lace parasol, she went out of the 
 garden, an elegant figure in the golden light of the 
 afternoon. 
 
 " Upon my word ! " said the Dowager Lady 
 Buntingford, " that woman should not be tolerated. 
 A bold, bad hussy." 
 
 She tapped Oliver's hand with her lorgnette. 
 
 " A dangerous creature, young man. Take an 
 old woman's advice and have nothing to do with 
 her." 
 
 " I do not think we know anything definite 
 against her," said Miss Garland. " It is only her 
 manner." 
 
 " Nothing definite ! " said old Miss Purchase, 
 raising her hand. " My dear, if you would only 
 let me tell the sheaf of stories I have collected." 
 
 " Pray spare us ! " said Miss Garland carelessly. 
 " Let us talk of flowers. They are always innocent 
 and harmless." 
 
 " I dare say there would be scandals in the flower- 
 beds if one only knew ! " said Miss Purchase wist- 
 fully.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 The Garden of Peace 
 
 It was a brilliant July, hot and sultry at noon, like 
 the dog-days of August, cool and exquisite in the 
 twilight, when shadows crept across the fields and 
 rose-pink clouds floated in a pale sky, and the 
 scent of flowers and of new-mown hay and of the 
 fertile earth rose as a rich incense in the quivering 
 air. 
 
 Upon the soul of Oliver Lumley there descended 
 tranquillity. His restless heart beat to a steadier, 
 quieter rhythm. It seemed to him at times that 
 in the beauty of these Worcestershire woodlands 
 he had got away from the fretfulness of life and 
 had escaped from the snares of his own nature. 
 
 His face became richly sunburnt. There was a 
 brighter light in his dark eyes. He walked with a 
 springy step. The perfect health of young man- 
 hood gave him an exaltation of spirits, chasing 
 away the melancholy and brooding thoughts that 
 had overshadowed him on his first coming to 
 Windlesham. 
 
 Yet at times this uplifting of mind and body was 
 almost too great. It was a kind of natural intoxi- 
 cation, which startled him. There were hours
 
 264 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 when he seemed to be drunk with the beauty of 
 the earth. London-bred, he did not know the 
 names of the flowers in Virginia's garden, nor in 
 the meadows and hedge-rows ; he did not know the 
 birds that sang in the beech-woods behind his 
 cottage ; but the colour-glories of the flowers and 
 the ecstatic music of the song-birds thrilled his 
 senses and filled him with an indefinable emotion, 
 to the verge of silly tears. 
 
 Something seemed to have broken inside him — 
 some hard crust. He lived in a melting mood, 
 strangely sensuous in his sympathy with this nature 
 round him. 
 
 Once he was scared with himself. He was 
 standing on the bank of the river Windle, which 
 coiled through the country-side. The sunlight had 
 turned its water to crinkled gold, A score of larks 
 were singing an endless song of love triumphant 
 above fields of clover on the opposite bank. 
 Meadow-sweet grew about him where he stood, 
 and its scent was wafted to him with every breath 
 of wind. A church-bell was ringing. Its faint 
 vibration made the air tremulous. Round a bend 
 of the river a girl's voice was singing, and there 
 was the lap of oars upon the water. Standing 
 there alone, Oliver suddenly felt his heart beating 
 wildly. His nostrils quivered, a yearning took 
 possession of him, though for what he did not know 
 and could not understand. It was a kind of hunger 
 to be absorbed in this nature, to be one with it.
 
 The Garden of Peace 265 
 
 Walking back through quiet woods to his 
 cottage there were strange stirrings of romance in 
 his heart. The eternal spirit of boyhood seemed 
 to surge up in him. He desired an adventure in 
 the wood. He peered down a glade, where the 
 light fell aslant through the high branches, like a 
 faun searching for a wood-nymph. But he saw 
 only rabbits scuttling across the pathway and a 
 bird with greenish plumage piping on a twig to a 
 hidden mate. 
 
 At his garden gate he met Virginia Garland. 
 She had watched him coming across the field and 
 the stile, and laughed when he raised his head and 
 saw her only when quite close. 
 
 " What were you thinking of so furiously ? That 
 great novel of yours ? " 
 
 " No. I cannot write my silly trash when the 
 sun is shining and the world's beauty calls out so 
 loud." 
 
 He held his straw hat in his hand, and the sun 
 streamed upon his dark hair and bronzed face and 
 white flannels. 
 
 " Are you strong enough to walk a little ? Let 
 us go and sit under the trees and talk, I must play 
 truant from work to-day." 
 
 " I am afraid you are too often a truant." 
 
 She put her hand upon his arm and they walked, 
 very slowly, back into the wood, and into the cool 
 depths of it. Then Virginia Garland sat upon the 
 trunk of a fallen tree. She took off her hat, and
 
 266 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 laid it in the lap of her grey dress. Oliver lay 
 down upon the peaty turf a yard away, with his 
 elbows dug into the ground and his face propped in 
 his hands. They were quite silent. In a thicket 
 close by a bird was making little chitterings. 
 Presently Oliver spoke. 
 
 " This is a wood of dreams." 
 
 " It is as real as life," said Virginia Garland. 
 " See, there are dead leaves rotting on the ground, 
 and up above green leaves. Presently they also 
 will be dead, but others will come, and the beauty 
 of life goes on." 
 
 " I hate to think of death," said Oliver. " Death 
 and pain are horrible." 
 
 " One must look both in the face without 
 flinching. I know what pain is. It has been my 
 bedfellow. One day I shall meet the other. I 
 shall not be afraid," 
 
 Oliver sat up, folding his arms on his knees. 
 
 " Sometimes I am rather afraid oi you ! " he said, 
 smiling at her, 
 
 " Of me ? I am a frail, harmless thing ! " 
 
 " You are imniensely strong. Your spirit is 
 inflexible." 
 
 " You make me out a hard woman," said Virginia 
 Garland. " I hope I have a little charity," 
 
 " Yes, you are hard," said Oliver. " I believe 
 you would be as hard as rock in a sea of 
 temptation. But charity ? Your heart pours it 
 out,"
 
 The Garden of Peace 267 
 
 "Hush!" said Miss Garland. "You do not 
 know the secrets of my poor heart.'' 
 
 She looked down on Oliver from her tree-trunk 
 seat, and there was a smiling tenderness in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Tell me some of them," said Oliver. " The 
 wood is silent, and there are no eavesdroppers. 
 You and I are quite alone in the world." 
 
 She shook her head, and said : 
 
 " Hark at that bird on the bough. What a 
 thrilling note ! " 
 
 But Oliver did not listen. His eyes were fixed 
 on the woman who sat on the fallen tree. Her 
 smooth brown hair was just touched by a ray of 
 light which struck through the leaves. Sitting 
 there with her hat off and her hands in her lap she 
 made a charming portrait. 
 
 She seemed to have grown younger since he had 
 known her. At his first meeting she had seemed to 
 him almost middle-aged, but afterwards, and now, 
 he caught the wistful look of a young girl in her 
 face. She was looking upon the ground, and he 
 saw how long and soft were the brown eyelashes 
 that brushed her cheek, and how beautiful was the 
 curve of her neck. Her face had no doll-like pretti- 
 ness. It was pale and thin, but it reminded 
 Oliver of one of Burne-Jones's dream-women. 
 
 Sometimes, it was quite true, she frightened him. 
 There was something in her eyes and in her 
 manner that made it impossible for him to adopt
 
 268 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 that light-hearted gallantry which came so easily 
 to him with other women. She took all his words 
 seriously, as though they meant precisely what he 
 said, neither more nor less. That was embarrassing 
 to a man who spoke often with exaggeration and 
 sometimes thoughtlessly. She credited him also 
 with ideals and principles of which he could speak 
 glibly enough, but which, in his heart, he knew to 
 be higher than his spiritual reach. 
 
 He had kept up the fiction, for instance, of a 
 deep interest in the social condition of the London 
 poor. He had spoken brave things about his 
 "quest of truth." He had complained to her of 
 the frivolity and insincerity of modern society. 
 He had even deplored the spirit of Mammon 
 which had taken possession of the nation. 
 
 " The money standard," he said, " is the measure 
 of modern life. Oh, how I hate and loathe this 
 greed of gold ! " 
 
 She agreed with him, with enthusiasm, and 
 praised him for following the path of poverty with 
 a brave heart, in the pursuit of truth and beauty. 
 That had shamed him. He blamed himself for 
 insincerity. He hedged a little to save his own 
 conscience, and told her that, after all, money in 
 good hands was a great blessing, an immense 
 power for good. But she hesitated to agree to 
 that. 
 
 " My father has left me too much for a single 
 woman, and subscriptions to charity lists are but
 
 The Garden of Peace 269 
 
 miserable means of doing good in the world. 
 This impersonal charity is so cold and unsatis- 
 fying." 
 
 After she had told him that, the thought of her 
 wealth haunted him. Her father had left her too 
 much for a single woman, she said. 
 
 There were moments now when a strange 
 question thrust itself into Oliver's brain. Had 
 Virginia Garland fallen in love with him ? He 
 tried to put the question on one side as an 
 impertinence, but it demanded an answer. 
 
 The first time it had come to him was one 
 evening when he came into her drawing-room. 
 It was dusk, and the candles had not been lighted, 
 and Virginia was sitting with some white needle- 
 work in her lap. But she was not sewing. Her 
 hands were still, and she was staring out into the 
 purple haze in the garden through the open French 
 windows. She had not heard him come into the 
 room until he spoke to her. Then she started 
 and turned her head, and her face was suffused 
 with a deep flush of colour. 
 
 " I thought you were not coming in this 
 evening." 
 
 Her hand trembled a little in his clasp. 
 
 " I have one of my attacks of loneliness," she 
 said. " Sometimes I feel the most lonely creature 
 in the world. I am glad you have come." 
 
 Her voice was tremulous. There was a kind of 
 hunger in her eyes for a moment as she looked
 
 270 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 up at him. Just for a swift second it seemed to 
 Oliver that his presence had thrilled her. A 
 moment later she was speaking to him in her 
 tranquil way, calm and matter-of-fact. 
 
 Another day they were in the rose-garden. She 
 was showing him her most precious specimens. 
 She lifted their heads up in her delicate white 
 fingers with a caressing touch. 
 
 " When I am gone," said Oliver, " I shall always 
 think of you among the roses." 
 
 She turned and drew in her breath. 
 
 " You are not going yet ? Are you tired of this 
 country life ? " 
 
 Her anxiety startled him, so that for a moment 
 he could not answer. Then he said : 
 
 " I shall never be tired of this garden. My 
 spirit will always walk in it. But sometimes I 
 think I ought to get back to the bustle of the 
 town. I am living too much on your bounty." 
 
 " Do not say that. You keep my cottage warm, 
 and your friendship has made the month pass 
 quickly. Generally the weeks are so long with 
 me." 
 
 " They have been golden weeks. I shall never 
 forget the peace of them, and this beauty." 
 
 He looked round the garden, at the doves cooing 
 on the emerald lawn, at the sun glinting on the 
 marble dial, at the long cool shadow flung across 
 the grass from the gables of the grey old house. 
 Then it seemed to him that the charity of this
 
 The Garden of Peace 271 
 
 lady, in whose cottage he lived, and who had 
 opened her house and garden to him, was a charm- 
 ing idyll, touched with romance. He thought 
 again of the young Rousseau, poor like himself, 
 with the same temperamental sensibilities, who 
 for four years had lived such an idyll with 
 Madame de Warens in the sylvan retreat of Les 
 Charmettes. Virginia Garland had given him 
 sanctuary like that. 
 
 Her character had a tranquillity of spirit which 
 he found soothing. Yet she was not always as 
 gentle as a white dove. He saw her once or twice 
 moved to quite a passionate anger, which took his 
 breath away. 
 
 The first time was when one of the gardeners 
 failed to do a piece of work which he had promised 
 to get finished by a certain time. She questioned 
 him, and he gave shifty answers, and then con- 
 tradicted her bluntly. 
 
 Miss Garland was silent for a moment, and a 
 vivid flush of colour swept into her face. Then 
 she drew herself up very straight, and said in a 
 quiet voice : 
 
 " Why do you lie to me ? " 
 
 " It's the truth," said the man doggedly, shifting 
 from one foot to another. 
 
 She struck the ground with her stick sharply. 
 
 " Go out of my garden ! How dare you stand 
 before me there and tell me falsehoods ? If I were 
 not a frail woman you would not have the courage.
 
 272 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Lying and laziness are sins I do not forgive. 
 Please get your wages and go." 
 
 She raised her stick, and pointed to the garden 
 gate. 
 
 The man, very red and sullen, looked up at her ; 
 but there was so angry a light in her eyes that 
 he quailed before it, and slouched slowly away. 
 When he had disappeared behind a close-cropped 
 hedge. Miss Garland lowered her stick, and the 
 colour fled from her face, leaving it very white. 
 
 " That man is a drunken, lazy, lying old fellow. 
 I have had patience with him too long." 
 
 She saw Oliver's surprise, and seemed embar- 
 rassed, and said, " I do not often lose my temper 
 like this. Forgive me. But I cannot tolerate lies 
 and deceit. They make my blood boil. I have 
 inherited that from my father. He nearly killed 
 a man who had lied to him." 
 
 Oliver was disconcerted by this little scene. He 
 had to revise his whole estimate of Miss Garland's 
 character. This passion at a trivial fault was 
 bewildering and alarming. There were times 
 when he, like the grubby old gardener, was apt 
 to prevaricate with truth. 
 
 He began to realise, too, that this gentle invalid 
 lady was a strict disciplinarian in her house, and 
 that all her servants were afraid of her. They 
 loved her, he could see that, but they went in fear 
 and trembling lest they should displease her. 
 
 He saw her write the word " Dust " on the
 
 The Garden of Peace 273 
 
 rosewood piano before a neat housemaid who went 
 quite white at the silent rebuke, and then burst 
 into tears. He saw another maid tremble so that 
 a silver tray laden with tea-cups was in danger 
 of falling from her hands because Miss Garland 
 said in a severe voice, " Mary, how often have 
 I told you not to let me see you with a dirty 
 pinafore ? It is an insult to my guests, and dis- 
 obedience to me." 
 
 It was such scenes as this that made Oliver use 
 those words about her "inflexible spirit." Yet, like 
 all women, she was complex and contradictory in 
 character, for when the maid who had gone faint 
 at the writing on the piano cut her finger one 
 day, it was her mistress who bound it up with the 
 greatest care ; and when the other girl suffered 
 from toothache, Miss Garland's sympathy was like 
 that of an elder sister. She put her arm round 
 the girl's waist and kissed her on the cheek. 
 
 18
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 The Beggar-Man 
 
 The days passed, and the weeks, and Oliver seemed 
 to be drifting in a placid backwater of life, very 
 lazy, very sunburnt, content to take tea on Virginia 
 Garland's lawn with old ladies, to take long walks 
 through Windlesham to quiet old woodland villages 
 beyond, and to write in the evenings at a long 
 novel, interrupted by quiet pipes over his fireside, 
 or by playfulness with the girl Alice, whose pretti- 
 ness and sauciness still kept him amused. 
 
 But in the first week of his second month in 
 Windlesham a change came over him, as in the 
 weather, which after the spell of sunshine was suc- 
 ceeded by rainy days, when the lane outside his 
 cottage was a quagmire, and when for hours he 
 heard the dripping of wet leaves and the patter of 
 the rain-drops. 
 
 The charm suddenly went out of this country 
 life. The cottage seemed a prison to him, cramp- 
 ing to body and soul. His spirits went down to 
 zero. 
 
 One evening, working alone, he dropped his pen 
 and groaned aloud. He had been writing the 
 sorriest trash. Perhaps when it was finished it 
 274
 
 The Beggar-Man 275 
 
 would not be published. What should he do 
 then? 
 
 In any case what should he do? In spite of 
 having paid no rent and of having lived largely on 
 the bounty of Virginia Garland, he had spent all 
 but one sovereign of the ten pounds he had brought 
 from London. He was faced again with direst 
 poverty, and he flinched from it. 
 
 The confession of failure would be the worst to 
 bear. How could he crawl back to London, to his 
 old home in Denmark Hill, and say, " Father, I am 
 penniless. Let me sit down at your table again 
 until the luck turns ? " That would be impossible. 
 He would rather starve. 
 
 For an hour he sat down before the small grate, 
 in which a wood log was smouldering into white 
 ash. He sat with his face in his hands, thinking 
 deeply, so that a line was furrowed in his forehead. 
 Then he gave a long, quivering sigh, and rising, 
 put on his overcoat and cap and went out into the 
 rain. He walked up to The Rookery, and in a few 
 minutes was taking off his things again in Virginia 
 Garland's hall. 
 
 " Has Miss Garland finished supper ? " he asked 
 the maid, and she said that her mistress had finished 
 an hour ago and was reading in the library. 
 
 " You know the way, sir ? " 
 
 Oliver knew the way quite well, and going up 
 the oak staircase he opened a door on the right of 
 the first landing and went inside the great room,
 
 276 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 which the old General, Virginia's father, had lined 
 with books from floor to ceiling. 
 
 The room, panelled in dark wood where there was 
 space between the bookshelves, was dimly lighted, 
 but a lamp with a red shade shed it rays upon 
 Virginia Garland at the far end of the library. 
 The two sheep-dogs were sleeping at her feet, 
 breathing stertorously. She wore a white gown, 
 cut low at the neck, and, sitting in a high-backed 
 chair clasping its arms, with a book in her lap, she 
 seemed to Oliver like a mediaeval princess in an 
 old ghost-haunted room. 
 
 He stood in the shadow of the doorway for a 
 minute, and she looked up and said : 
 
 •' Yes. Who is it ? " 
 
 " It is Oliver. May I interrupt your reading ? " 
 
 " I was not reading — only thinking. But are 
 you not working to-night?" 
 
 " I could not work. I have been thinking, too. 
 I want to tell you about my thoughts." 
 
 He crossed over to her and sat in the chimney- 
 corner, and clasped one knee with his hands. 
 
 " Not unpleasant thoughts ? You look very 
 serious to-night." 
 
 " Horribly unpleasant. You see, I have wakened 
 up out of my dream." 
 
 She asked him what was the meaning of his 
 words. What dream had he dreamed ? She put 
 the question with a smile, as though amused by his 
 romantic way of speech.
 
 The Beggar-Man 277 
 
 " It has all been a dream — this month or so. I 
 came down from London expecting to stay a week- 
 end. I did not know exactly why I came, except 
 that something called to me. I was in difficulties. 
 I had made a mess of things. I wanted to escape. 
 Your letters seemed to tell me that here I should 
 find sanctuary. So I came." 
 
 " Yes. I am glad you came," said Miss Garland. 
 " But where are the dream and the awakening ? " 
 
 " The dream came when I first saw you, and 
 when you offered me your cottage. I have been 
 living in a dream ever since. Those golden days 
 in your garden, our walks together in the woods 
 the quiet hours in this old house, the utter peace 
 of life here, and your friendship — it has been one 
 long dream. I have said to myself a thousand 
 times, * You are dreaming, Oliver ! You are 
 dreaming ! One day something will pinch you, 
 and you will wake up.' " 
 
 " I don't quite understand," said Miss Garland. 
 " Why should you think it all a dream ? What do 
 you mean by the awakening? " 
 
 " The awakening has come," said Oliver, with a 
 tragic face. " It was my conscience that pinched 
 me. To-night I woke up. To-morrow I go back 
 to London." 
 
 " Oh, no ! You must not do that ! " 
 
 She leant forward, and put her hand on his 
 sleeve. 
 
 " Stay a little longer, Oliver 1 You have your
 
 278 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 novel to finish. Surely you must get that done 
 before you go ! " 
 
 There was a note of pleading in her voice, and 
 Oliver was thrilled by it. But he stared gloomily 
 at the hearth-rug, and gave a slight groan. 
 
 " God knows I should like to stay. But every 
 day makes it more difficult to go." 
 
 She said again in a troubled way : 
 
 " I do not understand ! Why should you go ? " 
 
 He looked up at her, and said : 
 
 " May I speak frankly ? " 
 
 " Otherwise not at all," said Miss Garland, v/ith 
 one of the smiles that gave beauty to her face. 
 
 " Wei], it is like this. I am a poor man. I am 
 desperately poor. But my pride has come back. 
 I cannot go on being a pauper at your gates and 
 accepting your charity. It isn't right. It isn't 
 good for my peace of mind — or my peace of heart." 
 
 As he spoke the last words he looked up at her 
 again, and their eyes met. She put out her hand, 
 and turned the lamp-shade so that her face was no 
 longer illumined. 
 
 " Are you afraid of people talking ? Do you 
 mean that scandal-mongers " 
 
 She paused, and drew a quick breath, as though 
 the thought had angered her. 
 
 " No, not that. I believe there is gossip in the 
 place, but that would not hurt you, or me." 
 
 He was silent for a little while, and then said 
 rather passionately :
 
 The Beggar-Man 279 
 
 ** Virginia, don't you understand ? I am so 
 poor that it is not safe for me to stay here. I can- 
 not live on a woman's charity, and I dare not tell 
 her what is in my heart, because I am a beggar- 
 man at her garden-door, and not worthy to crawl 
 on my knees before her." 
 
 "Tell me what is in your heart, Oliver," said 
 Miss Garland, very softly. 
 
 " Fear," said Oliver. " I am afraid of the love 
 there. Because I am poor and you are rich." 
 
 " Love? Did you say love, Oliver ? " 
 
 Miss Garland spoke the words with a little timid 
 cry, and a wave of colour swept into her face. 
 
 " I said love," replied Oliver, very gravely, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 Miss Garland was on her knees now. She clasped 
 his arms with her thin, white hands. 
 
 " Oh, do not be afraid, Oliver ! Tell me, do you 
 mean that you love me ? You will give me great 
 riches if you tell me — that." 
 
 " I tell you that," he said. 
 
 " You love me ? " 
 
 She asked the question as though the answer 
 would be life or death to her. 
 
 " I love you," said Oliver. " That is my confes- 
 sion. That is why I must go away." 
 
 He looked very much ashamed of himself. 
 
 She laughed, a tremulous, joyful laugh, and 
 clasped him close. 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! " she said. " Oh, my dear ! Is
 
 28o Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 this true? I think it is I who am dreaming 
 now." 
 
 " Perhaps it is a dream," said Oliver. " We have 
 been walking in a garden of love, you and I. But 
 I must go now." 
 
 He unclasped her arms and rose from his seat, 
 and paced into the shadows of the room and back 
 again into the lamp-light. His face was very white, 
 and his eyes burned like coals. He stooped down 
 and kissed the woman's hair, as she still knelt 
 before his empty seat, with her hands clasped at 
 her breast. 
 
 " Forget my stupid words. The princess does 
 not stoop to the pauper. What would the world 
 say ? The beggar-man must slink away and hide 
 his love in his rags." 
 
 But she would not let him go, not even to the 
 end of the room. She reached up to his shoulders, 
 and put her head against his heart. 
 
 " My dear, it is I who am the beggar. You 
 are rich — in health, in youthfulness, in all the 
 great gifts of life. I am poor in body and spirit. 
 If you will give me your love, Oliver, I shall be 
 lifted to a high throne." 
 
 That night as they sat together, hand clasped 
 in hand, she told him how, since his first letters 
 to her, she had always expected him. She had 
 felt, in a strange, mystical way, that one day he 
 would come. That afternoon when he had rung the 
 bell at her door its jangling notes had startled
 
 The Beggar-Man 281 
 
 her, and she thought, " That is Oliver Lumley." 
 Then she stood face to face with him, and she 
 was scared, because she knew that OHver would 
 take her heart, and perhaps would leave her, 
 without it, in greater loneliness. Oh, she had 
 been very lonely, till he came ! 
 
 A score of times she questioned him whether 
 he was sure he loved her. It seemed incredible. 
 For he was young and she was old. Several 
 times she cried out in distress : 
 
 " Oliver, I am ten years older than you 1 I 
 should be wicked to let you marry me." 
 
 But he kissed her hand, and vowed that she 
 had the heart of a child and would never grow 
 old. 
 
 Then she told him that he loved an invalid — 
 a poor, frail woman, lame in one leg, who would 
 be a burden to him. 
 
 But he swore that he would devote his strength 
 to her. She should lean upon his arm as they 
 walked along the way together. 
 
 She wept a little with joy at that, and wondered 
 why God and Oliver should be so kind to her. 
 
 Then Oliver poured out his heart, and made 
 confession of some of his sins, and of his failure 
 and of some of his debts. 
 
 " My dear," she said, when she had heard all 
 that he told her, " we must pay your debts 
 quickly. I will not have my husband tortured 
 by any whisper of conscience, nor under any
 
 282 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 faint shadow of dishonour. My poor boy, how 
 you must have suffered ! " 
 
 She rejoiced that she could wipe all that out 
 with one stroke of her pen. In future he would 
 not be troubled by such squalid cares. He 
 would be free now to write according to his 
 highest ideals and not pander to the popular 
 market. 
 
 " You will write great books and noble books, 
 Oliver." 
 
 Yet she reproached him, gently and tenderly. 
 
 " You have been weak, Oliver. I wish you 
 had faced poverty with a more masterful spirit. 
 See, I tell you the truth, even in these first hours 
 of our love. You will not be angry with me 
 because I tell you the truth ? " 
 
 " I ask for nothing but your love and truthful- 
 ness," said Oliver. " I know I have been as weak 
 as water. But you will teach me to be strong." 
 
 She said, " Promise me one thing. Let us be 
 married quickly. I cannot wait for my happiness. 
 You see, I have been lonely so long." 
 
 " I promise," said Oliver. " We will be married 
 quickly, my dear." 
 
 When he walked to his cottage that night he 
 seemed to be in a dream again. " Thank the 
 stars," he said, as he put his hand upon the 
 garden gate. " The Luck has turned at last"
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 The Wonderful News 
 
 Oliver paid a visit to London before iiis marriage, 
 and enjoyed himself. 
 
 He walked the streets not as a hang-dog 
 fellow, afraid to meet a creditor at every corner, 
 but as a man who, after poverty, has come 
 into a fair heritage, so that he may hold his 
 head high and look all men straight in the 
 eyes. 
 
 He had left London as a failure. He came 
 back as a success, trailing clouds of glory about 
 him. Even his physical appearance was altered. 
 He was richly bronzed. His lungs had been 
 filled for several months with country air, so that 
 his chest was filled out and his shoulders were 
 squared. He walked with a long, swinging stride. 
 He had no longer the tired eyes and drawn look 
 of a man who keeps late hours. His eyes were 
 bright and keen. His face had put on flesh. 
 One could not meet a handsomer fellow on a 
 long day's march. He had such a noble, smiling 
 look, that when he walked down Piccadilly or 
 the Strand people turned to glance at him and 
 went on their way refreshed by the mere sight 
 283
 
 284 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 of a young man so rich in health and holding 
 his head so high in a troubled world. 
 
 Miss Garland had paved the way for his 
 triumphant entry to London. She had opened 
 an account in his name in one of the Windlesham 
 banks, and said, " My dear, let me know that 
 you have paid all your debts and put yourself 
 right in the world. You will want clothes, too, 
 for our marriage day, and pocket-money for 
 your visits to town. . . . No ; you must not be 
 proud, Oliver. Are you not giving me all your- 
 self?" 
 
 That had made things easy for him. It had 
 given him golden opportunities for fulfilling his 
 most generous instincts. Rescued from miserable 
 poverty, with its degradation, his soul seemed to 
 expand and grow, like a plant taken from the 
 cellar into the sunlight. He was filled with bene- 
 volence to all humanity. 
 
 His first cheque was for fifty pounds, made out 
 to Lady Katherine Goldstein. He signed his 
 name with a flourish, and enclosed the slip of pink 
 paper with a note : 
 
 " With warmest thanks, from Oliver Lumley." 
 
 Two days later he received the acknowledgment. 
 It was the first time he had seen Katherine's 
 handwriting since that unfortunate misunder- 
 standing.
 
 The Wonderful News 285 
 
 " Dear Roly, — 
 " Many thanks for the cheque. I am so glad 
 to think that you are prospering. 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 " Katherine Goldstein. 
 
 *' P.S. — I have forgiven you for something that 
 made me very angry. After all, Hfe is too short 
 for stupid quarrels. I remember our friendship." 
 
 He kept that letter in his breast pocket, though 
 when he first read it the sight of the finely pointed 
 handwriting had brought back remembrances 
 which were too emotional. Staring at the paper, 
 Katherine's face, her smile, the fragrance of her 
 hair, the faint echo of her laughter, her piquant 
 beauty came hauntingly back to him. He sighed 
 like a man who has stirred the dying embers of 
 an old passion, and feels a flame leap up to his 
 heart again. 
 
 " A queer game — this life," he said ; and with 
 that comment folded up Katherine's letter and put 
 it in his pocket. 
 
 He wrote other cheques with delightful ease, 
 astonished at the rapidity with which a man with 
 a banking account may wipe out debts so grim 
 and menacing in his days of destitution. Thirty 
 pounds to his tailor — it took but half a minute 
 to write. Five pounds, ten pounds, three pounds, 
 a guinea : as fast as he could remember the names 
 of his tradesmen and of club friends whom he had
 
 2 86 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " touched " for this small loan and that the leaves 
 fell from his cheque book, and made a pretty 
 pattern on the tablecloth of his sitting-room in 
 Myrtle Cottage. 
 
 " This is all right for Oliver ! " said that young 
 man, laughing irresistibly, and in the greatest 
 good-humour at the swift and superb manner in 
 which he settled his accounts with past history. 
 When he had thrust all his letters into the red 
 mouth of a letter-box in Miss Garland's garden- 
 wall he had the feeling of a man who has released 
 himself from a pack of care, and springs up un- 
 trammelled to go singing on his way to the 
 banquet of life. 
 
 On his way to the banquet he went to Denmark 
 Hill, where his family was supping on cold mutton 
 and bread-and-butter pudding. One line only had 
 he sent them in advance, but it seemed to contain 
 a miracle : 
 
 " I have the best of news. I am a rich man, and 
 I shall be with you soon." 
 
 The hand of the clock seemed to have been put 
 back when the taxicab in which he drove up to 
 them paused outside the small villa, and when 
 Mrs. Lumley, who had been the first to hear it, 
 opened the front door and called out into the 
 darkness, " Is that you, Oliver ? " He sprang up 
 the steps to her with a laugh.
 
 The Wonderful News 287 
 
 " Here is the prodigal son. Back again ! " 
 
 In the narrow hall she folded hinn in her arms, 
 and said, " My dearest boy ! Oliver, my dearest ! 
 You nearly broke my heart by your silence." 
 
 He kissed her pale face on both cheeks, and 
 said, " It is all right, mother. I am going to give 
 you all a good time. I am going to pay back 
 some of my debts." 
 
 His father stood in the doorway of the dining- 
 room, holding a book in one hand, and his spectacle- 
 case in the other. He seemed strangely ill at ease 
 at this sudden return of his son, and clearing his 
 voice with a little cough, said : 
 
 " So you have come back, Oliver. What is the 
 meaning of your mysterious letter? How have 
 you become rich ? " 
 
 He spoke as if he were very much afraid that 
 his son had not obtained his wealth by honest 
 means. Oliver seized him by the hand, and put 
 it to his lips. 
 
 " Dad ! " he said. " Don't be scared. I haven't 
 been robbing any one. Where's old Horace ? 
 Where's Gallypot ? " 
 
 Horace and Galatea were both in the sitting- 
 room. They stood up at the supper-table, holding 
 their napkins and listening to the words spoken 
 in the hall. It seemed as if they, too, believed 
 that Oliver had been guilty of some crime in 
 becoming rich, or as if they were in the presence 
 of a miracle, and were frightened.
 
 288 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Oliver," said Galatea, " are you serious ? What 
 has happened to you ? " 
 
 " Tell us the news," said Horace. " You are 
 like a man who has come back again from the 
 dead." 
 
 Oliver was rather taken aback by their coldness 
 and incredulity. 
 
 " Well, you don't seem pleased to hear about my 
 good luck. This is not a cheerful home-coming ; 
 hang me if it is," 
 
 " You are looking awfully brown, old boy ! " 
 said Horace, putting some brotherly warmth into 
 his voice. " What have you been doing with 
 yourself?" 
 
 "We should be glad to hear about your good 
 luck," said Mr. Lumley. " Luck has been a 
 stranger to this house for some time. I may 
 say I have never known what luck was." 
 
 He rubbed his spectacles with his handkerchief, 
 and spoke the words rather wistfully. 
 
 " Roly, darling, do not keep us in suspense ! " 
 said Mrs. Lumley. 
 
 Oliver's good -humour returned to him. He 
 could see now that the coldness of his family was 
 only apparent, and covered a consuming desire to 
 know his news, and a sense of mystery which had 
 led to strange anxieties and secret hopes. But he 
 teased them a little longer, and asked them to 
 guess in what way Luck had come to him. 
 Galatea said that he must have written a play
 
 The Wonderful News 289 
 
 and had it accepted by Beerbohm Tree. Horace 
 thought that he must have sold a serial story 
 to The Daily Mail. Mr. Lumley put his guess 
 into the form of a suspicion, and hoped that Oliver 
 had not been gambling on the Stock Exchange. 
 He was of opinion that money obtained quickly 
 in this way fled just as fast. 
 
 Then Oliver laughed very quietly, and said : 
 
 "It is better than all that. I am going to 
 marry a rich woman. I am going to become a 
 man of property." 
 
 A dead silence fell upon the family. The news 
 seemed to have struck them dumb. 
 
 Mrs. Lumley was the first to speak. 
 
 " A rich woman ? . . . Is she a good woman, 
 Oliver ? " 
 
 " More than good. A saint, mother." 
 
 " I say, old boy," said Horace, " this is rather 
 sudden, isn't it ? You have only been away six 
 weeks." 
 
 " It has been a romance," said Oliver. " An 
 idyll. I could not explain it to you 
 
 " Is she pretty ? " asked Galatea. 
 
 " She is a dream-woman," said Oliver. 
 
 Mr. Lumley shifted uneasily in his chair. 
 
 " Dream-women are sometimes rather dan- 
 gerous. ... In any case, a wife with money puts 
 a man in a false position. ... I hope she is not 
 an adventuress." 
 
 Oliver suddenly became violently angry. 
 19
 
 290 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 *' Of all the extraordinary people," he said, " my 
 own family beats creation. Anybody would think 
 I had been robbing hen-roosts or leading a life of 
 vice. Here I come back full of desire to lift you 
 out of this shabby gentility, to make you relations 
 by marriage of an old county family, to let you 
 share my good fortune, and you make remarks 
 that are deliberately insulting to myself and my 
 future wife." 
 
 His violence shocked them. Mrs. Lumley cried 
 a little. Mr. Lumley said that he did not mean 
 to say anything unkind. Horace came and gripped 
 him by the hand, and said, " Congratulations, old 
 boy," in a sepulchral voice, and Galatea said that 
 no one could be more glad that he had found 
 happiness. So they coaxed him back to good- 
 temper, and that evening, after the cold mutton 
 and the bread-and-butter pudding, he told them 
 of his life at Windlesham, and of Myrtle Cottage, 
 and of Virginia Garland. 
 
 Of Virginia he drew a beautiful portrait, and his 
 voice thrilled when he spoke of his reverence for 
 her and of her gracious, bountiful character. Then 
 he described The Rookery, and, unconsciously, 
 exaggerated its grandeur and the immensity of 
 its garden, so that it might have been a ducal 
 mansion in a noble park. 
 
 " All that will be mine," he said. " Virginia and 
 I will share everything in common." 
 
 He forgot, he honestly forgot, that he was
 
 The Wonderful News 291 
 
 bringing nothing to her but the sheets of an 
 unpublished story. 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Lumley, " it is all wonder- 
 ful. But you will be too grand for us." 
 
 " Virginia has a beautiful simplicity. She will 
 love you, mother. She would not despise even 
 this little home. But I hope we shall be able to 
 make you an allowance, so that you may move 
 into a bigger house, in a better neighbourhood — 
 Sydenham, for example. It sounds so much 
 better than Denmark Hill." 
 
 " We shall be your poor relations," said Galatea, 
 with just a trace of bitterness. " I shall be fright- 
 fully afraid of Miss Garland, Roly." 
 
 " She will be Mrs. Oliver Lumley when you 
 know her ! " 
 
 Oliver smiled at his sister in the happiest frame 
 of mind now, and with an imagination excited by 
 his generous visions. 
 
 That night he heard some news which made 
 him very sorry for poor "Gallypot" as he called 
 his sister. It seemed that while he had been 
 away she also had been living in a romance. 
 Charles Hardy had been very kind to her, and she 
 had been to ever so many theatres with him, and 
 he had made a habit of spending his evenings, 
 when not otherwise engaged, at the little house in 
 Denmark Hill. Then one night, when he was 
 taking Galatea home in a hansom cab, he asked 
 her to be his wife. Of course that made her the
 
 292 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 happiest girl on earth, for she had loved Hardy at 
 first sight. There was no difficulty at home, and 
 the news of their daughter's engagement had been 
 a real joy to Mr. and Mrs. Lumley. 
 
 Then, a week ago, a thunderbolt had fallen 
 which had shattered Galatea's house of dreams. 
 She and Charles Hardy had already made their 
 plans for the future, and had arranged to live in a 
 beautiful flat in High Street, Kensington. Hardy 
 had already bought a gate-post table as the first 
 instalment of his household furniture, and had his 
 eye on a suite of dining-room chairs. 
 
 But one night he came to the Lumleys' house 
 very pale and agitated, and they knew at once 
 that he had bad news to tell them. 
 
 It was very bad indeed. The newspaper on 
 which Charles Hardy had been earning a hand- 
 some salary had changed hands. There was a 
 new proprietor, and he lost no time in dismissing 
 members of the old staff in order to bring in his 
 own men. It is a well-known game in Fleet 
 Street, and has brought many good journalists to 
 misery. Hardy was one of the first to come under 
 the guillotine. 
 
 " Your salary is too high," said the new editor 
 of the new proprietor. " If you like to take half 
 will keep you on." 
 
 • I would rather starve ! " said Hardy. 
 
 " Please yourself," said the new editor, very 
 calmly.
 
 The Wonderful News 293 
 
 So from twelve pounds a week Hardy was 
 brought down swiftly to Nothing a week, which is 
 not enough for a young man who has just become 
 engaged to get married. 
 
 After the first shock he had faced the situation 
 with pluck and a sense of humour. He kissed 
 Galatea's tears away (though he could not cure 
 her red eyes), and hustled round the other news- 
 paper offices. But they were " full up." All they 
 could promise was " to bear him in mind " — a vague 
 and hopeless pledge. Now Hardy was spending 
 his days in the Club, waiting for something to turn 
 up, writing London letter notes for the provincial 
 papers, and cursing all newspaper proprietors with 
 ingenious and carefully chosen epithets. Even 
 his sense of humour was wearing rather thin. 
 
 Oliver was distressed at this domestic mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 " I am sorry you ever got engaged to the fellow," 
 he said to Galatea. " Journalism is always a pre- 
 carious job, and in any case Hardy was not a 
 brilliant match for you. I give you fair warning, 
 Galatea, I shan't tolerate a long engagement. If 
 he does not get a good place again pretty soon, 
 you must break with him. I can't have my pretty 
 sister losing all her chances in life out of mistaken 
 fidelity to an impecunious pressman. When you 
 come down to Windlesham there are plenty of 
 county men who would be glad to fall in love 
 with you."
 
 294 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Galatea was flamingly indignant with him. She 
 would be true to Hardy till death, she said, and 
 then burst into tears. 
 
 Oliver patted her hand. 
 
 "That is all right, I admire you for saying 
 that. But after a time the romance will wear off." 
 
 On the following night he met Hardy himself 
 at the club and was very sympathetic to him, 
 seeing how dejected he was. But he gave him a 
 few words of warning. 
 
 " Look here, my lad, I can't have my sister's 
 heart broken by a hopeless engagement. You 
 understand that, don't you ? " 
 
 Hardy eyed him very coolly. 
 
 " Don't go putting on damned supercilious airs 
 with me, Roly. I am not a sponger on women." 
 
 He had his hands in the pockets of a Norfolk 
 jacket, and looked down at Oliver from his six- 
 foot height with a deliberately contemptuous 
 stare. 
 
 " Do you mean that as an insinuation ? " asked 
 Olivier, with a sudden flame of anger on his face. 
 
 " Just as you like to take it " said Hardy. 
 
 Then suddenly his mood changed, and he swung 
 round and grasped Oliver's arm. 
 
 " Look here, don't let's quarrel. I hope to be 
 your brother-in-law one of these days, old man. 
 But I am feeling very sick with myself just now, 
 and I've got a bitter taste in my mouth." 
 
 Oliver accepted his apology with some dignity
 
 The Wonderful News 295 
 
 and reserve, but Hardy's words rankled. He would 
 never quite forget them, nor forgive them. 
 
 Yet he thrust them out of his mind as often as 
 possible that night at the club, when he stood in- 
 numerable drinks to friends who made a hero of 
 him because he was so mysteriously " flush " of 
 money and so splendidly bronzed and so quick to 
 laugh at their jests. It was a bachelor's night for 
 Oliver, before his marriage. After the silence of 
 the country, and the society of old ladies, and the 
 quiet hours with Virginia Garland, all this noise 
 and rowdiness of free-spoken men was invigorating. 
 When he left the club in the early hours of the 
 morning and went out into the streets on his way 
 to an hotel in the Strand, the spirit of London called 
 to him, the throb of it set his pulse beating to an 
 old tune. For a little while he wandered about 
 the lamplighted streets, watching the taxicabs 
 flashing past with swift glimpses of men and women 
 in evening dress, going home after late adventures 
 in the world of pleasure. He stood on a " save-me- 
 life " in the centre of the golden glamour of Piccadilly 
 Circus. He was thinking of a grey old house in 
 the depths of the country, of a dark lane ankle- 
 deep in mud, of the hushed fields under their cloak 
 of darkness, and of the owls hooting plaintively 
 round a thatched cottage. He shivered a little at 
 the thought of that country solitude. For a young 
 man with an active brain and a restless heart it 
 would be like premature burial.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 A Warning 
 
 Before going back to Windlesham Oliver met 
 Lady Katherine. It was in the very middle of 
 Piccadilly Circus, where he had stood on the " save- 
 me-life." She was in her own car, which had drawn 
 up in a block of traffic. She saw him first as he 
 was crossing the road and he heard her voice 
 calling him. 
 
 " Roly ! ... Mr. Lumley ! " 
 
 At the sound of that voice he turned sharply, 
 and was nearly caught in the tide of traffic, which 
 was released by the hand of the policeman " on 
 point." 
 
 "Jump in," said Katherine Goldstein, and then 
 when he had obeyed, she said, " You have just 
 escaped sudden death, you know. That cab shaved 
 you by half an inch." 
 
 It had happened so suddenly that Oliver could 
 hardly believe that he was actually sitting by the 
 side of this lady, driving towards Bond Street. It 
 surprised him as much as if he had suddenly found 
 himself on a magic carpet in Bagdad. He hadn't 
 the least idea what to say to her, and murmured 
 something about the weather, but she immediately 
 296
 
 A Warning 297 
 
 began asking questions, one after the other, so that 
 he had time to think. 
 
 " Where have you been all this time ? What 
 was the name of the place you wrote from ? 
 Windlesham ? Where's ^A^indlesham ? Have you 
 had luck with your writing ? I should be glad to 
 know that." 
 
 He said simply and suddenly : 
 
 " I am going to be married." 
 
 He had an idea that this would startle the pretty 
 lady, that it would be a revenge upon her cruelty, 
 that she would be sorry to know that he had healed 
 his heart so quickly after the wounds she had given 
 him. 
 
 But Katherine Goldstein was delighted, it seemed. 
 
 " How splendid ! " she said, and clapped her 
 hands together. " It will do you all the good in 
 the world. Now you will have to work ! I am 
 so very, very glad, Oliver. You wanted a spur, 
 because you were lazy, you know." 
 
 "My future wife is a rich woman," said Oliver 
 drily. 
 
 " A rich woman ! " 
 
 Katherine was really startled now, and the 
 sparkle went out of her eyes. 
 
 " Roly ! How dangerous ! How fatal ! " 
 
 It was his turn to get startled. She spoke the 
 words so tragically that they alarmed him. 
 
 " Dangerous ? Fatal ? How's that ? " 
 
 " My dear boy," she said, " for Heaven's sake
 
 298 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 stop my car and let us get out and have tea some- 
 where. Then I can talk to you seriously, instead 
 of going to those appalling Bernsteins. I want to 
 save you if I may." 
 
 Oliver stopped the car at a tea-shop at the top 
 of New Bond Street, and when they sat at a quiet 
 tea-table in the corner, Katherine put her elbows 
 on the table and faced him squarely and said, " I 
 am going to talk to you like a grandmother." 
 
 " Quite impossible," said Oliver; "you look like 
 my younger sister." 
 
 He thought she looked extraordinarily pretty. 
 She was wearing a white muslin dress and a big 
 black hat with a silver cord round the crown. 
 
 " I am old in wisdom, and you, Oliver, are quite 
 one of the most foolish young men it is my 
 privilege to know." She paused, and said thought- 
 fully, " And I know some ! " 
 
 " Thanks ! " said Oliver. 
 
 " Not at all. I speak the truth." 
 
 She picked pieces of sugar out of a silver basin 
 with a little pair of tongs and dropped them back 
 again. 
 
 " Oliver, for the sake of our friendship," — she 
 blushed a little here — " and some very pleasant 
 memories — unhappil^y interrupted " 
 
 " Most unhappily," said Oliver. 
 
 " Most unhappily," said Katherine. " I must 
 warn you against marrying a rich wife." 
 
 " I shall be glad to know your reasons."
 
 A Warning 299 
 
 " I will tell you. They may be put briefly. 
 Do you not know that when a penniless man 
 marries a rich woman he becomes her slave ? 
 Don't you know that one day she will turn round 
 and reproach him and say, ' You are spending my 
 money. I am keeping you. I am the absolute 
 mistress of this house. You must ask me for 
 every sixpence you want to pay for tobacco, or 
 a shave.' Roly, think of that ! You will lose your 
 manhood and your spirit of independence. You 
 will never be master of your wife, and unless you 
 are master you will be utterly miserable and 
 crushed." 
 
 " Where do you get all this knowledge, dear 
 lady ? " asked Oliver, very calmly. 
 
 " Here, and here," said Katherine ; and she put 
 her hand to her left side. 
 
 " Do I understand you to mean your heart ? " 
 said Oliver. 
 
 " Oh, you may jeer. But I have a heart." 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and then said 
 very seriously, " It is bad enough for a poor woman 
 to marry a rich man. There are times when 
 she revolts against her position of absolute de- 
 pendence. Oh, there are times when she would 
 give much to have a little money of her very own, 
 not to be a beggar in fine clothing, and to be 
 able to spend a few guineas of her own, on private 
 interests of her own, without rendering an account 
 to her man. It is rather sickening always to be
 
 300 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 a pampered slave. But for a man it is humiliating. 
 It is intolerable." 
 
 Oliver was more disturbed than he cared to 
 show. But he answered lightly: 
 
 "Virginia will never humiliate me." 
 
 "Virginia? Is that her name? It is pretty." 
 
 "Virginia Garland," said Oliver. 
 
 " It is a countrified name," said Katherine. " It 
 sounds very sweet." 
 
 She asked questions about his future wife, but 
 he did not answer in much detail. In that tea- 
 shop, sitting opposite Katherine Goldstein, Oliver 
 began to feel rather depressed and restless. There 
 stirred in him .some of that old emotion which 
 had been awakened when, on adventures with 
 Katherine, they had been alone together like this. 
 Her charm, her brightness, her interest in him, 
 opened old wounds. 
 
 He heard some of her words like a man in a 
 dream. 
 
 " I hope you will be very happy, Oliver. For- 
 give me for having been too candid. . . . My 
 warning, anyhow, was impudent." 
 
 She had to go now ; and he picked up her big 
 black muff and stroked it a moment. 
 
 " Devilish funny thing, life," he said. " It's 
 all a silly gamble, don't you think ? One has to 
 muddle on, taking the risks." 
 
 " It's all right if you play the game," said 
 Katherine.
 
 A Warning 301 
 
 That was a favourite phrase of hers ; and when 
 she was in her big car, and the footman put a 
 rug round her before springing up by the side of 
 the chauffeur, she gave her hand to Oliver and 
 smiled at him, and said, " Play the game, Roly ! " 
 Then she bent her head towards him so that her 
 hair touched his forehead as he stood with one 
 foot on the step. 
 
 " I have forgotten our foolish quarrel, and Rudolf 
 has forgiven. Tell the man to drive to Portland 
 Place. Good luck ! " 
 
 Oliver told the man, and lifted his hat as the 
 car slipped off silently into the stream of traffic. 
 He walked slowly away, wondering, very thought- 
 fully, at a jig-saw puzzle of hearts.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 Husband and Wife 
 
 Oliver Lumley and Virginia Garland were 
 married, very quietly, at St. Ursula's, Windlesham. 
 Very quietly as regards ceremony and the number 
 of invited guests, but not without public interest. 
 
 There was a crowd of Windlesham people out- 
 side the church doors, who raised a cheer when the 
 bride was helped down from her carriage by the 
 bridegroom, and, leaning upon his arm, smiled upon 
 them rather shyly. 
 
 Miss Garland wore, according to The Windlesham 
 Gazette, "a going-away dress of dove-grey cash- 
 mere, trimmed with silk braid, and a superb bouquet 
 of Malmaison carnations." 
 
 The bridegroom, also according to The Windle- 
 sham Gazette, " was immaculately attired in a grey 
 frock -suit and a glossy silk hat, which harmonised 
 in a remarkable way with the subdued and deli- 
 cate costume of the lady — so well known for her 
 generosity and benevolence in this ancient market 
 town, of which his worship the mayor is so dis- 
 tinguished an ornament." 
 
 Among the other sightseers at the church door, 
 some of whom afterwards sat in the back pews, 
 302
 
 Husband and Wife 303 
 
 was Alice Featherfew, to whom Oliver had told 
 fairy stories and other contes drolatiques in between 
 her sweeping and dusting and cooking in Myrtle 
 Cottage. Her face was smudged with the trace 
 of tears, and she looked unhappy. 
 
 Oliver went into the quietude of the church with 
 Virginia Garland on his arm, and passed up the 
 nave to the altar rails, where they knelt. 
 
 All Virginia's old ladies were in the church. 
 The Dowager Countess of Buntingford had a new 
 bonnet of lilac silk above her white hair. Miss 
 Purchase had a black bonnet with little sequins, 
 which shook as though she were trembling with 
 emotion or shaking with mirth. The Honourable 
 Mrs. Perceval was a brilliant figure at the top of 
 the church in a sky-blue dress. She turned as 
 Oliver and Virginia passed on their way, and 
 Oliver caught the smile in her eyes. As he knelt 
 at the altar he wondered what that smile meant. 
 She seemed to be frankly amused at their mar- 
 riage. Other ladies from the country-houses in 
 and around Windlesham were in the church, and 
 several middle-aged and elderly gentlemen, who 
 were their husbands or fathers — retired officers, 
 country squires, doctors, and solicitors. Oliver 
 was pleased at this assembly. He would be in the 
 best society in Worcestershire. These people all 
 belonged to "The Quality." 
 
 Virginia's choir were singing now to the woman 
 who had trained their voices. Their anthem rose
 
 304 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 softly above the organ notes. Oliver wondered 
 why the girl Alice was not in her place. He 
 thought of all kinds of things as he knelt down 
 beside the woman who in a few minutes would 
 be his wife. He thought of a funny scene which 
 had taken place when he was a boy. He had 
 been playing truant from school, and was just on 
 his way to a swimming-bath, when he came face 
 to face with his form-master, who was supposed to 
 be ill in bed with influenza. What was his name? 
 Higson, Smithson, Gibson? For a moment or 
 two Oliver was troubled because he could not re- 
 member the name of his old schoolmaster. Then 
 he was bothered about Miss Purchase's bonnet. 
 What a ridiculous bonnet it was ! With all those 
 sequins shaking ! . . . What had Katherine said ? 
 Dangerous and fatal ? How pretty she had looked 
 in her big black hat ! She had perfect taste. And 
 she was very kind. She had always been very kind 
 to him. ... As kind as Livvy, only in a different 
 way. Poor little Livvy ! As good-hearted as she 
 was high, and had a rough life too. It was amusing 
 when old Horace dropped in. What was that song 
 Doris had sung ? How did the absurd words go ? 
 
 "Horace was a curate, 
 
 Horace was so shy . ." 
 
 He could not remember the rest What rhymes 
 with curate? There didn't seem a word in the 
 whole language to rhyme with curate.
 
 Husband and Wife 305 
 
 He was sorry that no members of his family 
 were here. His mother was ill with influenza, and 
 Galatea was nursing her, and neither his father nor 
 Horace had been able to leave their offices. 
 
 The clergyman came down to the altar rails, 
 and Oliver's wandering thoughts came back to the 
 place and time. He was about to be married. 
 Virginia was kneeling by his side. He stole a 
 glance at her. Her face was upturned. The light 
 streaming through a lancet window fell upon it, 
 giving it a glow of colour. It was a spiritual face, 
 and so tender and meek. 
 
 Oliver's heart gave a great beat. Oh, he would 
 love her. He would be good to her. His lips 
 moved in inarticulate prayer. He prayed that he 
 might be worthy of this dear lady, that he might 
 be stronger, that he might play the game. It was 
 not a bad prayer for Oliver Lumley. 
 
 20
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 A Country Gentleman 
 
 There was a small reception afterwards in The 
 Rookery, and quaint old broughams and pony- 
 chaises, and one or two smart dogcarts crowded 
 the drive. 
 
 Virginia — she was Virginia Lumley now — sat 
 to receive her guests, because she was tired, and 
 Oliver stood by her chair. Several times she 
 turned her head to look up at him with a glance of 
 beautiful love. 
 
 Lady Buntingford was quite right when she said, 
 " My squirrel, you look very happy to-day. You 
 look uncommonly proud of that handsome boy 
 of yours. I am afraid you will spoil him mightily." 
 
 She shook her old head at Oliver. 
 
 " I thought there was mischief in those black 
 eyes when I first saw them in the garden." 
 
 She kissed Virginia on her forehead. 
 
 " Prince Charming came to wake the Sleeping 
 Beauty." 
 
 She took one of Oliver's hands and patted it. 
 
 " I think you will be kind to our dear Virginia. 
 I think we can trust you to take care of her." 
 
 Then she bent forward and whispered to him : 
 306
 
 A Country Gentleman 307 
 
 " Of course I am frightfully jealous. You jilted 
 me shamefully." 
 
 She gave a silvery laugh, and said, " I am always 
 happy at a wedding. It warms my sentimental 
 old heart." 
 
 The old lady had given a handsome present to 
 Virginia. It was a necklace of pearls which had 
 once been worn round the white throat of Queen 
 Elizabeth, who had left it behind at Buntingford 
 House as a gift for the beautiful Margaret Bunting- 
 ford, who had been one of her maids of honour. 
 Virginia wore the pearls now, and the old lady 
 touched them and said, " May you have as many 
 blessings, my dove, as there are pearls in this rope, 
 and as many years of happiness. I've counted 
 'em. Seventy-two." 
 
 " By that time our dear Virginia will be a great- 
 grandmother," said Miss Purchase with a shrill 
 little laugh. " At least I hope so," she added, 
 with a look which brought a blush to the cheek of 
 Mrs. Oliver Lumley. 
 
 " Of course the children did not deceive my 
 sharp eyes," continued Miss Purchase. " When 
 I saw them sitting in the woods together one day I 
 said to myself, 'There will be a wedding in Windle- 
 sham, or I'm a Dutchman.' " 
 
 " You prying old lady!" cried Mrs. Perceval gaily. 
 (She had not been invited to the reception, but 
 came as "one of Miss Garland's fondest friends.") 
 " Now when / heard of Mr. Lumley living in Myrtle
 
 3o8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Cottage, so close to the Rookery wall, and knew 
 that he came so often to Virginia's house and 
 garden, I suspected nothing. It never occurred to 
 me for a moment that Romance had come to 
 Windlesham ! Of course little whispers were going 
 about " 
 
 " Ah ! " said Miss Purchase grimly, " I heard 
 them. All the whispers come to my ears pretty 
 quick, I can tell you. There is nothing goes on 
 in or about Windlesham without my knowledge, 
 Mrs. Perceval. 
 
 The sequins in her black bonnet shook in an 
 agitated manner, and she looked at Mrs. Perceval 
 as though she knew a good deal about that lady 
 herself. 
 
 But Mrs. Perceval laughed in the greatest good- 
 humour. 
 
 " If we have anything to conceal we must all 
 hide from you^ dear Miss Purchase." 
 
 She turned to Oliver and said, " You will have 
 to be very careful, Mr. Lumley. You have no 
 idea how many vigilant eyes are upon our lives 
 and characters. It is most dangerous, I assure' 
 you." 
 
 " I hope I may not have anything to hide," said 
 Oliver. " That is the best policy, isn't it ? " 
 
 He spoke rather priggishly, but he had resented 
 a trace of insinuation in Mrs. Perceval's speech. 
 
 He was glad when the guests had gone and 
 when he sat alone with his wife.
 
 A Country Gentleman 309 
 
 " Oh, my dear husband ! " she said then. " How 
 can I thank God for this happiness ? " 
 
 She slipped down upon her knees and put her 
 arms about him, as on the night when she had 
 confessed her heart to him. 
 
 " I can hardly believe that I am your wife really 
 and truly. You are so young, such a boy, darling, 
 and I am so much older. Do you know, I feel 
 a little afraid." 
 
 " Afraid ? " 
 
 " Afraid that you will get tired of me, and of 
 the quiet life here." 
 
 She put her hand up to his head and drew it 
 down a little. 
 
 " Have you no fear of that, Oliver ? Do you 
 think you will always love me ? " 
 
 " You are my dear wife," said Oliver. " I pray 
 that I may be worthy of you." 
 
 They did not start upon their honeymoon until 
 the next day. On that wedding-night Oliver sat 
 alone for a little while in the dining-room. The 
 candles made pools of light upon the oak table and 
 glinted on the silver and glass. It was a large, 
 old-fashioned room, panelled in dark wood. The 
 portraits of some of Virginia Garland's ancestors, 
 old Generals in the Peninsular War, ladies of the 
 Georgian period, with white sloping shoulders and 
 oval eyes, looked down upon him. He sat at the 
 head of the table in a bii;' chair with the crest of the 
 Garlands — a boar's head — carved on the back of it.
 
 3IO Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 He was a country gentleman now, and the master 
 of this house. As he smoked a cigar he saw scenes 
 out of his old life through curling smoke-wreaths 
 — the sitting-room in Rosemary Avenue, with its 
 threadbare furniture, his room in Barton Street, 
 Westminster, himself shabby, with frayed trouser- 
 ends, borrowing half-crowns from Horace. He 
 had got away from that poverty-stricken life. He 
 looked round the big dining-room, and gave a 
 deep sigh of satisfaction, and spoke a word or two 
 aloud. 
 
 " Well done, Oliver ! " he said, as though he had 
 made a good catch in the cricket-field.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 The Unveiled Soul 
 
 It was October when Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Lumley 
 came back to The Rookery from a tour in Italy, 
 and the Worcestershire woodlands were in all their 
 glory of gold and russet. In Virginia's garden 
 leaves were falling after the first night-frost, but 
 her gardener swept and swept, so that when his 
 mistress came home the green carpet of the lawn 
 and the gravel paths showed no trace of autumn's 
 decay. Sunshine lay upon the grey old walls of 
 the house and glinted on the window-panes with 
 their white sashes. Behind in the high beech-trees 
 the rooks were cawing a drowsy welcome. 
 
 Virginia was glad to be home again. She was 
 tired after travelling. She had exerted more 
 strength than she could spare, so that Oliver should 
 see as much as possible. They had gone together 
 to many picture-galleries, to many old churches 
 and classical antiquities, and there had been times 
 when she could have almost fallen from fatigue, and 
 when her lameness became more painful. But she 
 hid this weariness from Oliver, and tried to keep 
 pace with his energy. 
 
 Only once or twice, when she leaned heavily on 
 311
 
 312 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 his arm and was more than usually pale, did 
 he notice that anything was amiss with her. 
 But she had scared him in Florence when she was 
 ill for a week, owing to the great heat and her 
 over-exertion. She lay in a little white bed in a 
 room with gauze window-curtains and green 
 shutters, which did not keep out the sun-baked air, 
 which seemed to put warm fingers about her throat 
 to stifle her. She would not let Oliver sit long by 
 her bedside, holding her hand, but sent him out to 
 enjoy himself. 
 
 " You must see everything," she said. " It will 
 be so good for your work. You must store your 
 mind with new impressions." 
 
 So he went out alone and explored the beauties 
 of Florence, and at night, when Virginia, as he 
 believed, would be asleep (though really she lay 
 awake waiting for him), he visited the theatres or 
 sat outside cafes watching the Florentine women 
 and the foreign visitors, while the music of stringed 
 orchestras throbbed into the stillness of an Italian 
 night, with its translucent darkness and pale-blue 
 sky, in which stars shone like jewels. Oliver 
 amused himself, but sometimes felt too lonely. 
 At the tables outside the cafes were gay people, 
 laughing, whispering, making love together. Beau- 
 tiful women with lazy, lustrous eyes smoked 
 cigarettes or fluttered fans around him. Good- 
 looking Englishmen or smart little Italians were 
 having a good time with them.
 
 The Unveiled Soul 313 
 
 There were adventures to be had in Florence 
 without much seeking. Romance lurks in its half- 
 lights and in its shadows. Oliver would have been 
 glad now and then to follow the trail of an adven- 
 ture. The laughter of the women thrilled him. 
 He was young and this was Italy, and all around 
 him was the sense of amorous opportunities. But 
 when he went back rather late at night to Virginia 
 and found her still awake — how white her face 
 looked and how wistful her eyes ! — he was glad 
 that he had remembered his wife. 
 
 " How sweet the old home looks ! " said Virginia 
 when they were back again at The Rookery. 
 " Do you know, Oliver, I think I shall never go 
 abroad again. It is far too tiring, and the heat 
 and the dust are almost unbearable." 
 
 " Never is a long time," said Oliver, laughing at 
 her. " Having tasted foreign travel, I want more 
 of it. But I agree that the old Rookery tempts 
 one to be a stay-at-home." 
 
 " Now we must settle down to work," said 
 Virginia. " It is a long time since you have done 
 any writing, dear heart." 
 
 " Writing ! " said Oliver. " Oh, Lord ! " 
 
 He groaned at the thought of it. 
 
 " I think I shall never get into the mood again. 
 To sit down to those foolish stories once more — 
 that sentimental trash ! " 
 
 " But you are going to write your big book now," 
 said Virginia. " You have not forgotten that ? "
 
 314 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " I had almost forgotten." 
 
 Then, seeing the look of anxiety in her eyes, he 
 said, " I am going to have a try, anyhow." 
 
 But it was some time before he began to have a 
 try. As he explained to his wife, it was difficult 
 to settle down into the collar after such a change 
 in his life, and those Italian wanderings. Besides, 
 he wanted the first months of their married life at 
 home to be unspoiled by the necessity for torturing 
 his brain for a plot. (He had abandoned that 
 half-finished story at which he had worked in 
 Myrtle Cottage.) He wanted to enjoy her love, 
 to soak himself in the spirit of the old house 
 and garden, to explore the country around, and 
 to get himself accustomed to the life of a country 
 gentleman before sitting down doggedly to hard 
 work. When he once started he would work like 
 the very dickens. 
 
 " That is right," said Virginia. " I want you 
 to work hard. I want you to write something 
 worthy of you, something good and noble, to help 
 the world on." 
 
 Oliver laughed and kissed his wife's hand. 
 
 " My dear, you hope great things of me ! It 
 will be difficult for me to rise to the height of 
 your ideals. They are tremendously exalted." 
 
 " Aim high, Oliver. Always aim high." 
 
 Oliver was beginning to know his wife pretty 
 well. It took some time for no one may pretend
 
 The Unveiled Soul 315 
 
 to know the character of a woman on the first day 
 of marriage. Then he knows her only according 
 to a portrait painted in his imagination, idealised, 
 and coloured by his own desires and expectations. 
 As the days pass the real woman appears, the 
 little secrets of her heart are revealed, the fine 
 shades of her temperament, the convictions which 
 are an essential part of her character, not to be 
 changed by argument nor circumstances, her 
 prejudices, superstitions, and faith. Danger signals 
 appear, teaching a man to be careful of blundering 
 that way. He begins to know the limitations of 
 her character, and how far he may go before he 
 reaches the boundary of her toleration or of her 
 imagination. By accident or experiment he touches 
 some of her nerves and sets them quivering. In 
 the thousand-and-one incidents of daily life he sees 
 the woman's spirit unveiled. And sometimes he is 
 startled, or shocked, or made afraid. 
 
 Oliver knew now that Virginia Garland had 
 other qualities besides gentleness and charity. 
 Only those would have been rather cloying and 
 sickly. In spite of her ill-health (and she was 
 never strong), she had a practical and active mind, 
 and a spirit of orderliness which was sometimes 
 rather troublesome to him. Tidiness was almost 
 a passion with her. She could not bear to see a 
 thing out of its place or a room disarranged. 
 They had little quarrels about that, or rather she 
 rebuked him, and he laughed at her for her prim-
 
 3i6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 ness — because he was never tidy, and could hardly 
 go into a room without leaving it somewhat littered 
 with his newspapers and letters, and match-boxes 
 and cigarettes. If he took a book down from a 
 shelf he was sure to leave it lying face downwards 
 on a sofa or table. When he came in from a walk 
 he would fling his cap on to the nearest chair. 
 
 " I see that I shall have to train you," said 
 Virginia more than once, laughing, not without 
 vexation. " You have been shockingly brought up." 
 
 He promised to mend his ways, but a certain 
 slovenliness was in his nature, and he could not 
 conform to this " old-maidishness," as he called it, 
 chaffingly, to his wife. 
 
 Nor was he very amenable to the ordered 
 discipline of her household. Virginia was an 
 early riser and sat down to the breakfast-table at 
 eight o'clock. Oliver, who had been a lie-a-bed in 
 London — so that often he heard Big Ben booming 
 eleven times before he rubbed the sleep out of his 
 eyes — found an eight-o'clock breakfast a Spartan 
 ordeal. Often he sat up late reading by the fire- 
 side long after Virginia had gone to rest, and he 
 was full of yawns and weariness when the maid 
 tapped at the door next morning at a quarter-past 
 seven. Time after time he came down late to 
 breakfast, to encounter Virginia's reproachful eyes. 
 Once she spoke quite sharply to him. 
 
 " Oliver, I must insist upon your being punctual 
 at meals. The servants are becoming demoralised."
 
 The Unveiled Soul 317 
 
 " The servants must adapt themselves to my 
 little ways, dearest," said Oliver, cutting off the top 
 of an egg very neatly. 
 
 "Isn't that rather selfish?" asked Virginia. 
 " For my sake, then, I ask you to come down in 
 time. You see the tea is cold." 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry ! " said Oliver. " Forgive me, 
 dearest." 
 
 She forgave him easily enough when he expressed 
 his contrition, forgave him laughingly, and said 
 that she would never be able to teach him method 
 and order. Yet she taught him enough to make 
 him afraid of offending wantonly, and to make 
 him conceal small faults of forgetfulness or thought- 
 lessness which he knew would hurt her. Once she 
 found him stooping down to brush away with his 
 handkerchief some cigarette-ash which he had let 
 fall on to the drawing-room carpet. He blushed 
 crimson at being discovered in this act of humility. 
 
 Frail as she was, Virginia had a strong will 
 underneath her gentle and quiet ways. We have 
 seen how her servants were afraid of displeasing 
 her. Oliver himself became conscious of his wife's 
 will, compelling him, with a silent and mysterious 
 force, putting a sense of discipline upon him. Not 
 by a hairbreadth did she alter the routine of the 
 household to suit his more erratic habits. Never 
 once did she moderate a single principle or ideal, 
 although in their fireside conversations he chaffed 
 her sometimes as being old-fashioned or " a pretty
 
 3i8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Puritan," or austere to the verge of intolerance. 
 He became aware, in a semi-conscious way, that 
 there was a solid rock of principle in Virginia's 
 character against which he would break himself if 
 he were to come up against it. From her father — a 
 sturdy old general who had served most of his time 
 in India — she had inherited certain maxims which 
 had become woven into the texture of her nature. 
 
 " Tell the truth always, though it cuts like a 
 sharp knife. Never tolerate a liar, though he be 
 your best friend." 
 
 " Be brave. Courage is a part of truth. To 
 bear pain silently, to lose all that one loves best 
 without a whimper, to face death without flinching, 
 and life with a smile, is the supreme test of a brave 
 man or woman." 
 
 " Never be weak for the sake of being amiable. 
 Never forgive a sin which is not atoned. Punish- 
 ment must go before forgiveness." 
 
 " Do not surrender God to the enemy for the 
 sake of peace." 
 
 Virginia remembered those words of her father, 
 and repeated them to Oliver as part of her child- 
 hood's creed. 
 
 " They are hard words," said Oliver. " A man 
 who acted on them always would be as cruel as a 
 devil." 
 
 " My father was not cruel," said Virginia. " He 
 was the kindest-hearted man, and devoted to 
 animals and children."
 
 The Unveiled Soul 319 
 
 "Yes, but thwart him," said Oliver, "and he 
 would show a heart of steel." 
 
 " True as steel and strong as steel. Those are 
 good qualities, Oliver." 
 
 " I would rather have a weaker man with more 
 pity and more tolerance for frailty. Even lying is 
 not so black a sin. Sometimes it is caused by 
 sheer weakness, and sometimes by the desire to 
 please." 
 
 Virginia was shocked by those words. 
 
 " Dear heart," she said, " all evil has its roots in 
 lying and deceit." 
 
 In such conversations as that Oliver learned to 
 know his wife, and always, though they did not 
 agree on many problems of life, her words left him 
 with a new sense of reverence for a spirit higher 
 and stronger than his own. 
 
 Yet he could not quite understand her dual 
 nature of strength and gentleness, of pride and 
 humility, of courage and nervousness. Those 
 complexities in her character were continually 
 surprising him. He knew, for instance, that she 
 dominated him by her will-power, and that he 
 could not influence nor alter her character or 
 convictions by any argument or moral pressure. 
 Yet he knew also that she loved him with extra- 
 ordinary devotion, that she clung to him for pro- 
 tection, that she was wistful and sad when he left 
 her for more than an hour or two, and that she 
 hungered for his caresses and endearing words.
 
 320 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Often when he looked up from a book or a 
 newspaper he would find her eyes fixed upon him, 
 dreamily, as though the sight of him filled lier 
 with quiet joy. If he walked across the lawn, he 
 knew that her eyes followed him. If he came to 
 her suddenly and took her unawares, her face, 
 rather sad in repose, would suddenly light up 
 with a look of shining gladness. 
 
 In the evenings she was happy to rest her head 
 on his shoulder while he was reading or smoking. 
 She had pretty words of love for him, such as that 
 " Dear heart," so often on her lips. Often she would 
 put her hands upon his shoulders and say, " You 
 are good to look at, Oliver. I am very proud to 
 have such a handsome boy for a husband." Never 
 did she lose her sense of wonderment that she 
 who had come to believe that she would die an 
 old maid should have won this prize of life, this 
 joy of married love. 
 
 " Oh, my dear," she said, again and again, " I 
 feel afraid of my own happiness." 
 
 Once when she was doing needlework (her hands 
 were seldom idle) Oliver happened to see a tear 
 splash upon the white linen. 
 
 He went across to her and touched her hair with 
 his lips. 
 
 " Why are you crying ? Are you unhappy ? " 
 
 " No," she said, wiping her wet lashes and 
 laughing at her own emotion. " I am crying 
 because I am so happy. How stupid ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 Poor Relations 
 
 Before Oliver settled down to work he had his 
 mother and sister to stay at The Rookery, but 
 before they came he sent in advance a cheque for 
 twenty pounds, so that they might come well 
 dressed, and in a style worthy of him now that he 
 was a country gentleman. He had already been 
 very generous to his family. He made his father 
 a monthly allowance to help with the household 
 expenses, which were heavier now that they had 
 moved (on his advice) from Rosemary Avenue to 
 a larger house on Streatham Hill. He was so 
 generous indeed that Virginia, who had made over 
 her cheque-book to him, was startled by the 
 amount of money he had spent in a few months. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " you must be careful, you 
 know. My income is not elastic." 
 
 She pointed to certain items in the pass-book. 
 
 " What are these names ? They are not local 
 tradesmen, are they ? Fifteen pounds. What was 
 that, Oliver ? " 
 
 Oliver .was for a moment or two rather embar- 
 rassed. He coughed slightly and said, "They 
 were some old debts of mine that came in un- 
 
 21 321
 
 322 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 expectedly. To tell the truth, I had utterly for- 
 gotten them." 
 
 " But, Oliver, you told me that you had paid all 
 your debts before our marriage." 
 
 " Yes. I believed that was so. I had forgotten 
 these wretched things." 
 She looked very serious. 
 
 " You gave me your word of honour that you 
 had paid everything." 
 
 " My dear girl," said Oliver, rather irritably, 
 " do you want me to repeat the words again ? I 
 had forgotten these things." 
 
 " But you should not have forgotten." 
 She said that very decidedly, and he avoided 
 her eyes as she stood before him with the bank- 
 book in her hand. 
 
 " I hope you have not forgotten others," she said, 
 in a rather distressed voice. " Can you be sure 
 of that, Oliver?" 
 
 " Fairly sure," said Oliver. 
 " But you must be quite sure." 
 Her voice was tremulous now. 
 " I do wish you were not so careless about 
 money matters, I hate the very idea of debt." 
 
 That little breeze blew over, in the usual way. 
 Oliver put his arms around his wife's waist and 
 kissed her, promising that no other debt should 
 poke up its ugly head to scare her. 
 
 When his mother and sister came he was 
 delighted with their appearance, and Galatea
 
 Poor Relations 323 
 
 especially was a pride to him. She was charmingly 
 dressed, with great taste and simplicity, so that she 
 looked prettier than he had ever seen her before. 
 She had obtained a fortnight's holiday from the 
 office and did not have typist's headache or 
 jangled nerves while she was at Windlesham. But 
 she was a little sad (the sadness touched her face 
 with a new refinement), for Charles Hardy was 
 still out of a "job" in Fleet Street, and was 
 earning a precarious living as a free-lance, so that 
 all thoughts of marriage were postponed. Oliver 
 whispered to her one evening that she had better 
 look out for another husband, and he brought over 
 two young gentlemen from Georgian houses in the 
 High Street, with the obvious intention of provid- 
 ing Galatea with an agreeable choice. But Galatea 
 was rather silent and haughty with both the young 
 men, who on their side were a little ill at ease with 
 the dark-haired girl who responded in mono- 
 syllables to their conversational efforts. So Oliver's 
 plan failed, but, notwithstanding that, he enjoyed 
 the visit of his mother and sister and took great 
 trouble to give them a good time — putting all 
 thought of work entirely on one side. 
 
 The Dowager Countess of Buntingford fell in 
 love at once with Galatea, and invited them all 
 to dinner. It was unfortunate that Virginia was 
 too tired to go, but Oliver drove his mother and 
 sister over to Buntingford House, and saw for the 
 first time the faded glories of that ancient mansion
 
 324 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 where Queen Elizabeth had once slept on a Royal 
 progress, and where Rupert had once dined with 
 a party of his cavaliers on the way to Worcester. 
 
 Old Lady Buntingford, in a black silk dress and 
 lace shawl, looked like one of the ghost ladies of 
 the house as she sat in a great leather arm-chair, 
 with the red light of a log fire in a deep chimney- 
 place glowing upon her silver hair and beautiful 
 old parchment face. The only drawback to 
 Oliver's pleasant evening was his mother's habit 
 of saying " My lady " to the old Countess, as 
 though she were her housekeeper or one of the 
 servants. 
 
 There were tea-parties, also, at Miss Purchase's 
 house in the High Street, and at the Vicar's house 
 next to St. Ursula's, and Virginia's drawing-room 
 resounded with the laughter of women, with the 
 high-pitched voices of the old ladies, and with the 
 tinkle of tea-cups, on many afternoons during that 
 fortnight when Oliver's mother and Galatea were 
 staying at The Rookery. Oliver enjoyed himself 
 immensely, for, as the one young man among 
 these dear, old-fashioned women, he received 
 flattering homage. 
 
 His mother could not quite believe in the reality 
 of it all. It seemed to her utterly strange and 
 bewildering that her boy Oliver should be the 
 master of such a great house, and the part-owner 
 of so much splendour. It seemed to her, as she 
 confessed to him, that they were all staying in
 
 Poor Relations 325 
 
 an expensive boarding-house, from which they, 
 and he, would return to a more humble sphere 
 of life. 
 
 Oliver was tremendously amused at that idea, 
 and laughed heartily. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " you see I have kept my 
 promise. I have raised the family fortunes." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Roly," said Mrs. Lumley. " It 
 is all very queer." 
 
 She sighed, and said rather timidly : 
 
 " I wish, dear, you did not owe quite so much 
 to your wife." 
 
 " That is a stupid idea," said Oliver rather 
 sharply. " A husband and wife share all things in 
 common." 
 
 When Mrs. Lumley and Galatea had to go back 
 Oliver made them each a present. To his mother 
 he gave a cheque for five pounds, and into 
 Galatea's hand he slipped a sovereign — " to buy 
 you a hat," he said. To his annoyance, Galatea 
 refused to take it. 
 
 " I don't think it is right, Roly. It is Virginia's 
 money, and she has been so generous to us 
 already." 
 
 " Please yourself," said Oliver. " All you people 
 are so devilish haughty." 
 
 His mother kissed him on both cheeks, and was 
 much moved at saying good-bye. 
 
 " My poor boy ! You are verj' young to be a 
 husband. But you are happy, and have a good
 
 326 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 wife, Oliver. I think my prayers have been 
 answered." 
 
 " You do not seem quite sure, mother. You 
 seem a little doubtful about it all." 
 
 Mrs. Lumley sighed. 
 
 " Marriage is a great adventure, dear." 
 
 Doing her needlework at home she had thought 
 over the difficulties of life. She had brooded over 
 the meaning of things, and had obtained some 
 knowledge that is gained by disappointment and 
 drudgery and love. 
 
 When they had gone Oliver felt lonely. The 
 leaves had fallen from the trees now, and darkness 
 set in early. 
 
 " Dear heart," said Virginia, " you must write 
 your book now. You have been idle long enough. 
 Oh, yes, I insist." 
 
 So Oliver shut himself up in the library and 
 began to work.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 The Broken Image 
 
 Oliver did not work like the very dickens. With 
 the best intentions in the world, he found it very- 
 difficult to write a book which would fulfil Vir- 
 ginia's ideals, and be worthy, not only of a man of 
 letters, but of a country gentleman. 
 
 He thought out vaguely, and in a general way 
 (leaving the details for the inspiration of the 
 moment), a rather ambitious and sweeping plot. 
 It centred round a young man of great wealth 
 who desired to reform the world. But first he had 
 to obtain knowledge, and learn the secrets of the 
 human heart in high places and in low. He was 
 to wander about Europe at first (starting in Paris), 
 meeting strange adventures on the way, and then 
 live for awhile in the under-world of London, where 
 he would come face to face with tragedy and awful 
 squalor. Finally, by a scheme involving several 
 millions and a combination of philanthropic effort, 
 he would establish a central bureau, with branches 
 in every capital, for the relief of destitution in its 
 most piteous forms, and as a kind of agency for 
 the healing of broken lives. 
 
 It cost Oliver considerable brain-racking to get 
 327
 
 328 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 that plot into something like shape, and, although 
 he made copious notes, a month or two passed 
 before he wrote Chapter I. on the top of a blank 
 page. From time to time, also, it was essential, as 
 he explained to Virginia, that he should get some 
 relaxation for his body and brain — otherwise he 
 would be stale before the story began — and he 
 made several trips (a week-end in Paris, a fortnight 
 in London, and shorter dashes to the great city and 
 back), in order to get " atmosphere." 
 
 "What does 'atmosphere' exactly mean?" asked 
 Virginia anxiously. " Don't you think it is rather 
 a waste of time and money ? That week-end in 
 Paris was most expensive." 
 
 "I am sorry," said Oliver, "but I must get atmo- 
 sphere. Otherwise my book is hopeless. I must 
 visualise things. You have to get your facts right 
 first, and then bring your imagination into play." 
 
 " Do as you think best," said Virginia ; " but I 
 shall be so glad when you have made a really good 
 start with the book." 
 
 He made several false starts, and then went to 
 tea with the Honourable Mrs. Perceval. 
 
 He had got into the habit of going to tea, and, 
 sometimes to supper, with that lady rather fre- 
 quently, because she lived in an old-fashioned house, 
 low and rambling, three miles from Windlesham, on 
 the Worcester road, so that it made a pleasant walk 
 — not too long, and not too short — when he wanted 
 to shake off the megrims.
 
 The Broken Image 329 
 
 It was almost by accident that he met her the 
 first time, at the end of his walk. He had stopped, 
 it is true, to look up at her house, but he had not 
 expected to see her reclining on the veranda in a 
 pink frock and an easy-chair. She must have 
 seen him coming, for, when he stopped outside her 
 gate, she called out to him : 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Lumley ! How kind of 
 you to call on me — ^just when I was feeling bored 
 unto death." 
 
 After that he had to go through her garden gate 
 and renew his acquaintanceship. So he stayed to 
 tea, and on his way home was surprised to remem- 
 ber how gay and brilliant he had been in her com- 
 pany. Of course, she was an arrant flirt, he could 
 not deny that, for she used her eyes in the most 
 impudent way, and was very daring in her conver- 
 sation, but she had certainly a keen sense of 
 humour, and a gift of repartee, and an amusing 
 candour which was rather refreshing to him. 
 
 She told him, among other things, that her 
 heart beat in sisterly sympathy with him. She 
 pitied him exceedingly, and might almost suggest 
 (if he were not a married man), that they should 
 hold hands and shed tears together. 
 
 " In Heaven's name, why? " asked Oliver. 
 
 *' Because we both come from the great, gay city 
 to spend a married life in this rustic desolation. 
 Oh, it is a living burial ! . . . The dreary winter ! 
 The dullness ! The utter, utter boredom ! . . . I
 
 330 Oliver's Knid Women 
 
 can only keep myself alive by quarrelling with my 
 husband. He is so delicate, poor dear, that he 
 cannot and will not live in London. There again 
 Fate has dealt harshly with both of us. We are 
 both married to invalids. Surely there is some 
 mystic union between us, Mr. Lumley ? " 
 
 It appeared that Mrs. Perceval's invalid was a 
 soldier husband who had been severely wounded 
 in the South African War, and was now a helpless 
 cripple. Oliver met him one evening, after dinner. 
 He was a good-looking man of thirty-five or so, 
 with a bronzed face and grey hair ; a silent man, 
 who regarded his wife with a curious watchfulness. 
 She quarrelled with him continuously and vivaci- 
 ously, though he answered in monosyllables, or 
 merely with a shrug of the shoulders. They played 
 bridge that evening, with another Windlesham man, 
 and Oliver lost two pounds, to the great amuse- 
 men of his hostess, who said : 
 
 " What will dear Virginia say? " 
 
 Oliver did not find it convenient to tell Virginia 
 of this loss, but she was distressed because her 
 husband seemed to like the company of the Perce- 
 vals. 
 
 " I try not to listen to scandal," she said, " but I 
 cannot help remembering a most unpleasant story 
 about Mrs. Perceval and a young curate. You 
 would please me very much, Oliver, if you avoided 
 anything like a friendship with her." 
 
 " It is not a question of friendship," said Oliver.
 
 The Broken Image 331 
 
 " But I must study people's characters. A literary 
 man ought not to lead a hermit life." 
 
 Virginia sighed, and a look of anxiety crept into 
 her eyes, but she did not say any more about the 
 matter. She only hoped that Oliver would respect 
 her wish. She watched him with an increasing 
 sense of disappointment and uneasiness. It was 
 evident that he was getting into a restless, dispirited 
 mood. Sometimes he was quite irritable with her, 
 and spoke sharply. 
 
 The truth was that when the winter came, bring- 
 ing darkness and white mists which crept out of 
 the woods like ghost legions, and the melancholy of a 
 countryside with naked trees above their rotting 
 leaves, Oliver became moody and bored with his 
 life. The intense quietude of Windlesham made 
 him yearn for the glare and bustle of London life. 
 He missed its theatres, its seething crowds, its 
 continual distractions. The society of elderly ladies 
 did not satisfy him. His active brain needed a 
 more exciting form of social intercourse. He 
 seemed to have exhausted most topics of con- 
 versation with Virginia, and was often silent in 
 her company when they sat alone together in the 
 winter evenings. 
 
 He joined the Conservative Club in the High 
 Street, and spent a good deal of his time with local 
 squires and solicitors and clergymen's sons, playing 
 billiards or cards, and, without telling Virginia, he 
 often walked the three miles along the Worcester
 
 332 Olivers Kind Women 
 
 road to spend an hour or two with the Percevals. 
 He did not tell Virginia, because she would have 
 been distressed, and he hated to distress her. 
 
 But Mrs. Perceval amused him. It was always 
 a duel of wit with her, and she sharpened his 
 intellect. He liked her best when she was impudent, 
 satirical, and cutting. I n her languorous moods, when 
 she reclined on a sofa and bade him sit on a stool 
 by her side and tell her some of his love stories, or 
 some tale of old romance and naughtiness, he dis- 
 liked her and was afraid of her. When she sang to 
 him, in a florid, well-trained voice, he wished that 
 he had not come to her house, for there was some- 
 thing in the timbre of that voice which gave him a 
 queer feeling down his spine. But the beauty of 
 the woman was undeniable, and her eyes had 
 witchery in them which was sometimes dangerous. 
 More often than he found it discreet to count, he 
 played bridge in the Percevals' house, and his luck, 
 or his skill, was almost invariably bad, so that he 
 lost a good deal of money, in small sums of a sove- 
 reign or two. The invalid husband was a genius at 
 the game, and seemed to derive a grim satisfaction 
 in winning money from his wife's friends. 
 
 Oliver's absence on those evenings left Virginia 
 alone, and when he came back he would find her 
 generally in the library, doing needlework for the 
 poor women of the parish, or with a book in her lap 
 which she was not reading. Once or twice Oliver 
 was startled by the pallor of her face and by the
 
 The Broken Image 333 
 
 sorrow in her eyes. Then he had a twinge of 
 conscience and resolved that he would not leave 
 her so much alone. But after a few nights he would 
 have the old restless feeling, and the craving for the 
 excitement of Mrs. Perceval's drawing-room. 
 
 " My dear," he would say to Virginia then, " I 
 must go for a swinging walk to blow the cobwebs 
 out of my eyes. I may look in at the club on my 
 way back." 
 
 " Very well, Oliver. Do not be too late." 
 
 That was Virginia's answer, for after his protest 
 against leading a hermit's life she had ceased com- 
 plaining about the constant interruption of his work. 
 She saw that her youthful husband needed brighter 
 society than she was able to give him, and for his 
 sake she was ready to be as lonely again as when 
 unmarried. She was glad that he had joined the 
 Conservative Club, where he met men of his 
 own age. 
 
 But one night when he came home she said in 
 a quiet voice : 
 
 " Do you always go to the club, Oliver, when 
 you stay out like this ? " 
 
 " Generally," said Oliver. " Why ? " 
 
 '* Do the men scent themselves at your club ? 
 Sometimes there is a curious fragrance about your 
 clothes like otto of roses." 
 
 Oliver laughed loudly. 
 
 " Good Lord, Virginia ! What queer ideas creep 
 into that little head of yours I "
 
 334 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 But his heart stopped beating for a moment. 
 
 " I have a very quick sense of smell," said 
 Virginia. 
 
 Later that evening she came and sat on the 
 hearth-rug at his feet and rested her head on his 
 knees. 
 
 " Dear heart," she said, " you will always be 
 truthful with me, won't you ? I should be very 
 miserable if I could not trust your word of honour. 
 I think that would kill me." 
 
 " Have you any reason not to trust me ? " said 
 Oliver. 
 
 " No. I think not. I hope not, Oliver, I am 
 foolish. . . . Someti les, sitting here alone, I get 
 uneasy suspicions. . . . You do not talk to me 
 so much now. You do not open your heart to 
 me. ... I sometimes think you have secrets which 
 I do not share." 
 
 Oliver did not answer for a moment. Then he 
 said in a rather tremulous voice, " I hope you are 
 not going to be suspicious of me, dearest. Surely 
 by this time we can trust each other ? " 
 
 She drew his head down and kissed him on the 
 forehead. 
 
 " Forgive me. ... I have not been very well 
 lately. I am sure I can trust you." 
 
 But a few evenings later, when Oliver had been 
 to tea with Mrs. Perceval, Virginia met her hus- 
 band in the hall. He saw at once that something 
 had distressed her, for she was very white, and did
 
 The Broken Image 335 
 
 not smile in return to his greeting. Indeed, vviien 
 he stooped to kiss her she put out her hand and 
 said, " Not now . . . not now. Oliver, I want to 
 speak to you. Let us go into your study." 
 
 They went into the small room which Oliver 
 now used as his own private den. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " he asked, when the door 
 was shut. 
 
 " It is all that matters," said Virginia. " Oliver, 
 I want to ask you a few questions. For God's 
 sake tell me the truth. Where did you go this 
 afternoon ? " 
 
 " For a walk," said Oliver. 
 
 " Where did you go last night ? " 
 
 " To the club." 
 
 It was quite true. After leaving the Percevals' 
 he had looked in at the club for five minutes. 
 
 " Nowhere else ? " 
 
 She looked into his eyes, as though beseeching 
 him to tell the truth. 
 
 He hesitated, and went rather pale. 
 
 " Why do you catechise me like this ? What is 
 in your mind, Virginia ? " 
 
 She put her hands to her head and said, " There 
 is nothing in my mind — except a great fear." 
 
 "You are getting hysterical, my dear," said 
 Oliver. " Pray calm yourself." 
 
 "Yes, I will be calm," said Virginia. "I ask 
 you again ! Did you go nowhere else last night 
 except to the club ? "
 
 33^ Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " As far as I remember " said Oliver, and 
 
 then he felt very much afraid. 
 
 " You are deceiving me," said Virginia. She 
 gave a little moan, and said, " Oliver, you have 
 been deceiving me for two months. I have found 
 out that you have been to Mrs. Perceval con- 
 stantly." 
 
 " It is true," he said quietly. " I have been 
 there pretty often. I did not tell you, because I 
 know you have a prejudice against the woman." 
 
 " I have a prejudice against deceit," said Virginia. 
 She spoke quickly now, and more passionately 
 than ever he had heard her speak. 
 
 " Why did you not tell me ? Mrs. Perceval is a 
 bad woman, but if you had told me that you 
 wanted to go to her house I should not have for- 
 bidden you. I should have had no right to forbid 
 you. But you hid the truth from me. You pre- 
 tended to me. You lied to me." 
 
 She put her hands to her throat as though she 
 were stifling. 
 
 " Oh, that is what breaks my heart. I believed 
 in your honour, and you lied to me. How can 
 I ever trust you again ? " 
 
 She was weeping now. 
 
 Oliver bent over the sofa, where she sat with 
 her face in her hands. 
 
 " Darling, I did not lie to you. I only kept 
 the truth from you. I have been frightfully 
 foolish."
 
 The Broken Image 337 
 
 She stretched out her arms to him and he 
 thought he was forgiven, so that his heart leapt 
 up. But she said, " You have broken my beautiful 
 ideal of you. How can I build it up again ? 
 Oh, dear heart, you have been a liar to me ! " 
 
 That mingling of love with condemnation was 
 worse for Oliver to bear than the most passionate 
 reproach. There were tears in his own eyes now, 
 and his soul was ashamed. He knelt down by 
 his wife's side, and tried to build himself up 
 again — to patch up that broken ideal of himself 
 in Virginia's heart. But he was like Humpty- 
 Dumpty, and not all the king's horses nor all 
 the king's men could quite mend the thing that 
 had been smashed by his own folly and carelessness. 
 
 He made her one pledge. He would never go to 
 Mrs. Perceval's again. She accepted that promise 
 and hoped he would keep it. That " hope " 
 showed that she had lost her trust in him. 
 
 22
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 Haunting Fears 
 
 There was some talk in Windlesham, among ladies 
 who talked rather too much perhaps, about the 
 disappearance of Alice Featherfew, whom Oliver 
 had called "The Goose-Girl" and "Patient 
 Griselda." 
 
 She had left the village suddenly, about four 
 months after Oliver's marriage, and, according to 
 Miss Purchase, the girl's mother " made a mystery 
 of it." She had not gone to service in London, 
 it seemed, like so many of the best Windlesham 
 girls, and Mrs. Featherfew shook her head and 
 sighed loudly, and gave other ominous signs of 
 distress when Alice's name was mentioned. On 
 the other hand, she flared up at a direct question — 
 and Miss Purchase was always direct in her 
 questions — and had said very rudely that she 
 would not have people poking their noses into 
 what was no business of theirn. 
 
 " I am afraid," said Miss Purchase in Virginia's 
 drawing-room one day, " that there is only one 
 interpretation to be put upon this affair. You 
 know what I mean, my dear ? " 
 
 Virginia said that she could believe nothing 
 338
 
 Haunting Fears 339 
 
 very bad of Alice. She had been a very good 
 girl, and had behaved in a modest way in the 
 choir. She had a sweet voice, too, and her eyes 
 were as innocent as a child's. 
 
 " Ah," said Miss Purchase grimly, " I distrust 
 those girls with big innocent eyes." 
 
 Lady Buntingford was of opinion that Miss 
 Purchase would distrust an angel if she met her 
 in the High Street. As for Alice Featherfew, if 
 the poor child had got into trouble it would be 
 their bounden duty to help her by all means in 
 their power. 
 
 " I have no patience with that self-righteous 
 cruelty which casts stones at these poor girls. 
 They are led astray not so much by evil instincts 
 as by trustfulness in false promises. We women 
 are very weak, my dears." 
 
 Virginia's pale cheeks flushed. She thought 
 the conversation was getting out of bounds. 
 
 But she turned to Oliver, who happened to be 
 in the room, and said, " You always found Alice 
 very nice and respectable, Oliver ? " 
 
 " Very," said Oliver, and then he strolled out 
 of the room to smoke a cigarette. 
 
 But in his study he turned rather faint and 
 white, and an overwhelming sense of fear took 
 possession of him. He put his hand in his breast- 
 pocket and drew out a crumpled letter. It was 
 written in a big childish handwriting. As he 
 read it his hand trembled.
 
 340 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 "I am in grate truble. i have been sent away 
 from home i hope i shal dy i have told noboddy 
 your luving 
 
 "Alice," 
 
 He put a corner of the letter into the flame of 
 a candle on the mantelpiece, and watched the 
 paper burn to a curling cinder until his own 
 fingers were singed. Then he said " Good God ! 
 Good God ! " and sat in a chair, holding its arms 
 and staring at the opposite wall like a man struck 
 down by some blow of fate. 
 
 But the weeks passed and the months, and he 
 heard no more about Alice, and the fear almost 
 passed from him, and his memory of that strange, 
 ill-spelt letter which he had burnt in the candle- 
 flame. Only now and again, as he walked out in 
 the darkness of night or sat alone in his study, 
 did he think of the fresh-complexioned girl with 
 the childish blue eyes to whom he had told fairy- 
 stories in Myrtle Cottage. This ghost-face stared 
 into his then with haunting eyes, so that he went 
 pale and tried to blot it out by other thoughts. 
 When it came to him unexpectedly, at odd times, 
 a dread of something terrible to come, of some 
 discovery, made him numb and cold, so that once 
 he had to gulp down neat whisky to steady his 
 nerves and overcome this weakness. 
 
 He was ploughing through his book now more
 
 Haunting Fears 341 
 
 steadily, though again with periods of inactivity, 
 and with many interruptions. For often he was 
 very bored with his own work, and loathed the 
 sight of his scrawling handwriting on a pile of 
 loose sheets. He felt that all inspiration had gone 
 out of him. He was writing feeble, conventional 
 stuff. He put off the time of reading it to Virginia. 
 He told her that he would rather read it as a 
 whole to her, so that she should get the broad 
 general effect. He had taken to riding a horse 
 now — Virginia had agreed to that expense for the 
 sake of his health — and he would go for long, 
 lonely rides as far as Worcester, or round the 
 neighbouring country. He also did a good deal 
 of shooting, for he was friendly now with many of 
 the old generals and county men around, and they 
 were glad enough to let him join the guns. This 
 kept him in fine physical form, and as a rule 
 he was in high spirits. He thoroughly enjoyed 
 his life as a country gentleman, and the days 
 seemed far back when he was a penniless fellow 
 in a middle-class suburb. Yet it was not many 
 months ago. 
 
 He gave pleasant dinner-parties at The Rookery, 
 and put good wine before his guests. As he sat at 
 the head of his table he did not regret the road up 
 which he had been led by fortune. On the whole, 
 he had done well for himself. 
 
 Unfortunately a change seemed to have come 
 over Virginia. She was inclined to be stern with
 
 34^ Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 him, and to treat him, not so much as a husband 
 to whom she owed reverence and honour, as a 
 wayward youth who required discipline. 
 
 " Confound it ! " he said once or twice to himself, 
 "she comes the schoolmistress over me too 
 much." 
 
 He did not say that to her, for, to tell the truth, 
 he was a little afraid of his delicate wife — afraid of 
 her reproachful eyes, and of her sadness, and of her 
 silence even. He had come to the conclusion that 
 her spirituality was rather beyond his reach. He 
 wished that her ideals were not quite so exalted, 
 and that her sense of honour would not be so 
 clear-cut and rigid. He pitied himself sometimes 
 for being, at his time of life, when flushed with the 
 wine of youth and with hot blood in his veins, 
 the husband of an invalid. He was inclined to 
 admire his self-sacrifice in having made such a 
 marriage. 
 
 But his great trouble about Virginia was her 
 " nearness " with regard to money. She had 
 inherited a spirit of economy from her stern old 
 father, which, he thought, was hardly right for a 
 woman of property. 
 
 She accused him of extravagance a hundred 
 times. 
 
 " I am not so rich as you imagine. You must 
 really understand, Oliver, that it costs a great deal 
 of money to keep up this household and the 
 garden, and that my income is hardly more than
 
 Haunting Fears 343 
 
 sufficient. We cannot afford to indulge in needless 
 luxuries or in lavish entertainment. Your personal 
 expenses seem to me extraordinary. What do 
 you do with all the money ? " 
 
 He could not quite explain that, except by 
 saying that he had to live and dress like a gentle- 
 man. As a matter of fact he was not, he thought, 
 unduly lavish upon his personal expenditure. The 
 only items which gave him a twinge of conscience 
 were his card debts — they played for rather high 
 stakes at the club, and in the country houses 
 around — and his generous tips to the servants of 
 his friends. Generosity in tipping was a weakness 
 of his, and mounted up most damnably. 
 
 " Surely, my dear girl," he said one day very 
 irritably, when Virginia had gone into the details 
 of the bank balance, over which she kept a closer 
 watch now, " you are not going to fling your money 
 in my face ? I understood we were to share 
 everything in common. If you want to put me 
 into the position of a pauper " 
 
 " I want you to be careful," said Virginia. 
 " Look at all these items — self— self — self — self. 
 You are always drawing money which does not 
 go to pay household bills, or anything that I 
 can account for. I do not know what you do 
 with it all." 
 
 She clasped her hands in her lap and looked 
 across to him where he sat nursing a well-gaitered 
 leg.
 
 344 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " I thought once that you would be earning 
 money of your own. But I have almost given up 
 that hope. It seems to me your book will never 
 be finished." 
 
 " It will never be finished if I am worried about 
 money matters," said Oliver. " I thought I had 
 got away from all that wretchedness."
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 The Father of the Girl 
 
 There came a time when money affairs began to 
 embarrass him most seriously, and when all his 
 troubles in Barton Street, Westminster, were but 
 trivial to this new anxiety, beyond which lay a 
 great fear. 
 
 It began with the meeting of a carpenter and 
 boat-builder in the lower town. He was walking 
 home in the dusk of a winter afternoon when the 
 man stepped out in the roadway and stood in front 
 of him. 
 
 " Beg pardon, Mr. Lumley. Might I have a 
 word with 'ee ? " 
 
 " What is it, my man ? " 
 
 He was a middle-aged man with a brown beard 
 and sharp blue eyes. 
 
 " It is summat that has best not be spoke out i' 
 the street. I'll trouble you to come inside my 
 shed. There'll be no secrets heard there." 
 
 " I'm in a hurry. If you have anything to say, 
 speak it out now, my good fellow." 
 
 " I don't know about my being your good fellow. 
 But maybe you'll be less in a hurry when I tell 'ee 
 I am Alice Featherfew's feyther." 
 345
 
 34^ Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Oliver suddenly felt very cold. Without a word, 
 he followed the man into the shed. 
 
 He sat down on a carpenter's bench with his 
 feet in the shavings. It was almost dark in the 
 workshop. 
 
 " What about Alice ? " he said, in a voice that 
 sounded queer to his own ears. " She used to 
 work for me in Myrtle Cottage." 
 
 " Yes, that's true enough," said the man. " You 
 can't get away from that. It was ten months ago. 
 All the townsfolk can swear to that" 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Oliver stood up and faced the man. But those 
 sharp blue eyes seemed to bore into his own like 
 gimlets. 
 
 " I don't know exactly what I does mean. I 
 haven't exackly made up my mind." 
 
 He thrust a bit of paper into Oliver's hand. 
 
 " Read that. Maybe it'll help 'ee to think out 
 what I mean, when I've made up my own mind to 
 what I does mean exackly." 
 
 " How the devil can I read it ? " said Oliver. 
 " It is dark." 
 
 " Aye, I forgot it was dark. We'll make a bit o' 
 light." 
 
 He lit an oil lamp slowly and deliberately. It 
 made a horrid smell in the shed. 
 
 " She writes plain. You'll be able to read it 
 now, with this 'ere lamp to light 'ee." 
 
 He held the lamp above Oliver's head. And
 
 The Father of the Girl 347 
 
 Oliver read some ill-spelt words in a big childish 
 handwriting. There were only a few words. 
 
 "Dear Feyther, 
 
 " I didn't want to tell he was very kind to me 
 and didn't mean no harm it was Mr. OUerver 
 Lumley o my pore hart 
 
 "Your luving 
 
 " Alice." 
 
 Oliver let the paper fall into the shavings. 
 
 " It's a lie," he said, in a strangled voice. 
 
 " It's Gord's truth," said the brown-bearded 
 man. 
 
 " You have no proof. I deny it." 
 
 A big brown hand clasped his right shoulder 
 with an iron grip. 
 
 " Then you'll have to deny it, Mr. Ollerver 
 Lumley, to all Windlesham. I'll raise the whole 
 town against 'ee, and it's your own wife what '11 be 
 the first to hear." 
 
 " What do you want me to do?" said Oliver. 
 
 He swung himself free from the man's grip and 
 paced up and down the dimly lighted shed. 
 
 " Ah, now you're talking," said Alice Featherfew's 
 father. " That is what I've been axing myself. 
 What be 'ee going to do, Mr. Ollerver Lumley? 
 What be 'ee going to do ? "
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 The Blackmailers 
 
 Oliver had to do many things during the next 
 few months which gave a haggard look to his face 
 and kept him awake at nights and made him afraid 
 of going out-of-doors, and start and tremble when 
 his wife came suddenly into a room where he was 
 sitting, or said " Oliver, may I speak to you for a 
 moment ? " 
 
 Because he was a hunted man, with a pack of 
 wolves sniffing round his heels in Windlesham, 
 ready to tear him to pieces if he did not throw 
 food to them. They snarled and grimaced at him, 
 and their appetite grew with what they fed on. 
 
 John Featherfew was the leader of the pack, and 
 a hungry, cunning, cruel old wolf. But there was 
 Alfred Featherfew, his drunken, ne'er-do-weel son, 
 and Moll Featherfew, his fat, sluttish wife, and 
 William Featherfew, his brother, who kept a beer 
 tavern in the worst street in Windlesham, down by 
 the river, and William Featherfew's vixen wife, a thin 
 drab of a woman, with a shrill, cackling laugh and 
 high-pitched voice, and William Featherfew's son 
 Jock, who was gardener to Mrs. Perceval, and a big, 
 bullying lout who had ruined many girls in the town. 
 348
 
 The Blackmailers 349 
 
 Oliver knew them all now — the whole pack. 
 They had stalked him when he went out for walks 
 or rides. They had touched hats to him with a 
 " Beg pardon, Mr. Ollerver Lumley, I'm one of the 
 Featherfews, and I'm willing to keep a shut mouth 
 if so be as it's worth my while." 
 
 That was what Jock had said with his hand on 
 Oliver's saddle strap. 
 
 Oliver raised his whip to slash the fellow across 
 the face, but at the man's gruff laugh he had 
 dropped his arm and said, " What do you want ? " 
 
 " I want summat to go on with," said Jock. 
 " I'll take a pound or two for a start. Silence be 
 golden, they say." 
 
 He laughed with hoarse mirth, as though he 
 had made a good joke. 
 
 Oliver threw two sovereigns on to the roadway. 
 
 " You dirty blackmailer ! " he said. 
 
 The loutish fellow picked them up. 
 
 " You'd best mend your manners," he said. " I 
 can tell a story as well as any man." 
 
 John Featherfew, the leader of the pack, wanted 
 more than a pound or two as the price of silence. 
 His brain was active, and he thought out many 
 schemes for improving his condition in life. His 
 old shed wanted rebuilding. It was tumbling 
 about his very ears. No doubt Mr. Ollerver 
 Lumley would lend a helping hand. How much ? 
 Well, a matter of fifty pounds would do the job, 
 and nicely.
 
 350 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Then there was his boy, Alf. Alf had been 
 a trouble to him. Couldn't find no settled way 
 o' life. But he had a notion of starting a farm in 
 Canada. Maybe Mr. Ollerver Lumley as a friend 
 o' the family would give him a start out West ? 
 Another fifty. That 'ud fix him up. Windlesham 
 would be glad to see the last of Alf. It would 
 be a blessing to every one. 
 
 Mrs. William Featherfew's mother was an ailing 
 woman. Her man had died a year come Michael- 
 mas. She was left with just a roof above her 
 head. The old soul would like a little comfort in 
 her last days. A few pounds would make her 
 merry and bright. Oh, yes, she had heard of Mr. 
 Ollerver Lumley. But she could keep her tongue 
 between her teeth. 
 
 It was a conspiracy. These people were a gang 
 of blackmailers, as cunning as devils, and just 
 as cruel. Oliver could not escape from them. 
 If he stepped outside The Rookery one of them 
 was sure to be hanging round the gates, ready 
 to give him a " Good marnin' to 'ee. There be 
 just a little thing, Mr. Ollerver Lumley " 
 
 They invited him to tea in their cottages, for 
 family conferences. 
 
 They shut him up in their overheated parlours, 
 and talked in whispers to him, or banged heavy 
 fists on the tea-table, so that the cups rattled, 
 or laughed with a high, cackling mirth like witch 
 laughter. He met a Featherfew as far away as
 
 The Blackmailers 351 
 
 Merdingham, fifteen miles through the woodlands. 
 He was a shepherd, and wanted a new sheep-dog. 
 Sometimes he came into Windlesham on a market 
 day. He was old friends with " Miss Virginia." 
 The girl Alice was his own niece. Not that he 
 wanted to give Mr. Lumley away for a mistake 
 which may happen upon any young man. Still, 
 a niece was a niece, and the same with a sheep-dog. 
 
 Oliver made many visits to the bank. He did 
 not care to write cheques out to the family of 
 Featherfew. Nor would they take cheques. They 
 liked the glint of gold. 
 
 The shame and the terror of it all ! Oliver 
 waited for that day when his wife would want to 
 know how he had overdrawn the account which 
 she had made out in his name. It came at last, 
 but even then too soon for the invention of any 
 reasonable explanation. 
 
 She came to him in his study and said, " Oliver, 
 what is the meaning of this ? " You have been 
 spending money like water. The account is over- 
 drawn." 
 
 " Overdrawn ? " he said. " Surely not ? " 
 
 She was very grave, and there was a look of 
 deep suspicion in her eyes — of suspicion and anger. 
 
 " I must go into this. I cannot leave it in 
 uncertainty. What are all these mysteries ? " 
 
 " Mysteries ? " 
 
 " Yes, mysteries. On the fifteenth of January 
 fifty pounds to 'self,' on the twelfth of February
 
 352 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 another fifty, on the fifteenth of February five 
 pounds, on the twentieth ten pounds." 
 
 She let the book fall from her hand on the 
 carpet, and said in a low voice : 
 
 " Oliver, I do not beg of you to tell me the 
 truth — I command you." 
 
 "Command? That is hardly a word to use 
 to your husband, my dear." 
 
 He tried to laugh, but the sound rattled in his 
 throat. 
 
 " I trusted you with my money. It is the money 
 my father earned by service to his country. 
 What, in your laziness, have you done with it? 
 On what have you wasted it ? " 
 
 He had not seen this Virginia before. She had 
 never spoken words like that to him. Her pale 
 face was flushed now. Her eyes were very wide 
 open, very luminous. In that moment, when his 
 soul shuddered with cowardice, he thought how 
 beautiful she was, taller, stronger, less frail. There 
 was a fighting spirit in her eyes. She was extra- 
 ordinarily like the portrait of her father as a young 
 man, over the chimneypiece in the dining-room, 
 in the uniform of the Royal Artillery, with the 
 delicate, aquiline face of Napoleon when he was 
 the young general of Italy. 
 
 Oliver thrust out his hands, and said, " Virginia, 
 dear wife, I cannot explain those items . . . you 
 must have faith in me." 
 " Faith in you ? "
 
 The Blackmailers 353 
 
 She repeated the words. 
 
 " I am losing faith in you ... I think I have 
 lost it." 
 
 He tried to take her hand, but she plucked it 
 from him. 
 
 " No ; I am not to be bribed into trustfulness 
 by your kisses. I have gone beyond that." 
 
 " I am sorry. Have you got beyond your love 
 for me ? " 
 
 She raised her head very proudly. 
 
 "It is because I love you with my whole heart 
 and soul that I am resolved to have the truth. 
 Your honour is my honour, for I bear your name. 
 Your untruthfulness is my shame, because my life 
 is yours. Oliver, in the name of our love I 
 command you to tell me on what you have spent 
 this money." 
 
 His brain was busy with lies. . . . Then he 
 thrust them on one side. He would not sink 
 deeper into the mire. 
 
 " I cannot tell you," he said simply. " I can 
 only say that they have cost me more agon}- 
 than the loss to you." 
 
 " Do you decline to tell me ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid so." 
 
 She drooped her head. 
 
 " Then it must be a guilty secret. It is some- 
 thing you are afraid to tell me." 
 
 " It is not so bad as you think," he said. " One 
 of these days I will tell you." 
 
 23
 
 354 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Until you tell me," said Virginia, " I shall 
 have no peace. I shall be haunted with the fear 
 of dishonour." 
 
 " 1 swear to you," said Oliver, " that I will never 
 let dishonour touch your name. Do you not 
 believe that?" 
 
 She said, " I do not know what to believe. I 
 am only bewildered — and afraid."
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 'The Outcast 
 
 After that painful scene Virginia cancelled 
 Oliver's account at the bank, and took all money 
 matters into her own hands again. 
 
 He had not expected that of her. It caused 
 him an agony of humiliation, for he was absolutely 
 dependent upon her now. He took to shaving 
 himself rather than ask her for money to pay the 
 barber. He tried to give up smoking rather than 
 beg of her ; but this caused him such intense 
 torture and put such a strain upon his nerves that 
 he could not endure it. 
 
 " I must get some tobacco," he said one day 
 sullenly, " and I am penniless." 
 
 She passed half a sovereign over to him, and 
 said in her quiet way, " That should last you some 
 time, Oliver." 
 
 He hated her at that moment. All that was 
 fierce and brutal in his nature (and the tiger is in 
 every man's heart, however weak he may be) 
 leapt up at his throat. 
 
 He was livid with rage and shame. 
 
 " You treat me like a dog," he said. 
 
 She answered quietly again, " I treat you as 
 355
 
 35^ Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 one quite irresponsible with regard to money, 
 Oliver. It is best for both our sakes." 
 
 " By God, it is intolerable ! " he said, and then 
 strode out of the room. 
 
 But after he had changed the half-sovereign and 
 smoked the pipe he was sorry for his violence, 
 and his hatred left him. Alone in the room, he 
 shed weak tears because the woman who had 
 been so gentle and dove-like — the dream-lady of 
 his summer idyll, his beautiful, delicate wife, had 
 become his schoolmistress, with a birch rod that 
 lashed his pride and spirit. 
 
 It seemed that she was determined to teach him 
 a lesson, to exact a stern punishment for his follies. 
 And she had the whip-hand. He was a pauper, 
 living on her charity. He could not spend half 
 a crown without her knowledge and consent. 
 Katherine was right, after all. She had warned 
 him against all this. She asked him what he 
 would do if his wife turned on him and reproached 
 him with her wealth against his poverty. Well, it 
 had happened, and he was humbled into the dust 
 by the woman he had married. Oh, she could 
 take it out of him now ! He had not the pluck of 
 a mouse in her presence. 
 
 But there was worse to come. He could not 
 disguise from himself that the last blow was yet 
 to fall. 
 
 When would the wolves come howling round The 
 Rookery gates ?
 
 The Outcast 357 
 
 They were remarkably quiet. He could not 
 understand the false air of peace about him. Not 
 yet had they given tongue, although he pandered 
 no longer to their appetite. 
 
 It was outside the town that he met the leader 
 of the pack after Virginia's discovery of the over- 
 drawn account. John Featherfew was trudging 
 homewards with his bag of tools over his shoulder. 
 He stepped out into the middle of the road and 
 put his hand on Oliver's bridle-rein. 
 
 " My old woman," he said, " has taken a bit of a 
 chill. She be fretting for a week-end at the sea- 
 side. It'll cost a matter of thirty shillin'. Maybe 
 you've got your purse on 'ee, Mr. Ollerver " 
 
 " You'll never get any more money out of my 
 purse, John Featherfew," said Oliver sternly. 
 " Neither you nor any of your blackguardly gang." 
 
 " What be that ? " said the man, plucking at his 
 brown beard, and with an ugly glare in his steel- 
 blue eyes. Then he laughed and said, " You be 
 jokin', Mr. Ollerver. Lord love 'ee, I can see a 
 joke with the best of 'em." 
 
 Oliver bent over his saddle. 
 
 " Take your hand off my rein, John Featherfew, 
 or I'll cut it off with this whip." 
 
 He raised the whip and set his teeth. He would 
 have cut the man's wrist to the bone if he had not 
 released the rein and staggered back. 
 
 He chirruped to his horse along the road. 
 John Featherfew's voice shouted after him thickly,
 
 358 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 but the wind swept the man's words back and 
 Oliver did not hear them. He only knew that 
 they were threats. 
 
 A week passed, and two weeks. He saw no 
 more of the Featherfews and heard no more of 
 them. It seemed that his defiance had discon- 
 certed them. Perhaps, after all, the pack would not 
 give tongue. Perhaps they had only the pluck 
 of curs, and had shrunk back when threatened 
 with a whip. If so, what a fool he had been 
 to waste all that money on them, to surrender to 
 their blackmailing with such a craven fear ! He 
 had a wild hope that the secret which they held 
 would not be blabbed. If so, he might build him- 
 self up again in Virginia's heart. He would walk 
 warily, and be very kind to her and play the game. 
 Katherine Goldstein had begged him to do that. 
 That was her farewell message to him before his 
 marriage. " Play the game, Oliver," she had said. 
 
 Then Oliver cursed his temperament — the cause 
 of all his folly and misfortune. Why had he been 
 born with such a temperament, dragging him into 
 perilous adventures, pulling him this way and that, 
 making him the slave of his own desires ? 
 
 On the first day of the third week after his 
 defiance of John Featherfew he had a shock which 
 made him feel rather sick and faint. It was the 
 sight of Mrs. Perceval coming out of the carpenter's 
 shed. 
 
 He had kept his promise to Virginia not to go
 
 The Outcast 359 
 
 again to the Percevals' house. He could pride 
 himself on keeping that promise at least, and it 
 had not been easy. She had written several notes 
 to him, rebuking him for his absence. 
 
 " Our bridge parties are dull without you, and 
 boredom creeps over me again. Why do you shun 
 my amiable society — just as we were getting on so 
 nicely ? " 
 
 He had answered by polite notes, pleading hard 
 work at his novel, but she did not accept his 
 excuses, and in her last note there was anger and 
 a threat. 
 
 " I see you desire to end our friendship. Very 
 well. But when I lose a friend I become an enemy. 
 Do you know how very dangerous I can be ? " 
 
 He had not answered those words, and now he 
 met the woman again, coming out of the car- 
 penter's shed. She was in her winter furs, and 
 was a tall and beautiful creature. 
 
 He lifted his cap as he passed with a swift 
 stride, and she gave a little laugh in answer to his 
 greeting, as though very much amused. He did 
 not like the sound of that laughter. There was 
 something cruel in it. " Do you know how very 
 dangerous I can be ? " He remembered those 
 words, and they worried him. What was she 
 doing in Featherfew's shed ? He knew that Jock 
 Featherfew was her under-gardener. And remem-
 
 360 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 bering that, after a while he had a swift vision of 
 his peril. 
 
 He had been walking for half an hour before 
 that vision came to him. Then he turned sharply 
 round and strode back to The Rookery. He 
 would tell Virginia everything, the whole miser- 
 able, wretched tale, before others were beforehand 
 with him. But at the garden-gate he met Mrs. 
 Perceval again. She had just come out of his 
 house. Her face was rather flushed, but she was 
 smiling. 
 
 Seeing Oliver, she stopped, and her smile changed 
 to that light laughter which had jarred upon his 
 ears. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Oliver Lumley. I hope 
 you are quite well," 
 
 " Very well, Mrs. Perceval." 
 
 " I am so glad. I have just been having a little 
 chat with Virginia. Good-bye." 
 
 He did not answer, but walked past her up the 
 gravel-path, and opened the front door with his 
 latch-key. 
 
 It was five o'clock in the afternoon, and the 
 maid-servant was lighting the hall-lamp. 
 
 " Where is your mistress ? " asked Oliver. 
 
 " She has gone to her bedroom, sir. I do not 
 think she is quite well." 
 
 " Not well ? " 
 
 " She asked not to be disturbed." 
 
 The girl hesitated.
 
 The Outcast 361 
 
 " I think Mrs. Perceval's visit upset her. She 
 has just gone to her room as white as a ghost." 
 
 " I will go and see." 
 
 Oliver went slowly upstairs. But on the landing 
 he stopped, and put his hand over his ashen grey 
 face. Then he opened the bedroom door and 
 went in. 
 
 The room was in twilight. He noticed through 
 the open window that there were red feathers 
 in the sky. That meant rain. He had always 
 known rain to follow a sky like that at Windle- 
 sham. 
 
 Strange that he should think of it now, at this 
 awful moment of his life. 
 
 Virginia was on her knees upon the floor, with 
 her arms outstretched upon the bed. She had 
 not heard him come in. She gave a little whim- 
 pering moan. 
 
 He spoke her name quietly. 
 
 " Virginia ! " 
 
 She raised her head and looked at him. He 
 saw that her face was deadly white. She put one 
 hand upon the bedpost and seemed to lift herself 
 up, and stood before him, silent, with her eyes 
 fixed upon his face. They were tragic eyes. 
 
 He strode forward to her for a pace or two 
 and spoke her name again pleadingly. But she 
 answered in a clear, sharp voice which frightened 
 him. 
 
 " Do not come near me."
 
 362 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 He stood quite still, not knowing what to do 
 or to say. 
 
 But at last, after what seemed like a long time, 
 he said, " Has Mrs. Perceval told you anything — 
 anything to upset you ? She is a lying woman." 
 
 " She is a vile woman," said Virginia. " But this 
 time I think she did not lie. I think she explained 
 the mystery of what has been toituring me — I 
 mean the mystery of those payments, and of your 
 silence about them." 
 
 She spoke with extraordinary quietude and 
 calmness, but suddenly she cried out in a pas- 
 sionate voice : 
 
 " Oliver, for dear God's sake tell me the truth ; 
 I mean about Alice." 
 
 "What about Alice?" said Oliver. The words 
 could hardly pass his lips. His tongue was parched. 
 There was something on fire in his brain. 
 
 " Mrs. Perceval made a terrible accusation against 
 you. If it is untrue I will go down on my knees 
 to you. I will kiss your feet, asking for forgive- 
 ness, because I have been tempted to believe in 
 your dishonour." 
 
 " If it is true, what then ? " asked Oliver. They 
 were stupid words, but he could not think properly. 
 He only felt frightfully sorry for Virginia and him- 
 self. He was afraid they were going to be rather 
 unhappy. The world had all gone wrong with 
 them — somehow. 
 
 "If it is true?"
 
 The Outcast 363 
 
 She echoed his words in a whisper. 
 
 There was a living horror on her face. 
 
 For a few moments she stared at him, and then 
 she spoke with a swift passion. 
 
 '* If it is true I will not suffer you to touch me 
 or to breathe my air. If it is true you are shame- 
 less and horrible. If it is true I will punish you 
 and break you." 
 
 " It is true," said Oliver. 
 
 He went down on his knees before her, pouring 
 out a living stream of words in self-excuse, in 
 remorse, in pleading, in extenuation. He was a 
 fool. He was weak. He was a boy. It had been 
 a mistake, the madness of a moment, the tempta- 
 tion of the devil. If she would forgive him this 
 he would devote his life and soul to her. He 
 had been faithful to her since his marriage. He 
 swore that, by all that was sacred. If she would 
 pardon him this once, he would live and die for 
 her. 
 
 She looked down upon him with a terrible 
 severity. « 
 
 " Once," she said, " I told you some words often 
 on my father's lips : ' Do not surrender God to the 
 enemy for the sake of peace. Never forgive a sin 
 which is not atoned. Punishment ■fnust go before 
 forgiveness! I will not forgive until you have 
 atoned. Because I love you I will have you 
 punished." 
 
 He bowed his head.
 
 364 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Strike me dead ! " he said. 
 
 " You know that I cannot strike you, because I 
 am a poor, weak invalid. And I do not wish your 
 death. I wish you to live and be brave and 
 honourable, so that I may love you as I used to 
 love you — as I love you now, as God knows." 
 
 She put her hand on his head as he knelt before 
 her. Perhaps she was unconscious of her caressing 
 touch, for she said, without any weakness : 
 
 " I shall turn you out of my house. Then you 
 will have to work like an honest man." 
 
 He started to his feet and cried out that she 
 could not mean those words. 
 
 " By our dear Lord, I vow that I mean them ! " 
 she said. " I cannot breathe the same air with you. 
 Your lies and deceit poison me. Your miserable 
 hypocrisy sickens my soul. I should call myself a 
 vile woman if I let you stay inside my life. I 
 swear that I will turn you out, if I have to call in 
 the police or set my dogs on you. They, poor 
 beasts, have been faithful to me." 
 
 " You are mad," said Oliver. 
 
 " Yes, I am a little mad." 
 
 " If you do what you say you will be as cruel as 
 a devil." 
 
 " I will be more cruel to myself than you." 
 
 " I shall hate you," said Oliver. " I shall hate 
 you for your hard heart. Good God ! I thought 
 you as gentle as a dove." 
 
 " I have my father's heart in a frail body," said
 
 The Outcast 365 
 
 Virginia, "and it was a man's heart. He never 
 flinched from duty." 
 
 ♦' Duty ? " He laughed with hollow mirth. " Do 
 you call this duty ? " 
 
 "Yes; it is my duty, and I command you to 
 leave my house to-night." 
 
 " To-night ? " 
 
 He whispered the word. 
 
 " To-night. See ... I will give you money . . . 
 It is here in a purse . . . When you want more I 
 will not refuse you. ... I will make you an 
 allowance . . . enough to keep you from starvation, 
 but not more than that . . . Take it and go from 
 me, for I will not have you in this house another 
 night." 
 
 She thrust a purse before him, but he took it and 
 flung it through the window. 
 
 " Damn your money ! " he said. " I am your 
 husband and the master of this house." 
 
 She rang the bell violently. Oliver heard it 
 pealing in the kitchen down below. 
 
 One of the maid-servants came rushing up and 
 opened the door after a swift knock. 
 
 " Mary," said Virginia, " please fetch a policeman 
 at once." 
 
 The girl stared from the wife to the husband. 
 She was amazed beyond words. 
 
 " Mary," said Virginia sharply, " run for a 
 policeman. Do you not hear me ? " 
 
 " You need not trouble, Mary," said Oliver. He
 
 366 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 turned to his wife. " I will go," he said ; " and may 
 God have mercy on you." 
 
 " And on you," said Virginia, " and on the child, 
 Alice. . . . You may go, Mary, I shall not want 
 the policeman." 
 
 Mary burst into tears and went sobbing down- 
 stairs. She could not understand the scene between 
 her master and mistress. But she knew that some- 
 thing terrible had happened. 
 
 Oliver turned to go from his wife's room. Then 
 he stopped at the door and looked back at her, 
 
 "Is this our parting? Do we say good-bye for 
 ever?" 
 
 She said, " I do not know. I do not know. 
 God knows. Perhaps, if you cleanse yourself — if 
 you atone — if you become an honest man " 
 
 He strode out of the room without another 
 word. On the landing he stopped to listen. He 
 thought he heard Virginia sobbing. He half 
 turned to go back, but after a moment he went 
 downstairs and into his study. 
 
 It was quite dark now. He stayed in the 
 darkness, stock still, in the middle of the room. 
 For half an hour he was there motionless. There 
 was no sound in the house, except the loud ticking 
 of his clock upon the mantelpiece. 
 
 Presently he went out into the hall, listening 
 intently. The servants had shut themselves in 
 the kitchen. He could hear the faint murmur of 
 their voices. No doubt they were talking about
 
 The Outcast 367 
 
 that scene upstairs. Soon all Windlesham would 
 be talking. 
 
 Very quietly, like a thief, Oliver took down 
 his hat and overcoat, and put them on. He moved 
 about like a man in a trance. The Persian cat 
 came out of the dining-room and rubbed against 
 his leg. He stooped down and stroked it for a 
 moment. Then he went out of the house, closing 
 the front door very softly. 
 
 The moon was coming up behind a bank of 
 cloud. It cast an inky shadow behind him. He 
 did not go straight to the gate, but moved about 
 the small square lawn under his wife's bedroom 
 window. He was searching for something. He 
 was looking for the purse which he had flung out 
 of the window. He was penniless, and unless he 
 found the purse he would have to walk away some- 
 where, anywhere. What did it matter ? 
 
 He fumbled about a flower-bed. His hands 
 became dirty with the wet mould. Presently he 
 found the purse and thrust it into a side pocket. 
 Then he walked across the lawn to the garden 
 gate. 
 
 An owl was hooting on the gable of The 
 Rookery, or in the ivy. He shuddered at the 
 sound. He stared up at his wife's room. It was 
 in darkness, but the moonlight played about the 
 window. He thought of Virginia inside that dark 
 room, on her knees, sobbing. The gate clicked 
 behind him ; he was out in the road, an outcast.
 
 368 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 He walked like a drunken man in the direction of 
 the station, and once he stopped and put his hands 
 up to his eyes, which were scalded with tears. 
 Once he moaned aloud miserably, like a wounded 
 man. 
 
 That evening Oliver Lumley took a late train to 
 London, and when he staggered out on to the 
 platform at Paddington he looked so ill that a 
 porter gave him his arm and helped him to a cab. 
 He drove to an hotel in the Strand.
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 Philosophy of the Old School 
 
 The Dowager Countess of Buntingford quarrelled 
 quite seriously with Virginia, and then kissed her 
 on both cheeks and said, '* My bird, if you think I 
 am going to quarrel with you, you are much mis- 
 taken. I shall not rest until you are happy again. 
 Goodness alive, I never heard of such a thing ! " 
 
 The old lady was more distressed than she had 
 been for many years when Virginia had told her 
 the secret of Oliver's disappearance from Windle- 
 sham. It was two weeks before she suspected that 
 something had gone wrong in The Rookery, and 
 in Virginia's heart. Oliver had been away often 
 enough before — to Paris, to London, and upon 
 other trips — for any surprise to be caused among 
 his wife's friends during the first week or two of his 
 absence. And Virginia explained the matter very 
 quietly and calmly. 
 
 " Oliver has gone up to town to get new knowledge 
 of life. Windlesham is not wide enough for his 
 imagination." 
 
 " If I had a young and handsome husband," said 
 Miss Purchase, " I should insist upon going with 
 24 369
 
 370 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 him. There is temptation at every street-corner in 
 London." 
 
 " Alas ! and in every lane in the country," said 
 Virginia. 
 
 " True, too true ! " said Miss Purchase, shaking 
 her head. " Nevertheless I shall be glad to see 
 your husband back. Roving husbands make un- 
 happy wives." 
 
 *' Nonsense ! " said old Lady Buntingford, who 
 invariably contradicted Miss Purchase. " Give the 
 boy a bit of rope, Virginia. I don't hold with tying 
 a husband to one's petticoat. I always used to give 
 perfect liberty to Peregrine. * Have a good time, 
 my dear,' I used to say, ' and when you come back 
 my heart will be warm for you.' Gracious Heaven I 
 Men want a little change from their women folk." 
 
 She looked sharply at Virginia, and said, " I don't 
 like to see you so pale, my dove." 
 
 Virginia's pallor increased day by day, and her 
 eyes seemed to become larger and more mystical. 
 She drooped, and could find no strength to walk 
 about the garden, but sat for hours by the French 
 window of her drawing-room with her hands folded 
 in her lap, watching the birds on the lawn. Her 
 maid-servants noticed with alarm that she lost her 
 vigilance with regard to dust and disorder. She 
 did not seem to care for the beauty of her house. 
 
 It was Mary the parlour-maid who brought this 
 to the notice of Lady Buntingford. 
 
 * I do believe the mistress is sickening. The
 
 Philosophy of the Old School 371 
 
 other day I left a broom in the library and she did 
 not so much as say ' How careless ! ' She is that 
 quiet she makes me frightened." 
 
 " Child," said Lady Buntingford, " perhaps the 
 good God is going to send us a baby to play with. 
 That would make us very happy." 
 
 " Oh, my lady ! " cried Mary, clasping her hands, 
 " I never thought of that." 
 
 But Lady Buntingford was more frightened than 
 Mary when she spoke one day to Virginia about a 
 dream-child that was coming to The Rookery and 
 was answered by a passion of tears. Virginia 
 flung herself down upon the floor and laid her 
 head in the old lady's lap and wept so that her 
 body shook. 
 
 " Now, then, what is the matter with the wench ? " 
 asked Lady Buntingford. 
 
 She put both her hands upon Virginia's head, 
 and kissed her hair, and said, " Hush, my pigeon, 
 hush, my white dove ! " 
 
 But Virginia did not cease sobbing until the 
 old lady, after many tender little cries, pretended 
 to become very angry and scolded her, and called 
 her an hysterical baggage. 
 
 " I am surprised. Where's your self-control ? 
 Good God, my bird, you will drown yourself in 
 these silly tears." 
 
 Then Virginia knelt up and thrust her hair back, 
 and said, " I am a fool, and the most unhappy 
 woman."
 
 372 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Unhappy, be hanged ! " said Lady Buntingford, 
 who was unconventional in her speech when stirred 
 by excitement. " You have got a beautiful house 
 and a charming husband " 
 
 " I have no husband. He has gone from me for 
 ever." 
 
 The old lady gasped. 
 
 Then she said, very drily, " Oh, indeed. Where's 
 he gone to? Have you buried him in the back 
 garden ? " 
 
 " He has gone out of my life," said Virginia with 
 a little moan. 
 
 "You mean to say that you have had a tiff? 
 You quarrelled with him because he came down to 
 breakfast with a headache and a bad temper ? Is 
 that what you mean, ma'am ? " 
 
 " It was a tragedy," said Virginia. " He has 
 broken my heart." 
 
 " I know those tragedies, my squirrel. They 
 always happen in the first year of marriage. I 
 once broke my heart because Peregrine tore my 
 lace skirt with his spur, and then said ' Damn.' 
 Of course I boxed his ears, and then he went 
 up to town for a week-end, poor dear." 
 
 She put her hands on Virginia's shoulders and 
 said, " I will shake you if you are such a silly 
 fool, lambkin. Where are your wits? Where is 
 your woman's sense ? Oliver has gone away, has 
 he ? Well, fetch him back again, mighty quick." 
 
 But when Virginia laid her heart bare and told
 
 Philosophy of the Old School 373 
 
 her story and came to that scene when she had 
 sent Ohver out of the house the old woman 
 shook with rage. 
 
 " Damnation ! " she said, " here is folly and 
 wickedness for an old woman's ears ! You ought 
 to be whipped, Mistress Virginia. Upon my soul, 
 I would love to give you a good hiding. ... As 
 for that Perceval woman, I will scratch her face 
 the very next time I see her. . . . The boy 
 behaved badly with Alice, did he ? Well, that 
 was before his marriage, and he was faithful 
 to you for ever afterwards. Are we to cast our 
 men off for one indiscretion in their bachelor days ? 
 Gracious Heavens ! Peregrine's infidelities were 
 past counting. I shut my eyes to them and 
 refused to count. Young men are young fools. 
 You don't expect them to be archangels, do you ? 
 Now, what in the world has happened to that 
 boy Oliver ? Of course you have sent him straight 
 to the devil. That is nice Christian charity, upon 
 my word ! Here is a pretty story for Miss 
 Purchase and the village cats ! " 
 
 That was when Lady Buntingford and Virginia 
 quarrelled. 
 
 Virginia drew herself up very straight, and 
 begged Lady Buntingford to remember herself 
 She was surprised at such immoral words. 
 Oliver had sinned and he must be punished. 
 He had deceived her cruelly, and she would not 
 tolerate deceit or lies. He had been utterly
 
 374 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 demoralised, utterly lazy, and there would be no 
 chance for him in life until he had repented and 
 atoned. She had determined to break him, in 
 order that he might build himself up anew. Did 
 Lady Buntingford think that a wife should 
 tolerate such outrage ? To sit with folded hands 
 while her husband sinned against his vows and 
 covered his wife with shame and dishonour ? She 
 had been brought up in a different school. Her 
 father had taught her not to surrender God for 
 the sake of peace, not to forgive sin until it had 
 been punished. 
 
 " Your father ! " cried Lady Buntingford, throwing 
 up her hands. " I remember the man. A hot- 
 tempered, hard, unrelenting old humbug. I once 
 danced with him, and he kicked me on the shin. 
 Most characteristic of him, my dear." 
 
 " How dare you speak of my father like that ? " 
 
 Virginia's eyes flashed fire at the old woman. 
 
 *' Oh, you won't frighten me, ma'am ! " said 
 Lady Buntingford. " I should speak plain words 
 about the devil to his own black face. I thank 
 God I come of a good old English stock. . . . All 
 I can say to you, my babe, is that you have 
 made a pretty hash of things. Get your boy 
 back, and go down on your bended knees to 
 him." 
 
 " When I have brought him to his knees, 
 before me, and before God, when he has cleansed 
 himself in the fire of contrition, when he stands
 
 Philosophy of the Old School 375 
 
 up an honest man, I will forgive him and take 
 him back," said Virginia, very solemnly. 
 
 And then she added with her hands to her 
 bosom and a sharp cry of pain, " But my poor 
 heart is broken and will never be mended." 
 
 " It deserves to be broken," said Lady 
 Buntingford. " I never heard of such outrageous 
 conduct. If I had behaved to Peregrine like you 
 have done to Oliver he would have flogged me 
 with his hunting-crop, and I should have been a 
 better woman for it." 
 
 So the two women quarrelled, and for a week 
 Virginia did not see Lady Buntingford again. 
 The old woman sulked at Buntingford House 
 and was very fractious with her servants. But 
 at the end of that time she drove over to The 
 Rookery, and took Virginia's hands and said, " My 
 pigeon, I am not going to quarrel with you. I 
 am going to straighten out this tangle, so help 
 me God."
 
 CHAPTER XLVI 
 The Bitter Cup 
 
 Oliver was in a great rage with life when he lett 
 Windlesham. 
 
 Having recovered from the first shock of his 
 humiliation, he became passionately and violently 
 angry, and then, when the fire had burnt out, 
 sullen. Lurking somewhere in his brain was regret 
 for his folly, remorse for his own weak and selfish 
 acts ; but he ignored those whispering voices, and 
 listened only to the cry of hatred in his heart 
 against Virginia, his wife. 
 
 He could hardly believe that any woman could 
 treat her husband with such deliberate cruelty. 
 Yet Virginia — a saint from a stained-glass window 
 — had turned him out of her house ! A shrew- 
 woman would not have gone so far in her revenge. 
 Yet Virginia — delicate, gentle, once so full of 
 tenderness — had been utterly brutal with him ! 
 
 Very well. He would not grovel before her. 
 She had cast him off, and he would not crawl 
 back to her. If ever he went back it would be 
 in answer to her pleading. She must go down 
 on her knees and beg forgiveness before he would 
 pardon her for all that she had caused him to 
 376
 
 The Bitter Cup 377 
 
 suffer — for this burning shame. He would show 
 her that he had the stufif of manhood in him. 
 
 From his hotel in the Strand he wrote to her 
 a letter heaped with reproaches. 
 
 "All my faults," he said, "are trivial in compari- 
 son'withiyour unforgiving hardness — and hardness in 
 a woman is most damnable and most unpardonable. 
 You say I deceived you. Good God ! What was my 
 deceit (I am not conscious of any) to yours ? You 
 have deceived me from the beginning. I thought 
 you a gracious wom.an full of charity. You are as 
 unrelenting as a religious fanatic, beyond whose 
 cruelty the devil himself cannot go. I thought 
 you were one of those beautiful wives who would 
 overlook the indiscretions of a husband for the sake 
 of his love and protection. So far from overlook- 
 ing, you have played the spy on me, and listened 
 to the slander of my enemies." 
 
 Then he launched his ultimatum. 
 
 "You will suffer more than I shall. I can hear 
 the buzz of the gossipmongers in Windlesham — 
 about a wife without a husband. Old Miss Purchase 
 will spread the news. She will not tire of the scandal 
 in six months. Oh, gossip will yap round your 
 skirts ! 
 
 " Perhaps one day you will repent of your hard- 
 ness. You will be weary of your loneliness. But 
 I give you this warning. Not until you cry out 
 for me, not until you beseech me to come back 
 to you, not until you pray for my forgiveness, not
 
 37^ Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 until you have humbled yourself to the depths of 
 the humiliation where I now stand, will you hear 
 from me again. 
 
 "When you have that message for me, it will no 
 doubt be forwarded from my mother's house to any 
 place where I may find a lodging or a friend." 
 
 They were strong words. But as the days went 
 by there were hours when Oliver Lumley was filled 
 with an overwhelming sense of pity for his own 
 miserable situation, and had a shuddering fear of 
 the fate that was closing round him. 
 
 He took a bed-sitting-room in the Blackfriars 
 Road — a dismal, wretchedly furnished lodging, 
 which seemed to be haunted by the ghosts of 
 other poor devils who had been his predecessors 
 there. The smell of their stale tobacco-smoke 
 hung about the curtains. 
 
 It did not brighten his spirits when his drab 
 of a landlady told him that the last gentleman who 
 rented the room had committed suicide with a 
 razor borrowed for that purpose from another 
 gentleman downstairs. 
 
 " 'E made a 'orrid mess," said the woman, " and 
 it took me a deal of trouble to clear up. You 
 see, I couldn't get the stines out of the carpet, 
 no'ow." 
 
 She pointed to some dark smudges by the sofa. 
 
 " I tried turps on it, but it wasn't a bit of good — 
 the dirty devil ! " 
 
 In the bed-sitting-room of a suicide Oliver sat
 
 The Bitter Cup 379 
 
 for many hours each day, like a hunted man who 
 is afraid to show himself in the light of day. 
 Indeed, that idea came to his landlady, who asked 
 if he had done anything " wrong." She didn't 
 want no bother with the police. 
 
 He laughed at that and reassured her, 
 
 " I am only down on my luck. But as long as 
 I pay you in advance you need not worry." 
 
 "Yus," said the landlad}'', "money in advance is 
 the rule of this 'ouse, and don't you forgit it, young 
 man, or out you goes." 
 
 So Oliver, who had paid four weeks in advance, 
 stayed in, trying to write short stories, and 
 desperately anxious to avoid old friends, who 
 would ask him awkward questions, and grin, as 
 friends do, at his misfortune. 
 
 But his writing was a failure. He could think 
 of no other plot but the drama of his own misery. 
 Often he found himself staring at the black stains 
 on the threadbare carpet, close to the horsehair 
 sofa. They had a horrible fascination for him. 
 All the details of the man's suicide haunted his 
 imagination. The gentleman was " 'orribly pore," 
 said the landlady. They found three-halfpence in 
 his pocket when the police searched his corpse — 
 three-halfpence and some pawn tickets. Oliver 
 wondered how long it would be before he also 
 came down to his last three-halfpence. Not very 
 long, perhaps. 
 
 He saw himself within easy distance of it after
 
 380 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 visits to Livvy O'Brien and his family. For three 
 weeks he had lived utterly alone in London, speak- 
 ing to no one except his slatternly landlady. 
 But one afternoon when he had actually finished 
 a short story and sent it off to one of the magazines 
 which used to accept his work, he had an irre- 
 sistible yearning for human intercourse — a tre- 
 mendous need of some touch of sympathy. 
 
 The sound of Livvy's laughter seemed to 
 whisper in his ears, and he saw her dancing 
 eyes and her roguish Irish face. Remembrance 
 of many hours he had passed with her, of her 
 comradely kindness, of that evening when she 
 had emptied her purse before him, and of that 
 night when he had kissed her on the lips, came 
 thrilling back to him. Perhaps Livvy would 
 
 lend him no ; he thrust back that tempting 
 
 thought. He would take nothing but her comrade- 
 ship. 
 
 He went round to her rooms in the afternoon, 
 and was immensely glad to find her at home. 
 
 She opened the door to him and said, " Roly ! 
 After all these months ! I had given you up as 
 one of my lost sheep," 
 
 He remembered then that he had never told 
 her of his marriage. He had not even troubled 
 to write a line to her. He was sorry now that 
 he had been so forgetful. 
 
 She opened the door wider, and said, "The 
 kettle is singing on the hob. You are just in
 
 The Bitter Cup 381 
 
 time for tea. I think you must have smelt the 
 muffins." 
 
 He took her hand and held it longer than he 
 need have done. 
 
 "You look five years younger, Livvy, Where 
 have you been gathering those roses for your 
 cheeks ? " 
 
 " And you look very ill," said Livvy. " Horribly 
 ill, Roly. What in the world is the matter with 
 you ? " 
 
 " I have had rotten luck. I think I have been 
 quite ill. But I feel better at the sight of you, 
 Livvy, mavourneen." 
 
 " Flatterer ! " said Livvy, with a touch of her 
 old roguishness. 
 
 " Where's Doris ? " said Oliver, following her 
 into the sitting-room. 
 
 " Doris is making tiny socks and Tom Thumb 
 clothes for a little angel expected in a naughty 
 world." 
 
 " Good Lord, you don't mean to say she is 
 going to have a baby ? Is she married ? " 
 
 Livvy pretended to be shocked at such a 
 question. 
 
 " Young man, remember your manners and your 
 morals. Doris Fortescue is now Mrs. Henry 
 Higginbottom, and a most respectable married 
 woman of six months' standing, with a semi- 
 detached house at West Dulwich. She met him 
 at Birmingham, where she was in ' The Merry
 
 382 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Peasant ' crowd. He wears a bald head and a 
 white waistcoat, and travels in ladies' underlinen," 
 
 " I think she might have let me know," said 
 Oliver. " I would have sent her a wedding-present. 
 Good little Doris, so she is settled in life at 
 last ! " 
 
 "Well, of all the audacity!" cried Livvy, who 
 was poking the fire under the kettle. " A young 
 man disappears from London for goodness knows 
 how long, does not send one word of his where- 
 abouts to his true and trusty friends, and then 
 turns up coolly and says 'she might have let me 
 know ! ' " 
 
 Oliver was becoming suspicious. 
 
 Livvy was trying to conceal some excitement, 
 and there was an unusual appearance of festivity 
 in her rooms. There were little cakes on the 
 tea-table, and a pile of crumpets on the hob gave 
 out a rich aroma. There were flowers on the 
 mantelshelf, and in a big vase on the small round 
 table in the window. 
 
 " Are you giving a tea-party ? Why all these 
 preparations ? " 
 
 " I am expecting a friend," said Livvy, and then 
 laughed and blushed. 
 
 " A friend ? Who is he ? " 
 
 " I didn't say it was a ' he.' Why not a ' she,' 
 for example ? " 
 
 She was bending over the flower-vase now, 
 breathing in the fragrance of some jonquils.
 
 The Bitter Cup 38 
 
 o 
 
 "Livvy," said Oliver, "jyou are not married, 
 are you ? " 
 
 She turned round and cried with a pretty air 
 of surprise : 
 
 " Married ! What put that into your head ? " 
 
 He saw a ring glinting on the third finger of 
 her left hand. He strode forward and took the 
 hand and said, "What do you call that?" 
 
 " I may be mistaken," said Livvy, " but I call it 
 a ring." 
 
 " It is a new ring. You used not to wear it. It 
 is an engagement ring." 
 
 " God bless me, so it is ! " said Livvy, as though 
 she had just received a revelation. Then her 
 mockery left her, and she clasped Oliver's hand 
 and said : 
 
 " Roly, wish me luck. I shall not be an old 
 maid after all ! " 
 
 But Oliver was strangely depressed by this news. 
 He was annoyed beyond words that Livvy should 
 have become engaged during his absence. He 
 had come back to her rooms expecting her to cry 
 for joy at his return, perhaps a few tears, perhaps 
 an agony of despair when, very gently, he would 
 have told her of his marriage, perhaps the surrender 
 of her heart after the story of his miserable un- 
 happiness, and of his separation from his wife. So 
 she had not waited for him after all ! He felt 
 more lonely and more miserable. 
 
 " I wish you luck," he said, very gloomily.
 
 384 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Livvy seemed to read some of his thoughts. 
 
 "You were such a long time away, Roly," she 
 said in a low voice. " You sent no word to me. 
 I did not think you would come back. . . . And I 
 was growing old and ugly and very weary ! " 
 
 She laughed again, as though joy came bubbling 
 into her throat. 
 
 " My play-actress days are over. Thank God 
 for that ! No more Sunday travelling, no more 
 theatrical lodgings. No more managers with their 
 insults and their beastliness. In another week, 
 Roly, I shall have a little home of my own." 
 
 " Who is the man ? " said Oliver. 
 
 She was listening with her head a little on one 
 side. 
 
 There was a sound of brisk footsteps on the 
 stairs, and a bird -like whistle coming higher. 
 
 " Here he is ! " 
 
 There was a tattoo on the door, and Livvy darted 
 across and opened the door wide. 
 
 " Base wretch ! The muffins are burnt." 
 
 " Blame me not. My heart flew faster than my 
 feet, O lady of the shining eyes." 
 
 A tall, broad-shouldered young man put his arms 
 round Livvy and hugged her close to him. 
 
 Over her hair he saw Oliver, and said, " Shall 
 our caresses be made in the public eye? Is this 
 modesty ? Is it respectable ? " 
 
 He winked at Oliver, whom he had never seen 
 before, and then, releasing Miss Livvy O'Brien, said :
 
 The Bitter Cup 385 
 
 " Introduce me, my dear." 
 
 She patted back her hair, and put her hands 
 upon her burning cheeks, and having recovered 
 her breath a little, said : 
 
 "Dick, this is Oliver Lumley. I have often 
 spoken to you about him. Roly, this is Richard 
 Pennington, who is going to be my husband." 
 
 "Glad to meet you, sir," said Richard Pennington, 
 grasping Oliver's hand. " Livvy's friends are my 
 friends." 
 
 He went down on his knees before the fire and 
 examined the toasted muffins. 
 
 " Done to a turn ! Come, let us eat, drink, and 
 be merry." 
 
 During tea-time Mr. Richard Pennington be- 
 haved like a high-spirited schoolboy, and ate a 
 prodigious number of cakes and muffins. He 
 regretted that Oliver had such a poor appetite, 
 and said that he ought to fall in love, for it was 
 the best appetiser in the world. He kissed Livvy's 
 hand when she was cutting bread-and-butter, and 
 kissed her on the back of her neck among her 
 little curls, before filling the teapot with hot 
 water. 
 
 Oliver was annoyed with the fellow. His 
 overflowing good-nature, his hearty lauo^hter, his 
 incessant stream of small jokes, jangled the nerves 
 of a man who had come for Livvy's sympathy 
 and tenderness. He did not stay long after tea, 
 and in answer to Livvy's questions he gave but
 
 386 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 few details of his life since he had last seen her. 
 Not a word did he say of his marriage. 
 
 " We shall be delighted to see you, sir, in our 
 httle home," said Mr. Richard Pennington. " We 
 have taken a house on Streatham Hill, 303, 
 Alexandra Road. You will know it by the love- 
 light in the windows." 
 
 " Thanks very much," said Oliver. 
 
 When he said good-bye he took Livvy's hand 
 outside the door and put it to his lips, as he used 
 to in the old days. 
 
 " Good luck and God bless you," he said. 
 
 He went swiftly down the stairs, turning once to 
 lift his hat and smile, with a rather wan face, to the 
 girl, who blew a kiss to him. Then he went out 
 into the street again and Melancholy took him by 
 the arm and would not leave him.
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 Nearing the End 
 
 Oliver decided to go over to Streatham Hill and 
 see his own people, though he was afraid to tell 
 them of his tragedy. Yet he knew that sooner or 
 later they must know. Their letters to him at The 
 Rookery would be unanswered, or Virginia would 
 write to them and reveal the truth. It would be 
 better for him to break the news first and explain 
 his side of the quarrel, before Virginia poisoned 
 their minds against him. 
 
 He was in an emotional mood when he stood 
 outside the front door of the red brick villa into 
 which his family had lately moved. On the way 
 he had rehearsed his speech. It would be a con- 
 fession of folly but also an accusation. He would 
 make them pity him, whatever their measure of 
 blame, because he would show how hard was the 
 nature of the woman with whom he had lived. 
 His mother would take his part. She would see 
 that Virginia was more at fault. By the grace 
 of God, mothers are always against their daughters- 
 in-law. 
 
 Even his father would have no patience with a 
 wife who had shut her heart and her house against
 
 388 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 the husband whom she had sworn to love and obey. 
 His father had good old-fashioned ideas upon the 
 marriage vow. 
 
 These thoughts put courage into him, and he 
 gave a sharp rat-tat to the door. But when it was 
 opened by Galatea he saw that she was deadly 
 pale, and weeping, so that he was startled and 
 forgot for a moment his own tragedy. 
 
 " Oh, I am glad you have come ! " said Galatea 
 in a low voice. " You are just in time." 
 
 " What is the matter ? " 
 
 " Don't you know? We telegraphed for you. . . . 
 Father is dying." 
 
 He said, " Good God ! " in a whisper, and then 
 his sister burst into tears and dabbed her eyes with 
 her handkerchief. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Oliver. " Hush ! " 
 
 He was terribly shocked. On his way home he 
 had been wondering whether he could ask his 
 father to give him the shelter of the old roof, or 
 make another allowance to him until he had got 
 on to his feet again. Now he could never ask 
 another favour of the man who had drudged for 
 them all, and who had never refused any gift 
 within his means. 
 
 Galatea took him by the hand and led him into 
 the front bedroom on the first floor. His father 
 lay breathing his life away. A doctor was watching 
 him. Mrs. Lumley was holding her husband's thin 
 hand, while she sobbed quietly. When Oliver came
 
 Nearing the End 389 
 
 in she looked up at him through her tears and then 
 wept more bitterly. Horace stood by the bedside 
 with a grave face. He gripped Oliver's hand for 
 a moment and whispered, " There is no hope, old 
 boy." 
 
 Oliver bent over the dying man and said, "Father, 
 don't you know me ? " 
 
 Richard Lumley seemed to look into his son's 
 eyes, struggled a little as though to speak, and 
 then turned his head sideways. 
 
 There was silence in the room for a minute, an 
 intense silence, during which Oliver held his breath 
 and did not move. Then the doctor, who had been 
 listening at Richard Lumley's lips, spoke in a low 
 voice : 
 
 " He is dead." 
 
 Mrs. Lumley and Galatea fell on their knees by 
 the bedside, and Horace took Oliver's arm and led 
 him from the room. 
 
 Outside the door it was Oliver now who burst into 
 tears. The shock had been too sudden and too 
 great. Coming upon the top of his own wretched- 
 ness it quite unmanned him, so that Horace was 
 alarmed by his grief 
 
 That night Oliver stayed late and sat holding 
 his mother's hand. She was calm now, except for 
 occasional gusts of tears, and spoke of her husband 
 continually, as though it comforted her to praise him. 
 
 " He was always kind and patient. Patient when 
 I was so impatient, Oliver ! He devoted his life
 
 390 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 to us. He worked and drudged for us all to the 
 very last. Sometimes I know he was sad because 
 we had to pinch and scrape so much. He wanted 
 to give us more pleasure, more of the joy of life. 
 Oh, now that he is gone I know how much I loved 
 him, and how much he had to forgive in me." 
 
 "Nonsense, mother," said Oliver ; "he had nothing 
 to forgive you. It was I who always troubled him." 
 
 Not a word was said that night about Virginia. 
 Oliver's family imagined that he had come in 
 answer to their telegram. Galatea forgot that 
 he had not received the message, and had come by 
 accident. It seemed that his father had been taken 
 ill the night before with pneumonia, following a 
 sharp chill after riding outside an omnibus on a 
 wet night when coming back from the City. 
 
 By a mere chance, Oliver received the answer 
 to their telegram. Horace had gone out to the 
 undertaker's. Galatea and her mother were up- 
 stairs in the death-chamber. There came a double 
 knock at the front door, and Oliver answered it. 
 He guessed at once that the telegram had come 
 from Windlesham. He opened the envelope with 
 a strange emotion. On the slip of flimsy paper 
 were the words : 
 
 "Oliver is in London. I do not know his 
 address. I deeply regret to hear of Mr. Lumley's 
 illness. 
 
 " Virginia."
 
 Nearing the End 391 
 
 He crumpled up the paper and put it in his 
 pocket, and did not say a word about it to his 
 family. He pretended to himself that he did not 
 wish to add to his mother's grief by dragging out 
 his own miserable secret. 
 
 To Horace he said that he was staying in town 
 for a little while to do some work. Of course he 
 would stay to attend his father's funeral. 
 
 Horace pressed his hand. 
 
 " We must stand shoulder to shoulder." 
 
 The two brothers stood shoulder to shoulder 
 by their father's grave three days later, and with 
 them was Charles Hardy, who had come as a 
 friend of the family. Messrs. Cutter & Bodger 
 had sent a representative to the graveside of their 
 old employee. He was a ginger-haired gentleman 
 named Biggs, who was to succeed to Richard 
 Lumley's job. After the funeral ceremony he was 
 lugubriously cheerful. 
 
 " It has passed off very well," he said. " There 
 was not a hitch anywhere. It has given me great 
 pleasure to pay my last respects to your poor 
 father, gentlemen, I assure you." 
 
 He shook hands with Oliver. 
 
 " I have often heard your poor father talk of 
 you, Mr. Oliver. He had a high opinion of your 
 mental gifts. Very high. ' My literary son,' he 
 used to call you." 
 
 He laughed in a hollow voice, and said, " Well, 
 I will trot back now, I shall sit on your poor
 
 392 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 father's stool. One man goes down, another up. 
 Strange thing life — isn't it?" 
 
 That night Horace presided over a discussion 
 of ways and means, with OHver, Charles Hardy, 
 and Galatea in the room. Mrs. Lumley was in 
 her bedroom, weeping. 
 
 " What's to be done ? " said Horace. " The poor 
 old governor was the bread-winner. I can't afford 
 to keep up this house on my miserable screw." 
 
 He looked over at Oliver, and said, " We must 
 all help. I suppose we can count on your assist- 
 ance, old man ? " 
 
 " No," said Oliver, " you must not count on 
 me. 
 
 There was a silence in the room. Horace raised 
 his eyebrows and said, " How's that ? " 
 
 " It is quite simple," said Oliver. " I have 
 separated from my wife, and I am almost pen- 
 niless. In a little while I shall be without visible 
 means of subsistence." 
 
 He laughed bitterly at his own grim jest. 
 
 But the others could see no fun in it. 
 
 For a time they were stricken into silence. 
 Then Horace and Galatea questioned him ex- 
 citedly, but he would give no details. 
 
 " It is no use raking up a miserable story." 
 
 "This is the last straw," cried Galatea. "It 
 will break mother's heart." 
 
 "We must keep it from her," said Horace, 
 "Oliver and his wife will make it up again."
 
 Nearing the End 393 
 
 " We shall never make it up again," said Oliver. 
 
 " Oh, Oliver," said Galatea, " what have you 
 been doing? Virginia is the sweetest woman I 
 know. If you have quarrelled it must be your 
 fault." 
 
 " Naturally ! " said Oliver harshly. " It is ahvays 
 the man's fault." 
 
 They wrangled with each other with their nerves 
 on edge. 
 
 Charles Hardy rose and put his back to the 
 fire. 
 
 " It is no use throwing words about. I am 
 tremendously sorry to hear of Oliver's new mis- 
 fortune. It complicates matters. But if I may 
 regard myself as one of the family " — he looked 
 over at Galatea and smiled at her — " I want to 
 propose a little plan." 
 
 " Go ahead, old man," said Horace. 
 
 It was a simple plan. It appeared that Hardy 
 was in a good position again on another news- 
 paper. The job seemed secure enough. So what 
 was the good of waiting? He would marry 
 Galatea as soon as possible, and Mrs. Lumley 
 could live with them. 
 
 "But what about Horace?" said Galatea. 
 
 " He will go into diggings, my dear," said Horace 
 quietly, "and be very thankful to know that his 
 mother and sister are happy in a new home." 
 
 " I could not bear the idea of your living alone," 
 said Galatea.
 
 394 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She turned to Charles Hardy and clasped his 
 arm, and whispered to him. 
 
 " Perhaps Horace would come along too," said 
 Hardy after a moment's hesitation. " The more 
 the merrier." 
 
 But Horace shook his head, 
 
 " No ; when you take a wife, Charles, old boy, you 
 don't marry all her relatives." 
 
 " Nonsense ! You and I would always be good 
 pals. You will be our paying guest, old fellow." 
 
 " And how about me ? " asked Oliver, with an 
 awkward laugh. " You don't pity me in my lone- 
 liness, Galatea ? " 
 
 She shook her head at him. 
 
 " You must go back to Virginia." 
 
 " Not as long as I live." 
 
 Horace and Galatea went up to see their mother, 
 to tempt her to come down to supper, and Oliver 
 was left alone with Hardy. 
 
 " Is it a fact that you have quarrelled with your 
 wife ? " said Hardy, 
 
 " She has quarrelled with me," 
 
 " What are you going to do, then ? " 
 
 " God knows," 
 
 Hardy puffed at a pipe. 
 
 Presently he leant forward and tapped Oliver on 
 the knee. 
 
 " Look here, take a word of advice from an old 
 friend and a future brother-in-law." 
 
 " What is that ? "
 
 Hearing the End 395 
 
 " Pull yourself together. Show that you have 
 some grit in you. Sink or swim by yourself. And 
 for God's sake don't rely on other people to help 
 you over the stiles." 
 
 Oliver's face was scarlet. 
 
 " Like most people who give advice you are 
 damned impertinent." 
 
 " 1 am sorry you take it like that," said Hardy 
 very calmly. " A few plain words do no harm at 
 times." 
 
 " Keep your plain words to yourself," said Oliver, 
 "or I shall be tempted to knock them between 
 your teeth." 
 
 " Steady ! " said Hardy. " We went to your 
 father's funeral to-day, and there is a widow up- 
 stairs." 
 
 Oliver swallowed his rage, for at that moment 
 his mother was brought down by Horace and 
 Galatea. She came up to him and clasped him in 
 her arms and cried again. It was a melancholy 
 evening, and Oliver had no further conversation 
 about his own affairs. 
 
 On the doorstep, after he had kissed his mother 
 and sister, Horace gripped his hand and said, 
 " When shall we hear from you again ? Let us 
 know how things go." 
 
 " You may not hear from me for some time," 
 said Oliver. " Anyhow, don't be afraid; I am not 
 going to sponge on you again." 
 
 He thrust his hand into his pocket and said,
 
 39^ Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Look here, put this towards the funeral ex- 
 penses." 
 
 He handed a few sovereigns to Horace, who 
 stared at him in surprise. 
 
 "Don't you want it yourself? Won't it leave 
 you rather hard up ? " 
 
 " That's all right ! Good-bye. Look after the 
 mater." 
 
 He walked away, turning back once to wave his 
 hand to Horace, who stood on the doorstep in the 
 light that filtered out from the front door. 
 
 " It's getting very near the end," said Oliver, 
 striding away into the darkness.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII 
 
 The Rescue 
 
 The end had very nearly come when Oliver met 
 Lady Goldstein on the Thames Embankment. 
 
 It was a noble day in January. A keen west 
 wind was whipping the river, and the sun had 
 put a touch of gold on every ripple. The sky 
 was pearl grey, and through a vague mist over 
 Blackfriars Bridge the dome of St. Paul's was 
 suspended in space like a white balloon. The great 
 buildings along the Embankment had a glamorous 
 light upon them. An incessant stream of motor- 
 cars swept round the long curve of the roadway. 
 One heard the pulsing heart-beat of the great city 
 and the vague murmur of its million voices. 
 
 Oliver stood between the eternal smile of two 
 bronze sphinxes and the shadow of that " great 
 rose-marble monolith," called Cleopatra's Needle, 
 which once saw the splendour of Egypt under 
 the magnificent Pharaohs and was witness of the 
 ruin of ancient dynasties. 
 
 Now the seagulls screamed about it and swooped 
 about it. They were crying for food, shrilly, 
 plaintively. The flutter of their white wings 
 whispered about the obelisk. 
 397
 
 39^ Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Up and down the pavement on each side of a 
 booth on wheels placed below one of the smiling 
 sphinxes shuffled groups of men and women. 
 The sunshine had not warmed their thin blood. 
 The wind did not whip it into the warmth of 
 life. Their faces were pallid, their lips blue. In 
 their eyes was the fierce light of hunger. 
 
 One of the men was slapping his chest with a 
 clawlike hand, and it gave out a hollow sound. 
 Another, leaning against the pedestal of the sphinx, 
 coughed so that his whole body shook convulsively. 
 With quick, shuffling steps a man came padding up 
 the Embankment, in broken boots tied up with 
 string. He clutched his rags about him, as though 
 the wind might tear them from him and send 
 them fluttering away. 
 
 " My Gord ! " he coughed, " thought I was late 
 for the bloomin' banquet ! " 
 
 The women were in a separate group. Their 
 faces had been branded in the torture chambers ol 
 life. Out of their lack-lustre eyes there stared 
 despair. 
 
 One of them stood upright against the parapet 
 of the Embankment. Her head was wrapped in 
 a drab shawl, her filthy rags were tied round 
 with a bit of rope. She stood quite still and 
 lifeless. She might have been a mummy taken 
 from its case and placed below Cleopatra's pillar. 
 
 Inside the booth on wheels a man with a white 
 apron round his waist took off the lid of a stew-
 
 The Rescue 399 
 
 pan, and a rich, fat fragrance stole upon the 
 wind, ft set the seagulls screanning with a new 
 agony of desire. It made the nostrils of a hundred 
 hungry men quiver in an ecstasy of expectation. 
 Some of them dribbled at the mouth. They 
 formed up in a long queue, pressing close upon 
 each other's heels. 
 
 Oliver Lumley stood watching them. Although 
 he was not in rags (though his clothes were 
 getting shabby) his face had a family likeness to 
 these claimants for a free meal. Like theirs, it 
 was unshaven ; like theirs, it was gaunt, with 
 sharp cheek-bones. His eyes were sunken in 
 the sockets, and stared out sullenly. He had 
 the look of a broken man. 
 
 He turned slowly towards the end of the queue, 
 when suddenly a hand was placed upon his arm, 
 and a voice said : 
 
 "Oliver! . . . Oliver Lumley!" 
 
 He started, and turned round, like an animal 
 caught in a trap, and stared into the eyes of 
 Katherine Goldstein. 
 
 " I am not Oliver Lumley," he said, and turned 
 away. 
 
 But Katherine put her hand on his arm again. 
 
 "Oliver, I insist upon speaking to you." 
 
 " It is not Oliver," he said again. " You are 
 mistaken in your man." 
 
 " Do not talk rubbish, if you please," said Lady 
 Goldstein, and then looking into his face with
 
 400 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 eyes stricken with pity, she said, " Roly, what has 
 happened to you ? For Heaven's sake tell me." 
 
 " I am going to feed with the beasts," he said 
 sullenly. "If you interrupt me I shall be too 
 late." 
 
 " Come away ! " said Katherine. " Come away ! 
 ... I will give you something to eat, Oliver." 
 
 She held on to his arm, but he said : 
 
 " Do not touch me. You do not know where 
 I slept last night. It was where the fleas dance 
 and hold their merry revels." 
 
 She took her hand away quickly. 
 
 " Let us move on." 
 
 " Do you stand between me and my soup ? " 
 
 " You want more than soup. You want a 
 friend as well as food. I can see that." 
 
 " A friend ? " 
 
 He laughed bitterly. 
 
 " I am nothing but an Appetite. Give me food 
 and I will not ask for friendship." 
 
 " Have you come down to that ? " 
 
 Katherine in her white furs stared at this un- 
 shaven, shabby man as though she saw a ghost 
 in the broad daylight on the Thames Embank- 
 ment. 
 
 "People are looking at us," said Oliver. "For 
 your sake I will move on." 
 
 He strode at her side for a few yards and then 
 stopped and said, " Leave me. I am not fit to 
 be in your company."
 
 The Rescue 401 
 
 " My dear boy," she said, with an attempt at 
 sprightliness, " you have got to bear my company 
 for an hour or two at least." 
 
 She waved her hand to a passing taxi. It 
 swerved round and pulled up by the kerbstone. 
 
 " Now get in quickly. No fuss, Oliver." 
 
 He stumbled in before her, forgetting the rules 
 of courtesy. She spoke to the driver. 
 
 " Michel's Restaurant, Greek Street, Soho." 
 
 Then she sat down opposite Oliver, and her 
 eyes roved over his haggard face. 
 
 "You have given me a fright. . . . What is 
 the meaning of this ? . . . I could not believe my 
 eyes when I saw you looking so miserable . . . 
 among all those awful people." 
 
 " Those people ? They are my brothers. We 
 belong to the brotherhood of misery." 
 
 In Trafalgar Square he put his hand to the 
 door and said : 
 
 " Let me get out. I am not your prisoner. 
 I will not have your pity nor your charity." 
 
 " My dear Roly, surely we can have a little 
 luncheon together? I am very bored to-day. I 
 desire your company." 
 
 His pale lips curved into a smile. 
 
 " You have not lost your wilfulness." 
 
 Presently M. Michel was bowing to them both. 
 
 " Bonjour, monsieur et madamc ! Enchant^ de 
 vous voir ! " 
 
 They sat down at the very table in the corner 
 26
 
 402 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 where, many months ago, Katherine had smiled 
 to him through the smoke-wreaths of her cigarette. 
 
 " I am ashamed," said Oliver. 
 
 He looked at his dirty hands, his black finger- 
 nails. He passed his hand over his unshaven 
 chin. 
 
 " I am ashamed," he said again in a low voice. 
 
 Katherine was studying the bill of fare. 
 
 " Potage, Filets de sole Joiiiville, Selle de Mouton 
 aux haricots verts. Sounds pretty good, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 " It sounds like heaven," said Oliver. 
 
 He tried to eat decently and to restrain his 
 ravenous appetite. He tried to behave like a 
 gentleman and not like a wolf with lean ribs. 
 
 Katherine asked him no questions, and supplied 
 the conversation. She gave him news of old 
 friends. Grattan was out in Egypt. Frank 
 Luttrell was doing good solid work for The 
 Morning ; Little Frolenko was fiddling in St. 
 Petersburg. She had seen a very good play last 
 night. The plot v/as most ingenious, until it went 
 to pieces in the third act. ... It took her half an 
 hour to tell the plot, and Oliver missed the point 
 of it. Several times he laid down his knife and 
 fork to gaze at her. 
 
 " You are more beautiful than ever." 
 
 She said, "Don't interrupt. . . . The second act 
 was quite the best." 
 
 At another time he said :
 
 The Rescue 403 
 
 " It would have been better if I had stayed 
 on the Embankment." 
 
 "Did I tell you about Gilbert Verney?" she 
 asked. "He has married a penniless girl, after 
 all." 
 
 •' Lucky devil," said Oliver. 
 
 Then when the coffee was brought and he was 
 smoking a cigarette, she leaned her arms on the 
 table and looked into his face and said, very 
 quietly : 
 
 " Now tell me what has happened. Where is 
 your wife ? " 
 
 His hand trembled as he put down his cup. 
 
 " Must you have the wretched story ? " 
 
 " I must." 
 
 " It is fair. You have fed me and I will 
 pay for my meal with the tale. Oh, it is a merry 
 yarn ! " 
 
 She said, " Begin ! " and after a whiff of his 
 cigarette he said : 
 
 " I will go backwards. I will begin with last 
 night when I slept in a coffin." 
 
 " In a coffin ? " 
 
 " We were all in coffins — free of charge — I and 
 my brothers of the chain. It was in a free lodging- 
 house down by the docks. I was the last man in. 
 In another minute I should have missed my bed. 
 ' Luck ! ' I said, but perhaps it would have been 
 better otherwise. I might have died in the night. 
 The wind cut like a knife under Waterloo Bridge.
 
 404 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 . . . But it was warm in my hell, with the boxes 
 all in a row. The steam from human bodies 
 rose up in rank incense. The foul breath of my 
 fellow slaves poisoned the air and made it stifling. 
 Do I sicken you ? " 
 
 " Go on ! " said Katherine. 
 
 " Some of the men had thrown back their oil- 
 cloth blankets. Their bodies were bare. In the 
 dim light their ribs showed out. They were 
 like skeletons in those long black boxes — living 
 skeletons in open coffins. I did not sleep. I lay 
 awake listening to strange sounds. The sounds 
 of sneezing, coughing, wheezing, the piping of a 
 man's bronchial tubes, the whimpering of a boy, 
 the groaning of a man with rheumatism hardly 
 ceased in the night. Once there was silence, but 
 presently I heard a whisper. Some voice said, 
 ' My God ! ' The whisper seemed close to my 
 ear, and I shivered. ... It was my own voice. . . . 
 Then the sounds began all over again, the sneezing, 
 the coughing, the gurgling. I w^as glad to get out 
 in the dawn. Then hunger came to meet me, 
 and stuck a sharp sword into my side and twisted 
 it. . . . Have you ever been hungry ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but not like that." 
 
 " No ; not like that. ... It stabs you with hot 
 knives." 
 
 " Begin at the beginning," said Katherine ; " this 
 is the end of the story." 
 
 " The beginning ? "
 
 The Rescue 405 
 
 He threw the fag-end of the cigarette into the 
 dregs of his coffee, where it hissed and went out. 
 
 " There is no beginning. It goes back to all my 
 unknown ancestors, who bequeathed me their 
 damned weakness and their vice and their folly. 
 Curse them ! " 
 
 " Come to recent history," said Katharine. 
 " Your marriage, for example. What about your 
 wife ? ■' 
 
 " My wife? .... I have no wife. In the country 
 there is a woman who bears my name. I hate her 
 worse than I hate death." 
 
 Katherine said : " Hush ! tell me, tell me." 
 
 With his elbows on the table and his chin 
 propped on the knuckles of his folded hands, he 
 told her the story of his married life. He did not 
 spare himself very much. He laid bare his folly, 
 his selfishness, and his sin. But he pleaded 
 extenuating circumstances. He had meant well. 
 He had loved his wife. He had worshipped her, 
 even until she turned on him and cast him out. 
 Now he hated her because of her hardness, and 
 because of his degradation. She had deliberately 
 sent him to death and the devil. 
 
 Well, that was his story. One of life's little 
 ironies, a rare jest for ladies' tea-tables. Now he 
 must be going — back to a den where he addressed 
 circulars at sixpence a thousand — when luck put 
 them in his way. But there was a keen competi- 
 tion.
 
 4o6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 " Honest work," he said, " but it makes your 
 hand shake like the palsy, makes you blear-eyed, 
 and gives you a frightful craving for drink." 
 
 " You have not yielded to that craving ? " said 
 Katherine, drawing a quick breath. 
 
 " Not yet. But I am coming to it. One day I 
 shall plunge into the burning lake to slake my 
 thirst. We all go that way sooner or later." 
 
 She said, " You shall not go that way, Oliver." 
 
 Then she put her hand out and laid it upon his 
 sleeve. 
 
 " Listen to me. You have been frightfully 
 foolish, and worse than that. You will not deny 
 that you deserved some punishment." 
 
 " I have been flogged by fate." 
 
 " Yes ; you have been punished. But have you 
 not taken it like a man ? Oh, surely, Oliver, you 
 have taken it pluckily, and like a gentleman ? I 
 admire you for that." 
 
 " You admire me ? " 
 
 He laughed mirthlessly, and said, " Then you 
 admire a weak devil who has been broken on the 
 wheel of life and who whimpers at his torture." 
 
 Katherine would not admitthat he had whimpered. 
 She tried to raise his pride by pretending that he 
 had played the game and taken his licking well 
 and shown grit. 
 
 But he shook his head moodily, and said, " I 
 have got no grit in me. I am only aflame with 
 hatred for the woman who calls herself my wife."
 
 The Rescue 407 
 
 Katherine said, " That is the first untrue thing 
 you have said. You think you hate her, because 
 you love, and yearn for her. You are tremendously 
 sorry for all that you have done to cause her sorrow. 
 It is only your pride — I do not condemn it — which 
 prevents you from going back and asking her 
 forgiveness." 
 
 " I swear to you," said Oliver, " that I will die 
 by slow starvation rather than go down on my, 
 knees to her." 
 
 " Nobody wants you to go down on your knees, 
 my dear boy," said Katherine in a motherly way. 
 " We don't do that sort of thing nowadays. But 
 I shall be glad when you take her in your arms 
 again." 
 
 "That will never happen," said Oliver; but his 
 voice trembled. 
 
 That night he lay on a sofa, to his own great 
 amazement, in Francis Luttrell's flat. In spite of his 
 refusals and his shame, Katherine had carried him 
 away in a taxicab to Shaftesbury Avenue, where 
 Luttrell was writing an article for his next day's 
 paper. He rose in amazement when his visitors 
 arrived, and stared first at Oliver and then at 
 Katherine in a bewildered way. 
 
 " Frank," said Katherine, very briskly, " Oliver 
 Lumley, whom you know, has had a bad stroke 
 of luck. He has come right up against it. I 
 want you to put him up for a week, and ask 
 no questions. Is that agreed ? "
 
 4o8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Frank Luttrell held out his hand to Oliver. 
 
 " I have known ill-luck myself. I shall be 
 delighted if you will make these rooms your own." 
 
 " Well-played, Frank ! " cried Lady Goldstein. 
 
 " I am ashamed," said Oliver. " This is my last 
 humiliation." 
 
 He sat down in a chair and burst into tears.
 
 CHAPTER XLIX 
 
 Two Women 
 
 Virginia had gone to Buntingford House. It 
 was far enough away from Windlesham to elude 
 Miss Purchase and the gossip hunters, and the 
 old mistress of the house had lulled any suspicion 
 that might be aroused by what she was pleased 
 to call " tarradiddles." 
 
 She had driven round on several days in succession 
 to drink tea with Virginia's friends and to spread a 
 report that Oliver was travelling abroad for the sake 
 of his health. 
 
 " The poor fellow was very much run down," said 
 Lady Buntingford. " I think Windlesham lies too 
 low for him, and the exhalations of the river affect 
 his lungs. It is very hard on a young married 
 couple — so devoted to each other as our dear 
 Virginia and Mr. Oliver." 
 
 " And when the dear child is in a delicate state 
 of health, too," said one of the ladies, " When will 
 Mr. Lumley be back ? " 
 
 "Quite soon now," said Lady Buntingford. " In 
 his last letter he wrote in the best of spirits." 
 
 Virginia was unconscious of her old friend's 
 imaginative flights. She was conscious of very 
 409
 
 41 o Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 little that was happening about her. The day 
 after her arrival at Buntingford House she was 
 taken ill with a nervous attack, and by the doctor's 
 orders had to lie in bed and remain very quiet. 
 
 " She seems to be suffering from some shock," 
 said the doctor. " There are all the symptoms of a 
 nervous breakdown. She ought not to be worried 
 by visitors." 
 
 " And she shall not be," said Lady Buntingford, 
 " even if I have to lower the portcullis to keep 
 'em out." 
 
 She kept out even Miss Purchase, who drove 
 over from Windlesham one day in a hired 
 brougham. 
 
 " I regret, my dear Penelope," said the old lady, 
 "that by Dr. Hogg's strictest instructions she 
 may not receive visitors. I am very much grieved 
 to tell you this, but there is tea laid in my 
 sitting-room, and you will find all the weekly 
 papers." 
 
 " But, my dear Susan," said Miss Purchase, " I 
 am not a visitor:; I am one of Virginia's most 
 intimate friends." 
 
 " It is just her intimate friends from whom I 
 am guarding the child," said Lady Buntingford 
 firmly. " Now, I trust, my dearest Penelope, that 
 you will not argue the matter. The one thing 
 that makes me lose my manners is argument." 
 
 " Believe me, Susan Buntingford," said Miss 
 Purchase with dignity, " that I do not intrude
 
 Two Women 411 
 
 myself where I am not desired. I wish you a 
 very good afternoon." 
 
 It took all Lady Buntingford's graciousness to 
 prevail upon the little lady to stay to tea. 
 
 As the days passed the old Countess became 
 very anxious about Virginia. She seemed to have 
 lost all strength, and to be weeping herself into the 
 grave. Often at night when Lady Buntingford, in 
 a dressing-gown and with a night-cap tied over 
 her white hair, crept into her room, she was shocked 
 to hear Virginia's sobs and to find her pillow 
 wet with tears. 
 
 But what was more shocking to her was 
 Virginia's absolute refusal to go in search of the 
 husband, who was now lost to his world. 
 
 " When he calls to me I will go to him," said 
 Virginia. 
 
 Letters had come from Oliver's family — tragic 
 letters from Mrs. Lumley, who had now heard of 
 the separation between her son and his wife. No 
 one had seen a sign of Oliver since his father's 
 funeral. Mrs. Lumley wrote bitter words to her 
 daughter-in-law, and accused her of having driven 
 Oliver to desperation. " For God's sake," she 
 wrote once, " have mercy on my poor boy. I am 
 tortured with anxiety." 
 
 Virginia wrote back : 
 
 " Oliver has had no mercy on me. I also am 
 tortured. But I know him well enough to wait
 
 412 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 for his appeal. When he is really in want he will 
 write for money and help. He has no strength 
 of endurance. I am dreadfully sorry for your un- 
 happiness, dear Mrs. Lumley. Oliver has made us 
 all suffer." 
 
 Unknown to Virginia, advertisements were in- 
 serted by Lady Buntingford in the agony columns 
 of The Morning Post. 
 
 " Oliver. Come back, and all will be forgiven. 
 Virginia waits for you." 
 
 " Oliver. Your wife is pining for you. Do not 
 delay." 
 
 But no answer came from Oliver. It did not 
 occur to Lady Buntingford that he might be 
 reading T/ie Daily Mail instead of The Morning 
 Post. 
 
 Virginia baffled the old lady and uprooted all 
 her convictions on love and married life and the 
 nature of women. 
 
 That she was fretting herself to death was 
 clear enough. That she was yearning for the 
 home-coming of Oliver was, as Lady Buntingford 
 said, as plain as a pikestaff. She did not deny 
 that she loved him, in spite of all his faults, yet 
 with a strength of will that seemed uncanny in 
 a woman so frail and nervous, she refused to 
 forgive him until he had atoned.
 
 Two Women 413 
 
 " What d'ye mean by this atonement ? " cried 
 Lady Buntingford, with exasperation. " In 
 Heaven's name, if you love the man, hug him tight. 
 Love ! Love ! In my young days it meant 
 obedience to one's husband and bHndness to his 
 faults. What bee have you got in your bonnet, 
 Virginia ? " 
 
 "You do not understand," said Virginia. " How 
 can I make you understand ? It is because I love 
 my husband as I have hope for my own soul 
 that I want him to be an honest man. He was 
 careless of everything so long as he lived on 
 my money. He did no work. The very fibre 
 of his nature was becoming sapped by this idle life, 
 and by continual shirking of his moral duty. I 
 know he is weak. It is only suffering that can 
 make him strong. Oh, I hope he is suffering very 
 much ! " 
 
 " If I did not know you were the tenderest 
 soul alive I should say you were a heartless 
 hussy ! " 
 
 That expressed the true dilemma of Lady 
 Buntingford, who could find no key to these 
 contradictions between harshness and tenderness, 
 between a desire to punish, and a desire to forgive, 
 between contempt and love. 
 
 She would have been more puzzled if she had 
 overheard the prayers which Virginia offered up for 
 her husband by night and day, on her knees, with 
 her arms outstretched upon the bed.
 
 414 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She cried out to God to have mercy on Oliver 
 Lumley, yet not to spare him chastisement. 
 
 " Break up his selfishness. Set truth in his 
 heart. Give him courage and manhood. Let him 
 come out of the fire cleansed and brave. Send 
 him back to me, dear Lord, that I may have my 
 life again. It would have been easy for me to have 
 kept him by my side. For my money's sake he 
 would have stayed. But he would have gone from 
 weakness to weakness and from shame to shame. 
 I have denied myself his love in order to save his 
 honour. Because we are one I share his punish- 
 ment Because I am the woman it is harder for 
 me. But oh, my dear God, bring my boy back 
 soon, before we have suffered beyond our strength." 
 
 Such prayers — strange, pitiful, imploring — went 
 up from Virginia's heart during many hours of the 
 day, until she was exhausted with emotion and 
 torn with agony. But though Oliver was lost to 
 her, though no word came from him, she had an 
 absolute conviction that he would come back. She 
 waited for a sign, for an appeal, for Oliver's cry for 
 forgiveness. And one day the sign was given to 
 her. 
 
 It was towards the second month of his absence, 
 and she was in the drawing-room of Buntingford 
 House, turning over some papers and just glancing 
 at their pictures. Suddenly she gave a cry, for 
 there on her lap was her husband's name, in black 
 type upon a printed page.
 
 Two Women 415 
 
 "THE MAN WHO MEANT WELL" 
 By Oliver Lumley 
 
 It was a short story, and she read it with burning 
 eyes. It was the story of a young man of weak 
 character, thoroughly amiable, desiring to make 
 every one happy about him, and conceited with his 
 own good-nature. But he became entangled in a 
 mesh of lies, which had begun with one white lie to 
 save hurting the feelings of the woman he loved. 
 His amiability of temperament led him into follies 
 which caused more grief to the people about him 
 than if he had been deliberately wicked. He was 
 brought to the depths of ruin by sheer weakness of 
 character, and standing alone in his misery he 
 cursed the nature with which he had been born, 
 and cried out for strength to kill the smiling devil 
 in him which had lured him over the precipice. 
 
 The story filled only one page of a weekly paper, 
 but in a brief space Oliver had told the story of his 
 own soul. It was the Apologia pro vita sua, and 
 Virginia read the words through a mist of tears. 
 
 " Oh, my dear husband ! " she cried, " at last he 
 has seen the truth ! " 
 
 "The truth? What is truth?" said Lady 
 Buntingford, who hurried in at the sound of her 
 cry. 
 
 " Oliver is coming back to me," said Virginia. 
 " This is his message."
 
 41 6 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 She held up the paper and laughed in a strange 
 way. 
 
 " God has worked a miracle ! " 
 
 " H'm ! " said Lady Buntingford doubtfully. 
 " I distrust miracles, especially in a Radical paper. 
 But it seems to have put some colour into your 
 cheeks, my dear." 
 
 There was more colour in Virginia's cheeks 
 before the day was out. For in the afternoon she 
 received a visitor, against whom Lady Buntingford 
 did not lower the portcullis after a little preliminary 
 conversation in the hall. 
 
 " My squirrel," said the old woman, " here is 
 some one who brings a word from your husband. 
 If you will excuse me I will go and bully my cook, 
 who is a perfect fool." 
 
 She had been followed into the room by a lady 
 in a heavy fur motor-coat and blue veil. When 
 she put up her veil she showed a pretty, serious 
 face, with pale gold hair. 
 
 " I do not understand," said Virginia, rising 
 from her chair. *' Do you bring news of my 
 husband ? " 
 
 " Yes. Lady Buntingford did not introduce 
 me. My name is Katherine Goldstein. Perhaps 
 Oliver has spoken of me. We were friends. May 
 I sit down, Mrs. Lumley ? " 
 
 Virginia bowed her head and motioned to a chair. 
 
 " Won't you sit down ? ' said Katherine, taking 
 the seat. " It is so much easier to talk like this."
 
 Two Women 417 
 
 Virginia sat down on the sofa. 
 
 " Have you a message for me ? " she said. Her 
 face had gone very white, 
 
 " Yes. I have motored straight from town. Of 
 course I went to The Rookery first." 
 
 " The message ? " said Virginia quickly. 
 
 " I will give you his exact words : ' Tell my wife 
 that I have been down in the depths, that I have 
 struggled up again, and that I am doing honest 
 work.'" 
 
 "Honest work?" said Virginia. "Oh, that is 
 good — if it is true." 
 
 " It is true," said Katherine. " He is on a news- 
 paper in Fleet Street." 
 
 Virginia gave a long, quivering sigh. 
 
 " Did he say anything else ? " she said. 
 
 " Nothing else," said Katherine. 
 
 Virginia sat with her large eyes staring at her 
 visitor, as though she looked farther away than 
 where Katherine Goldstein sat. 
 
 Katherine suddenly left her chair, and went 
 down on her knees by the side of Oliver Lumley's 
 wife, and took her hand. 
 
 " Mrs. Lumley, he is frightfully sorry. He has 
 suffered most horribly. I found him starving." 
 
 "Did he go to you for help?" said Virginia, 
 " Did he ask you for money ? " 
 
 " No. I met him on the Embankment one day, 
 looking so ill. He was famished with hunger. 
 He had slept the night in a free lodging-house. 
 27
 
 41 8 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 Yet he would not accept my help. He refused it 
 until I forced it on him." 
 
 Virginia clasped her hands. 
 
 " Oh, I am glad," she said. " That was a touch 
 of pride." 
 
 " He is very proud," said Katherine. " That is 
 why he is afraid to come to you, or to write to 
 you. He is afraid you will think he is crawling 
 back for your money — and not for your love," 
 
 " Did he say those things ? " asked Virginia. 
 
 She seized both of Katherine's hands. 
 
 " You are telling me the truth ? . . . You are not 
 lying to me ? . . . You do not look as if you lied." 
 
 " I tell you the truth. Oliver wants your for- 
 giveness, but he dare not beg for it. It is your 
 money which builds up a wall between you. ' I 
 wish to God,' said Oliver, ' that Virginia were as 
 poor as I am. Then I could show her that I have 
 some stuff in me.' " 
 
 "Did he say that?" said Virginia, and then she 
 put her arms round Katherine's neck, and said, 
 " Oh, my dear, you make me a very happy woman. 
 You bring me joyful news." 
 
 She rose from her chair, and said, " I will go to 
 Oliver now. How soon may we go? . . . I will 
 not let him wait for my forgiveness." 
 
 She walked a few steps across the room, and 
 then suddenly swayed, and would have fallen if 
 Katherine had not run forward and caught her 
 in her arms.
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 '^he Return 
 
 That evening Katherine sat alone with Virginia, 
 who was very weak after her fainting attack, but 
 quite calm now. The two women talked about 
 Oliver, and Katherine contrived to say what she 
 desired to say, but what was very difficult to say, 
 to the wife of an indiscreet young man. 
 
 Virginia held Katherine's hand in her lap, and 
 said, more than once, " You have been very good 
 to Oliver. I can never thank you enough." 
 
 After that there was a long silence, but presently 
 Katherine said : 
 
 " Oliver is very young. He is only a boy. I 
 think you will have to deal very gently with him. 
 He wants a lot of mothering ! " 
 
 She laughed, but her eyes were serious when 
 she looked up into Virginia's face. 
 
 " Yes," said Virginia, " he is very young. I am 
 so much older than he is. Not only in years, but 
 in heart." 
 
 Katherine pressed her hand. 
 
 " I know that type of boy pretty well. His 
 good looks and his gay manners are continual 
 temptations to him. He finds it so easy to be 
 
 419
 
 42 o Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 popular, and women smile at him. It is hard 
 for him to knuckle down to the duties of life." 
 
 " I know. Oliver found it very hard. He 
 will be different now. Please God he will be 
 different." 
 
 " I hope so. But, you see, a man cannot sud- 
 denly jump out of his own skin or change his 
 whole nature. Oliver has had a painful lesson, 
 but he is still — Oliver." 
 
 " You mean that he is still weak ? Oh, I think 
 he will be stronger ! He has been put to the test 
 of courage — my poor boy." 
 
 " Your poor boy will still have to face the big 
 difficulties of life. And there are so many of them. 
 I think he will want all your help, Mrs. Lumley."- 
 
 " I will give him my help," said Virginia. 
 
 " He is so restless. His brain is so active. And 
 he is as sensitive as an untamed colt. He jibs 
 at the bit. He must be ridden on the snaffle. 
 Forgive my horsey slang, but you understand ? " 
 
 " You mean I was too hard with him, and pulled 
 the reins too tight ?" 
 
 " I think so," said Katherine. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Virginia with a little cry. " At 
 first I was like putty in his hands. I had no 
 hardness till he deceived me. Why did he break 
 my ideal of him ? " 
 
 Katherine spoke with the air of a married woman 
 of long standing to a young wife. 
 
 " Your boy was not old enough to settle down
 
 The Return 42 i 
 
 in that lonely old house and this quiet old town. 
 There was not enough to keep his mind busy. 
 He needed the bustle of a big town and all its 
 distractions. I can imagine how quiet it is in 
 Windlesham in the winter months. I think I 
 should go mad, or do wicked things myself^ if 
 I lived here in the winter. Oliver is like me in 
 that way. He is not cut out for country life. 
 He wants plenty of friends round him, to buoy him 
 up. He gets the hump very badly, I know." 
 
 " The hump ? What is that ? " said Virginia. 
 
 Katherine laughed. 
 
 "The worst disease of modern life. Boredom 
 with one's own soul. Moody thoughts that whisper 
 like devils in one's ears. Melancholia. It always 
 creeps over a Cockney when he is in the country 
 after the summer has passed. It jumps on his 
 back in the autumn. The intense silence — the 
 darkness — the smell of rotting leaves — the patter 
 of the rain. Oh, for a young heart — London bred 
 — that is all a danger to his moral health." 
 
 Virginia was silent. She stared with big eyes 
 into the fire. 
 
 " I do not understand those things. But if they 
 are true I must live in town with Oliver." 
 
 •• You must ! " said Katherine. She was a little 
 excited and spoke quickly. " It is absolutely 
 essential for your happiness. Oliver would go 
 to pieces if he came back to that old house again. 
 There is not enough to do here. Not enough
 
 42 2 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 society. Not enough work or pleasure. You must 
 take a house in town. I will find one for you. 
 I will give you heaps of friends. And Oliver will 
 make a career for himself in journalism. That 
 will keep his brain busy. It will bring back his 
 self-respect. Fleet Street does not give a man 
 too much spare time. But he will come back 
 always to a bright home in the heart of the big 
 bustle of life. That will be good for him. That 
 will make a man of him. Then you will be as 
 happy as the day is long. I assure you it is the 
 best and the only plan." 
 
 Virginia sighed. 
 
 " I shall be sorry to leave The Rookery and 
 the old garden. But for Oliver's sake " 
 
 " Yes, for Oliver's sake ! " said Katherine. 
 
 And in the secret of her excited little heart 
 she spoke other words : 
 
 " That young man ought to be very grateful 
 to me!" 
 
 Certainly that young man ought to have been 
 grateful, for there was a smooth path now between 
 him and happiness. 
 
 Upon the day following Katherine's visit he 
 came down to Windlesham and drove over to 
 Buntingford House. 
 
 He had lost some of his old swagger and gaiety. 
 He was thinner than when he had gone away 
 to London with twenty pounds in a muddy purse. 
 Down in the depths some of the conceit had
 
 The Return 423 
 
 been knocked out of him. He had come face 
 to face with his own soul, and had not liked the 
 look of it. 
 
 Yet he did not come meekly nor in a craven 
 way, to that reconciliation with his wife. He 
 was very well dressed in a suit lent to him by 
 Frank Luttrell. He had a distinguished air, for 
 misery, hunger, humiliation, rage, and shame had 
 taken away some of the softness of his boyish 
 good looks, and had engraved new lines upon 
 his face, giving it a strength of character. 
 
 He shook hands with Lady Buntingford, and 
 said very gravely : 
 
 " How do you do ? Where is my wife ? " 
 
 " Hoity-toity ! " cried the old woman. " None 
 of your airs with me, young man. Your wife 
 has been next to death's door, and I hope you 
 have come back in a spirit of humility. 
 
 She pinched his ear and said, " You wicked 
 young dog ! You naughty fellow ! " 
 
 Then she pulled down his head and kissed 
 him on the cheek, and said, " I am a very glad 
 old woman to-day." 
 
 She took him by the hand and led him into 
 her drawing-room and said, "Virginia, here is 
 your runaway. I have done the bullying, so 
 you can do the cuddling." 
 
 Then she went out of the room with her old 
 head shaking. 
 
 Virginia stood up and looked across to Oliver,
 
 424 Oliver's Kind Women 
 
 who stayed by the door stricken with a sudden 
 sense of shame, which sent a wave of colour 
 into his face. Their eyes lingered in each other's 
 gaze, 
 
 Virginia stretched out her arms and came for- 
 ward a step or two. 
 
 " Oliver. . . . Oh, my dear husband ! " 
 
 He strode forward and put his arms about her 
 and kissed her on the lips. 
 
 " Virginia, my poor wife ! Forgive me." 
 
 That was not what he had meant to say. All 
 the way from town he had been rehearsing his 
 speech to his wife. He had meant to say — 
 " You have caused me two months of torture. 
 You degraded me and humiliated me. You were 
 damnably cruel to me. . . . But I forgive you 
 because you did not understand." 
 
 He was to have done the forgiving. He was to be 
 magnanimous and gracious. But now, his wife's 
 white face, the look of yearning in her eyes, the 
 agony that had left its marks upon her, melted 
 him, and shamed him. Her tears moistened his 
 face as he kissed her, and the words she whispered, as 
 she drooped her head upon his shoulder, broke 
 up all the pride in his heart. 
 
 " Oliver, I want you. I want the father of the 
 child that is coming quite soon now. Dear heart, 
 let us love each other very much." 
 
 The rest of Oliver Lumley's story cannot be
 
 The^Return 4^5-^ 
 
 written, for it is still to be lived. He is doing 
 fairly well in journalism and is the author of 
 serial stories in Tlie Magazme of Rom'ance, which 
 are read by all the nursery-maids. He has a 
 house at Rutland Gate and gives pleasant little 
 dinner-parties, when he wears a velvet jacket. He 
 is somewhat of an authority on life in the under- 
 world, and is scheming out a book on " Human 
 Derelicts." Virginia is happy as the mother of a 
 small babe, and she only frets in secret when 
 Oliver stays late at the Wastrel Club, where he 
 is very popular. Oliver has a comfortable sense 
 of self-satisfaction, and is in a good temper with 
 himself and life. That makes him a pleasant 
 companion wherever one may meet him in the 
 town. 
 
 THE END 
 
 CALlr
 
 9 
 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 HAZKI.L, WATSON AND VINEY, LD. 
 
 LONDON AND AVLESBITRY.
 
 c
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW.